Some time ago, he allowed me to burn the pictures. By then, and perhaps all along, he knew that they were not the rope that tied me to this life. He knew that instead, it was my own desires. Even now, I can remember each movement, each and every time. I picture my actions as though I am watching a film, a filthy, pornographic movie about someone beneath contempt.
Once I have provided my parents with food and helped with the bridge, I lock the door of my rooms at the back of our house and draw all the draperies. I put on my old, loose jeans and the red hunting jacket.
Then, slowly and awkwardly, my fingers numb and stiff, I eat my simple meal. I eat at a deliberately slow pace, always with a small glass of sherry. (Someone once told me that sherry was too delicate a drink for me, so I drink it purposely.) Already the feeling has control. Any love or sensitivity I have is replaced by animosity, an odious venom. I coldly, calculatingly, plan what I will do this time.
As soon as darkness sets, and my parents are asleep in their side of the house, I slip out the back door and drag my bicycle out of the shed. In the silence and under cover of the trees, I take the path across the country, from the yard through the woods, through the cornfields, to our compound. Leaning the bike against the cottage, I make my way to the barn.
The animals make soft snuffling sounds, rubbing against me, sniffing for their dinner. I can feel their heat in the twilight, smell their musty fur. Rubbing gently against each nose, warm and wet, I feed them carefully. When this is done, I choose the one I want, the pony, one of the goats, or the lovely collie.
The feeling, the hatred, floats in my chest. Eyes inert, blank with a frigid stare, I take whatever weapon is handy and methodically beat the animal, usually on the buttocks and belly, where the wounds will not easily be seen. All the time I speak to them quietly, obscenely, using words I heard while wandering away from Burchill. Filth, perversion, despising all spills from my lips.
The animal usually whimpers or cries softly, terrified by years of fear into submission. Since those long ago days when I first brought them to this prison camp, they have been too frightened to move away or retaliate. Or perhaps they know somehow that, despite their degradations on a weekly basis, their plight is better than the others'.
When it is over, when the feeling is gone, I feel weak and dizzy. I drag the animal back into the cages, leaving it whining softly in the darkness.
Then I prepare the compound for the arrival of more monsters like me, those who share my proclivities, who for their own twisted reasons seek to debase and abuse, who are willing to pay anything to be able to live out their disgusting fantasies.
Although I have changed my ways, though I myself have left that life, I cannot forgive myself, just as she would never forgive me if she ever knew. She thinks I am someone I am not. My purpose in life now is to be the person she believes I am. Yet I remember all those nights of my past, all the nights of my present as I continue to facilitate others in spewing out their evil, and I wonder if I can hide from her well enough to sustain her affection and respect.
These days, each dawn I mourn over my nights, because she is there in the light of the sun. Miracles happen each time I see her, talk to her, sometimes touch her. She doesn't appear to care that I am ugly. She doesn't think I'm stupid. She looks right into my eyes and talks to me, asks me questions, seeks my advice. She doesn't know the dark side of me. She likes me for this mask, I know this. The mask I wear now is far too ingrained, too important, to let slip. But she has given me something that I never thought possible. She has given me hope.
Hope that perhaps others could look beyond and see another me. Would someone be able to touch me without shuddering with revulsion? Would someone else be able to look into my eyes and see love or affection or intelligence or kindness? Would they be able to see past the lumps and imperfections and scars to what had begun as pure, soft, needy, loving? Is she perhaps the someone for me in this world, someone to love me, hold me, heal me? Or will her acceptance, will the things she has taught me and the lessons she still has to impart to me, at least lead me to a relationship at long last?
It is for this hope that I must talk with him, tell him it is over. I can no longer live this way. I must find some way to persuade him that it must stop. I have some plans. I need to feed his greed for money.
The sun had drenched the room in gold, warm on my face and arms. I looked up into a blue and yellow day, fresh and sweet after the rain, the lake calm, the trees full and free. The darkness of the words on these pages was completely anathema to the life all around me.
