by Pippa Hart
CHAPTER 5
While approaching Adam’s room I could hear the merriment that was occurring downstairs. The laughter was so loud it almost eclipsed the sound of glasses clinking together as the group of men cheered.
I hated it when they came because it always signalled the last Thursday of every month. That only meant one thing, The Happening was taking place. Not many people knew of The Happening and it was certain that most people wouldn’t want to. It portrayed the worst side of humanity, the seedy underbelly of the rich and decadent world of the aristocratic deviance.
It was on these nights that I’d watch the goings on from high above. I’d look down with utter derision as the men before me cast their spell of evil, their intentions treacherous to God. I never wanted to watch The Happening, but I knew to ignore it would not make it disappear. I had to learn more about it stop it, had to study every detail if I was to demolish it.
Sir Collins was sitting in his favourite armchair by the fire, the one with the shiny leather and the brass buttons that held the supple upholstery together. I always imagined it was rather like his body, the skin stretching to hold together its troublesome weight as it sagged in the middle. And the seat’s complexion rather matched the man’s with its claret red exterior.
He was there now, a drink in his hand and a pungent odour beneath his nostrils. Yet as ugly and unhappy as he always looked, he was now wearing a subtle smirk as though he was in possession of the most priceless and astounding secret. He leaned back further in his chair, the front of his hair becoming floppy from the sweat on his brow.
“Old chap,” he called to a man who was sat across the fire from him. “Are you quite done with that album?”
“Oh yes. Sorry Sir,” and the scrawny man with wiry hair almost fell to his knees in fear as he carried the leather bound photo album to the host of the party.
Somewhere behind him played Beethoven’s ninth on a wax cylinder. It was Sir Collins favourite and he tapped his foot as he flicked through the pages.
“Yes, very nice,” he smacked his lips together.
Then his pupils dilated as he turned the next page.
“Good gosh, this fellow, he is sublime. Who is he? I must know who this boy is at once,” he bellowed across the room.
The man known as The Curator was mingling with a group of men who were enthralled by his conversation. Leaning in with baited breath, they hung off his words as though they gave them life. The man himself however, didn’t need their raptured attention because he was amusing himself quite enough with his tall tales. When he heard Sir Collins he turned his head, his lacquered hair staying in perfect place as he moved.
“Coming Sir,” his voice was high but arrogant.
He slicked his hand over his black, stiff hair and walked with a bounce over to the host. His hips were swaying as he walked, a gait he had often practiced in front of the mirror. And his eyes were fixed ahead as though he was locking onto a target.
“Yes Sir. How are you liking this evening’s collection?”
“It is marvellous,” Sir Collins guffawed. “Just terrific but tell me,” he held up the album. “Who is this boy?”
The Curator looked down at the photograph that was placed inside the red, velvet sleeves.
“Oh, why he is a French boy. Came all the way from Paris, Montmartre if I’m not mistaken,” he traced his finger down the photograph as he gazed with adoration. “He is a perfect specimen,”
“And will he be here tonight?” the old man’s palms were already sweaty at the thought.
“Ooooh… he might be,”
“You’re always one to tantalise me,” Sir Collins winked.
He wanted to find out more about the boy, was so desperate to find out his age, but the old man from across the fire interrupted him.
“I say Collins, will your boy be finally joining us tonight?”
“As a matter of fact he is. There’s a first time for everything,”
And I wanted to scream. How dare he treat little boys as though they were objects in a collection? Who was he to ruin little Adam’s life when he could be mine? There had to be a way out for him. If he stayed in this house a moment longer he would feel a pain so tremendous it would never leave him.
Hurrying upstairs I found his mother in the corridor outside his room. She was amidst a hushed conversation with the governess. A young girl name Sarah who was as lovely as she was oblivious.
“He says someone poisoned him,” his mother was still unnerved.
“Well that can’t be,” Sarah clutched at her chest. “Who could ever poison a little boy?”
And they became silent as they listened to the ruckus that was emanating from below.
“Is Sir Collins having another party tonight?”
“He is,” his wife clenched her jaw as she spoke.
“Is it true?” Sarah was almost too scared to ask and she had to choke the words out.
“No,” Lady Collins shook her head in denial. “It can’t be,”
And she hurried away, leaving the governess alone in the hallway with only the meagre flame of her candle. As I approached, I watched as it danced before me, the small lick of fire trembling in my presence. Sarah saw it move, sensed the panic rise up within her as she felt my gaze. Then she ran from me, her breath visible in the chilled air. I waited until I heard her footsteps reach the bottom of the stairs before I approached Adam’s door. I knocked three times like always and then entered.
“Go away,” he shouted upon seeing me. “You’re bad, you’re evil,”
“No sweetheart, no. That’s not the case. I’m trying to help you,”
“No you’re not. You gave me cyanide. Mummy told me all about it,”
“Well… aren’t you a very smart boy?”
