Wickedness (4 page)

Unbidden, excitement welled up inside me too and when at last I did fall asleep. I dreamed that I was in an immense shadowy hall. Before me, a man who had the head and long pointed snout of a black dog stood next to a pair of golden scales. I looked on as my heart, still beating, was weighed against a feather and I said, “Oh heart, do not act as witness against me! I have not done what the gods hate. I have not known that which should not be known.” But I lied. And so my heart, heavy with sin, tipped the balance and was thrown to a monster who, leaping out of the shadows, devoured it.

Claire’s mum had found the card when she’d washed her jeans.

“Why didn’t you tell me he’d called?” she’d said, standing at the foot of Grandma’s bed, looking cross and exasperated.

“I just forgot, that’s all. Okay?”

“And what was he like? Did he seem nice?”

“How do I know? He was just a man that’s all. Nothing special.”

That wasn’t true, but she wasn’t going to tell her mum that. No, let her forget all about him and the box. But she wasn’t about to. Oh no.

“Hand me that box. I’ll keep it safe.”

“It’s
my
box.” Claire said. But it was no good. Her mum was determined to have it. In seconds she had it in her arms and was marching out of the door with it.

Claire didn’t have the energy to argue any more.
She still didn’t feel well. Maybe her dad could sort it out next time he came round to the house. If her mum would let him in, that is. Still, she’d ring him later, when he was back from work. And she’d ask him to come.

She rolled onto her side and looked at the chair; at the empty space where the box had been. She was sure Grandma had wanted her to have the box. She would have to stop her mum selling it, but had no idea how. It was no good. She couldn’t wait. She had to ring her dad.

She pushed back the covers, swung her legs over the side of the bed and tried to stand up. Her legs felt weak and wobbly.

Her backpack with her mobile in it was hanging where she’d left it, at the bottom of the stairs. Not far, but it took an enormous effort of will to fetch it. She managed though and made it back into bed without her mum hearing. She slumped on the pillows with a huge sigh of relief. Then she fished out her phone and called her old house number. But there was only the sound of her dad’s voice on the answer phone.

Sorry. John is not available at the moment. Please leave your number and he’ll get back to you.

And when she called his mobile, it was switched off.

Days passed. She was up and out of bed now. Feeling much better until she heard the doorbell or the phone ring. Then her stomach muscles clenched into a tight knot. Hoping it might be her dad calling. Afraid it might be that man. She was sure he’d be back. That her mum would have called him again. Asked him to ring when she thought Claire would be out. So Claire made sure she stayed put. Even though being in the house was making her stir crazy. She hadn’t been out anywhere for days and days now. Even going to the circus seemed tempting. She had told Jade about Grandma’s tickets and Jade had offered to go with her.

Claire had moved back into the room she shared with Micky again. But she still fell asleep every night thinking about the box and about him. Then she’d dream. Nightmares. And she’d wake, plucking at the ring on her finger and drenched in sweat.

She needed to get the box back. She looked
everywhere for it. Even waited until her mum was in the bath and then searched her bedroom. But she couldn’t find it. Maybe her mum had taken the box to him? Maybe she’d sold it already?

He came when she wasn’t expecting it. Catching her off guard.

Friday evening, she was out the front, putting rubbish in the bin. She was thinking how horrible everything smelled. The sharp, acrid smell of urine, petrol, exhaust fumes. There hadn’t been any rain for weeks now. Everything looked tired; covered in a fine layer of dirt. Even the roses were wilting, drifts of petals scattered across the pavement outside the house. Speckling the tarmac like an improbable fall of snow.

She let the bin lid drop and had just turned to go into the house when there was a sudden noise. The creak and squeal of the gate opening. She looked back and there he was, still carrying the leather bag. Still wearing the same white linen shirt, the same black trousers and collarless jacket, even in this terrible heat. Other people wore black
jackets and trousers and white shirts. But these were different. Like when bell-bottomed hipsters had come back into fashion and her mum had got her old ones out and had started to wear them again. It wasn’t any good. It didn’t look right. You knew the difference straight away.

And there was something else. She didn’t know what. But it unsettled her. Made her wary and the hairs on the back of her neck prickle and stand up.

“Your mother asked me to call.”

“Mum!” She stood firm in the doorway. She wasn’t going to let him in unless she absolutely had to. But when her mum came hurrying down the hallway, she invited him in at once. He stepped past Claire now and though she tried hard not to breathe in, she could still smell cinnamon and flowers.