I turned the page and found the crude map, more a series of squiggles and lines than anything precise. Beyond that, there were several more pages of writing. But I was almost dizzy with the emotional turmoil. I needed sleep. Most of all, I needed Langford Taylor.
Chapter 14
I remembered with a start that I had shared none of this with Will. Over the last four years together, we had kept nothing back from each other—nothing of the present, at least. Our agreement to keep secret some parts of the twenty years before that was unspoken, but had helped to leave the past behind. I knew right now, though, that I couldn't share what had happened with Nathaniel Ryeburn with anyone. I wasn't sure that I could express my feelings, even with Langford. I wasn't even certain of the words I would use. So I tucked the diary in the magazine holder next to the sofa. Lang never reads magazines and would not in a million years riffle through.
I tucked my nightgown around me and flew quickly and quietly up the stairs, Angel at my heels, and slid into the warm bed. As if she knew my intentions, the little dog settled on the carpet and promptly, discreetly, closed her eyes. Langford Taylor turned warmly in sleep, automatically putting out his arms to encircle me. Very soon he was wide awake and I forgot the ugliness of Nathaniel Ryeburn's life in the complete expression of love.
Everything was out of sync. Here I was, sleeping late on a Tuesday in June when I should have been crazily busy at work, finishing reading and signing report cards, completing schedules for September, ensuring class lists for the coming year were correct and so on. Although I slept until ten that morning, I was still tired when I got up, fatigue that didn't just have to do with a failed night's sleep. Everything that had happened, everything I had read and lived through that writer's eyes, seemed like a dream, a nightmare.
I stumbled sleepily into the kitchen, hungrily pouring myself a coffee from the pot Will had made earlier, willing the caffeine to give me a clear head. My husband had quietly gone to his studio. I could vaguely see the top of his head from the window. I was glad he could still work, yet envious at the same time. He had the capacity to categorize events and feelings much more readily than I.
After a quick breakfast, I went upstairs and had a long, hot shower, which didn't seem to help my muddled state of mind. I knew there were so many things I should be doing. I couldn't just ignore my work. I had to gain control of my mind. The only way to do that, I concluded finally, was just to sit down at my desk and start, which is exactly what I did. Thus by early afternoon, when Will came in from his painting, I was much brighter, more satisfied, because I had accomplished several tasks.
We had lunch outside in the sunshine, munching on fresh egg salad sandwiches and carrot sticks, watching birds gather on the shore of the lake. It was a perfect June day, only a few days away from official summer. The air was clear and fresh. White clouds twisted into cartoon shapes over the blue of the sky.
The diary seemed to be part of a terrible movie I'd just watched or a fictional novel I'd been sorry I'd purchased. Consumed in my mind by the work of the school for which I was responsible, I mulled over all those details instead. I refused to stop to consider what I should do with Nathaniel Ryeburn's writings. By now I couldn't deny that it could very well have something to reveal about Nat's death. I didn't make a firm decision to continue the secrecy. I just postponed thinking about it until later. It would prove to be a very wrong move.
Will and Angel de
cided to accompany me to Ottawa for the special Board meeting. We'd better get her used to traveling, Will had pointed out, and I don't want you driving all the way back in the dark by yourself. I shuddered at the thought and tucked myself under his arms again, thankful for the millionth time for his love and his presence. We started our small journey early, packing a picnic dinner for all three of us, planning to stop by the Ottawa River Park that we loved. We knew dogs were allowed to run fairly free there, having been the recipients of many unwanted visitors to our picnics in the past. The day continued its perfect weather pattern, supporting our plans, and my mind did not even once turn to Nat's diary until after the Board meeting.
I was well prepared, able to answer the questions of the Board members, for once grateful that I did not have to make all the decisions on my own. As seemed to be normal for that group, the conversations strayed everywhere, from comments on violence in society at large to security in our schools. There were several reporters on hand, ensuring some grandstanding by some of the elected officials.
