by Clare Daly
‘What did Rako say?’ Sasha asked.
He could tell his brother was in no humour for conversation but he knew losing himself in a book was not going to do the trick this time. He was ashen faced.
‘Nothing’ his brother said.
He moved his hands slowly in the water.
‘He’s not going to punish you?’
He gripped the side of the basin, his knuckles white. He didn’t speak for a moment as if deciding the best way to tell it. Eventually he turned to him, looking him in the eye for the first time since he’d returned.
‘He’s separating us,’ he said. ‘Rako will take you to your new quarters tonight.’
‘And where will you be?
‘Here…for now.’
Something switched in his demeanour as if he’d been trying to work out a problem and had at last fallen on the best solution. His expression brightened.
‘I did Rako a favour getting rid of Letski. We talked and I suppose, in an effort to see the back of us, he granted us our expedition. You are just going first, my own delayed start a punishment of sorts. He said there were ways other than murder to get his attention but once I had it and agreed to share some of our fortune, he conceded.’
‘So, we’ll be free soon?’
‘Yes…you first and then me. It’s very important you know that. I will follow you.’
Sasha couldn’t believe it. At last! He pulled his brother in for a hug.
‘I should never have doubted you,’ he said. ‘I’ll admit it, I was beginning to think we’d made a huge mistake but it’s come good, just like you said it would.’
The door of life’s possibilities was open again. Re-joining it in all its wonder, was a pleasure he thought lost to them. Vladimir handed him the book of maps he had collected which he accepted with eager hands, putting it securely into a satchel that had lain empty since their arrival. Now he would take it out of there.
‘Rako will tell you where to go,’ Vladimir said watching his every move. ‘Get you set.’
Sasha suspected his brother was a little jealous but now was not the time to rub salt in the wound. If Vladimir hadn’t killed Letski, he would not have this chance. He owed him everything.
The wait seemed endless but when the door finally opened that evening, Sasha jumped up, keen to get started. Rako, who was accompanied by four guards, looked puzzled by his high spirits. It was only when he saw the shackles that Sasha knew something wasn’t right.
‘Has your brother explained it to you?’ Rako asked.
Vladimir shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
‘Yes, I’m ready.’
‘You won’t need that,’ Rako said, looking to the satchel, then to Vladimir. ‘You didn’t tell him, did you?’
Slowly Sasha put it down on his bed and looked to his brother.
‘Vladimir?’
He didn’t look up.
‘Just take him Rako,’ he said.
The guards stepped in, one of them with a heavy coat draped over his arm and Sasha knew then that there was no expedition. He backed away to the tiny window, the icy air circling in – a reminder of the fate that awaited him. Outside. Alone. With what, he couldn’t be sure. But he wouldn’t be coming back.
‘No!’ he shouted. ‘Vladimir? You can’t let them take me.’
He kicked and twisted his body but he couldn’t fight them. The shackles bit into his skin as the guards dragged him to the door, his hand gripping the door jamb in one last plea for help. Vladimir did nothing. He just sat there with his eyes to the floor.
‘You lied to me.’
One of the guards struck his fingers to pry them loose. As they took him away, he heard the faint words of his brother delivered to the empty room.
‘I’m sorry Alexander.’
9
Michael had worked tirelessly all afternoon and as night began to fall, he threw his spade in the barrow to head for home. At the end of the furrowed rows, a heap of blackened potato plants lay ripped from the ground. There were too many for him to clear them all. Not today. Not on his own. Voices carried from the fields beyond and in the distance three figures toiled as he did, shouting across to one another. He looked around, imagining his father, calling out to him as he always did. You alright, son? And Michael from the time he could hold a shovel, would wave his hand in the air and smile back at him. As their father had grown weaker, it was Michael who looked out for him. He worked close beside him to spare him the hard graft. Not that it had done any good. His father was dead. Buried on the land he’d worked so hard on all his life.
The thought made his chest heave. Grief would have its say no matter how hard he tried to push it away. Angry tears fell as it swept over him, for grief and rage were born together from death, each screaming for attention. His body folded, the seat of his trousers meeting the ground, his head collapsing into his hands. He dug his heels into the ground, pushing the soil back and forth. Stones ran into the hole in his boot and in the disturbed earth, he saw something. An object, half buried. He dug it out with his fingers. It was a piece of whittled wood – a dog, small but carved with great skill. A child’s toy perhaps lost or discarded but not one he recognised. Their father was good at many things but the detail in this carving was beyond even his handiwork. It looked like a wolfhound but with more muscle, built like a beast, it’s shaggy coat expertly rendered, its head large with a vicious open mouth, baring its teeth. Perhaps not a child’s after all. He put it in his pocket to show Evelyn – the only prize from his toil that day, when he saw the plume of grey smoke rising in the sky.
He ran as fast as he could but by the time he reached the cottage, thick smoke billowed out the empty door frame, the roof ablaze. Neighbours ran with pails of water but it was too late. Where was Evelyn? He looked for her among the faces. Maybe she was still with Father Mercer. A man came towards him, an empty bucket in his hand. It was Foyle, a local farmer, who sometimes collected rent on Corcoran’s behalf.
