by Sarah Rayne
He and Crispian had been having breakfast together; Julius had been calm and lucid for several days and that morning had started to talk to Crispian about Cadences. Crispian, drinking his coffee, even wondered if it was possible the doctors might have been wrong about his father’s condition. He appeared pleased to be with Crispian, and he was wearing one of the linen jackets purchased for the trip with a silk scarf. His hair was brushed neatly and there was a faint scent of the expensive soap he always liked to use.
‘When I think what’s ahead, Crispian,’ he said, drinking his coffee, ‘I’m worried for the bank. There’re storm clouds gathering in Europe – you know that, of course?’
‘Yes, certainly.’
‘If there’s war it’ll affect the financial institutions. War always does.’
‘Will there be a war, d’you think?’ Please let this conversation go on, thought Crispian. Please let him stay like this – lucid and intelligent.
Julius said, ‘Yes, I think there’s going to be a war. And, other considerations apart, Cadences may have to ride out what’s called hyperinflation after it – that’s something that frequently follows wars. Your grandfather saw it happen after Crimea and the Transvaal, and to a lesser extent I saw it happen after the Second Boer War. Prices increase so rapidly that currency loses its value, you see. Coinage becomes debased. Cadences has never yet suffered an actual bank run, but if this war that’s brewing ravages its way across Europe, as the politicians say, then it might do so in the aftermath.’ He frowned, then said, ‘Not all wars are fought on battlefields.’
Crispian thought: this is the man whose brain, according to old Martlet, is being slowly eroded by disease. How sad it is that my father should talk so lucidly and with such concern about a run on Cadences, when I have brought him out of England to avoid that very possibility.
Suddenly Julius said, ‘I do know what’s ahead, Crispian.’
‘You mean if there’s a war?’
‘I don’t mean the war. I mean me. I’m ill, aren’t I? No pretence, now.’ For a moment the familiar imperious impatience showed.
Crispian said carefully, ‘You were working too hard. That’s why we’ve come on this sea trip. Dr Martlet thought it would do you good.’
‘Ah. Ah, yes, sea trip. But you can’t always trust the sea.’ He looked uneasily about the small dining room, and an expression came into his eyes Crispian had never seen before. He felt a lurch of apprehension.
‘I don’t like travelling,’ said Julius suddenly, and hunched over, wrapping his arms around his body as if hugging a pain. ‘I don’t feel safe.’
Crispian searched for something soothing and ordinary to say, but before he could speak Julius straightened up. The sunlight fell more strongly across his face and with a deep stirring horror, Crispian understood properly what Martlet had meant about his father turning into a stranger. I don’t know you, he thought. Someone else is waking behind your eyes.
Julius stood up, pushing the chair away and the silk scarf round his neck fell slightly open. For the first time Crispian saw the lesions in full, livid on the skin of his father’s throat. Like open sores, he thought, and although he tried not to flinch, his father saw the revulsion.
But he said, ‘So now you’ve seen what I am. Dear God, if you knew how I scheme and struggle to stop everyone from knowing and seeing—’
‘It doesn’t matter—’ began Crispian, reaching out a hand, but Julius was already pushing his chair back. ‘I can’t bear you to see it,’ he said, and with a gesture that was infinitely pitiable, he scrabbled at the scarf to cover his throat again. ‘I can’t bear anyone to see it. I know what it is, even though that old fool Martlet tried to pretend. But you see, Crispian, it might be better not to give it a name.’ The sly darting look showed again. ‘Once you give something a name,’ said Julius, ‘it makes it real. Did you know that? The priests will tell you that to exorcize a demon you first have to name it . . . But I’ve never named my demon, Crispian, I’ve never dared . . .’
He tailed off and Crispian, moving slowly, got up and began to edge his way to the door, intending to call Gil or Jamie, or the ship’s doctor. He had reached the door when the sly look vanished and wild glaring madness took its place. Julius was making flailing, uncoordinated gestures with his arms as if fighting off an invisible assailant. The cups and plates were swept to the floor, most of them smashing, and Julius sank into a tight huddle in the corner, wrapping his arms about him, his head hunched over. In a sobbing whisper, as if talking to himself, he said, ‘I never name it, that demon . . . I won’t call it by its name, no matter what it does to me, because if I do it will destroy me completely . . .’