~
Sir Collins was rather drunk, or at least as inebriated as he was expected to be. He clicked his fingers at The Curator and gestured for him to come close. He leaned in to his neck, his acrid breath on his ear.
“Will you send for the boys now?”
“Of course sir,” and the suave man in the tuxedo paused for a second. “And your son sir, shall we get him ready?”
“No, not yet,” the old man nodded in thought. “Better let him get another hour of beauty sleep,”
“Good idea sir,” and The Curator hurried off to gather the night’s talent.
~
Meanwhile I was trying to help Adam see sense. I was so desperate to make him believe he was in danger that my words rushed out my mouth in great tirades. They must have seemed so terrifying to the young boy and as I tried to hold him in comfort, he pulled away screaming.
“Mummy says you don’t exist!”
“Well….that’s not so true. She knows who I am. I know she does. But listen Adam, that’s not important right now. You are in great danger. You will be hurt tonight if you don’t do as I say. You must follow me. You must come with me. If only you could see how much I love you, how much I want to help you,”
“No, go away,” his voice was getting more anguished as the tears caught in his throat.
“I didn’t want to do this but I fear I must,” and I grabbed the pillow from under him.
There was great terror in his eyes. His face twisted into a desperate grimace as I lowered the pillow over him. His limbs were so fragile and brittle beneath me as I leaned down on his body. Then as I pushed the pillow onto his head I felt his tiny fingernails grasp at my arms.
His screams were now muffled as he fought for his life. Tears fell from my face as I took him away from his troubles. I never wanted it to be like this, but how else can you kill a child with love. There is no pleasant way. And so I pushed harder until his screams vanished and his body went limp. Then I stayed for a long while, unable to face the reality of what I’d done.
I watched as his arms went blue while the veins under his skin turned a dark purple. Then I lifted the pillow from his face and saw what I’d done, taken a life to save it. I c
ried as I saw the horror of my actions. His face was cemented into a silent scream, his eyes clamped shut as he closed out the pain of his last few moments.
Sobbing at the sight, I slid off the bed, my body gathering on the floor in a bundle. Then I heard them, the little steps as they ran to me across the floorboard.
“I found Mummy downstairs but she couldn’t see me,” Adam was still crying but was putting on a brave face. “You can see me can’t you?”
“Oh thank you God. Yes I can see you,”
~
Downstairs Sir Collins was enjoying the heady heights of the party. The room was hot and damp with the large amount of people pressed into it. He noticed his glasses were beginning to steam up and he took them off for a second to give them a wipe with his handkerchief. Placing them back on, he looked around the room to see where The Curator had vanished to. He had ventured upstairs to collect Adam twenty minutes ago and hadn’t returned.
“That God forsaken Frenchman,” Collins fumed as he strutted out the room into the great hall.
He heard it in the distance, the screaming. It was coming down the stairs in waves. For a moment he thought it was his wife again in a moment of melodrama, but there was something so visceral about her voice as she sobbed.
There were other voices too, a young girl and an older man. But still, he was too angered by having to wait that he didn’t think for a moment that something serious had occurred. Not until he reached the top of the stairs. Turning towards Adam’s room he saw the bustles resting against the floor as the figures of his wife and the governess hugged each other.
The Curator was standing in the open doorway with his hand clutched to his mouth. One solitary tear was running down his cheek.
“What in God’s name is going on?” Collins bellowed.
But nobody jumped to attention or even looked at him. They were all immersed in their own shock and grief and continued to weep as though he wasn’t there.
“I say, one of you tell me this very minute what the fuss is ab-“
He stopped in his tracks the moment he turned into the bedroom. He saw little Adam on the bed, his limbs sprawled and blue across the covers. The window above him let in the moonlight making the boy look like he was made of the finest porcelain.
“Adam!” his father ran to him, clutched at his face and ran his fingers through his hair but it did nothing to revive him.
Meanwhile, the attic had a new tenant and I was eager to make him feel at home.
“You’ll like it here, you really will,”
“I’m not sure,” Adam looked around. “There aren’t any toys,”
“Well, you can bring up your old ones up from your room,” I suggested.
But he wasn’t interested anymore. I could tell his mind was fixed on the noise downstairs.
“Mummy’s so sad that I’m gone. I can’t listen anymore,” and the tears returned to his eyes. “I knew you were evil! I knew you were trying to kill me,” he slumped on the floor and began banging his fists.
“No, don’t do that,” I insisted. “It’ll cause more trouble,”
He stopped and pouted as he looked up to me.
“Who’s that behind you?” he stuttered as his eyes became wide.
“I’m Mathilda,” the girl in the yellow dress stepped out from the shadows. “Would you like to play?”
