Insane: A Werewolf Keep Story

by Nhys Glover

  Insane

  A Werewolf Keep Story

  Nhys Glover

  This story is entirely a work of fiction. With the exception of historical events and people in the public domain, the names, characters and incidents portrayed in this work come wholly from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental

  Cover image © Canstockphoto.com/lishinskiy

  Published by Belisama Press

  © Nhys Glover 2014

  This book is copyright. All rights reserved.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Chapter One

  What do you do when your heart is stolen? Painfully. Ecstatically. Impossibly. That was the question reverberating through Charlie’s mind as she stared at the man in chains before her.

  He wasn’t much to look at. Normally, she would have turned her gaze away from the sight of someone as filthy and unkempt as he. The smell issuing from his general direction was more than enough to have her reaching for the vinaigrette in her reticule.

  But there had been a strange, out-of-time moment between them. She’d glanced at him as she took in the noisy courtroom of the Old Bailey. In that exact moment, he’d looked up as he was being led into the docks. His gaze had snagged hers and something electric had passed between them.

  Charlie caught her breath, the vinaigrette meant for her nose clutched to her breast instead. Her heart began to chitter away in her chest like angry magpies protecting their nest. Swallowing became a conscious effort as her mouth dried out and felt as parched as the papers her father rustled in front of him.

  And still she hadn’t been able to break the stare, her eyes drinking in every minute detail of him: tall, something over six feet, skinny to the point of emaciated, but with a breadth of shoulder that seemed too wide for his bony frame; long, filthy, black hair hanging lankly around his face; dark olive skin, a foreigner’s colouring, mottled from lack of sunlight and bruising; unshaven cheeks grown into a straggly black beard; and large, intelligent brown eyes, fringed by thick dark lashes, sunk deep into the cavernous hollows of his thin face.

  Those eyes – they told her more with every passing second that their gazes remained meshed. They were wild, knowing eyes that seemed to comprehend the depths of Hell. Haggard, tortured and mad eyes.

  But, in that endless moment, Charlie felt her heart ripped from her chest. She felt it burst gloriously free; pouring forth all of her myriad hopes and dreams onto this one filthy stranger – a criminal in the docks. Tears stung her eyes as the joy of recognition settle in.

  She was lost.

  ‘Charlie, what is wrong, lass? You are staring in a most unladylike manner,’ her father, Barnaby Hughson, demanded.

  Charlie registered his words, heard the concern in his tone. But, for the life of her, she couldn’t form words to reply. Her mind was totally blank. No, that wasn’t the truth. It was totally filled with a sensory overload that she had no ability to categorize, organise or filter.

  And still they stared at each other. He was being shoved forward into the dock by a bulbous nosed gaoler who, noticing where the prisoner was looking, dealt him a sharp blow to his ribs to bring his attention back where it belonged. Even then, doubled over in pain, the man didn’t break the connection.

  ‘Charlie!’ snapped her father angrily.

  Finally the trance was broken and she was able to look away.

  ‘Who is he?’ she hissed, wishing she’d paid attention to her father’s hasty instructions that morning. He was the counsel for the defence, his first case since his appointment to the bar. Charlie was his clerk for the day, replacing his regular assistant who had taken ill.

  Allowing Charlie to step in, to take notes of the proceedings and provide him with documents as required, was a last minute decision. It was an important job, which couldn’t have been hers had she not been the lawyer’s daughter. But her father had allowed her to assist him in his solicitor’s firm since she left school five years ago, so it was not such a major step to now be temporarily clerking for him in his new position as a defence counsel at the Old Bailey.

  But now her part in the legal drama playing out around her paled into insignificance compared with the man who had stolen her heart.

  ‘He is a “John Smith”. I did explain this to you. No one knows his real name. He was found unconscious beside the body of the victim, whose throat had been torn out. He was covered in the man’s blood. The crown charged him with murder, claiming the men had fought and that the defendant lost consciousness after killing his victim. We do not know exactly what happened as there was no weapon of any kind at the scene. And, as he will not or cannot talk, and there were no witnesses to say differently, the constabulary’s assumptions are all we have been given to work with.’

  For the first time, she noticed that the rags he wore were covered with dark stains. Blood stains. There was dried blood on his neck, too. However, his face, which was now illuminated by the reflected morning light from the court’s strategically placed mirror, was unbloodied.

  ‘He hasn’t been cleaned up since he was brought into custody,’ Charlie said. It was a statement not a question, as it was very apparent that no effort had been made to make him presentable for the court hearing.

  ‘No, facilities for the common man in Her Majesties Penitentiaries are limited.’

  Her mind was suddenly crystal clear. ‘So, if he tore the victim’s throat out with his teeth, as I am assuming that is the argument, then why is there no blood on his face, more specifically, none around his mouth?’

  ‘Hmmm, an interesting observation, my girl, but irrelevant. My brief was to have him declared insane and institutionalised. My client feels it is the most humane course of action. I have presented that case, and today we will hear the judges’ ruling.’

