Blackened (23 page)

He locks the door behind him. His threat lingers in the stuffy air. I search the room for weapons. Nothing.

A tiny window, far too small for me to squeeze through, is the only source of light. The night is grey-blue and will soon fall to black. I lie back on the mattress, but I cannot sleep. Terror keeps me alert. Any moment I expect him to enter the room and slide into the bed beside me.

I listen to a bird’s strangled call repeat itself over and over. Listen to the wind moan. Listen to Clara’s cries as Mortimer beats her. The poor girl is scared to death of him, just as I am. But whereas her fight has gone, mine still breathes and pulses.

The girl’s cries turn to quiet sobs.

The front door slams. Mortimer is gone, for now. Where to, I care not. All I hope is that he is gone long enough for me to escape.

Running to the door, I thump on it hard, “Clara! Clara? Can you hear me? Clara?”

There is no response but the wind’s drunken slur.

“Clara!” I shout, louder, more demandingly.

“Hello,” says a voice so quiet I nearly miss it.

“Thank goodness! Clara, listen to me. You need to find the key and unlock this door. Do you understand?”

A pause.

“Clara!”

“I, I cannot do that,” she stammers.

I laugh somewhat hysterically, “What do you mean you cannot do that? Of course you can Clara. If you move quickly, both of us will be out of here before he returns.”

“I am sorry, but I cannot. If he finds me, he will…”

“He will not find you,” I assure her, “I promise you Clara. We will run and hide. It is night. We will take cover and hide until morning. He will not find us.”

“How can you be so sure?” she whispers.

“Because we do not deserve this life Clara. Neither you nor I deserves a life of imprisonment.”

“You may not, but I do. I am useless and weak. I am pathetic. I deserve to be beaten. I do.”

“Wait one moment Clara. Think. Do you truly believe that? What is the worst thing you have ever done? I bet it is no worse than spilling a jug of water.”

Silence. She is thinking. Perhaps for the first time in her life, she is being forced to question everything that he has encouraged her to believe about herself.

I try a different approach, “Where is your Mother, Clara? What would she say if she saw the conditions in which you are living?”

There is a very long silence. I wait, hoping my words have taken effect.

“My Mother is dead. When we saw you in the graveyard, we were visiting her grave. Mother knew the sort of man he is. When she was alive, she bore his violence, protected me, but now she is gone. He killed her. I saw him do it. He strangled my Mother to death with his bare hands.”

I gasp as the horror and meaning of her story sinks in, “Your Mother was Morna? Morna O’ Floinn?”

Closing my eyes, I think back to the words on the gravestone.

“Yes. How do you know? You cannot possibly have known her. He never let her set foot outside this house in all the twenty years since the night he took her.”

“Took her?” I repeat, a chill seeping into my bones.

“Yes. He stole her from her home in the dead of night when she was eighteen years of age. He took her and did to her exactly what he is doing to you.”

So Morna did not run away as Sorcha O’Floinn believed. Poor Sorcha – for years she thought her daughter gone of her own accord. She thought herself abandoned by her own flesh and blood. I wonder if the truth would at last put Sorcha’s crazed mind at some kind of peace.

“Your poor Mother,” I say.

I hear Clara sob. Not wanting to lose her, I say, “Having witnessed your Mother’s suffering and having seen your Father’s cruelty, can you not then acknowledge that you need to escape this place, escape him?”

She sniffs, coughs, “Perhaps.”

“Then help me,” I urge, “help us. Find the key, or make a run for it and bring back help. Do you know the way to Grousehill?”

“Yes, but not in the dark.”

I hesitate, “Then where does he think he has put the key?”

A long pause.

“I can see the key. It is on the table,” she says quietly.

I want to scream at her, but contain my frustration, “Please Clara, do this one small thing for me. I promise I will get you to safety. Please, just pick up the key and unlock this door.”

She says nothing.

“Are you doing it?” I say.

“Yes.”

The key enters the lock. Clatters to the ground. Her hands must be shaking too much.

The cottage door opens.  Mortimer’s heavy footsteps announce his return. I freeze, paralysed with fear for Clara’s safety.

“Rabbit for supper tonight,” grunts Mortimer, “light the fire and spit it now Clara. I am as hungry as a horse.”

