‘Or perhaps you plan to take to the sea again? How easy do you think it will be to find a crew? We own many ships, Vincent, and the men who sail them are content to take your anonymous penny in wages. But do not suppose they would be so happy to tug their forelocks and call you Captain to your black face.’
Such silence fell after this, and such a stillness, that Cornelius almost reached to make certain Vincent was there. When Vincent finally did speak, his voice was immeasurably cold.
‘This is your understanding, is it? That everything I am, or can ever hope to be, exists only thanks to your intervention?’
‘You cannot deny,’ said Cornelius softly, ‘that you carry your colour wherever you go.’
‘I see.’
Thrusting his pistol into his belt, Vincent strode past him, heading for shore.
After a hesitation, Cornelius fell into place at his back. ‘Where are we going?’
Vincent did not reply.
‘Are we going to find the intruders?’
Vincent just kept moving forward, heading for the house, and Cornelius spoke no more. He hoped his silence might afford his friend some time to think; some space in which to reason things through and see the sense in what had been said. But when they came to the driveway and, still wordless, Vincent marched up the front steps of the house, Cornelius knew that everything was broken between them; everything was lost.
He came to a halt on the gravel. ‘Do not leave!’
Vincent strode through the door.
‘If you leave, you will die! You will end up like Matthew!’
Vincent turned. Within the dark interior of the house, his eyes were the brightest thing about him.
Cornelius spread his hands to him, in offering maybe, or pleading. He felt he could admit anything now. Here in the confessional of the moonlight, at the cusp of losing everything, he could offer up his sins. Oh, it was almost a relief. It was almost, almost a relief to finally say the words.
‘He came back, Vincent.’
‘Matthew?’
‘He was so old. He was so frail. I hardly knew him.’
‘And you sent him away?’
‘He stood right there. Right there in that doorway, and he smiled at me. Such an old man. He said, “I came to show you, Cornelius, that you don’t have to be afraid.”’
Vincent moved forward to stand above him on the steps. ‘And you sent him away again? You think I don’t know about the first time? You think I did not hear the vile things you called him? Tell me you did not repeat that!’
Cornelius heard Vincent’s words only vaguely. At that moment his mind was filled with a blaze of autumnal sunlight, and he was gazing down into the gentleness of Matthew’s smile. These things were more vivid to him than anything.
‘He was so old,’ he whispered. ‘He had travelled such a long way. He wanted to tell me about his life …’
‘How could you have said those awful things to him? All because he loved you, Cornelius! Because he dared to be what you could not bring yourself to be. And then he was gone. You had driven him away!’
Cornelius pressed his fingers beneath his eyes, felt the scald of tears he had not shed for decades. ‘I closed the door in his face. I said I could not see him. I said I could not see him, and I left him standing there. A frail old man. Alone.’
Their eyes met, and Vincent knew. He knew. The terrible truth of it. He slowly sat down on the top step. Cornelius could not take his eyes from him. Finally, Vincent said, ‘How long did they have him?’
There was no good answer to that. Cornelius just shook his head.
‘Yet you kept them here.’
‘I took … I took what remained of him to the fields. I buried … I buried him in the fields.’
‘And you kept them here.’
‘They are Raquel’s. What would it have done to her to lose them, too?’ At the expression on Vincent’s face, Cornelius paused – then he told the truth, the real truth of it. ‘How could I get rid of them without admitting what they had done? What could I have—’
It was not really a noise that drew his attention, more a fluttering of the shadows within the hall. He thought he himself might have made a sound at the sight of her – a small, agonised groan – which caused Vincent to turn where he sat and stare helplessly up as she edged her way into the porch.
‘I sent the others ahead,’ she said. ‘I needed to bring my babies back inside. Out of the frost.’
‘Of course,’ whispered Vincent.
‘Are you taking a rest?’
‘A little one, meu amor.’
She nodded. ‘Well. I’d best return to my task. Good night, my friends. Good hunting.’
She gathered her skirts, her knife glinting in the moonlight and, with no further comment, made her way down the steps and around the far side of the house.