  ‘Locked up for the rest of his life in Bedlam? Papa, no. You cannot. He is innocent!’

  Barnaby Hughson turned to look more closely at his daughter. ‘I allowed you to come along today because you pleaded with me to do so. Your dear mother will be turning in her grave, knowing that I gave in to such an inappropriate whim. Please, do not make it any worse by trying to interfere with the course of justice. Sit still, keep notes and mind your tongue.’

  Charlie couldn’t remember ever hearing her father speak to her with such quiet fury before. He was usually a gruff, old sweetheart who was easily wrapped around her little finger. Being the only child of his beloved dead wife had meant she had wanted for nothing in the twenty-three years of her life. Not even the right to participate in such unladylike activities as clerking at the Old Bailey had been denied her. But it would seem that there were limits.

  ‘Not Bedlam, Papa, please,’ she pleaded, ignoring those limits.

  ‘As it happens, no, not Bethlem Hospital for the Insane. He will be sent to a special asylum in Yorkshire,’ he answered with a huff.

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘For as long as is deemed necessary. Now please, Charlotte, sit still and be quiet. The judges are taking their places.’

  Charlie knew she had pushed her father past the limit when he started using her full name. No one called her Charlotte. It was a name befitting a genteel lady of refined ways, not the cheeky, wilful tomboy she had always been.

  Sometimes she thought the nicknam
e had been given to her because her father had really wanted a son. And though he never admitted it, allowing his wilful daughter to behave in unladylike ways, becoming a blue-stocking of sorts and studying law alongside him once she’d finished her education, seemed a clear indication that the assumption wasn’t far wrong.

  She had hoped to convince her father to allow her to clerk for him on a regular basis. It was a wonderful way to learn. But all her plans to be a proper, sober assistant had flown out the window the moment she had locked eyes on her father’s client. She knew the case had gone on all day the day before and, because of its nature, had attracted much attention. It was still a rarity to attempt an acquittal of murder based on an insanity plea. The judges had heard the jury’s decision the day before, but the ruling had been postponed because of the lateness of the hour.

  Now it was time to hear from the judges. A herald called the court to order as the four bewigged men in dark finery entered the room. A hush fell over the court as the judges settled themselves into their seats high above the floor and took up their documents noisily.

  ‘It is the ruling of this court that the defendant, known as John Smith, is found innocent of the crime of murder on the grounds of insanity. He will be removed to a lunatic asylum until such time as he is deemed recovered from his condition. Next case.’

  Charlie stared at the judge who had spoken. He seemed totally disinterested in the ruling he had just handed down. Eager, in fact, to get on with the next case. How could he and his fellow judges commit a man to an insane asylum with so little concern? Didn’t they know what sort of hell holes such places were? Had they not read the reports circulating on such matters? The man who had taken her heart had as much chance of recovering from his condition in one of those places as he had of flying.

  She watched in tearful horror as the man was led away, his eyes remaining focused on her until the very last moment he was pushed through the doorway leading down to the cells.

  ‘When will they take him away?’ she whispered.

  ‘Immediately, I would say. There will be a vehicle awaiting him at the back of the courts.’

  ‘May I be excused Papa? I am not feeling well.’

  Barnaby Hughson turned his distracted eyes onto Charlie. ‘You are over excited by these activities. I should have known they would be too much for you. Go, take a hansom cab home and calm yourself. I will see you this evening.’

  Charlie hated being reduced to the role of hysterical female. It would set back her plans by months. But she could not think of any other way to get out of the courtroom so that she could find out what was to become of the man who had stolen her heart.

  Such a strange term: stolen her heart. She had heard it before and laughed at its absurdity. Yet, in this moment, when she felt herself in the throes of some overwhelming fascination, there seemed no other words to describe what had happened to her. She had not willingly given her affections to this filthy stranger. It defied all rationality that she would do such a thing. All that was left to consider was the possibility that he had done something to her – used some kind of mesmerism on her, to make her act so absurdly. In some unfathomable way, knowingly, or unknowingly, he had stolen her unwilling and unsuspecting heart.

  Handing over her paperwork to her father she gathered her belongings and scuttled out of the courtroom as the hubbub of the next case commenced. With as much speed as was ladylike, Charlie made her way to the front of the building and out into the early morning sunshine.

  The air was heavy with coal smoke and horse dung and she reached for her vinaigrette again. Scurrying around the back of the large building, she came to the lane where the black police wagons lined up to disgorge their filthy occupants. This was no place for a lady, she knew. The loud, raucous voices and the violent scuffles told her she was placing herself in harm’s way. But she had no other choice. She must see him again. Must speak to him, if she could.

  A white, enclosed wagon turned suddenly into the laneway. Charlie barely had a moment to jump out of the way of the horses as it passed her. She noted that it was driven by a man in a dirty white uniform and that a guard, rifle in hand, sat beside the driver. The guard’s eyes were predatory as he scanned the cobbled lane around him. To Charlie, he looked far more dangerous than any of the men being led into the courthouse.

