Blackened (20 page)

“How much longer do you think Adam and Eve will last?”

“Twenty minutes. Thirty at most.”

We reach a road, pass a sign: London 4 miles. Thankfully, we are on the right track. If we can make it to London before the horses collapse, perhaps we can disappear among a throng of people.

“Ya! Ya!” bellows the Reverend.

Somehow, Adam and Eve find more energy and up their pace.

Jean-Bernard's carriage maintains frightening closeness.

“Lisbeth! Stop! We must talk!” shouts Father.

Ignoring him I dig my fingers into my knees, willing the horses to keep going.

One of Jean-Bernard's horses neighs loudly. I swivel, stare, eyes alert.

The horse on the right is slowing down, its front leg moving strangely as though broken or twisted. Its fellow is also slowing. Jean-Bernard whips the horses angrily, frantically urging them to speed up, but they continue to slow down. Father curses, face red. The two horses slow to a reluctant walk. Nothing Jean-Bernard does will encourage them to increase their pace.

Luck is on our side. With one injured horse, and both refusing to co-operate, they do not stand a single chance of catching us. Jojo catches my eye and winks. I wink back and smile at the good Reverend who exhales a whistle of relief.

We gallop on, making good speed. Soon, Father, Jean-Bernard and their lame horse are nothing but a smudge of darkness in the distance. However, Adam and Eve are beginning to tire.

Two miles remain until we reach London, but we must stop and allow our courageous friends to rest. Jojo feeds and waters them while the Reverend paces back and forth beside the carriage.

“Are you okay?” I ask, rubbing the small of my back.

I watch him closely. His eye is bruised, probably from fighting the man who tried to kidnap me.

He chuckles, but his face is pale, his eyes shadowed, “I shall live! Do not worry dear Lisbeth, I am not as old and decrepit as I look. I am just a little shocked by recent events. Besides, it is not me whom you should be worried about. How are you feeling?”

I shrug, “Drained, anxious. I just hope we can get to London and find Eddie before they catch up with us.”

Reverend Pettigrew pats my shoulder in his fatherly way, “We have not far to travel now. Rest assured, Jojo and I shall get you there in the end.”

I begin to voice my gratitude, but the good Reverend puts a gentle finger to my lips, “There truly is no need to thank me Lisbeth, no need.”

A moment passes. Neither of us wants to mention the man with grey hair. The man who tried to kidnap me.

Suddenly, the Reverend throws his arms around my shoulders, hugging me so tightly that I can hardly breathe.

“Let it go, let it all out,” he murmurs into my hair.

Jojo walks over, freezes, turns and walks back to the horses.

“Let it go,” he repeats.          

But I cannot. Silent tears roll down my cheeks, but I cannot give in to the storm inside, to the turmoil of confusion, terror, despair.

I pull away. Inhale sharply. Exhale slowly, shakily, “I will. One day. One day, when all of this madness ends and I feel like me again.” 

*

Dear Mama,

I hope you are well and that you received my last letter. Again, I am sorry for not writing earlier, but much has happened. It seems my life is a never-ending tale of misadventure and peril, but at least I do not have to go it alone; Reverend Pettigrew and Jojo are forever at my side, my protector and guardian angel, and I am well again. Weak but well.

Father and Jean-Bernard pursue me still. They will not cease until they have me under lock and key. But we have escaped them again and are close upon arrival in London. When we get there we shall ask for directions to the school where I hope to find little Eddie.

I long to see him, but must confess that conjuring up his image is growing increasingly difficult. Even yours and Bethan's faces are becoming mysterious shadows. I do not doubt you of course, but I cannot acquire a concrete sense of when I last laid eyes upon you. It is the same with Bethan and Eddie. Somehow, to think that I held Eddie in my arms only a month past feels unreal. Nor does it strike true that quite recently Bethan and I engaged in lively converse in the back garden of Blackened Cottage.  Of course, memories of that dark place are writ into my brain with the unswerving permanency of words upon a gravestone.

