by Vlad Kahany
A homeless man attacked him for his shoes, and young Ashbee beat him senseless in return. The passing drunks tried to set fire to him, thinking he was homeless, asleep, or dying, and he chased them away. The young boys on Dorset Street cursed him out, and when he cursed back, attacked him, kicking and slashing him with knives. He tried to fight back and could have died if the chaps didn’t suddenly get bored. A little girl, barely ten-years-old, proposed her services to him, and he laughed in her face.
If he had to steal, rob, or beg to get out of the misery, he did so, but it was in vain. There seemed to be no escape from the darkness unless he was willing to take others’ lives to save his own. At times, he felt like death was a better option. But!
Ah! There’s the rub!
Shakespeare was right. Who knew what death was. What he didn’t know was that death was alive and resided on the streets of East London. The center of starvation and misery. The God’s joke was at play here, for several loaves of bread and fish could not feed thousands. And the slums weren’t fiction.
After weeks of living on the streets, young Ashbee went back to The Man.
“So? What do you think?” The Man asked him, studying young Ashbee with curiosity.
Young Ashbee sat in front of him, dirty, filthy, swarmed with lice, covered in dirt and others’ smut, reeking of every filth that a human could produce. He was defeated, but with the eyes of a madman as he stared at The Man and started laughing, his cackles mixing with sobs until his face was soaked with tears, and he broke down weeping.
He thought he was going mad.
The world definitely was.
“You don’t know what humans are capable of until you take a trip to their darkest corners,” The Man said, and young Ashbee realized he preferred to stay away from those.
And then there were dungeons.
It was back then that The Man introduced him to Bronagh Morton.
Young Ashbee learned what the catacombs were.
He learned the other side of the darkness.
The prisoners.
The victims.
The ones that never saw a day of light.
And those who came there willingly.
The first time deep in the dungeons, he felt panic. Undressed down to his breeches, he stood barefoot on the damp floor smudged with blood, the slime of unknown nature dripping from the ceiling, and looked at The Man with fear. Screams and moans from the dark hallways in the back echoed among the cold stone walls. The Man nodded calmly, and young Ashbee was chained, stretched, and suspended in the air. The pain of the cold metal bruising his limbs was sharp enough for him to change his mind. But Bronagh Morton didn’t listen to him. She listened to The Man, and The Man nodded again.
Ah, Bronagh Morton! She was young back then! More ruthless! Ruthless and curious—the most dangerous mix. Deadly, even. She slowly walked behind young Ashbee and raised the whip, the least harmful one, it turned out later. The first time the leather sliced his skin, he screamed with pain that seemed worse than anything inflicted on a human. Another one, and he howled. One more, and he begged. But she only looked at The Man. He kept nodding, and she kept raising her weapon again and again as young Ashbee burnt in the hideous fire of pain.
It seemed to last forever. That night he cried. He begged The Man for forgiveness as if he had done something to deserve this. He promised the woman all his money, but none of it stopped the torture until his voice was shot, his throat raw from screaming, his eyes blinded by tears and cold sweat, his body weak from pain and shock, his skin bleeding red that soaked his breeches, slid down his legs and dripped off his toes that hung above the ground. He didn’t remember leaving. The Man took him home, handed him to Gordon, and young Ashbee fell into the longest most delusional sleep of his life. When he awoke the next day, on his stomach and burning with pain and fever, he thought he had been to hell and back. When The Man arrived, young Ashbee couldn’t look at him, feeling betrayed and humiliated.
“You don’t know what pain is until you feel it yourself,” The Man said, and his words seemed so dark on a bright day that lit up the room with its sunlight.
“You don’t know what pain is until the threat is gone, but the pain lingers behind, reminding you with every move that your body is perishable just like everything else,” The Man continued, and young Ashbee heard the voice of reason.
“You don’t know what pain is until you lose your mind from the mere power of it that wipes out your ‘self’ and every understanding what life is, except for that overwhelming feeling—pain,” The Man explained, looking at young Ashbee without blinking.
“More importantly,”—The Man paused—“it’s a cure.”
“A cure?” Young Ashbee forgot his hurt feelings and looked up at The Man in surprise.
Oh, how he was mistaken back then! What the descend into the dungeons was really for!
It took time and more visits that followed until he accepted it all.
It wasn’t the horror of it. Not the shock. Not the sense of entrapment. Not helplessness. And not the pain! Not for the sake of pain itself. He went back to the dungeon a year later for the pain that was the cure. And the second time, it was a revelation. For when one’s heart was clasped in the tightest chains of suffering, when the mind was tormented with a thousand thoughts, when life didn’t make sense, and the mere thought of its meaninglessness was making him want to seek death, the dungeon was his salvation. The pain was the answer that shot through his body, blinding all his senses until all he felt was the desire to live despite anything else. The scars were the reminder, and they decorated his back with a hypnotizing ugly design.
