Blackened (24 page)

The sound of the door opening breaks his passion. With a growl he shoves me back onto my chair and stands up.

I turn as he strides towards Clara, grabs her wrist and tears the log basket out of her hand. Placing it on the floor, he slaps her hard around the face. She cries out and throws her arms up.

“Will you ever learn to knock?” he spits, pushing her so roughly that she stumbles back and smashes painfully into the front door.

“I am sorry Father,” she splutters, but he has already turned away.

“I am so sorry my darling,” he murmurs softly to me.

Gently, he pulls me to stand and guides me back into my room.

 “Will you think on my request?” I whisper, trying to hide my horror.

His eyes torch mine with their dark intensity. A smirk flashes across his face. Without a word, he closes and locks the door.

*

Dear Diary,

It is midday and we have already searched half of Grousehill. People are very accommodating. Indeed, one family has lost their eldest daughter Emma in the last year and their thoughts and hopes are with us. The fact that this family have never found Emma, dead or alive, is incredibly disturbing. At every house we have described Cordwell’s appearance, but nobody seems to recognise his description. Still, I will not give up until I have searched every house, back yard, shed and barn.   Sometimes, fear threatens to break my resolve, but Jean-Bernard is an ever-present voice of optimism urging me on and on.

The good Reverend and his son have gone to the church upon hearing that the local vicar was attacked late last night. I doubt there is a connection, but every lead must be followed.

Hearing of our loss, a few villagers have volunteered to search the woods. I am touched by their kindness, but suspicious also; perhaps one of these men is friends with Cordwell?

I must go.

C.C

*

An hour later, I hear a loud banging coming from the front of the cottage. Curious, I move away from the mattress and put my ear to the bedroom door. I can hear men’s voices, raised and insistent. I make out two words: ‘search’ and ‘woman’. One voice sounds a little like Charles’. My heart pangs with longing and hope.

I think quickly: should I scream, shout, hammer on the door? What would Mortimer do to me or the men at the door if he hears me? I have seen a shotgun leaning against the wall next to the fireplace. An image of Mortimer aiming the gun in Charles’ face forces me to give my next action more thought. If I scream they will know I am here, but Mortimer will be exposed and he may hurt them. However, they could also have guns, in which case perhaps they could get past Mortimer uninjured.  Of course, if I do not scream, they may not realise I am here and all shall be lost.

The key rattles in the door and Mortimer strides in, shoves one hand over my mouth and the other around my neck, forces me over to the window, bends down and tugs a rug back to reveal a trap door. Grabbing a filthy handkerchief out of his pocket, he gags me and makes me step down into a hole the size and shape of a coffin, if not smaller.

“Lie down on your arms,” he whispers sharply.

He waves a large knife at me, “If you make a sound, I will slice them up and then I will come for you.”

I lie down obediently, knowing there is nothing more I can do. All I can hope is that whoever is searching the house is vigilant, strong and in possession of a weapon.

I hear Mortimer’s retreating footsteps, the bang of the bedroom door as it shuts. I wait in absolute darkness, feeling the dried mud beneath my palms, smelling the musty air. The hole is so small that I cannot move at all. Thankfully, claustrophobia is not an ailment from which I suffer otherwise I would be at death’s door right now. How long the oxygen will last, however, I know not.

The bedroom door opens. Footsteps belonging to two, possibly three, pairs of feet creak across the floorboards, sending dust shattering down into my eyes and nostrils. My nose tickles and I just manage to contain a sneeze.

Mortimer says loudly, “As you can see, no-one else resides in this cottage other than myself and my daughter. May I ask who led you on this wild goose chase?”

A man responds shortly, “I am afraid I cannot disclose that information.” His voice booms even though he is not shouting and I know immediately to whom this remarkable voice belongs: Reverend Pettigrew! It is he, my dear friend. My protector. He has come all the way back to Grousehill to find me, but alas, he does not know I am here beneath the very floor upon which he stands. I wonder if Jojo is also in the room, standing above me, his dark eyes scrutinising the small space. My guardian angel.