Pity closed round Crispian’s throat, but he managed to get into the corridor and to shout for Dr Brank, who came almost at once, Gil at his heels.
They took in the situation at a glance, and Gil went straight to the corner where Julius crouched, and took his arm. ‘Let’s get you back to your cabin, sir,’ he said, and through the dizzy horror Crispian was aware of thinking it was a pity Gil seemed to have abandoned his medical training because there was a gentle kindness in his voice he had never heard before.
But when the three of them tried to move Julius he fought them savagely, emitting cries that were half sobs, half roars of rage. After a few moments, the doctor said, ‘Can you two hold him while I get something from my surgery?’
‘Yes, but what—’
‘Only one thing to do in this situation,’ he said tersely, and without waiting for them to answer, sped from the dining room.
Crispian assumed he would bring a bromide, but when he returned he was carrying an oddly shaped jacket made of canvas. Crispian did not immediately understand, and it was Gil who said, ‘Oh Jesus, you’re going to put him in a straitjacket!’
‘I’m afraid it’s the only course of action,’ said Dr Brank grimly. ‘And you’ll have to help me.’
In his corner, Julius gave a cry of rage, and tried to twist out of Gil’s hands.
‘He knows what it is,’ said the doctor. ‘Sir Julius, I think you’ve had this on before, haven’t you? But it’ll only be for a short time – just until you’re calmer.’
Julius was gripping the doctor’s hands, and Crispian saw the man wince. Julius said, ‘Don’t name it, will you? Don’t say aloud what I am.’
The doctor was busy with the straps, and it was Gil who said, ‘We won’t name it, sir. There’s no need to do so anyway.’ He looked at the doctor. ‘For pity’s sake, can’t you give him a shot of something? Laudanum, if you haven’t anything else.’
‘The condition prohibits laudanum,’ said the doctor in a low voice. ‘Now then, Sir Julius . . .’
The terrible garment was fashioned a little like a narrow jacket, but the sleeves were almost twice as long as normal sleeves. Crispian held his father while the doctor and Gil managed to pull the jacket over Julius Cadence’s head and forced his arms into the sleeves. He fought them for all he was worth, lashing out, and once his fingernails raked a scratch down Gil’s cheek. Gil swore, but held on, and between them they wound the lengthy sleeves round his body, and then – to Crispian, worst of all – looped a thick crotch strap under his legs and secured it at the back.
‘We’ll have to carry him,’ said Dr Brank. ‘You take his legs, Martlet. Cadence and I will carry his shoulders.’
‘His cabin?’ said Crispian.
‘No, bring him to my surgery. I can keep a better watch on him there.’
Julius was still fighting when they finally laid him on the narrow bunk in the doctor’s rather sparse surgery.
‘He’ll wear himself out quite soon,’ said the doctor. ‘Then we can take the straitjacket off. You two go and have something to eat. I’ll stay with him.’
‘That’s rubbish about laudanum,’ said Gil to Crispian as they went out. ‘I’ve seen it used on syphilis patients at Guy’s perfectly effectively and safely. Anyway, if it’ll calm that poor wretch down, I’ll pour vinegar down him. I
tell you what, dear boy, the minute that drunken old sawbones comes out, I’m back in there with the laudanum.’
‘How will you get the laudanum?’ said Crispian suspiciously. He would not be surprised if Gil said he intended to steal it from the dispensary.
‘Private supply,’ said Gil. ‘And don’t put on your prudish look, Crispian. I suffer from insomnia at times. Laudanum allows me to sleep and get some rest.’
Entries From an Undated Journal
There was precious little rest for anyone on that ship as it began to crawl its way along the Turkish coast.