How unimportant everything seemed compared to his experiences in the slums of humanity. How full of life he felt when he came back to his usual luxury life. How pathetic seemed the complaints and nagging of the men and women at the parties who thought that wearing a wrong dress was a disaster and being rumored about could ruin one’s life. Ha! What did one know about being ruined if they had never been to the slums?
Those were the golden days. The years of the learning and experience. When young Ashbee was hungry to try everything and anything. When the lust for life was so great that it scared him at times. He traveled on a ship to Africa, saw the indigenous tribes, marveled at the culture, explored the unknown territory, was part of the colonization attack.
“Have you ever killed before?” May asked him once.
He kept silent.
“So, I have the answer then…” She lowered her eyes.
Oh, beautiful creature! How intuitive she was but, oh, how little she knew about life and what men were capable of!
Now, years later, his senses were dulled. He’d seen enough, and surprises were rare. Curiosity never ceased, but it was much harder to feed it when one ventured too far already.
—————
That night he surprised himself. And Bronagh Morton. The first shot of pain didn’t bring relief. There was no usual sweetness that came with the anticipation. The darkness around disgusted him. The whips made him angry.
“No more,” he said, then repeated the words and murmured them over and over again, confused, for nothing made sense this time. His back felt the pain of the first whip, but his mind didn’t want it. He asked to untie himself, got dressed, and paid the woman the full price.
She watched him for a while without a trace of emotion on her grey scarred face, then said, “You came here for the wrong reason this time,” and saw him out.
For a while, he aimlessly walked the dark streets, oblivious to the fact where he was. Everywhere he went, he heard the echoes of pain—the growling of the dogs at the bear-baiting rings, the crack of the broken bones at the fighting cages, the screams of the prisoners of the dungeons, the sound of their blood dripping on the stone floor, the moans of the whores chained for sex, and the whimpering of children bound for sale. The hallucinations, visual and auditory, were ripping his mind in shreds. The visions were gnawing at him. The crouching silhouett
es. The monstrous shapes of the buildings. The gaping black holes of the arches. All shades of human suffering and despair echoed through the hissing shadows of the slums. He looked at the familiar darkness and couldn’t understand why it felt different this time. There was a longing in his heart, a tight feeling of regret. It angered him that he couldn’t quite grasp the source of it except for it had to do with May. It was her that he saw in his mind. No matter what he did, his thoughts came back to her. As if his mind went in circles.
Finally, he found his way to an opium den, one of many he used to frequent. The little door into its dark hallways swallowed him, and he was sucked once again into the dim, hazy rooms of the opium-addicts. He thought it would relax him, but the poisonous smoke affected him in a strange way this time. It seemed to leak inside of him, into his heart but didn’t dull his pain. Instead, it brought the images of May again. The thoughts turned into a splitting headache that was worse than a thousand whips. The smoke intensified his senses, and suddenly, he could feel everything—the blood soaking the shirt, the cut on his back as if it was growing bigger, the despair and frustration that rose in him like a tsunami and where it rose from.
May…
He finally managed to pull himself up and made it out onto the streets. Drunk, dizzy and wobbling, he finally flagged down a horse carriage and went home.
CHAPTER 12
Lord Ashbee woke up late in the afternoon. He was undressed and smelled like a chamber pot. There was a carafe of water next to his bed, and the gap between the closed curtains let out a thin slice of light that seemed more dangerous than the splitting headache that resonated in his head with every move.
Gordon brought him a tray with tea and food, but Lord Ashbee requested the best cure for a hangover, which was the same poison that caused it. Gordon returned with gin, watched his master quietly, and asked if Lord Ashbee would like him to prepare a bath.
Gordon had seen plenty in the years with his master to know what these disappearances meant. Years ago, when Gordon was young, he had served The Man, was his right hand. When young Ashbee came around, Gordon carefully watched the young man that The Man picked to mentor. He observed with interest the progress that young Ashbee made and marveled at how quickly he was shaping into the person The Man was. When The Man left this world, Gordon came into Lord Ashbee’s services. The young Ashbee was not quite The Man. Who could? Perhaps, the depth of character required time, for he noticed with years that young Ashbee learned to harness his curiosity, curb his cravings, sharpen his skills. He was, indeed, becoming The Man himself, still young, only in his mid-thirties, and already with more knowledge of human nature than most people he knew.
“The meaning of life,” The Man once said, “is to study the humans, dissect one’s psyche, and learn the intricacy of the human mind so that one can fully appreciate and enjoy its power and weaknesses that are life.”
Gordon knew what men’s weaknesses were. He knew what caused Lord Ashbee to disappear.
Lord Ashbee, in his turn, didn’t know how else to cure the soul. This was the way, the only way. But this afternoon, he didn’t feel the familiar relief. The raw scar on his back was a reminder of his descend, but it did not rid of the strange feeling in his heart.
It puzzled him.
Worried him.
More than anything, it scared him, for he couldn’t understand what in this world could be more powerful than darkness.
—————
May read, wrote, watched the street out of the window. But nothing could stop the sadness that clenched her heart and occupied her mind. She felt like crying and spent hours sitting motionless in the armchair thinking about Lord Ashbee. No matter how she tried to entertain herself, nothing helped.