Oh dear, I must sound ever so dreary. I apologise for the morose tone of this letter. When next I write, I hope to be in lighter spirits.

Lisbeth

*

“Bless me father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession.

I have committed the sin of violence against a child of god And, I regret to admit, I rather enjoyed it. I delighted in pounding my fist into that bald preacher’s wrinkled face. I truly did. I savoured the knowledge that I was more powerful than he, that my hand could render him weak as a child with such incredible ease.

I know that I should not enjoy acts such as these, but I cannot help this innate urge to disobey the will of Christ. This urge lives and swells within my breast; it is an ever-thrusting urge that shall ne’er be crushed.

Now, I venture south to find her. Again I find myself following Cutteridge and his French man, for it is they who shall lead me direct to her.

I had her in my hands. So close was I to journeying home with her by my side, but I am not angry. In truth, I relish the chase. Sooner or later I shall have her. Such a rare gem is she that I know the end shall satisfy the means.

I fear I may have confessed more than I ought, but it does feel good to offload these troubles upon a non-judgemental ear.

I am sorry for this and all the sins of my past life, especially for all of my sins against harmony.”

C
HAPTER 21
A
W
EIGHTY
S
UGGESTION

Dear Diary,

It grieves me to confess that once again I am unable to deliver good news.

She evades us at every turn. Every time we reach out to grab her, some idiotic fool interferes. We were so close this morn, but one of the horses fell lame. Now she has an enormous advantage. We may know her destination, but in order to ambush her we must get to the school before she does. Indeed, things are not so simple as they first appear.

Somehow, she has acquired firm allies, allies who seem willing to fight tooth and nail to protect her. They are ostensibly weak, this old preacher and black boy, but while they remain present, it seems impossible to obtain her.

I can guess what ridiculous tales she has told them. Thus it is no wonder that they wish to guard her from us. Perhaps if I were to speak with the preacher, he might see sense and let us have her.

Jean-Bernard is attempting to find a new horse. When he succeeds we shall be on our way. The journey to London is not far. Let us hope we reach the school first.

C.C

*

“We shall head straight to Gregory’s house. His investigative powers are infamous. If anyone can find out where St Peter’s Boarding School College resides, Gregory can.”

I tear my eyes from the hustle and bustle of London; from carriages overloaded with people and luggage, some two decks high, every passenger crammed in, suited and booted, raising his or her voice over the next person, desperate to be heard; pedestrians in their hundreds milling about in fine suits and top hats, dashing across the road at the very last second, surviving  a flattening by the skin of their teeth; sophisticated women in full skirts, heads high, gossiping about the latest fashion trend; ragged children ripping through the traffic of people, snatching purses, waving them high in triumph as soon as they round the nearest corner.

Clearing my throat, I look back at Reverend Pettigrew, “Is Gregory the psychiatrist of whom you spoke?”

“Yes, indeed he his. I thought whilst we were with him he could treat you. That is, of course, if you are in favour of the idea?”

I pause. Mull it over. Lean forward, “Anything that may help me regain my memory is certainly something I would like to try. However, time is a pressing issue. I fear that if we do not move quickly, Father and Jean-Bernard may arrive at the school before us.”

The Reverend nods wisely. Scratches his nose, “I see what you mean, but I really feel that a meeting with Gregory will be most beneficial.”

I do not wish to sound disagreeable so I nod and return my attention to the street. The carriage rounds a corner, enters a quiet road.

The atmosphere is remarkably different; no-one walks the street, the stench of sewage is ripe and the houses are smaller, jammed together with total disregard for privacy. In the windows, which are often cracked, the curtains are mould-eaten and torn. From the houses emerge unsettling sounds of babies screaming, women caterwauling, men cursing, objects breaking.

I am glad when we turn into a more upmarket road called George Street. Here the houses are still closely networked, but in a fine condition; standing proudly with uniform pale yellow walls, unpeeling doors, shiny brass knockers and casement windows. But everything seems so man-made. Nature seems not to exist in this place.

The carriage slows.

“Are we here already?” I gasp.