To hear Charles’ voice is a joy I cannot find relief in at this present moment. He is not here. He has not come to find me. Does he look for me still or is he finally beyond caring? Tears spill down my cheeks, silent and hot and full of regret, yet I beg that some sixth sense will inform the good Reverend that I am here. Please let him feel my energy, my need to be found. Please God, give him a sign!

But my pleas have no effect. The Reverend is leaving as quickly as he came. Footsteps fade across the floorboards. The door opens and closes. I groan, tears stinging, flowing hotly down my cheeks.

C
HAPTER 25
C
AT AND
M
ICE

“May I join you?” asks Mortimer politely.

He holds a tray of bread and jam. A knife sits in a slab of butter.

Clara freed me from the hole an hour ago. Reverend Pettigrew is long gone, any hope of being rescued shrivelling like a fallen apple beneath the fieriest sun.

I eye the knife closely as Mortimer sits on the mattress beside me, his thigh touching mine. A move that I can tell is intentional.

“Of course,” I murmur, subtly shifting my weight onto my other hip so that I am further away from him.

“How are you feeling, darling? I must admit, you do look rather pale today.”

I almost laugh at the absurdity of his remark. Given what he has put me through - the kidnapping, threatening, locking and tying up, gagging and hurting – is it so surprising that I am not on top form?

Swallowing the caustic response that rises to my lips, I quietly say, “I am feeling a little unwell I suppose. Perhaps some fresh air would do me some good.”

Ignoring my hint, he spreads jam on some bread and brings it to my mouth.

“One of my greatest pleasures in life is watching you eat,” he says huskily.

I take a small bite, closing my nose to the cabbage smell of his fingers. The bread is stale, the jam extremely sweet, but I had nothing to eat at breakfast so my stomach is thankful. A splodge of jam drops onto my chin and I go to wipe it, but Mortimer stays my hand with his.

“Allow me,” he whispers.

Leaning in, he slowly sucks the jam off my chin, “Umm. My oh my, you taste delicious,” he groans, closing his eyes.

Cringing, I take the opportunity to edge away and am reminded of when I edged away from Jean-Bernard. How confused I was back then compared to now. If only Charles and Jean-Bernard could know that I am back, that I am me again. I picture myself walking towards Charles, running towards him, throwing my arms about his neck, smelling him, kissing him, relieving him of years of misery.

“Tell me your thoughts,” says Mortimer.

He is staring at me.

“I was merely thinking how good the jam tasted,” I say.

He smiles, “More?”

I nod and he feeds me again. This time I am extra careful not to spill any on myself.

“Are you eager for our night to commence?” he asks.

I hesitate, unsure how to respond. I cannot tell him that no, I am not. The last thing on earth I want to do is share my body with a beast like you. But the truth is not what he desires. I think briefly of Morna, of what she must have suffered.

“I am looking forward to this night,” I begin, “however, I am feeling unwell so we may need to postpone this evening’s meeting until tomorrow.”

Mortimer’s eyes narrow darkly. I tense, watching, waiting.

“Is it because I will not allow you to go outside and choose a plant with Clara?” he says.

I nod tentatively, sensing that this is an explanation he will find acceptable.

“Well then,” he says standing up and offering me his hand, “I suppose I must allow you this one request.”

He smiles and gestures towards the bedroom door.

Hesitantly, I walk to the door, open it and slide out into the other room. Mortimer follows a slight distance, stopping beside me and resting his hand on the small of my back.

“Clara!” he barks.

She stands up instantly, dropping her book, which clatters to the floor. More bruises muddy her complexion. Though she is in the far corner of the room, I can see her body shaking.

“Yes Father?”

“You will accompany Lissssbeth on a short walk through the woods to find a plant for our home. For some reason that I cannot fathom, my new wife wishes to become better acquainted with you.”

Clara looks in surprise from Mortimer to me.

“Get to it girl!” he snaps.

Immediately, Clara rushes to the front door and opens it for me.