She often summoned Krissy and tried to talk to her. The maid was more than willing, telling her the usual stories and latest rumors about the brothel. May felt mildly entertained, but most stories bored her now.
“No, Lord Ashbee didn’t come anymore, Miss,” Krissy answered when May finally summoned the strength to ask about the man. “Baron Carlile is visiting though,” Krissy said with a sly smile and a playful spark in her eyes.
But May wasn’t interested in watching anyone. Nor did she want to miss Lord Ashbee if he stopped by.
Ah, how desperate she was! It upset her. This weakness! She, May, was longing for a man! Not just to see him but to indulge in the very pleasures that she was so disgusted with a month ago.
How mistaken she was at her own strength! How blind she was to the weakness of her virtues! She thought that the Belle House could stay out of her room, that nothing could change her ways as long as she followed her morals. But then came Lord Ashbee with his strange philosophy on life and pleasure. And it fascinated her and touched her deeply, made her question her own beliefs. He got under her skin. His words echoed in her mind, and the memory of his touch made her restless in her bed at night. And now, watching the spring bloom in its full force, all she could think about was Lord Ashbee. She wanted to be with him. When she pictured herself away from the Belle House, it was with Lord Ashbee by her side. She knew she crossed that forbidden line that they wrote books and poems about. It was way past physical. Way beyond rational. It wiped out any reason or explanation.
The thought, once it revealed itself in her mind, stopped her dead in her tracks.
It came to her as a shock.
Despite her denial, despite the voice of reason. It came onto her like a revelation that she was hopelessly, shamelessly, deeply in love.
—————
Lord Ashbee was hoping that May would give up and send him a message. Skimming through the correspondence, he didn’t find any.
No.
It puzzled him even more. How could it be? Was she not enchanted with him as much as he was with her? She was a woman. Women were weak when it came to matters of the heart.
Suddenly, he was overwhelmed with fear.
What if she left?
What if she wasn’t there?
He was trying to avoid her for days. What if now when he went back to see her, she was gone?
The thought shocked and horrified him. There would be a word from Krissy if that were the case. And if not?
And suddenly, he was in a panic. He got up abruptly, dress up, darted out of the house, got a carriage, and couldn’t sit still while it rode in the familiar direction.
May!
He was going to see May!
She was there. She had to be!
Everything around seemed to cheer him on. The children waved to him from the streets, the women smiled encouragingly, the birds darted in front of the horses as if urging them to hurry. And his own heart was beating faster every minute.
He stopped the carriage before it got to the Belle House and briskly walked the rest of the distance. His heart was pounding, his mind was racing, his legs led him through the door, past the reception room, and the raised eyebrows of the guests that were there.
He didn’t pay attention.
Didn’t hear his name called but raced up the scarlet stairs skipping the steps, and down the hallway.
Past the giggles of the two younger ladies in their undergarments.
Swished like a wind past Krissy, who stood with fresh linens in her hands and grinned cheerfully watching him disappear around the corner.
Without pausing or knocking, without a moment’s hesitation, he swung the door to May’s room like a tornado and rushed in.
She jumped up in shock, knocking the chair down, pressing herself against the bureau. His blazing eyes burrowed into hers, and she didn’t know what was happening, for she had never seen him like this, storm and fire. They stood looking at each other for several seconds, and everything was in their eyes at that moment—the waiting, the expectation, the longing, the suppressed desire.
And then he was next to her. His hands pulled her by the waist, and his mouth crashed into hers with an unknown to her insistence. Their tongues melted together, and their
hands started tearing each other’s clothes off, his—impatient, hers—mimicking his. Without saying a word, without explaining anything, he pulled off the last pieces of her undergarments, forgetting the stockings and the shoes, picked her up and sat her on the bureau, her buttocks—on the cold mahogany wood and the open pages of an Austen’s book. When he thrust his erection into her, she gasped, wrapped her legs tighter around his bare hips, and he kept moving and groaned as if he found the greatest relief to his restless desire.
Nothing mattered in that moment—not the misunderstanding, not the reason he tried to stay away from her. He couldn’t get enough, his lips on her, his tongue melting in the warmth of her mouth, his hands on her breasts, her neck, her thighs, moving without a direction but trying to find everything he missed in the last days, not keeping up with his hips that moved insistently between her legs. He didn’t ask if she was enjoying it and didn’t notice her hand that was gently cupping his face as if trying to hold his horses. He didn’t ask her if he was hurting her, and it didn’t matter. With every thrust, he wanted to make it deeper into her and felt he couldn’t get close enough. He pulled her tight against his body, wanting his skin to feel hers, but close wasn’t close enough. And he kept going like a maniac, oblivious to anything around. They were lost in May, and Lord Ashbee was lost in his May. His lips moved to the crook of her neck, he moaned and gasped, forgetting to restrain himself, and couldn’t see the smile that was on her face. The movements of his hips increased, and he finally reached the orgasm with a loud groan, almost a shout, and collapsed into her embrace.