Smirke 01 - An Unlikely Hero (2 page)

“Mamma!” It
was a howl of despair.

“Patience is a
virtue John Sebastian. One of the many things you’ll be learning
from… Oh dear, I wasn’t supposed to tell you about her. At least I
didn’t say her name. I keep thinking I need spectacles, but I have
the most perfect eye sight. I can see a spec of dust from…”

“Never mind
the blasted dust, get me out of here.”

“Dust is
vitally important, besides I’m trying to help you…where was I? John
Sebastian Smirke; you are commanded to cease any activity that
might accidentally or purposely kill anyone. No more blackmailing
virgins or any other women into your bed unless you enjoy this
place. No drinking alcohol as it makes you stupid, angry and
pickles your liver. No swearing, hitting people, calling people
names or seeking revenge. You know what that means don’t you? You
can’t hit serving wenches if they don’t curtsey low enough for you
or take offence at every imagined slight. Most people don’t intend
to hurt your feelings. You always assume the worst and fall into a
tantrum. A generous soul might call you overly sensitive, but it
says here that you’re short-tempered, cantankerous and moody.
Perchance you’re unaware, that description is not a compliment…are
you getting all this?”

“Yes. I want
my Mamma…”

“Good, you are
commanded to bed only your wife unless you want to catch syphilis
and die a horrible death and end up here again.”

“I don’t have
a wife.”

“You haven’t
met her yet, though she’s right under your nose. If you had any
sense you’d have met her by now. I don’t know what she’ll have to
do to get your attention. Maybe she’ll burn down your house. There
must be something good about you to warrant Joan even if I can’t
see any evidence of it in your file.”

“Joan? Joan
Who?”

“Oh no not
again…I wasn’t supposed to tell you that. Forget I said
anything.”

“Is she
English?”

“I can’t tell
you.”

“Don’t tell me
she’s a widow; I’ll be loved less than her first husband. I’ll be
miserable!”

“You’re
already miserable. Stop asking silly questions or you’ll run out of
time. You’re commanded to use your artistic talents… There was a
footnote here somewhere, ‘Instruct John Sebastian that he is to
avoid creating debauched works of art or I will be most
displeased!’ I feel I should point out that The Boss used an
exclamation point after that statement. You’ve been very blessed,
though only The Boss knows why. Just look at this list of wasted
talents…I’m sorry, you can’t see it. You’re supposed to discover
them yourself. Where was I? Oh yes, you’re commanded to enjoy life
and stop being miserable. I find smiling in the morning mirror
works a treat, though that could be because I look so much better
now that I have a full set of teeth, and a whole nose. I smile and
think, ‘I’m going to have a great day today.’ It usually
works.”

“I don’t care
about your stupid face, get me out of here.”

The man in
white sighed heavily, “I may be wasting my breath, but you’re
commanded to go to your parish church every Sunday and contemplate
your past wickedness. I’m sure there was another footnote;
something about remaining in this place for a very long time if you
don’t repent. That means replacing that lump of granite in your
chest called a heart with something made of flesh and blood. You
must learn to love other people. And you should consider widening
your choice of colours. Wear anything but black and yellow. Your
fetish for the combination is most unhealthy, besides if you walk
into Joan’s life looking like a big bumble bee she may think you
have no taste and she won’t want anything to do with you, then you
will be miserable. We were only able to find one woman under the
age of seventy on this side of the planet who’d fall in love with
you so do take care and stop chasing Society’s good opinion. All
the members of your worshiped social circle detest you and after
they meet Joan, they’ll detest you ten fold if that’s
possible.”

“Why? Is she
mad? Don’t tell me she’s ugly? I can’t stand ugly people!”

“Beauty is in
the eye of the beholder John Sebastian. My mother thinks I’m
beautiful…”

“I don’t care
about your stupid blind mother.”

“I really
don’t see the point in sending you back.”

“Get me out of
here…please.”

“I’m not
finished yet. You’re commanded to be charitable, kind and patient
with everyone, including ugly people, and do for others as you’re
always complaining they never do for you. It’s called the law of
reciprocity. You get what you give which is why you never get
anything. You’re a selfish toad. That wasn’t in your file, that’s
my personal opinion. Oh dear, you’re almost out of time. Come with
me.” Back down the dark tunnel, Smirke could see the Hampshire
field rush into focus. “Take a deep breath; think of it as jumping
into an icy painful river.”