I had looked forward to that part of the expedition – I thought it would be interesting and rewarding to see a little of those exotic lands. The sultans and caliphs and viziers. The covered squares and onion domes, wreathed in their ancient legends. And the people of the old stories – Tamerlaine and Suleiman the Magnificent. There’s magic in the very words, isn’t there? You, who read this, must agree with me, even though you know, by now, that I’m a self-confessed murderer. But murderers can have souls and appreciate the finer things of life. We aren’t all Jack the Ripper characters, walking around with dripping knives in case a likely victim presents him or herself. I always thought him rather an exhibitionist, that man, whoever he was, although the popular press must take some of the (dis)credit, because they seized on the whole thing with the glee of ghouls and sensationalized the killings. ‘Subtle’ is not a word one could ever apply to those newspapers, not then and not now. Still, one can’t really blame them, because scandal was ever popular, and the ordinary people have always loved a juicy murder. Charles Dickens knew that when he gave his Fat Boy that marvellous line: ‘I wants to make your flesh creep.’
But as for that part of the voyage that took us to the Turkish coast – I must confess I felt somewhat cheated that I couldn’t enjoy it as I had hoped. Actually, my memories of those weeks are somewhat blurred. I do know the darkness descended on me quite heavily around then, but I also know I was very cunning and I firmly believe I fooled them all. I’ve said earlier in these pages that I was a consummate actor, but when I look back on those days – on the stifling nights in that stuffy cramped cabin – on the hot smell of tar from the decks and the oakum in the huge coils of rope – I do believe I gave a remarkable performance.
Later
After I finished the above entry, I made a search of this place where I’m spending my last days. Quite why I did that, I can’t explain, because I surely know every last inch. The search didn’t take very long, of course, but the curious thing is that I found something, and as God – or the Devil – is my witness, I don’t believe it was there earlier.
There’s a cupboard opening out of this room. A cupboard so almost-seamless and so flush with the wall I never suspected it was there. But an hour ago I laid the flat of my hands on every inch of the walls and moved slowly around them. And halfway along the long wall near my bed I felt a difference in the surface. Seams, joins, lines making up a definite shape. The shape of a door? No, too small. Even so, I explored along the seams until I realized it was a large, deep cupboard.
Believe me, I have examined this room so minutely I wouldn’t have thought so much as a cobweb could have escaped my attention. But this cupboard had escaped it.
It’s roughly four feet high and perhaps two feet wide. Inside it goes back for about two feet, and then there’s just a blank wall. There’s nothing stored inside it, which is slightly surprising. So what is it? And what’s on the other side of that wall at the back? I sat for a long time trying to work this out.
The thought of escaping is so tremblingly fragile an idea I dare not let it take shape in my mind – I certainly dare not commit it to these pages. Not yet . . . But, oh God, oh God, let there be a way out of here.
There are three and a half days left to me – eighty-four hours – and I’ve decided to fill them by dividing the rest of my story into segments and allotting one or two segments to each day. It’s unbearable to contemplate the prospect of reaching the end of my story with hours – perhaps as much as a day – of life left, and nothing with which to fill the time.
Chapter 18
Turkish Coast, 1912
The days on board ship were filled with a variety of things, but for Crispian the worry about their situation overrode everything else.
Jamie, who took a gloomy view of most things, had already said they were in dangerous waters.
‘And I don’t just mean the Aegean Sea,’ he said. ‘I mean this threat of war.’
‘But the Balkan League’s supposed to have settled all the turmoil,’ said Crispian, knowing it had done no such thing.
‘I know, but it’s a very fragile alliance between those countries,’ said Jamie. ‘And any or all of them might decide to wage outright war on the Turks. On the Ottoman Empire. If that happens – if the Ottoman Empire mobilizes its armies – we’ll be trapped out here.’
‘It should be all right,’ said Crispian. ‘They’re turning the ship round today to go back to Athens. The captain thinks it’s too risky to go any further.’
The conversation took place in the ship’s small bar, with Gil lounging in the padded seat under the porthole, drinking what Crispian thought was ouzo. Crispian had been reading the English papers picked up in Rhodes. The papers were a week old, but he was working his way through them because they made him feel in touch with home. He finished The Times’ potted version of the history of the Ottoman Empire, which the paper’s editor apparently thought its readers would find edifying, and threw the paper down.
‘Personally,’ said Gil, ‘I find the Turkish Empire rather fascinating, never mind The Times’ correspondent casting thinly veiled aspersions at its decadence. I’m all for a bit of decadence. Sultans and harems and concubines. And you have to admit the silk garments they wear are sumptuous. Very dramatic.’