I listen carefully. Perhaps Clara plucked the keys off the floor and placed them back on the table before he entered the cottage. For her sake, I fervently hope she did.

Two hours pass, two tortuous hours in which I lie there listening to the whistling wind and the occasional outbursts of Mortimer. I cannot imagine living as Morna was forced to live. I would rather die than suffer at the hands of that insane man.

The lock rattles and the bedroom door opens.

I tense, preparing to fight, but it is only Clara bringing in a small plate of food. Avoiding my gaze, she kneels and places the plate in my hands. A purple bruise stains her cheek. I want to grab her wrist, whisper words of comfort in her ear, but she hastily moves away, shuts the door and locks it.

Reluctantly I nibble at the cold meat. It tastes like dust but I eat half, aware of how important it is to maintain my strength. My thoughts wander to when Mortimer will come to claim me. Appetite gone, I lie back on the mattress and try to stay awake.

*

Dear Diary,

We have arrived at Blackened Cottage. I asked Reverend Pettigrew and Jojo to rest here, but they politely refused, preferring to sleep at a friend’s house in Grousehill tonight.

Night has fallen. I am desperate to begin searching, but Jean-Bernard persuaded me to wait for daylight.

I know I shall not sleep tonight. I am shattered but my mind will not cease its morbid exploration; what is she suffering; where is she; is she hurt; does she remember the truth; does she love me once again? Is my Lisbeth back? Has the girl I married returned?

Anger simmers beneath my sorrow. I do not know what I would do if I saw Cordwell. Visions of my hands around his neck flash behind my eyes. Perhaps there is good to be said for a soul parched by years of torment, because I know that I could kill this man with ease. My moral compass is not as full as it once was.

Jean-Bernard sleeps upstairs in the big room, the master bedroom, the room that, if Lisbeth returned and if she recalled everything, we would share. The room in which we would make love and delight in each other  and soothe away the pain of loss. But there are too many ‘ifs’. I am grasping at strands of hope. If we do not find Lisbeth, I do not know how I will cope.

Oh let the night come and go in a blink! Oh let the day come so that our search may begin!

C.C

C
HAPTER 24
M
ORTIMER
G
ODFREY

Mortimer does not visit me all night. Somehow I stayed awake, and now I am suffering a head fog that is turning my thoughts to slush. My wrists are stinging from their binds and my stomach is roiling like a thing possessed.

As the sun tips its head over the land and the birds begin their joyous symphony, the bedroom door opens and Mortimer, eyes bright, enters the room, wearing russet trousers and a dirty shirt open to the waist.

I stare in disgust at the immense amount of grey hair curling over his chest, the fat gut and the large, pus-filled spots spattering his neckline. Thick, coarse stubble lines his jaw. Even at a distance, his smell reaches me; foul, putrid, the stench of rotten cabbage.

I push myself to my feet, squaring my shoulders. He smiles that rotten smile and holds his hands up in supplication.

“Do not panic, my darling. I have come only with the intention of inviting you to join me for breakfast.”

He stands aside and holds the door open for me. I hesitate. Is this some sort of trick? Why has he not yet tried to claim me?

As if reading my thoughts, he says throatily, “I shall come to you tonight, after we have spent a day together becoming better acquainted with one another’s ways.”

He smiles almost kindly as if he is doing me a great service.

Nodding tersely, I hurry out of the room.

Clara is sitting in her dark corner knitting. She does not look up.

“Please, sit down, help yourself,” says Mortimer coming up behind me and trailing a hand across my shoulders.

I bristle and clench my fists, battling the desire to bolt for the door.

On the table, sits a pot of tea and a huge bowl of berries rife with ants. I feel my stomach shift in revulsion.

Sitting down, I show him my wrists, “How can I eat like this?”

Unfortunately, this prompts Mortimer to take hold of my wrists. His hands are hot and moist. I squirm, repulsed by the intimacy with which he strokes the back of my hands.

Staring darkly into my eyes he murmurs, “I want you to swear under the eyes of God that you will not try to leave this cottage. Swear and I shall untie you. My greatest desire is that we may live in perfect harmony together, you and I, that we may explore one another’s minds and bodies with a mutual passion and live out the rest of our days together.”