Eventually, however, a plan was presented and voted upon. My little Burchill Public School would remain closed, a premature graduation for all. Next week, a day or two would be set for parents to pick up report cards at a place to be determined by the principal. The Grade 8 Graduation ceremony was to take place in the fall, at a date to be, again, determined by the principal. In addition, I was requested to create a newsletter that would tie up loose ends, explain the situation as far as I was able, and to cooperate with the Ontario Provincial Police. Not a problem with the plans at all, I thought.
I had left Langford and Angel for two hours while the Trustees ruminated and decided and was anxious to ensure they were all right. As I approached the park, I was caught by the tableau in front of me. Langford and Angel Taylor were silhouetted in the setting sun, surrounded by a group of three little children and their parents. The kids were throwing a ball back and forth, Angel skipping happily to scoop it up, sometimes delighting them with an upright begging posture, almost dancing on her hind legs in her excitement. Her fur glistened golden red and I could imagine the shine of her huge brown eyes. The children's parents even clapped occasionally.
Will was angled toward Angel and the children, his whole posture relaxed and happy, completely entertained by the antics of the little ones and the dog. I felt a pang in my chest, tears staining my eyes, as I thought suddenly of the lost opportunity for this wonderful man to be a father. His loving arms would never encircle a little one, except perhaps as a friend or an uncle. He would never be able to sit a little person on his knee and read to them before bed. We had both been cheated of this gift by a hideous mistake, and there wasn't even anyone on whom we could take out our anger.
Now I thought of Nathaniel, of how he had chosen such innocents who could never speak out, making them the targets of his anger and disappointment and hatred. At least we had each other, Langford and I. At least we led decent lives filled with love and forgiveness, not resentment and violence.
I blinked away the tears and headed toward my husband and our little dog, my spirits once again elevated. Children would always be a part of our lives in other ways besides parenthood. We spent a few more minutes in the park, watching the sun dissolve into the horizon, until the evening chill reminded us of our drive home.
It was very dark by the time we turned onto the softly lit streets of Burchill. Everything was quiet, as always. The bridge remained closed and still. People had gone into their homes and turned out most of their lights. Occasionally we could see one or two televisions flickering in our neighbours' windows, but for the most part, Burchill was asleep.
Langford and I were unaware of anything amiss until we opened the front door and Angel began to bark furiously. It was then that we saw the odd shapes in the living room, signalling that something was terribly wrong.
Chapter 15
We stepped cautiously into our home, Angel in front, barking and snarling, Will behind her, and myself taking up the rear. We were not thinking about intruders, really. I don't know what we thought as we imprudently walked onto the scene. It was not until Langford's shoe crunched on some glass that we panicked and backed out the front door, shocked and chilled, staring at one another in the dark, unable to speak or act. Suddenly the door slammed shut with the wind and we raced back to the car, terrified, the dog at our heels. We locked all four doors and got on the cell phone to Edgar.
Although it took him only five minutes, it seemed an eternity to us, sitting locked in the car, the dog whining and snarling by turns, our eyes frantically searching the house and the yard for any sign of human interference. Until Ed pulled into the yard, Will and I had not said a word. Now we both bombarded him with our story, and what we thought we had seen in our living room.
Edgar went with us to the front door, then made us stay back while he cautiously stepped into the living room. In a moment, he asked Langford to come and flip the light switch. My husband did so. Angel and I stayed behind both men, still shivering with fright. The sight of the living room did nothing to calm our nerves.
Everything had been turned upside down. The sofa lay on its side, stuffing pierced and pulled like an old doll. Cushions had been sliced and strewn everywhere. Drawers from both end tables had been yanked out and papers thrown all around. The lamps had been smashed on the hardwood floor. Magazines were torn and dispersed as if a small child had enjoyed ripping and tossing what could not be read. I let out a cry of dismay and Will's arms encircled me immediately.