The Reverend smiles, “You see. We shall have all the time in the world.”

I am not so sure about that, but my chest relaxes a little as I step down from the carriage and go to help Jojo feed Adam and Eve.

“Are you certain Gregory will not mind our unexpected visit?” I say, turning from Adam to look up at the Reverend.

“Not a jot! You shall soon see, dear Lisbeth, Gregory is one of the friendliest souls you could ever meet!” he chuckles, pats Jojo on the shoulder and beckons us to follow him.

We walk up a short flight of brick steps to a blue front door. I stand back to look at the house. It is the last on the street and slightly larger than its companions. The yellow walls smell of fresh paint as if they were only painted yesterday. The doormat says: WELCOME. Number 68 is announced on the door frame in brass blocks. Nailed to the wall beside the number, is a silver plaque engraved with the words:
Dr Gregory Beard, Registered Psychiatrist
.

The Reverend seizes the knocker, knocks twice. We wait. Jojo approaches and stands by my side. He smells of horses and sweat. I wonder if I too carry the same potent scent. I long for a bath and food, but there is no time for such luxuries.

No-one answers. Reverend Pettigrew knocks again and an elderly lady with wiry white hair and steely eyes jerks the door inward. She looks about as welcoming as a pregnant swan.

“Yes?” she snaps.

“Margaret Turner, what a pleasure to see your beautiful face again!” booms the Reverend.

Margaret’s face immediately dissolves into a delighted smile and her face flushes bright pink, “Reverend Pettigrew! Well I never! Come in, come in!”

We follow her into a narrow hallway lined with faded tapestries of African wildlife.

“Foreign culture is a great passion of Gregory’s,” the Reverend says.

Margaret leads us into a vast living room. I am shocked by the exotic décor of the room. More tapestries of lions, rhinoceroses and flamingos grace the deep orange walls. On the floor lies a circular, multi-coloured rug, woven into complex, beautiful patterns. Strange objects fill the room; a metal topped spear, brightly coloured collections of beads, carved statues of elephants and giraffes. There hovers a strong odour of lemons. I sniff one of the candles on the fireplace, confirming my suspicion that they are the source.

Margaret looks at me sympathetically, “He is an eccentric man is Gregory, but he is also brilliant.”

I am speechless. Jojo settles down into a brown leather armchair and smiles at me. He seems very relaxed. The Reverend takes the two-seater and beckons me to join him.

“I shall fetch you some tea and cake,” chirps Margaret, “Gregory will be finished with his patient shortly.”

I get up, move to the bay window and carefully pick up a wooden carving of an elephant. It is incredibly lifelike.

Margaret hurries back in, busily sets about laying up the coffee table with the elements for afternoon tea.

She stands back, hands on hips, inspects her work, steps forward and nudges a teaspoon a half inch to the left, “Please, dig in.”

“We shall indeed! Thank you very much Margaret, will you join us?”

She begins to shake her head but is interrupted by an even louder voice than the Reverend’s, “Matthew! How wonderful – you have come again at last! And dear Jojo! And – who is this fine specimen of the female species?”

I blush and hide behind my tea cup.

Gregory Beard is a tall, thick-set gentleman with a looping brown moustache and a jowly face; the sort of man who could never walk into a room unnoticed.

“This is my lovely friend Lisbeth Cutteridge, and she is in need of your help,” supplies the Reverend.

“Squidge up then old fellow,” Gregory booms, “of course, anything for a pal. How may I assist you Lisbeth?”

I quickly swallow a piece of apricot tart. It gets stuck in my throat and I hastily sip tea to release it.

I am pleased that he is willing to help.

“I need to find my brother. I believe he is boarding at St Peter’s Boarding School, but none of us have the slightest idea of the school’s location. It is of utmost importance that I get to him as quickly as possible.”

“Ah, I see,” he says, smoothing his moustache slowly, “well, I have a boy who runs errands for me. The sort who can find out just about anything for the right price, if you know what I mean?”

He winks and shovels a whole piece of tart into his mouth. Reverend Pettigrew chuckles.