Vincent rose uncertainly to his feet as her footsteps faded into the night.
‘She didn’t hear us,’ whispered Cornelius. ‘She could not possibly have, and remained that calm.’
The look Vincent gave him was so replete with disgust that Cornelius could barely stand to register it. Vincent descended the steps, and Cornelius could only whisper, ‘Where are you going?’
Vincent gave no answer, and soon he too had gone, following Raquel around the house and out of sight.
The Girl Who Blazed
THE WELL WAS down a flight of narrow stone steps by the sun terrace, not far from the house. Hemmed by dense woods, it was a cloistered area of ivy and moss, redolent of peace. Tina intruded on this in a torment of agony, one part of her battling the frenzy of the Angel, the other holding at bay Joe’s overwhelming sense of betrayal. She scraped and bumped the jar down each step and hauled it through clasping ivy to the coolness of the well mouth.
The creature within the jar cast a gentle glow, which illuminated the softly weeping stones of the well. This would not be difficult. Wolcroft had already pushed aside the wooden lid; all Tina had to do was lift the jar onto the wall. All she had to do was tip it over. Then the thing inside would slide out. It would fall away. It would be gone forever, and Joe would be safe.
She was trying very hard to hold on to everything: the glass curve of the jar’s rim beneath her grip; the solidity of the wall; the cool drip of the water. But it was a struggle to focus.
If only I had a stronger mind.
She’d said that to Joe once, after a seizure. I should be able to stop myself from doing this. She remembered clearly the look he’d given her.
Tina, he’d said, do you think Billy the stable boy grew up crooked because he didn’t work hard enough at not being a cripple?
That had been a shocking thing to say. Poor Billy, with his twisted legs.
Do you think if Saul just tried hard enough, he’d be able to see without his spectacles?
She had understood what he was saying. The expression on her face had made him squeeze her hand. Stop being an eejit, he’d said. You are what you are.
Joe.
Tina knew she had been born rich. From the start, she’d had the Lady Nana and Fran the Apples. She’d had the life they’d given her. In a sea of women who were nothing but someone else’s shadow, they had taught her to be herself. Joe had understood that. Joe had loved it.
Without Joe, Tina knew her good, strong life would continue. She would be successful. She would be herself. But – and Tina knew this as certainly as if it were written in the Bible – she would be alone. Because Joe was her best friend: truly, honestly, deeply her best friend. He had added himself to the completeness of her life, and by doing so he had made that life bigger, made it brighter, made it stronger, just by being Joe.
How could she give that up?
Tina heaved the jar onto the rim of the well. The creature within stirred gracefully, its soft light radiating. It was such a gentle presence. While the Angel moaned and thrashed and tore within her brain, this creature simply tapped gentle inquiries against the jar. Even just looking at it soothed
her mind. They were like the disparate parts of a divided whole, this thing and the Angel – balance divided.
‘That is it exactly, isn’t it?’ whispered Tina. ‘You are the other half. You are Beloved. Without you, he is not complete.’ She ran her fingers against the round belly of the glass, and the creature followed with its own fingers of light.
Joe had ceased his panicked battering of the door. Even the Angel had paused, his presence a great bursting firework in her head, but standing still, as if a firework could hold its breath. She could feel Joe’s mind trying to figure out the change in her. She felt him reaching out, speaking to her as he had at Miss Price’s, just before he died all alone in that snowy street covered by a horse blanket like some piece of meaningless rubbish.
Tina?
She shook her head, not wanting to hear.
Tina. Nothing lasts forever.
Nothing lasts forever. That was a tune you didn’t have to play twice to a tenement-dweller. Didn’t every dawn bear witness to the last fluttering of another life: a loved baby, a smiling mother, a gentle dad? In the tenements, love was a paper shield against death; it meant nothing, and even a beloved life could be the briefest of candles.
Please leave, whispered Joe. I’m already gone.
She closed her eyes and gripped the jar. I’m sorry, she whispered. Down in the darkness of his prison, the Angel fell to his knees, not believing.