Angel careened wildly through the room, sniffing and barking and whining. Finally, Will reached over for her. We hugged her to us, while Edgar spoke into his cell phone, calling on Barry and Michael. He signalled us to follow him, flipping lights on as we went, carefully making our way through the rest of our house. One of the large glass windows at the side of the house was now shattered, a gaping hole darkened by the trees and the expanse of the night, giving clear entry and exit. The drapes curled in the night air, quiet now. The broken glass was the only testimony to the break-in. Someone had smashed the window in, entered the living room, and then begun to throw our belongings around.
The kitchen, the bedrooms, the family room, the basement—all were empty and untouched.
Barry and Michael, ruffled, sleepy, and concerned, did a thorough search after our cursory hunt for any intruders, writing notes and taking pictures as they went. After profuse thanks from Edgar and from us, they left, unusually quiet and subdued. The events of the last few days had shaken them.
"The vandal must have found what he was looking for in the living room," Edgar concluded, "or else he was interrupted. Either that, or this was just done to annoy you, though this seems a little extreme for a prank. Is there anything missing, Emily? Langford?"
We swept over the living room, trying to picture it as it had been. We stared at broken gifts and souvenirs, attempting to see if anything valuable was missing. Langford's paintings remained on the wall and his studio was still locked and safe. Magazines, papers, all there.
I knew, of course I did. No soft brown book in sight.
Obviously, Edgar muttered, this was pure vengeful vandalism, or the thief had been focused on one thing only, had found it.
I had to tell them. As soon as I began, the tears started to flow and I was suddenly weak and dizzy. Langford helped me to the kitchen and sat me down on a chair, brought me tea and tissue, but I could feel his anger in the set of his mouth, the distance in his touch, his utter silence. My guilt only made the tears flow harder. Eventually, with pauses for breath and sips of hot tea, the whole story stumbled out. I tried to explain my silence about the diary to protect what I thought at first would have been innocent ramblings from a simple man, but which had turned out to be the deeply sordid tale of a sad and terrifying life. The silence when I finished was thick with shock and disappointment, not only for Nat, but also for the storyteller.
Edgar stared at me, involuntarily shaking his head, trying very
hard to keep the anger out of his voice. "Emily." Softly said, but even more menacing because of that sotto voce. "You have to know how this will look to the OPP. Anyone outside of Burchill will wonder what your part in all of this is. They'll wonder why you didn't turn that diary in right away."
I stared back at Edgar, unable to believe my ears. I had not expected this line of thinking. "Ed," I croaked, then cleared my throat. "How can you think that way?"
"Because he's a police officer, Emily." Langford stood at the kitchen counter, his arms folded. "You must see how it might look to outsiders."
Unable to look at my husband, I lowered my head into my hands, trying to control my emotions. My body had begun a strange inward tremble, as if my blood and muscles were being shaken from the inside out. "Okay. But right now, it's just us. And someone has somehow found out that I had Nat's diary. They have broken into our home and stolen it. The diary must be very significant. I don't know if everything in there is true. I find it hard to believe that the Nathaniel Ryeburn we knew is the monster on those pages, but it seems that someone wanted him dead. They must also have killed the pony to vacate the school and have more time to search the school for the diary. Again, we're back to IT."
Edgar tapped his fingers on the table. "I think you're right. We have no way of knowing how much more Nat was about to say, or how long ago he wrote the diary. But it sounds like Nathaniel was about ready to blow the whistle and maybe, just maybe, he had started to put the pressure on this partner of his. The partner decides to kill Nat. He knows about the diary somehow. Can't find it, so he kills the pony to ensure the vacating of the school. That way he can spend time searching."
"Or she."
"No time for feminism, Emily." At least Edgar could still smile at me. "But you got to the diary first. How did he know that? He could have seen you reading in your living room, I suppose. Or maybe he just knew that Nat was close to you and made a lucky guess. Either way, someone has been watching you, Emily."
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