“Come through.” Her mum was leading him into the kitchen. Claire saw her take a key from her pocket, unlock the dresser cupboard, take out something and put it on the kitchen table.

So that’s where she’d put the box! It had been right under her nose the whole time. How stupidly obvious was that.

Claire moved in closer, watching him intently. She could see his knuckles, white with tension as
he gripped his walking stick. He reached out with his free hand and pulled the box towards him across the table. He let his stick fall with a clatter to the floor. But he scarcely noticed. His whole attention was focused on the box.

“What do you think?” Claire’s mum bent down to pick up the walking stick. And something else she’d spotted under the dresser. The red linen braid. Claire hadn’t realised that she’d dropped it. Now Claire’s mum was twisting it absently around her fingers. “The box. Is it Egyptian?” She was trying to sound casual, matter of fact, but there was an edge to her voice. “Only there doesn’t seem to be any way of opening it. I can’t see any hinges or a keyhole or anything.”

He looked up. His eyes focused in on the red braid, twisting around her mum’s fingers and widened in shock. Then, for a fleeting second, he closed his eyes and looked… happy? No. Not happy exactly. But relieved. As if he had been lost in a dark place and all at once saw a glimmer of light that would lead him out.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” Her mum dropped the braid onto the table and went to fill the kettle. “Or coffee if you’d rather.”

He picked up the braid quickly and slipped it into his jacket pocket. Why had he done that?

And now he was smiling. “Tea, no milk or sugar. Thank you. An Egyptian casket, yes. And there is a way of opening it. But you must have the key.”

“But there’s no keyhole, so how can there be a key?” Claire’s mum sounded amused as if he’d just said something absurd.

Claire held her breath. Instinctively covered her right hand with her left, so the ring wouldn’t show. Prayed he hadn’t seen it already.

“Oh not a key as you mean it,” he said, “but something that is an exact mirror image of the lock.” He tipped the box towards Claire’s mum. His finger traced the oval of the cartouche and the hieroglyphics in it.

“Like what?” her mum asked, looking puzzled; putting a plate of biscuits down on the table then turning back to pour out the tea.

Thank God she hasn’t worked out what he means
… Claire felt a moment’s relief and then Micky appeared in the doorway.

“Oooh, chocolate biscuits.” But she hesitated, seeing a stranger sitting at the table.

Then he smiled at her. Held out the plate. She went to take a biscuit.

“Hello,” he said. “I’m Robert. I’ve come to look at your grandmother’s box. I was just explaining about the key. How it would be something that was the mirror image of this…”

Micky looked. Her face lit up. “Oh that’s easy,” she said.

All eyes were on her.

“I bet it’s Claire’s ring.”

Claire had to show him the ring then. Micky had tried to grab her hand. She’d pushed her away. But it was no good anyway. Now that her mum knew, she wouldn’t have a minute’s peace until she did. So she held out her hand and he took it; lifting it up so he could have a closer look. Close enough that she could feel his breath whisper against her fingers.

“Oh yes. I think you might be right.” He looked up. Held her gaze.

And there is no surprise in his eyes
, she thought,
because when he first came to the house he gave me his card and I took it, and he must have seen the ring then.

“And do you know?” He was looking at Micky now. “It is very old. Middle Kingdom Egyptian.
Almost certainly it was worn by a priest or priestess at Sekhmet’s temple. Sekhmet… the most powerful and terrible goddess, bringer of plagues and diseases.”

Sekhmet… the name of the circus! Maybe that’s why Grandma had bought the tickets? Another piece of the puzzle, Claire was sure of it, and maybe soon now it would start to take shape.

“Wicked!” said Micky. “Do you know loads about mummies and curses and stuff?”

“Well,” he said, “I did live in Egypt once and…” His voice had dropped to a whisper. “I believe some scrolls I found buried under the floor of an ancient tomb had a curse placed on them, because…”

Micky’s eyes were round as saucers.

“Sadly, everywhere I go now, sickness follows… people die. Horribly.”

For a second there was silence. Then he made a face. Drew a hand across his neck. Made a gurgling sound in his throat.

Claire’s mum laughed. Relief. For a split-second Claire could tell she’d thought he was serious.

Micky still did. “But you’re not dead!”

“Ah no,” he said. “You see, the scrolls I uncovered
were spells, and if I’m careful to say them every day, just before dawn,” – he paused for effect – “then I cannot die.”

