The Binding

by Bridget Collins

  ‘Why? Why do you want it? The key? You burnt your own book, it’s not that.’ He doesn’t answer. He won’t meet my eyes. I say slowly, ‘I see. You’re going to blackmail me. That’s why you came to see me.’

  ‘Blackmail you? When I won’t take half a crown?’ He laughs again, for longer this time. But when I stare at him his eyes slide away and his grin fades. ‘Lucian.’

  ‘Call me Darnay.’ I fold my arms against the cold. ‘I understand. Half a crown is nothing. You want more. I’ll give you whatever you want. Just help me get my book.’

  He hesitates. ‘Why do you want it back?’

  ‘Because it’s driving me mad, knowing that anyone could …’ I draw in my breath. The doorway, the street, everything is covered by a grainy dark mist. The walls on either side of me seem to be closing in. I catch his eye. He’s watching me so intently my throat tightens. Something makes me say, ‘I’m getting married in three days. I just want it all to be over. To be safe.’

  He makes a small helpless sound. ‘Of course I’ll help you, if I can. But de Havilland won’t just let you have it.’

  ‘I’ll get the key. Somehow.’

  ‘But, Lucian—’

  ‘Don’t call me that.’

  Silence. There’s the distant jangle of someone going into Fogatini’s shop. The wind picks up again and blows gritty snow-dust into our faces. Farmer slumps against the wall and rubs his eyes. A rat scuttles somewhere around our feet.

  ‘All right,’ he says, finally. ‘If you can get the key, I’ll help you. But on condition you treat me as an equal. I’m not your servant.’ He holds up his hand, palm turned to me. There are callouses on his fingertips. ‘And I’m calling you Lucian. It’s your name.’

  His eyes are level and blank. I stare at him. Abruptly I recognise his expression. It’s the way I look at my father, fighting to conceal hatred.

  He’s read my book. He hates me the way I hate my father.

  I shut my eyes. My skin crawls as if he can see all the way through me. I blunder forwards into the blank darkness behind my eyelids. The wind drives freezing air down the back of my neck. I feel fingers drag at my elbow but I shake them off.

  ‘I’m sorry. Don’t run away. Please.’ He stands in front of me. We’re in the middle of the street. A tiny edge of the sun flames above grey shreds of cloud, tinting the sky with crimson. My eyes smart. ‘It doesn’t matter. If you can somehow get the key …’

  I turn sideways, putting more space between us. I fumble in my pocket. ‘Stay at the Eight Bells, that’s not far from here.’ I pull out a handful of coins and thrust them towards him. Six shillings or so. ‘That should last a couple of days. Think of it as payment in advance. I’ll send you a note as soon as I’ve got it. Then you can take me to the bindery.’

  ‘I don’t want that.’

  ‘Take it.’

  He raises his eyes to me. The wind tosses his hair, and one corner of his mouth pulls tight. He lets me tip the money into his palm. He goes to drop it into the pocket of my coat, and then grimaces. ‘Oh. Wait.’ He shoves the coins into his trouser pocket instead. He starts to slide his arms out of the coat-sleeves.

  ‘Give it back to me next time. I’ve got a jacket.’

  There’s a silence. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘If you need more money, send me a note. You know my address.’

  He nods. We stare at each other. The sun flares behind him, spilling red through the gap between the tenements. It glitters in his hair. His temple and jaw and the tip of one ear glow scarlet. Unexpectedly, as sudden as the flood of sunlight, he smiles at me. It changes his face completely. I can’t remember anyone looking at me like that, ever. It makes the sunset redder, the scent of soot and paraffin sharper, the cold ache in my fingers more intense. The wind sings in a chimney somewhere above us. A crumple of paper whispers and swoops across the cobbles. The horn of a distant factory blares. He reaches out and brushes my cheek.

  My heart gives one heavy thump. Then I recoil. A binding, or standing on a street corner.

  ‘What’s wrong? Wait, Lu— Darnay, I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s not a payment for that.’ I don’t know why I’m so angry. It’s not as if I’ve never had a whore before. But – him?

  ‘I wasn’t … I’m not …’ He stares at me. Suddenly his mouth twists and he sputters with laughter.

  ‘Keep your bloody hands off me.’ I can still feel the trace of his caress on my cheek, like a cobweb. I want it there forever, and I want it gone.