‘I’m sorry,’ Tina said aloud.
Without opening her eyes, she placed her hand into the warm water. Come on. I’ll bring you to your friend.
The tentacles unfolded from the mouth of the jar and trembled for a moment in grace and beauty before spiralling shut on Tina’s arm. Her mind filled at once with order, a coolness of numbers tumbling down and clicking precisely into place. Two-dozen-apples-at-a-farthing-apiece-sold-for-a-moonbeam-a-pair. The-weight-of-depth-outside-space. When-a-clock-measures-distance-and-time-has-form. There are no more apples until I and He are We because He is the belly and I am the mouth. I understand. I am the mind and he is the heart. Yes. Truly. I understand.
A cascade of numbers, a gentleness of numbers, a soothing of numbers; this creature was calmness itself, and it took its time, now there was no poison to escape, it took its gentle time insinuating itself along her arm. And the light poured through it, oh, so beautiful, plummeting from the sky to converge in the curled body, roaring back out to return to the Angel, who wept in joy as he fed.
The mosaiced canopy of the sky. The living scent of the roses. The filigree of ivy over damp pillows of moss. All was a wonderment.
‘Everything is so good,’ murmured Tina. ‘Behold the glory of everything.’
Awe is nourishment. Glory is food. The resonance of being. We live. We feed. Yes.
A familiar man broke through the shrubbery and, at the sight of Tina, jarred to a halt.
‘Mickey,’ she whispered.
Mickey’s remaining eye, glittering through stained bandages, dropped to the creature on her arm. He saw a lantern, nothing more. ‘Might have known you’d be here, Miss Kelly. Where’s Joe?’
Somewhere down in the human heart of her, Tina knew she should run. This was a terrible man. He would do terrible things. But the creature on her arm did not know how to fear, only how to marvel, and so Tina stayed.
Mickey closed the distance between them, his knife a vengeful slice of moonlight in the glory of his one good fist, and Tina found him beautiful.
‘You know,’ she said, ‘Joe didn’t do anything to you. It was that black fella.’
‘Don’t be annoying me. The little shit drowned Graham. He threw a bucket of coals in my face. I’m going to slit him from belly to throat.’ He squinted at her. ‘What the … Are your eyes bleeding?’
My eyes? Tina lifted her free hand to check. Then another man tore from the trees in an explosion of leaves, and she was captivated once again as he barrelled into Mickey, almost knocking him over. She knew this man, too: a big, stupid gouger, another of Joe’s cousins. Daymo.
Mickey shoved him aside. ‘Quiet, you eejit! You’ll draw them buggers down on us.’ He glared at Tina. ‘Where’s Joe? He can’t hide behind that darkie’s coat-tails forever.’ But even as he spoke, his companion was dodging past, intent on escape. Mickey grabbed him. ‘The fuck you running for?’
Daymo groaned, an ecstasy of bewilderment on his face.
Mickey shook him. ‘Why are you running?’
‘They told me to.’ Daymo pointed across to the trees.
Two small figures emerged from the darkness, the little boy a solemn watchfulness, the little girl all frills and smiles. She clapped her hands. ‘Oh! Now there are two!’
‘We would like you to run,’ said the boy.
‘But you must stay together,’ sang the girl, wagging her finger. ‘No fair splitting up.’
The two men hesitated, their eyes wide.
‘Run!’ roared the boy. And they did.
The little girl bent to retrieve Mickey’s fallen knife. Tina thought she and her brother were magnificent, the clarity of their evil as pure and bright as the tolling of a silver bell.
‘How lovely,’ she whispered.
‘Aren’t you pretty,’ sang the girl, twirling the knife in her fingers. ‘You’re all shiny like the moon.’
‘I like your tears,’ said the boy. ‘They look like blood.’
His sister tugged his sleeve. ‘Come along, brother. She’s Pap’s, remember. We can’t have what is Pap’s.’ They strolled away, arm in arm, following the trail of broken brush left by the fleeing men.