Micky was hooked. “Uh! What, not ever?”

Claire twisted the ring round and round her finger. Watched his face as it seemed to be registering real emotions. Then she leaned across him and quickly pulled the box to her and pressed her ring into the cartouche on its side. Her mum and Micky looked hopeful. Expectant.

But he doesn’t,
she thought.
Because
… and the same words popped into her head again:
it isn’t time yet.

I awoke and lay awhile with the curtains drawn around my bed, not knowing what time of the day or night it was. For a few brief moments I felt warm and peaceful, though there was noise from outside. The clatter of carriage wheels on cobbles. The crow of the cockerel. The squeal of a pig. Jane snoring softly. And someone was shouting for a link boy to light the way, so I knew the sun was not yet risen.

I snuggled down, pulling the covers over my head. The feathers in the mattress folded around me, as if I was buried under a blanket of deep, warm snow. All sound was muffled, except for the steady thud of my heart beating. If only I could stay here, safe, for ever. If only I hadn’t taken the ring.

I could hear my mother was up and about. Doors slammed. Her voice was getting louder and louder, shouting, “Margrat! Jane! Wake up you slug-a-beds. There is work to do.”

Now I remembered. The Doctor was invited for dinner and he had sent word that he would come. I had not doubted it for a moment.

Jane was sent out to the Stocks Market early to buy a rabbit for a fricassee. Oysters, salmon and a lobster too, for my mother hoped to impress. The eminent doctor, Nicholas Benedict, was to dine at her table!

But by nine o’clock, Jane had still not come home and my mother, grown frantic, sent me out, still wearing my apron, to look for her. “If you find her, send her home at once. Then you must go to Cheapside to buy some salads from the herb market. Be quick as you can, for the Doctor will be here before we know it.”

Truly, I meant to be, for my mother was like the Devil when crossed. But then, just as I came to the corner of Milk Street, I saw a noisy crowd had gathered. A
rope-walker
had set up his poles and rope. I watched as he clambered up and started his walk. Though I knew perfectly well that he did not, just for a heartbeat, it seemed that he trod the air.

The crowd gasped and fell silent in wonder as he became an acrobat and danced upon the rope. Then, turning one last somersault, he made a deep bow,
saying,
“Merci mes amis,”
and we all began to shout and clap and the spell was broken.

But just as the rope-walker made to swing down, a man ran up crying, “The plague is upon us. Three are dead in Southwark.”

I knew at once what would happen, for I had seen it all before. An Italian blamed for a fire in Leadenhall Street was beaten about the head with an iron bar until the blood made a great pool about his feet. A Dutch sailor accused of being a spy was lynched by the mob. Now a Frenchman, a rope-walker, was to be blamed and set upon for bringing the plague into London.

I was right, for a great wave of people swept in on the rope-walker. He was pushed to the ground and kicked about the head and body mercilessly. He cried out. A woman screamed, “Dirty Frenchman. Kill him!” But just as the tide always turns, the crowd grew tired of their sport. For the rope-walker would not fight back and lay, curled up like a hedge-pig.

One by one the people slipped away, the street fell empty and silent and I slowly came out from the shadows where I had been hiding. I crept up to look at the rope-walker’s body, lying where it had been kicked
into the gutter and as I got closer, I drew in my breath sharp. Not at the sight of the blood, of which there was much, but at the rope-walker’s age. For he looked just a little older than me and I knew him. He was the rope-walker I had watched at the Frost Fair and outside the Head and Combe.

I reached out my hand and touched his shoulder gently. Then I brushed his hair, fine as red silk, out of his eyes which were swollen and closed tight shut. He made no move, but his lips parted and I heard a long drawing in of breath, like the wind off the river, stirring the willow leaves.

I knelt down beside him in the dirt, hoping the Doctor was right and the ring would keep me safe from the plague. I felt for it, turning it round and round on its braid, thinking of Sekhmet and praying also to God to keep me safe from harm. Then I took the corner of my apron, spat on it and began to wipe his face clean. I tried to be as gentle as I could. But he cried out and his hands came up to shield his face, causing me to sit back on my heels, transfixed. For on the third finger of his right hand he wore a ring. A gold ring, fashioned the same as mine and with the same blue stone and hieroglyphics. How had he come by it? How was it that he wore it openly on his finger and lived, when the
Doctor had told me that to wear it so would prove fatal. Who was he?