  He stops laughing. ‘I’m sorry. Truly. I shouldn’t have—’

  ‘I don’t care how you earn your money. I don’t care what de Havilland sacked you for. Just help me find my book and then leave me alone.’

  He opens his mouth. But whatever he wants to say, he doesn’t say it. He gives me a tight nod, and turns on his heel. It takes an effort not to watch him leave. His footsteps die away. Now he’s gone I notice how cold I am. I’m a fool to trust him. I shouldn’t have given him the money. I should have given him more.

  The red light is so shallow now that every cobblestone is picked out in shadow. My shoes slide on the kerb. Crumbs of broken glass crunch under my soles. I cross the band of sunlight into the darkness on the other side of the road. Fogatini’s window shines around the edge of the papered panes. It’s not far to Alderney Street, and the world of carriages and street lamps. The wind lifts spindrift off the cobbles and sends it whipping around my ankles. I walk as quickly as I can, trying to warm up. My reflection slides past me in murky shop-windows, huddled against the cold. I see it out of the corner of my eye and for a second it’s as if someone’s hurrying along beside me.

  I emerge on to Alderney Street, then hesitate. I stare down the line of lamps, the railings throwing their shadow-cage on the new dusting of snow. De Havilland’s window has a light in it. There must be a way to get the key from him. But if money won’t work … The answer will come to me. It has to.

  Finally the cold makes me turn towards home. My cheek is still tingling, as if Farmer’s touch went deeper than my skin. I find myself stumbling to a standstill on the pavement, staring at the last streak of the sunset. A shadow moves behind me. Foolishly I glance over my shoulder, as if I’ll see Farmer there. But I’m alone.

  XXIV

  The next morning everything is pale and grainy and flickering, as if I’m getting a migraine. When I open the study door the fire in the hearth snaps and dips in the draught. I’m sick of this room. The red clotted walls waver and close in on me. My father isn’t expecting me, as far as I know, but he gestures to the chair opposite him without looking up. I sit. I haven’t slept and a long ache runs down my temple and jaw. I massage the side of my face as subtly as I can, trying to ease the tension.

  ‘Lucian, my dear boy,’ my father says at last, putting down his pen. He raises his eyebrows. ‘I do hope it isn’t the prospect of your fast-approaching nuptials that’s reduced you to this condition.’

  ‘No. Thank you.’

  There’s a pause. It’s still my turn to speak. My father glances at the clock.

  I swallow. I’ve been rehearsing this in my head all night, but the words won’t come. In the darkness, while all the clocks of Castleford counted off the hours, it seemed like the only thing I could do. Now it sticks in my throat. ‘Father.’

  ‘Perhaps it would—’ he says at the same moment. We both fall silent, watching each other. Pain gnaws at the edge of my jawbone and licks down into my shoulder.

  He leans back in his chair. He runs one finger along his bottom lip. ‘My dear boy,’ he says. He puts his sheet of blotting paper to one side. ‘Whatever you have to say, I’m listening.’

  I nod. I stare past him at the wallpaper and then shut my eyes. The elaborate curlicues still hang in front of my eyelids, like the last thing a dead man sees. I try to summon the greyness, but since I saw Emmett Farmer it’s refused to come. Everything stays in colour, pulsing blood-red.

  ‘That said,’ my father adds, ‘I do hav
e other demands on my time.’

  I force myself to look at him. ‘I need your help.’

  ‘Indeed?’ He picks up his pen and rolls it between his finger and thumb. His face is neutral, attentive, kindly. If I didn’t know him I’d think he loved me.

  ‘De Havilland,’ I say. It comes out like a stutter. ‘I mean …’

  ‘Yes?’ He hasn’t moved, but something sharpens in his expression.

  ‘He knows – he has …’

  ‘What is it, my boy?’ He gets up, and squeezes my shoulder. There’s a choking smell of sandalwood shaving soap. I look up at him. ‘You are in a state, Lucian. Tell me what’s wrong. I’m sure we can sort it out.’

  I take a deep breath. A gust of wind bubbles in the chimney and drives smoke into the room. My eyes water. If anyone can get the key off de Havilland, it’s my father. But it takes an effort to form the words. ‘His apprentice told me …’

  ‘Yes?’ My father’s grip clenches, and relaxes. ‘Ah, I see. Your book, is it? So you did go to de Havilland, after all. My goodness, he is a duplicitous fellow. Well, well. There’s no need to worry. Lyon and Sons is very secure, but if you’d rather I’ll have your book transferred to Simpson’s.’