‘I’m sorry son, but it was too far gone,’ he said, Michael only barely listening. ‘We couldn’t get to her on time.’
Her?
‘She was inside. I heard her scream as the place went up.’
He reached for Michael’s shoulder but he was already gone, in a sprint towards the blaze. Yellow and orange flames raged and with a loud crack, the ceiling beams – no longer able to hold – collapsed sending a shower of sparks into the room below. Still he rushed forward. If Evelyn was in there, he had to try. And if he failed? Then death was better than being without her. He felt someone grab him, then many hands, as they dragged him back. A safe distance, they said. Nothing you can do now. They sat with him in the grass, all of them watching.
As the last embers burned, he refused offers of shelter for the night, some with more swearing than was necessary. How could this happen? Most of the neighbours had left after he’d shot down their attempts to explain it. Chimney fire? He kept it swept. An ember from the fire falling on the straw? Evelyn was careful. She’d never let anything near the fire. In the end, he lost patience, especially when the ones who remained, did so holding hands – a Hail Mary on their lips for his father and sister.
‘What good are your prayers?’ he said. ‘There’s no God here anymore to hear them.’
If there had been, he would have spared her. The blight was strangling their community and his sister was out there doing her best to peel its fingers back one by one. He was done with prayer. There was nothing left to pray for. In his eyes, the glow of the embers became a copper haze. The last of the faithful left, and he moved closer. He had to be sure. There, beneath the blackened beams she lay.
They should have let him run in there. Losing both his father and Evelyn in the one breath, was too much to bear. He could hear her voice in his head, calling to him. Did she scream for him as she died? Over and over, he heard it. Was she to to
rment him? Haunt him? The very thought of it. He pushed his hands against his ears. He would go mad from it. Around him, the wind picked up blowing ash out onto the road. He watched it as it drifted, the rise and fall hypnotic and there in the middle of it all stood his sister, her face in sorrow as she looked at their home.
She was strangely dressed. A man’s overcoat, her hair damp over the lapels, her legs and feet bare. He stood transfixed by this apparition. But she was no ghost come to haunt him, for when she put her arms around him, she collapsed into him, her embrace so tight his ribs ached. She was real. Breathing hard against his shoulder. She didn’t speak and he didn’t know where to begin.
‘You were inside.’
He knew the futility of it for she was here in his arms.
‘He said you were and then I saw you…’
‘Who said?’
She was looking at him strangely.
‘Foyle. He said you were in there and then it all fell down.’
‘Was Corcoran with him?’
‘No, why? You think he had something to do with this?’
‘I know he did.’
She went to the house and peered inside.
‘I suppose a body isn’t hard to come by. They can’t bury them quick enough,’ she said.
‘I don’t understand. Why would he do this?’
‘I went to see Lord Stockett. I’m sorry. I know and… you were right it was the worst thing I could have done.’
His attention turned to her appearance as she said it. Christ, what had happened?
‘Whose coat is that? Did he hurt you?’
‘No, but he wouldn’t listen to me, he said he was going to evict us. And Corcoran was there too. When I left he followed me into the woods…’
No matter what she would say next, Michael had already decided his course of action. She told him of the attack – how he’d caught her and fought with her. How he’d hit her with something and then tried to dispose of her. Get rid of his problem and cover his tracks. She was keeping something back – he could tell. Was she trying to spare him the most awful of truths? She only wore his coat. Nothing else. He could see a secret in her eyes and he was terrified as to what it might be. Either way, he’d decided. He was going to kill him. He would find a safe place to hide her until this was over. He told her as much before she disappeared around the back of the house, returning with the sharp prongs of a muck rake, curved like a claw in her hand.
‘Corcoran’s mine,’ she said.
10
Evelyn pulled the coat tightly around her, the irony of finding it thrown in the gorse not lost on her. It was heavy and warm and it overlapped to double up on her, such was their difference in size. She felt the burnt threads and marvelled again at the gift that had saved her. She would have doubted her sanity where she not wearing the proof of it. She hadn’t fully understood its magnitude when her father had told her. How could she? It was fantastical that a person could create fire from nothing. But now that she’d felt its power for herself, it was incredible. If only she could talk to her mother. How could anyone else possibly understand it? Would her brother? On the way home, she’d debated whether to tell him. She was going to but that was before she’d found their home destroyed and him possessed of an urge for violence. Losing their father had struck Michael hard. Perhaps it was enough for one day and besides, Corcoran needed to be dealt with first.
***
The farmhouse was in complete darkness to the front. By now, she hoped he’d have retired to bed, for murder must surely be an exhausting practice. Michael went first as they rounded the corner to the back yard. There was a soft glow from the kitchen window. Candlelight. He was still up. She ducked below the windowsill, peeking above an empty flower box that hadn’t seen a flower in a very long time. Inside, Corcoran and Foyle sat at a large table, a bottle of whiskey, almost empty between them.