The creature resumed its slow, sweet crawl up Tina’s arm, and, as if in a dream, she brushed her free hand beneath her eyes. Her fingers came away scarlet. Oh, she thought. You are killing me. But by then the creature’s tentacles had found their way into her hair, and it was much too late.
She blazed. Teeth clenched, arms spread, head back, she blazed in the dark.
Gently, the creature steered her onto the path and they began to follow the light.
The Heart That Pleased
HARRY THREW UP on the path, then stumbled on, his stomach in turmoil, his mind torn. Why was he so conflicted in his heart? Tina had asked, and he had obliged. It was good to please her. It was always good to please. It was Harry’s fondest wish that he could please everyone; that the whole world could look on in happiness as he went about his wonderful life, marvelling at him and applauding. He was a champion. He was …
Wait.
What?
Desperate to get his bearings, Harry tore the plugs from his ears. There were cobbles beneath his feet. Red brick walls surrounded him. He was in a stable yard. Yes! He had to take a horse and get away. Tina had said so. She would be proud of him then. He would be rich and famous then. She …
No. He had to get two horses. Joe had told him that. Two horses.
No! Where was his own mind? He had his own mind, didn’t he? He … he had to get a carriage. Yes. He had to rig up the carriage. He wasn’t leaving alone. He wasn’t abandoning …
Harry staggered into the fragrant gloom of the carriage house. Horses whickered softly in the darkness and he felt his way towards them. How was he going to manage this? He’d never rigged up a carriage in his life. Joe was the one who should be doing this. Joe was the one who knew how. None of this made any sense, and yet Harry kept going, trying hard to finish a task the aim of which mostly eluded him.
His hands had just settled against the splintered boards of a stable gate, and the first curious huff of horse’s breath had taken him by surprise, when a sound in the courtyard sent him ducking. It was a familiar noise, reminiscent of Harry’s time in the boxing ring: the smack of flesh against flesh, the thump and scurry of big men fighting. Then over it came another sound, terrifying enough to send Harry cowering into an empty stall. Somewhere out there, a child was giggling.
The carriage house’s double doors slammed open, and the sounds of wordless fighting continued as the men rolled into the interior.
Two small figures darted after them, and there were squeals of happiness from the dark.
‘Give them some light!’ cried the little girl. ‘I should very much like them to see each other.’
Harry groped fruitlessly in his pocket for the earplugs. He had dropped them onto the cobbles outside. There was the scrape and flare of a match being struck, and the girl squealed again as the far side of the barn was illuminated by candlelight.
‘We should give them weapons,’ she cheered.
‘No,’ said the boy. ‘I like this.’
‘Then … hit each other harder! Oh! Bite each other!’
There was grunting. The sharpness of flesh on flesh again. A man howled.
‘No noise!’ snapped the boy, and the struggle grew muffled again. There followed an avid, avaricious quiet as the men groaned and strove and tussled about on the floor.
Oh God, who is it? thought Harry. Who is it? He crawled to the edge of the stall, dreading the sight of Joe in mortal combat with some poor tramp, or two members of the theatre group maybe. Fear would not allow him to look around the corner. He could distinctly hear one of the men weeping as he fought.
What are you going to do, Harry? Sit here and listen as someone is tortured? Just be strong in your mind! Be strong in your mind! There’s no such thing as mesmerism.
He stood up in the darkness, his whole body screaming at him to stay down. He forced himself around the corner and stepped into the light.
The little girl was perched on the edge of a neglected work table, swinging her feet. Her brother was leaning casually beside her, his little legs crossed. On the ground, a couple of big men were mutually strangling each other.
The girl pouted. ‘It’ll be over too soon if they do that.’
The boy, his face impassively absorbed, leaned forward and said, ‘No more strangling.’
The men released each other’s throats with gasps and sobs of confusion.
The boy said, ‘More biting.’
The smaller man sank his teeth into the filthy cheek of his opponent. There was a flurry of desperate violence, and the two men struggled their way across the floor until they smacked against the stable wall.
Resonance Page 32