“What are you
talking about?” Smirke felt a heavy shove and he was falling,
diving into his body. He screamed as he drew in a deep breath of
cold wet air, his lungs burning, his heart thumping, and the hole
in his middle oozing red. Feminine screams in counterpoint filled
his ears. He opened his eyes to find an ugly old woman bending over
his body in the act of removing his silk breeches.

“I’m not dead
you old crone. Fetch my footman and valet from that flea infested
hovel called an inn. Tell them I, Mr Smirke, need them to bring a
blanket to carry me on.” The old woman stood up and slowly
scratched her stomach as she raised an eyebrow.

“What’s in it
fer me? Even with blood stains I could get a good price fer yer
clothes. I don’t have to wait till yer dead again neither.” Smirke
took a deep breath and prayed he wouldn’t faint from loss of blood.
The ignomy of dying naked in a corn field set his teeth on edge. He
could feel hell leaning over his shoulder as he swallowed a barrage
of insults. He painfully reached into his pocket and was relieved
to find his purse.

“I’ll give you
a silver shilling now and a pound when you return with my men.”

“I could steal
yer purse and yer sword and leave yer fer dead.”

“And feel the
wrath of God? Don’t be daft woman…you don’t want to end up in hell
and I should know. For pity sake fetch my men. I’m helpless…” She
didn’t look convinced. “If I live I’ll…I’ll give you a hundred
pounds, please hurry. I don’t want to die again.”

“What’s to say
yer’ll pay it?”

“I give you my
word as a gentleman.”

“Yer werd
ain’t werth spit.”

“You can haunt
me until I pay you. You don’t think I’ll want to be encumbered with
your stinking company for longer than necessary do you? I won’t be
running anywhere soon will I. Are you going to help me or do I have
to crawl for help? You won’t get a penny if I make it on my
own.”

“I’ll have yer
purse now and two-hundred in banknotes when yer can get the money.”
The old woman held out her hand for the money and tucked it away as
she hurried off towards the inn.

***

Smirke opened
his eyes and groaned in pain as the hole in his chest burned almost
as hot as his forehead. He couldn’t see the dirty room or the old
woman knitting near the fire. He saw his boyhood bedchamber; his
mother in her favourite pink muslin stood nearby wringing her
hands. The old woman turned to see her patient staring into space
and listened as he mumbled to his imaginary mother. The doctor was
sure the pretty man was as good as dead, but the promise of money
ensured the old woman’s prayers for a miracle. She put down her
knitting and refreshed the wet rag on the pretty man’s head. The
fresh maggots in the wound appeared to be happily aiding the
healing process, but only time would tell. The carriage had been
sent to the nearest apothecary to purchase laudanum, but the
patient was too delirious to drink it.

The fever
broke after several days curtailing the delirium and forcing Smirke
to acknowledge his unhappy state. Lying in bed with a serious wound
for the second time in just over a month, the stench was an
unbearable déjà vu made worse by dirty unfamiliar surroundings. The
doctor’s indifference to the miraculous healing left Smirke feeling
neglected, but he bit his tongue and instead of dwelling on revenge
he used the energy to conjure up images of the mysterious Joan. As
the weeks passed he wasn’t sure if he’d dreamed up hell and the
obnoxious man in white with his list or if it was all a bad dream,
but the old woman’s answer was always the same when he pressed her
with the question, ‘Was I really dead?’ She would always reply,
‘There were no sign of life in yer heart. Yer were stone dead. I
wouldn’t have taken yer breeches if ye’d been alive. I’m not
heartless.’