  ‘It isn’t that.’ I stop. His face is avid. The collector’s instinct.

  There’s a silence. ‘What?’

  I swallow. I turn my head away and wipe my running eyes with the inside of my cuff. When I lower my arm I catch sight of the curiosity cabinet. The glass has been replaced. In spite of myself I glance at the floor, where the stains were. Someone has cleaned it all. The rug has been replaced, too. There’s nothing in this room to show that a girl died here.

  I look back at my father. He’s bending towards me. Perhaps I imagined the greed in his eyes. Now they have a familiar benevolent gleam. It makes you feel special, that expression. It promises you that everything will be all right. It’s how he looks at me just after he’s hit me. ‘I’m glad you came to me, Lucian. It was foolish of you not to tell me before you were bound, so that I could take the necessary steps. Now I can protect you from any … unpleasantness.’

  I stumble to my feet. I take a clumsy step away from him.

  ‘What on earth is the matter?’

  I don’t answer. My reflection stares at me from the curiosity cabinet, suspended among the ivory and the fossils. No one would know that there were shelves of books behind it. But I can feel them, fierce as heat from a furnace, as if Abigail and Marianne and Nell are in the room with me. ‘No,’ I say. ‘No, it’s not that. It’s nothing. Forget it.’

  ‘No? What then?’

  ‘Nothing. It doesn’t matter.’ I go to the door. I’m shaking, as if I’ve just stepped back from an abyss.

  ‘Lucian.’ It stops me dead.

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s not important.’

  ‘I will decide that, not you. Now, what were you going to tell me? If it isn’t about your own book, what was it?’ All the benevolence has gone. His voice is like the edge of a piece of paper: sharp and deceptively soft.

  I turn. A drop of sweat crawls down the back of my neck. I take a breath to argue but he’s watching me and my mouth is suddenly too dry. I clear my throat.

  He waits.

  ‘I just – I heard—’ I’m glad when the fireplace billows an ashy cloud and I have an excuse to cough. ‘De Havilland …’ I grope hurriedly for a lie. ‘His apprentice said he was producing fakes.’

  ‘Fakes? Novels?’ My father frowns. ‘You mean, copies?’

  ‘Yes. Copies. In the bindery. He said they copied Nell’s book.’

  He is silent for a moment. At last he nods. ‘I see.’

  ‘It may not even be true.’

  ‘I’ve had my doubts about de Havilland for a while.’ He’s not talking to me. ‘Thank you. You may go.’

  ‘Yes.’ I don’t wait for him to change his mind. When I step into the cooler air of the hall my shirt is wet and sticking to my back and under the arms. I don’t pause until I’m in the Blue Room and the door is shut behind me. I lean against it. My heart is thundering in my ears and my headache has come back with a vengeance.

  I shouldn’t have been such a coward. I’d made up my mind to ask my father for help. I don’t even know what made me hesitate. If I’d told him the truth, it would be out of my control by now.

  I stare up at the painting of the water nymphs. But instead of their wet bare flesh all I can see is Emmett Farmer, waiting for me at the Eight Bells.

  I drink wine and sherry with lunch and a brandy afterwards, but it doesn’t have any effect. Clouds build up over the sun and it starts to snow again. Even the softer light hurts my eyes.

  Before my grandmother died she’d roam from room to room, searching for something. If you asked her what she was looking for, she’d pause and regard you for a moment. Then she’d turn away and go on wandering, until she was so tired she staggered. Cecily and Lisette used to giggle behind her back. So did I. But now I feel the same. I can’t settle. It’s as if someone is just ahead of me, leaving every room just before I open the door. No matter where I go I have the same sensation, as if the warmth of someone else’s breath still hangs in the air. I go to my bedroom and take William Langland out of the chest where I keep it. But I can’t read. I never want to read it again. I stare out at the snow. My mother’s voice crosses the hall downstairs but outside there’s deep, dead silence.

  I don’t know how long I stay there, watching the snow, before something snaps inside me. I hurry down the stairs. No one sees me.