But I had no time now to think on it, for life was returning to the street and the bells of nearby St Giles had started to ring. Ten o’clock! I knew that I must hurry home, but I did not know what to do with the
rope-walker
. Perhaps I should have given him a few of my pennies and left him there. The streets always swarmed with vagabonds, gypsies and beggars. Men, women and children often died, uncared for in the gutter. One more would make no difference. If I had been more my mother’s child, I would have left him and kept my money. But I knew my father would want me to help him so I decided to take the rope-walker back home with me.

At first he would not come. Eyes still shut, he pushed my hand away, saying,
“Non. Laissez-moi.”

And though his lip was cut and English not his native tongue, I understood his words clearly.

A crowd of people had started to gather again. I could hear muttering. “The French dog still lies in the gutter,” said one.

“Call the raker and have him taken away,” said another.

Then a loud, red-faced woman stepped up and said, “Let us cut off his head and ask the hangman to boil it with herbs so that we might eat it.” And all about her roared with laughter.

“You must come,” I whispered urgently, tugging at his hand. “Or you will be killed and I would be sorry for it.” I reached for the ring on its braid. I had taken to using it as a charm against bad luck. I do not think the rope-walker saw me do it, for his eyes looked still shut tight. But a moment later, he opened them and looked straight at me. Though he was clearly in pain, he gripped my hand and struggled to his feet.

“Here,” I said. “Lean on me and I will take you to my house. It is close by.”

The crowd followed us as far as Bow Lane, then stopped by a baker’s that I knew was owned by a Dutchman. What mischief they did there I do not know, but I confess I was grateful they no longer followed us. We reached home safe.

Jane must have returned home in my absence, for she came to the door and stood there, hands on hips, insolently barring the way. “Go shoe the goose,” she said gleefully. “You are in trouble and no mistake.
Wait till the mistress sees you come home with a beggar boy, instead of the herbs you were sent for. You’ll get a thrashing.”

I said nothing but, as I pushed past her, I contrived to tread hard on her foot with my patten.

Hearing the scream, my father stepped out into the hall. “What is the matter? Are there thieves at the door?”

“Not a thief, Father,” I said, “but a poor boy who was set upon in the street and beaten. Should I have left him to die there?”

Before he could answer, my mother appeared, wiping her hands down her apron and looking flushed. “Boy? What boy is this? The Doctor will be here before we know it and the dinner will be only half cooked. I have no time to be looking after beggar boys.”

While we argued, the rope-walker slid down in the doorway and turned deathly pale.

“See,” screeched my mother. “He has brought the plague to our house. Now we will all die!”

“The only one likely to die is the boy!” I answered back. “And you will have killed him.”

I thought it likely my mother might die herself… of an apoplexy. For her face, now so close to mine I could
smell the sourness of her breath, was the colour of a boiled lobster. She took me by the shoulders and started to shake me so hard I feared my teeth would fall out of my head. My father began to shout at my mother to stop and Jane stood by, laughing.

And so we did not notice the Doctor arrive, or see him bend down over the rope-walker. But we heard him say, “While you argue, this boy suffers.”

The sound of his voice brought my mother to her senses. At once Jane and I were instructed to bring the rope-walker in. To take him to the room my father used as a study and which had a truckle bed in it. For he sometimes worked late into the night.

“When he is made comfortable,” the Doctor said, “I will take a look at him.”

This was the first time I had seen the Doctor after our meeting at the Head and Combe. Since then he had appeared in my mind’s eye as larger than life and as wickedly seductive as sin. It was a shock to see him play the Good Samaritan.

“We will pay you for your trouble, of course,” said my father hurriedly.

But the Doctor would not hear of it. “It was Margrat who thought to bring him home,” he said.
How had he known that? Had he shadowed me? “I merely follow her example.”

It was cleverly done. A compliment to me and to my mother, for having borne such a tender-hearted daughter. I had been many times to the theatre with my father. I ought to have seen the trick of it. But I confess I was unaware of how he set the stage.

He must have noticed the rope-walker’s ring when he first bent down to look at him. But he said nothing at first. He waited. His display of charity only increased his reputation in my father and mother’s eyes. And I confess it now… in mine too.

Once the rope-walker was safely tucked in bed, the Doctor sent Jane out to the apothecary’s for a sleeping draught. “Sleep is a great healer. When he awakes, I will examine him and see if there is anything to be done.”

I thought it was strange that the Doctor did not attend to him directly, but I said nothing. As to my mother, all she cared about was that the Doctor still had time to eat dinner with us.