I stare back at him maintaining complete eye contact, “I swear it.”

He sighs and grins, “Then I shall untie you. Darling Lisbeth, you may have resisted my advances at first, but I can tell that you are coming to your senses and it is truly a beautiful transition to behold.”

Planting wet kisses onto the palms of my hands, eyes never veering from mine, ever so slowly he unties the rope. He stares down at the sore, red rings around my wrists and his breath hitches with excitement, “These rings mark you as mine. They are shining symbols of the full life that we shall live together. From this night onward, we shall become one, forever.”

I look away, hiding my frown. This is all too strange. I simply cannot believe this is happening. Tears threaten. Gritting my teeth, hands trembling, I force myself to sip some tea that tastes of stale water.

A sudden, terrifying vision of him lying on top of me brings bile into my throat. Swallowing thickly, I glance around the room. The front door is the only exit.

In the grate, the fire is fading.

“Go and fetch more logs,” Mortimer barks.

Obediently, Clara rises, lifts a rounded willow basket and quietly leaves the cottage.

I find myself willing her to run, but I know she will not. Her mind is trapped into submission. To go against years of control would be like a miracle coming to pass.

Alone together, Mortimer snatches up a chunk of bread, tears at it with his teeth. I can hear the slobbery, crunching sound of him chewing. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him, my body tensed in anticipation of attack, but he appears preoccupied for the time being.

The door is not far from my back. In five strides I could reach it. Slowly, so as not to alarm Mortimer to any wrongdoing, I reach for the bowl of berries, lifting it with my right hand and bringing it back towards my plate. My breathing accelerates and my body grows hot. Shall I risk it, shall I make a move? The bowl is made of china. It is heavy and could certainly render someone unconscious if applied with a good amount of force. I weigh the bowl in my hand, thinking, daring myself to do something, aware that if I fail, his wrath will be explosive.

“Bread, darling one?” he says spraying crumbs and spittle onto my lips.

I shake my head.

“How do you fancy your new abode?” he says.

I shrug, “It is nice.”

I try to keep my response as bland as possible; anything to avoid provoking his anger.

“Good, good,” he says chewing slowly, “are there any additions you would like to make to the cottage?”

I peer around the room. No pictures or ornaments adorn the walls or surfaces. A pile of books sits in one corner. A dead plant emanating mould rests in a white china pot on a shelf along with several plates and bowls. The place is not too dirty. Perhaps it is Clara’s job to keep the cottage clean.

“A plant might look good,” I mutter, keeping my eyes on my empty plate.

He nods approvingly, “Of course! What a splendid idea. I shall send Clara to pick one today.”

I seize upon his statement, glancing up at him with a forced smile, “May I go with her to choose? Please, Mortimer?”

His hand freezes, the bread suspended halfway between his mouth and the table, his eyes fixing on mine; grey, soulless, absent yet present.

“You wish me to allow you to roam the woods
alone
with Clara?”

I nod, sensing danger.

His eyes narrow, “Can I trust you, Lisbeth?”

I nod again, meeting his eyes, “Yes. I promise with all of my heart that I shall return.”

He drops the bread and swivels suddenly, grabbing my damaged wrists so fiercely that I gasp. Pulling me onto his lap, he seizes the hair at the nape of my neck and yanks my head backwards. With his other hand he holds my wrists, staring at me, his eyes burning with anger and lust. His chest rises and falls quickly. I can smell him; feel his rising heat beneath me. I force myself to remain still, to play along.

“Please, Mort,” I whisper.

He gives a sharp intake of breath at my use of his preferred name and licks his lips. Abruptly, with savage force, he grabs my jaw, twisting my face so that we are nose to nose. Fear spears my spine. I swallow dryly, wishing I had never spoken.

“I shall give your request some thought,” he breathes, “for now, a little kiss?”

Though voiced as a question, he gives me no chance to respond; crushing his lips against mine, he claims my mouth, searching and probing with his vile tongue. I try not to pull away, but I cannot breathe. I am overwhelmed. Panic blooms, making my heart flutter strangely. Pushing his chest against mine, trapping my hands, his nails scrape across my scalp, digging into my skull, holding my lips against his so that I am powerless to resist. A guttural groan escapes his throat.