Smirke
withheld his opinion on the old woman’s heart and continued to
indulge in fantasies about the enigmatic Joan. She couldn’t have
brown hair or she’d remind him of Miss Imogene Galahad. He
shuddered in horror at the memory of the young woman’s teeth
covered in chocolate goo. No, his Joan couldn’t have brown hair.
Was she blonde? He admired his own gold blonde hair which he wore
long. No, he couldn’t marry a blonde; he wouldn’t make a visual
impact if they were both blonde. Several uncomfortable experiences
with red heads left no desire to spend the rest of his life waking
up with one in his arms. His imaginary Joan was left with no option
other than black hair. The thought conjured up the Stratton family
and its most infamous member, the Duke of Lyndhurst. The last thing
he wanted was to be related to the devil. Looking at the man over a
gaming table was nauseating enough; the thought of having to dine
with the man made his stomach heave. If being ugly was a sin,
Lyndhurst would burn in the deepest pit of hell. Thankfully the
Strattons were all slender people. If his Joan had to have black
hair she’d definitely be endowed with generous curves. It was all
very well having a first name for a faceless woman, but she could
be anywhere. She could be a lady or a lady’s maid. If only he’d
been given a last name, he might have advertised for her in all the
papers. Then he was struck with a truly awful thought; what if he’d
have to wait for her to grow up? He moaned in horror bringing the
old woman to his side. The thought of having to wait ten years to
bed a woman made his eyes water. He silently waved her away and
covered his face with his good arm nearly knocking himself
unconscious from the stench of his armpit. The next time he saw
Mulgrave he’d…Smirke’s fury dripped from the corner of his eyes. He
couldn’t even spit at his arch enemy without incurring the wrath of
God. He sighed in defeat. He was going to ensure he never went back
to hell. It was so much more pleasant being alive, even stranded in
a lonely bed with a hole in his guts filled with flies. Living was
a state of being he was determined to prolong far into the future
and if that meant sacrificing the pleasure of carving his initials
into Mulgrave’s heart then he’d have to dream of other things, like
finding Joan.

A month and a
half later a pale exhausted John Smirke was in Bath knocking on his
brother’s door clutching his chest with his right hand. He was
finally free of the old woman’s shadow. He kept telling himself
that being alive was worth two-hundred and five pounds, but it
galled to have to hand over so much money for a little human
kindness. He couldn’t yet admit to himself that if he’d found a man
bleeding to death in a field he’d have laughed and taunted the
dying creature with the improbability of survival. Kindness was
still something other people were supposed to give to him, but
John’s brain had been branded with the desire to escape hell. If
being charitable allowed him some sort of ticket to a better place
he was going to be charitable if it killed him.

The footman
bowed with fearful anxiety on seeing Smirke and pulled the door
wide open for the expected guest. Smirke’s letter had arrived the
day before depressing most of the household. “Is my brother at
home?”

“No Sir,
Master James is attending a lecture on the Battle of Waterloo. He’s
expected back by five.” John looked at his watch and groaned in
irritation. His sister-in-law, Agnes, would have three whole hours
to be unpleasant. James Smirke refused to believe that his wife
treated his little brother with anything other than sisterly
devotion, but then James Smirke couldn’t believe anything bad about
anyone he loved. “Madam Smirke is in the drawing room. Shall I
announce you Sir?”

“I’ll present
myself. Inform the kitchen…please, I’m in desperate need of a hot
bath.” The footman’s mouth fell open at the uncharacteristic stiff
courtesy and watched the sickly guest saunter off towards the
stairs in disbelief. John slowly pulled himself up to the first
floor and stumbled to the open doorway of the drawing room where
his burning chest forced him to stop against the doorframe for
breath. The light coming in through the windows was blinding as a
horrible pinching sensation filled his body. Female chatter paused
as all three women caught sight of the fainting man. “Agnes…” John
collapsed onto the nearest sofa next to a skinny middle aged woman
and fell over into her lap too ill to care she was
unattractive.

“Ooh, he
smells! Agnes help; he’s ruining my new dress…” The skinny woman
flapped her hands in horror while Agnes Smirke freed her from the
weight of John’s head. A minute later the three women hovered over
the unconscious man holding their noses. “He smells like he’s been
living in a playhouse pit with the great unwashed.”

“Don’t you
mean a plague pit? He smells like a used winding sheet. Is he dying
Agnes?” A curvaceous young widow poked the pretty man’s face with
her fan.

“I wouldn’t be
so lucky. The wretch has the devil’s own luck. He’s a worthless
immoral rake-hell with the personality of yellow henbane.” Agnes
sighed in despair and then slowly looked at her friends with
inspiration. “I don’t suppose either of you would want to marry
him? He inherited a faire sized property in Lincolnshire. He might
even be a Viscount one day if Peter’s five boys die young without
issue and we never have a son. He’s worth at least seven thousand a
year and as you can see he’s not unattractive.”