‘It’ll be dramatic if war does break out between the Balkan States and the Turks,’ said Crispian. ‘Because the Greeks will seize all the islands in the Aegean and they’ll control shipping and we won’t get out.’
‘But who said life was ever meant to be safe?’ enquired Gil, carelessly. ‘I feel definitely drawn to the Turkish culture.’
‘What about the religion?’ said Crispian, half-amused, half-exasperated.
‘I’m a pagan at heart, dear boy, or hadn’t you realized?’ said Gil, reaching for the ouzo bottle again.
‘Their music is rather beautiful,’ said Jamie, picking up The Times and rifling the pages. ‘Byzantine plain-chant and the liturgical rites of the Eastern Orthodox Church. If we do risk putting into any of the Turkish ports, I’d rather like to delve a bit into that.’
‘You’d take that risk, then?’
‘I’m not a risk-taker,’ said Jamie, with his rare, sweet smile. ‘You know that. I’d like to hear some of the music at its source, though.’
Crispian was about to reply when running footsteps came along the deck outside, and Brank, the ship’s doctor, fell gasping into the bar.
‘Dear me,’ said Gil, ‘you’re in more than a usual hurry to get a drink tonight, and in fact—’ He broke off, seeing Brank’s face. ‘What’s wrong?’ he said, and even through his concern for what the doctor might be about to say, Crispian heard how Gil’s voice suddenly sharpened and saw how he sat up straighter.
‘Mr Cadence – it’s Sir Julius,’ said Brank.
‘Ill?’ It was Gil who rapped out the question.
‘Oh God,’ said the doctor, and his hands were trembling. ‘Oh dear God.’
Again it was Gil who moved fastest, going swiftly along the decks to Julius Cadence’s cabin, the other two at his heels. They reached the cabin, and Gil went in. Crispian paused in the doorway, horrified, Jamie behind him. He heard Jamie’s gasp of distress, but he had no room in his mind for anything other than his father.
His father. It took several moments for Crispian to be sure that it actually was Julius Cadence in the room. It was as if a wholly different person crouched
in the corner, arms wrapped round its body, head turning from side to side, and a dreadful blank unseeing look in the eyes. Crispian, his mind spinning, thought, This is the worst yet. He doesn’t know any of us – dear God, I don’t think he can even see any of us.
He became aware of the doctor babbling at his side, tripping over his words in his anxiety to explain what had happened.
‘. . . and I left him on his own for most of the day, I admit I did that, Mr Cadence, Mr Martlet,’ Brank was saying. ‘But he was so tranquil after breakfast, a little sleepy, perhaps, but nothing out of the—’
‘Had you given him bromide this morning?’ said Gil, who had kneeled at Julius’s side. Crispian saw his father give a start of surprise as Gil grasped his hand.
‘Bromide? Yes, it seems to soothe him, make him comfortable. You suggested it yourself,’ said Brank to Gil. ‘You remember how you said a mixture every morning . . .’ He turned his head as Julius said something in a whisper.
‘What’s he saying?’ said Jamie, still in the door of the cabin.
‘That it’s dark.’ Gil was staring at Julius very intently.
‘Dark,’ said Julius again, and this time the word came out louder. ‘It’s everywhere now. All round me. I knew it was creeping after me – I’ve known it for a long time. But now it’s everywhere. Soon I shan’t be able to breathe for it.’
Gil was still holding Julius’s hand between his own. ‘You’re all right, sir,’ he said. ‘Quite safe. We’re here. Tell me what you’re feeling? Are you in any pain?’
‘I always feared the darkness,’ said Julius as if Gil had not spoken, and began to rock to and fro like a child in pain. Crispian had the impression that his father was not talking to any one of them. ‘It’s followed me for so long. Like a thick black shadow. Like a monstrous bruise hiding in corners, waiting to pounce.’
Crispian went to kneel on his other side. He said, ‘Father – it’s me. Crispian.’
Gil said, very softly, ‘I don’t think he can see you. Can’t you tell that?’ He leaned closer to Julius again, moving a hand back and forth in front of his eyes. ‘You see?’ he said. ‘No response at all.’