I cannot believe my luck. Walking to the door, a hand on my shoulder stops me. In my ear, Mortimer whispers, “If you do not return in ten minutes, I shall come to find you, and I
will
find you. Do you understand, darling?”

I nod and, for a fleeting second, Clara’s eyes meet mine. She is so young, so fragile, so lost. Her gaze shrieks of fear. I know in that instant that if I cannot make her flee with me, she will return to this place, to Mortimer, and she will die.

“Swear you will return,” he hisses.

“I swear it. In ten minutes, we shall return, both of us.”

Ostensibly satisfied, his lips press against my temple as his fingers dig into my injured wrists, “When you return, I shall send Clara to town for some supplies and while she is gone, we shall be together properly for the first time. How do you like the sound of that my darling?”

Squirming, struggling not to tremble, I murmur, “I like the sound of that very much.”

Mortimer releases me. His scorching stare follows me as I stumble after Clara and close the door behind us. I am tempted to tell her to run straight away, but, fearing that he may hear me, I stay silent.

The sun is set high in a pallid sky, but a punitive wind whips about the trees lashing at our faces.

Grabbing Clara’s small hand, I speed up my walk, pulling her away from the cottage.

She does not try to pull away but squeaks, “What are you doing?”

“Getting us to a place of safety,” I say.

“But, but, did you not hear what Father said? He desires us back in only a few short minutes.”

“I heard him and I have chosen to ignore him.”

Clara stops walking and wrenches her hand out of mine, “You, you cannot do that!”

“Oh yes I can,” I say firmly, “if we go back, he will force himself on me and he will beat you until you bleed and beg for mercy. Is that what you want?”

“No, but, but…” she trails off, her eyes frantic, “he will find us and when he does…”

Gripping her hands, I look directly into her wild green eyes, “If we do not move now, he will find us. Look Clara, you have a choice, a choice that will decide the rest of your life, however long it may be, and I am thinking that it will be not be very long at all if you go back to him right now. I am sorry to tell you this, but, in truth, this is a choice between living and dying. If you return to that dreadful place, you will die. HE WILL KILL YOU. Do you understand? But if you choose to come with me, you will live out a full and happy life. I will make sure of it. The question is, are you brave enough to make the right choice? Think about your Mama. Think how she suffered. Think what she would want you to do right now. You have a grandmother who lives in these woods. Her name is Sorcha. She is very old. If you go back to that terrible man, who will never get to meet her, but if you join me now, I will take you to her. I promise. Trust me Clara. Trust me.”

Gently, I take hold of her ice cold hand and blow warmth into her fingertips. The wind swirls around us, whistling shrilly, twirling our hair and battering our faces.

Her eyes refocus on mine and her jaw sets. The answer is written in her eyes.

“I know of a place not far from here where we can hide,” she whispers.

I nod and allow her to lead the way through the woods - anxiously aware that we have not travelled far from the cottage and that nearly ten minutes have passed already. Any moment, Mortimer will leave the house and come to find us.

*

Diary,

My love, my Lisbeth, at last, she knows the truth. She loves me again. But we cannot be together.

It seems that we are punished by fate. Not only have we lost our children in death, we have lost each other in life.

We will never be together. I will never see her again.

 I am torn to pieces. My heart hurts so much. I cannot handle this pain. Not anymore, not like this.

I said farewell to Jean-Bernard. I think he knows what I am going to do.

This will definitely be the last time I write.

I go now to find a place to die.

Charles

*

We run through the woods, constantly glancing over our shoulders. So far, neither of us has sighted Mortimer.

“Are we nearly there?” I pant.

“Yes,” she replies.

Clara’s hand is hot and small in mine. She cannot be much older than sixteen; the age that Bethan was when her life so cruelly ended.

I want to protect this young girl from Mortimer, from a life of undiluted despair and terror. Her bravery astounds me. I cannot let her down. Having urged her to run, should Mortimer catch us, catch her…the thought sends chills down my neck.