Blackened (6 page)

She turns slowly.

“I am so sorry Lissie,” she whispers.

“No. It is I who am sorry,” I say.

We rush into each other's arms and stand there holding one another for a long while. We are one again. We are complete. Touching her nakedness is not strange because it is her and she is a part of me.

I step back and hand her my drawing.

She holds the parchment up to her face. My heart clangs against my ribcage. It is so important to me that she likes it.

She slowly lowers the drawing. Tears shine in her eyes.

“Thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

I smile. My heart feels light. I am happy and it feels so so good.

But there is something not quite right about the way she is looking at me.

“Is something wrong?” I ask.

Bethan laughs, but it is a bitter, strangled sound.

“Things are...difficult at home.”

“How do you mean?”

“I cannot really tell you. If you want to fully understand, you have to come.”

I hesitate, look back at the cottage, at the small light coming from Eddie's bedroom. The thought of leaving the cottage terrifies me, especially after what happened last time. There is also the worry that I will be discovered by Father, or that in my absence Eddie may have a nightmare or come across Father in a bad mood...

“I know the quickest way,” Bethan says, “if we move swiftly, the journey will take us no longer than quarter of an hour.”

“I cannot come tonight. Is tomorrow convenient?”

My heart thumps as I speak, but I long to learn more about her. I yearn to understand everything I can.

She nods and laughs her wonderful tinkling laugh then skips away into the night. 

*

Dear Diary,

I know what she is planning and the mere thought of it enrages me! I cannot let her go! I will not let her destroy herself and, in turn, me.

She is starting to believe that freedom is what she needs, but what she really needs is isolation. Time alone to reconcile herself to reality and to recognise my needs. Only when she finds acceptance can I allow her to go where she pleases.

Of course, Lisbeth will doubtlessly perceive me as her captor. However, I only do this for her own safety. She must be protected from the outside world. This is the prudent course of action. If she were in her right mind she would realise that I am not motivated by depravity. I do not keep her locked in Blackened Cottage for my own sick amusement.

But can I trust myself to go to her? Can I control my anger? These are questions I should lend serious time to, but I cannot. Time is against me. She plans to go tonight. Presently, reason conquers rage, but only just. I can feel the pressure rising; the intoxicating anger simmering. It is as if I host a daemon in my breast. At every chance this daemon preys upon my weakness, appealing to the darkest part of my soul. For how long can I resist this inner beast?

Goodness, I know if anyone were to read this they would think me gone in the head. Perhaps they would be right…

I must rest.

C.C

C
HAPTER 6
F
REEDOM
L
OST

Midnight. Time to meet Bethan for our trip.

Slipping past Eddie's bedroom, I tiptoe across the landing. The floorboards screak underfoot making me wince. Leaning upon the banister, I lift my feet off the ground and slide down the staircase. I land lightly at the foot of the stairs. The fireplace crackles and smokes but otherwise the living room is a pit of shadow. Holding my breath, I creep past Father's closed study door and enter the kitchen. Satisfied that I am alone, I relax a little and stride out into the garden.

I see Bethan's long white legs dangling from our oak tree and shiver excitedly. As long as I am with her, the shadows cannot get me. I am looking forward to seeing where she lives but, most of all, I am dying to know her secret.

I am almost at the oak tree when a great black figure lunges in front of me blocking my path. I scream and stumble backwards. It is Father. He is dressed all in black. His face is dirtied with soot.

He bears down on me, a dreadful smile on his dry lips, his palms held up warning me to go no further.

“I was just going for a little walk,” I stutter, “I, I, I am sorry.”

Father shakes his head slowly and gestures for me to go back into the cottage. I glance at his eyes and wish I had not. They are dark, unblinking, fixed on me as if I am an escaped convict. Devoid of feeling. Devoid of mercy. I know he cannot be reasoned with.

Trembling, I turn and dart back into the house, run up the stairs and throw myself into my room. I listen for the sound of his footsteps but hear nothing. My heart is racing, my blood boiling, but I am too scared to try anything.

Climbing onto my bed I crane my neck to look out of my tiny bedroom window and see Bethan running away, her cream dress fading into the darkness.

Emotions war within me; fear, anger, disappointment. One second I am crying, the next I am bashing my fists against my pillow.

Eventually, I grow weary.

Dragging myself to my desk, I ink my quill and begin to write.

*

Dear Diary,

I have done something of which I am not proud. I have set a sequence of events in motion.

I wrote Jean-Bernard. Begged him to come. As expected, he responded immediately, eagerly, and now it is too late to change my mind; he comes tonight. I wonder how Lisbeth will react to seeing him again.

But I cannot rest easy. I am plagued by uncertainty; is this decision wise? I know Jean-Bernard will want to take her off my hands...but is that really what I want?

On the one hand, I cannot trust myself around her – my recent actions demonstrate that much. On the other hand, do I genuinely believe that Jean-Bernard’s actions are motivated by pure intentions? He seems almost too eager to help – his letter dripped with enthusiasm which I found rather strange. But he is my only ally. Surely I can trust him more than I trust myself.

I must go and prepare his bed. He arrives by carriage in under the hour.

C.C

*

Dear Mama,

Father has locked me in my room and will not let me out. This is the sixth day of my imprisonment.

I do not hear Eddie any longer. I think Father has sent him to a boarding school, which perhaps is a blessing for my dear little brother. Being far away from Father is something I crave and something that will, I hope, do Eddie the world of good. Of course, my heart aches to stroke his floppy hair, listen to his voice, but I must content myself with the notion that he is happier away from Blackened Cottage.