Michael tightened his grip on the drill spud in his hand, its long, concave blade more used to sowing crops than vengeance. It was all he could find but it was sharp and more than adequate. The presence of Foyle certainly didn’t deter him. It seemed to enliven him and he motioned that he was going to check the back door. She stood still and listened, the men’s drunken voices carrying through the thin glass. She peeked again.
‘That’s the drink talking boss,’ said Foyle shaking his head.
‘You didn’t see her. Huge fuckin’ flames shooting from her hand at me.’
Corcoran picked up the bottle for another swig. Nothing but a trickle on his tongue.
‘Jesus, you drank the lot.’
‘Did not,’ Foyle said, his elbow slipping off the table.
Corcoran rose and took another bottle from the cupboard. He opened it and threw the cork across the room, swallowing a mouthful. Foyle’s eyes were closing.
‘A toast,’ he said. ‘To the witch. May she burn in hell.’
He swung the bottle upwards as whiskey splashed in the air, taking another gulp before he sat down. A long hunting knife lay on the table and Corcoran picked it up, running his fingers along the blade.
‘Wish I’d had this with me today, I tell ya.’
His hands were trembling. It could have been the drink but she’d gotten to him, she knew it. Is that what he’d told himself – that she was a witch? They needed to get in there but Michael was nowhere to be seen. Then, something moved in the shadows opposite Foyle who had fallen asleep. From behind Corcoran’s back, Michael raised his blade high. What was he doing? Corcoran must have caught a reflection in the knife, for he turned just as the blade came down. It struck the back of his shoulder, half of it disappearing as Corcoran let out a roar.
He jumped up, his knife swiping through the air as Michael leapt back, his own weapon still embedded in the man’s shoulder. Evelyn ran for the back door. She heard Foyle’s raised voice, first to protest the noise disturbing his nap, and then to shout at their intruder. She hesitated. She needed the fire. Could she summon it? She didn’t know how it had come to her before. She flexed her fingers, willing it to come but it was no use. The feeling wasn’t there. From inside, the sound of glass breaking. She was going to have to get in there regardless, before they both got killed. She moved into the room. Foyle had broken the empty bottle and he held it by the neck, pointing a long shard at Michael. Corcoran had fallen to his knees, his arm extended as he tried to remove the blade from his back, his own weapon still in his hand.
All three men saw her and paused. Michael’s face flashed with worry. Foyle cried out with fright while Corcoran’s look of shock disappeared in seconds as he readied himself to take her on. He left the blade in his shoulder and stood. Now, she had at least evened the fight. Foyle hurled himself at Michael, both men falling to the floor, the shard dodging precariously between them.
Evelyn swung the rake as Corcoran came at her. She grinned. The heat began to grow, spreading rapidly from her hand into each prong, until the iron turned amber in her grasp. She swung it out to block him and it cut clean through his knife, the handle still in his hand. He would not best her this time. He took a step back, fear in his eyes as he looked at her weapon, the tips white hot. He opened his mouth to say something. Would he surrender? Try to reason with her? Beg her forgiveness? It was too late for that. Her mind had already made that leap, decided it the moment she swam out of that river. Was her gift responsible too for these thoughts? Was it affecting her mind as well as her body? She wanted to tear him apart, watch him burn, then continue to Melmoth Hall and do the same to Lord Stockett. Whatever this power was – it was dark and capable of making its host do violent things. Is that why her mother didn’t use it? But think what she was capable of. The power it brought. The terror it could reign. She had been so thankful of it in the river – it had saved her life – but now it frightened her. Or was it the terrifying thrill of being able to stand up to Corcoran when it counted? Had she not found it,
would he have left her alive – battered and broken – only to do it again? It wasn’t in her nature to be violent, yet here it was, when she needed it. She should be thankful. She was still breathing because of it.
The heat spiked in her veins and she ran at him, twisting her body to bring the rake up, slashing him across the chest. He stumbled back into the table. She had scorched deep tracks into his skin, tearing his shirt and he lay panting, the wound in his back adding to his misery. She was conscious they were not alone but her brother and Foyle were fighting too hard to notice. She wanted a slow death for him, but death itself would have to be enough. She raised the rake again but didn’t strike him. Instead, she rested it on his chest, leaning over him to curl her hand around the blade in his shoulder. Instantly, his body began to shake as the heat flowed through it. She concentrated, increasing the intensity, controlling it. He tried to speak but his mouth made no sound, opening and closing in a futile attempt to cry out. She imagined the heat running through his body. His eyes throbbed in their sockets. His tongue swelled. Would his heart do the same? Still she held on, her face close to his. A sheen of perspiration glistened on his face. She didn’t let go until he was dead, his final breath an agonising groan.
Among the splinters of broken glass, Michael wrestled with Foyle. He’d been cut – a deep gash across his jawline – before he had forced it from Foyle’s hands, smashing it. Now Michael was on top of him, punching him in the face. Foyle had passed out and as Michael continued to hit him, Evelyn caught him by the arm.
‘That’s enough,’ she said. ‘It’s done.’