  The main streets are full of traffic, mired in the frozen mud. Cabbies shout at each other. Pedestrians curse as they pick their way along the pavements. Beggars glower from doorways. But as soon as I turn into a side street, everything is quiet. The snow swallows every sound.

  Alderney Street is empty and silent. When I get to number twelve I go up the steps without giving myself time to think. The door is opened almost immediately. It’s the same woman as before. This time she’s wearing green with jet beading. I say, ‘I’m here to see de Havilland.’

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’ She doesn’t give me time to answer. ‘I’m afraid he’s out.’

  ‘I’ll wait.’

  She glares at me through her pince-nez. She remembers me. ‘May I ask what it’s regarding?’

  ‘No.’ I take a step forward. She holds her ground just long enough to make it clear that she doesn’t have to let me pass. Then she sighs, draws aside and gestures me to the waiting room.

  There’s no one else there. I take off my coat and hat and sit down. I leaf through Parnassus and The Gentleman. I crush one of the false orchids into a stiff pad of wax. I stand by the window and watch for de Havilland. The street is still empty. The snow goes on falling. The light is starting to fade.

  I’m here to get the key. That’s why I’ve come. At least, I thought it was. But now, standing here watching the snow, I’m not so sure. I don’t have a plan. I don’t have a hope. What I want, most of all, is to forget all this. To go home blank-headed. To sleep without thinking. I’d do almost anything not to have to be myself any more. I imagine a binding like a doorway, leading you into an empty room. You can clear your life away. Start again.

  My chest is tight. There’s a sour taste at the back of my mouth. It would almost be a relief, not to know that Emmett Farmer is waiting for me at the Eight Bells. Not to feel that sting of unease when I think of his face. Not to look at Honour, the day after tomorrow, knowing that part of me is locked away, out of sight. And there’s a simple solution. When de Havilland comes …

  I snatch up my coat and hat. A moment later I’m out in the street, clenching my teeth as the cold wind sends needles of snow into my face. I need to find the nearest public house.

  It’s not far to the Eight Bells, but I can’t go there. I don’t want Emmett Farmer to see me in this state. Something makes me avoid the Princess Palace, too. I turn down Library Row. There’s one solitary lamp on the corner. Beyond that, the growing d
usk is spotted with soot-blotched shop windows. Surely somewhere, in the maze of booksellers, there’ll be a tavern. But I get to the corner where Fogatini’s is without finding one. I turn round. I’m not too far from the bar of the Theatre Royal, where the whores congregate. That would do.

  I start back the way I came. The snow comes and goes in gusts. A man hurries through the chilly pool of light under the lantern, clutching his hat to stop it blowing away. The brim casts a shadow over his eyes but for a moment the lower part of his face is illuminated. Greasy ringlets brush his shoulders.

  It’s de Havilland. It shouldn’t be surprising – we’re only a few streets away from his bindery – but it makes my heart jump into my mouth.

  I stop dead. But I don’t want to accost him here; it’ll be too easy for him to walk away from me. I pull back into the nearest doorway and wait.

  There are two men sauntering down the street behind him. When they pass the lamp they move casually to the edge of the pavement, keeping to the shadows. With a jolt, I recognise one man by his size and the other by his gait: Acre, my father’s advisor, and his right-hand man. As they move into the unlit part of the street, Acre and his man – Wright, I think – swap a single glance. With a few swift steps, Wright comes up behind de Havilland. He knocks de Havilland’s hat off. In the same second he swings his arm so quickly there’s no time to see if he has a weapon. De Havilland drops, clean as a shot.

  I hold on to the edge of the doorway. The mortar crumbles under my fingers. Why didn’t I call out?

  Wright puts his cosh back in his jacket and manhandles de Havilland’s limp body into the little alley just in front of us. Acre bends for de Havilland’s hat and follows Wright into the shadows. It’s so slick it’s like a music-hall turn. But there’s no applause or laughter. Now the wind has died down I can’t hear anything but my heartbeat.

  I make my way to the mouth of the alleyway and stare in. Slowly my eyes adjust to the blackness.

  The men are crouching beside de Havilland. Wright is holding something over his face. De Havilland’s feet jerk about and his body convulses. As I watch, it slows and stops. His ankles roll outwards. Everything is still. Acre puts a handkerchief and a bottle of ether back in his pocket. Wright lets go of de Havilland and rolls his head from side to side, grunting.