Father unlocks the door and slides in plates of food for meal times. He allows me to visit the water closet three times daily, but refuses to glance my way or utter a word. His silence is not the peaceful kind, but the threatening kind – the kind that conceals immoral thoughts. He has not touched me. Indeed, he gives me such a wide berth that one would think me infected with smallpox. However, that is how I prefer it. If he were to touch me I do not know how I would respond. 

One hope remains. Bethan. I know you do not approve of her, but I must have her in my life. Indeed, my waking dreams are full of dancing figurines in long black cloaks with sweeping ebony hair and tinkling laughs.

Somehow she will find a way to reach me. I am certain of it.

If it were not for Bethan, I would be huddled in a corner weeping. Instead I am sitting at my desk writing this letter, every now and then climbing onto the bed to peek out of the window. I know she will come sooner or later. Sooner or later she will come and her smile will melt this bitter frost. Her merry spirit will warm me, ferry me through this dark hour, bestow upon me the courage not to use the bread knife that Father has mindlessly left.

Father is coming. Someone else too! There is no time .

L.C

C
HAPTER 7
J
EAN-
B
ERNARD

Father enters and leaves without a word, his face a mask.

I sit on the bed mutely staring at the stranger before me.

“Lisbeth, I am Jean-Bernard, an old friend of Charles. You may recollect me?”

I shake my head. Neither the look of this man nor his lilting French purr are recognisable. However, one aspect is curiously familiar: his smell – cinnamon...Indian spice...burnt smoke. I am taken back to soft baby fingers clasping mine, a Grandfather clock ding-donging the hour, a framed photograph of my Father and Mother on their wedding day. A warm feeling floats on the cusp of my mind.

Jean-Bernard steps closer.  A floorboard creaks, breaking the spell. I tensely watch him approach.

He resembles a giant cricket. Limbs like wire. Sunken chest, stooped shoulders. Aged skin the colour of dead grass. At any moment I half expect him to crrr crrr at me.

Atop spiking shoulders he wears a port-coloured topcoat. Clasped between his thin fingers rests an uncut cigar, rust-coloured, thicker in the middle, tapered at the ends.

“May I?” he says, indicating my desk chair.

I nod. My body is a taut wire, my stomach a churning mill.

Jean-Bernard arranges his topcoat before sitting. He relaxes into the chair, crosses his spindly legs, holds the cigar in both hands absent-mindedly smoothing both ends.

“Charles has decided that you may benefit from a little of my company,” he pauses, searches my eyes, “I am glad to be of service. Indeed, often has my mind wondered to you these last few years.”

I cannot relax. My throat is constricted. I can think of nothing to contribute.

“You look well,” he murmurs, “the years have been difficult for you, but your beauty has flowered.”

His pale, watery eyes drift down my body. His gaze lingers on my bare feet then travels upwards, hovers on my breasts before settling on my eyes. His tongue slides across his upper lip.

My cheeks grow hot. I want to escape his unsettling closeness.

“I am to sleep in the big room for the time being and shall visit you twice daily. I hope that we will, in time, establish a special bond of trust. I leave you now, beautiful Lisbeth. Until tomorrow.”

He stands, dusts down his trouser. A wedge of breath catches in my throat as he steps forward, lifts my hand and raises it to his lips. His eyes never leave mine as he presses his lips sensually to the top of my hand. He holds them there for two whole seconds; a seeming eternity. Gently, he places my hand onto my lap and strokes it lightly with his index finger. His finger is hot and clammy. I squirm with revulsion and my forearm reacts; little black hairs shivering to attention. 

I have an urge to slap his hand away but do not. Something restrains me. Perhaps it is the idea that if I play Jean-Bernard correctly he may be the key to my freedom. Perhaps it is the niggling worry that he and Father are in this together. If I were to upset Jean-Bernard, who knows what Father might do?

I look up at him. His expression is unreadable, his pale, watery eyes fixed unblinkingly on mine. He does not smile. Grease shines his forehead. Cinnamon, spice and musky body odour enter my mouth.

I cannot help but wonder of what he is thinking.

He nods politely, “Bon nuit,  Lisbeth.”

He glides out of the room, gently closes the door. The key grinds in the lock.

I breathe again.

I do not want the company of this man. This strange, tactile, over-friendly man. I want the company of Bethan. If it is company that Father desires for me, then why does he shut me away from the outside world? Perhaps if I make Jean-Bernard aware of my need he will make Father understand. Perhaps I can make Jean-Bernard see the senselessness of Father's actions.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps! My stomach clinches. There are no certainties any more. I am plunged into an iron maze with nothing to guide me but the self-interested hands of others.

I go to the window and try to see Bethan, but she is not there. All I see is a starless night.

Sinking beneath the covers, a tear slides down my cheek.

*

A creak of floorboard. Light footsteps rushing away from my bedroom door. I sit up. Strain my ears. Nothing. The room is pitch black but I know it so well that I feel my way to the locked door, crouch down, feel around on the cold wood. The crisp edge of parchment. It is a sheet folded neatly in half. I pluck it up, hold it to my breast, get back in bed and try to sleep, but I am too excited. I know this is a letter and I know it is from Bethan.

*

Finally morning comes. Soft yellow light seeps through the window. I unfold the letter. Although I have never seen Bethan's handwriting it seems as if I have known it all my life.

*

Dear Lissie,

I cannot believe what your Father is doing! I am sorry to speak ill of him, but I now believe him to be a despicable, heartless, beast of a man! He is a varlet. A rapscallion possessed by the devil. The worst of all villains. How dare he lock you indoors like you are some kind of demoniacal psychopath? It is he who ought to be locked up, not you!

Truly, my dear, sweet, kind Lissie, my heart is with you – I know you told me his ways were strange but this is utterly preposterous. You poor, poor darling! You must be suffocating.