  Standing in the laneway, skirts muddied by the passing vehicle, Charlie watched as the wagon pulled up outside the back entrance to the Old Bailey. The guard climbed down easily and stalked into the building. Charlie had no doubt that this was the vehicle that would take her man away.

  There had to be some way that she could get to him.

  She moved further up the lane, and was surprised by how little attention she attracted amongst the comings and goings of prisoners and their guards. Without realising where she was or what she planned to do, she found herself at the back door of the white wagon.

  It had two rickety wooden steps up to the back door. One small, barred window high up on the door seemed to provide the only light to the interior. A heavy, unlatched bolt kept the door closed but not locked. No one was being particularly cautious about security. Obviously, an empty wagon was not considered a risk.

  Some insanity of her own drove Charlie to open the door and look inside. It was bare and musty, but not nearly as foul as she had expected. The floors and wooden benches along both sides of the wagon were bare and wet, as if recently washed down. Anyone sitting on those benches could expect a damp seat.

  Would her hanky be sufficient to dry a spot? She began to shake as she realised the direction her thoughts were taking her. This was pure lunacy! Was she really considering taking a seat in this dark, dank space just so that she could speak to a man the courts had found insane? What would the guard do to her if he found her here? What would the chained man do to her if the guard locked him in with her? Would they hear her screams and come to her rescue if he attacked her?

  Bombarded by frantic thoughts and questions, she took a step back. Her good sense told her to run back up the lane and into the busy street; back to sunshine and normalcy; back to what she’d known her whole life – her comfortable, well ordered life.

  But, whispered another voice in her mind, if she left now she would never see him again. He would be thrown into some awful asylum with madmen for the rest of his life. If he wasn’t already insane, it wouldn’t take long before he went mad from the kind of treatment such institutions meted out.

  I will never see him again.

  That was the one thought that had her almost doubled her over in pain. Her heart ached, truly ached. She couldn’t live with the thought that she had lost him so easily, so quickly, without making any effort to…

  What? What did she want to have happen? Her mind blanked out, unable to contemplate what she actually wanted.

  But she did know what she didn’t want: to give up on him so soon. There had to be a way she could spend time with him and help in some way.

  Charlie took a decisive step forward toward the open wagon door. She scrambled up the rough wooden steps and pulled the heavy door closed behind her.

  For a moment, she was blinded by the sudden darkness, and she felt panic beginning to rise. Her head felt light, her breath hard to find. Sweat broke out on her brow as she began berating herself for her thoughtless behaviour. She was a wilful, silly young woman. What would her father say when he found out what she’d done? He’d lock her in her room and never let her out again. She was throwing away her whole life with this one idiotic action.

  But, as her eyes adjusted to the small amount of light coming in through the barred window, her panic subsided. She would ride with him to the asylum, talking to him on the way. Then, when they got there, she would get out and go her own way. Her father need never know. The guard would be shocked to find her inside, but what could he do? She would simply say she was the assistant of the man’s legal representative and had some last minute questions for him. He would have to let her go.

&nbs
p; As she justified her actions in her own mind she heard the door opening. She sat down on the wet seat and huddled at the very back of the transport. Unless the guard intentionally checked the interior before pushing his prisoner inside, her presence should go unnoticed.

  At least that was her plan.

  The light was blinding as the door swung back and the chained man fell into the wagon with her. The door slammed closed behind him, and she heard the bolt slide into place and a lock snapped shut.

  The smell in the wagon was suddenly overpowering. Blood, sweat and gore assaulted her senses. Terrified, she huddled closer to the back wall, wondering desperately what had become of her vinaigrette.

  What had she done? This was madness. He was probably insane, just as her father said. He might tear her throat out as he had his victim’s.

  Her eyes began adjusting to the darkness once more, and she saw him lift himself off the floor and look around him. She actually sensed the moment he realised he was not alone. It felt as if all the air in her lungs was suddenly sucked out and she was left gasping.

  ‘Don’t be afraid. I just want to talk to you. You saw me in the courtroom just a little while ago. Do you remember me?’ she croaked out, as she tried to draw air into her starving lungs.

  ‘You should not be here,’ he answered in English, his Spanish accent thick. His voice, raspy from lack of use, thrilled her.

  ‘You can speak. They said you were dumb.’

  ‘You should not be here,’ he repeated. ’You can’t be here.’

  He dragged himself up onto the bench across from her and stared at her as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.

  ‘They are right. I am mad. First, I see that beast and now I see you, here, where you could not possibly be.’ His voice was growing stronger now, and as it did so, the vibrant timbre of it washed over her senses like a tender caress. It was the most beautiful voice she’d ever heard.

  ‘I am here. I may well be insane, too, for doing what I have done. But I had to see you again, and it seemed the only way,’ she hastily tried to reassure him.