The Talisman

by Lynda La Plante

  ‘Soup, sah,’ said Dewint, carrying the loaded tray, and found the photograph thrust beneath his nose.

  ‘This is my son, my son, and I’m going to bring him home . . .’

  Edward rushed from the room, knocking the tray from Dewint’s trembling hands. As it crashed on the floor, he heard Edward’s shout and the awful, thundering sound as he fell headlong down the stairs.

  Dewint managed to get him on to the sofa in the lounge before he blacked out. He was streaming blood from a head wound, and the panic-stricken Dewint rushed to phone the doctor. When he got back, Edward was white as a sheet, and lay absolutely motionless.

  The doctor wanted Edward to go into hospital for a check-up, but he refused. He did, however, agree to remain in bed for a few days. But he never got as far as his bedroom, preferring to lie on the sofa in front of the fire. He stared into the flames for hours on end, or at the photograph of Evelyn, which was always in his hand.

  Although Dewint did his best to keep him from drinking, he started again. He tried to get Edward to eat, but met with nothing but abuse. He did allow Dewint to keep the fire built up, but would accept nothing else from him. In the end Dewint just brought trays every mealtime and left them on a side table. They were always there, untouched, when he returned.

  He just did not know what to do. Edward had been drinking steadily for four days, and never left the room except to go to the bathroom. Then he would shamble straight back into the lounge. It was obvious to the old man that Edward was very sick. His eyes were sunken, he was unshaven, and bottles were strewn about the room. Late one night Dewint heard the familiar sound of rock ’n’ roll music, the same record over and over again, until he hid his head under the pillow trying to block out the repetitious racket.

  The music pounded through the house while Edward desperately sought oblivion. The more he drank, the more his mind reeled. Voices called to him, his head ached continuously. He sweated, his face dripping, so he threw open the french windows. No sooner had he done that than he felt chilled to the bone. Shivering with fever, his teeth chattering, he slammed the window shut and stoked the fire until it blazed, then wrapped a blanket around himself. The heat began to sweep over him again, so he rested his head on the cold, wet windowpane.

  Gazing at the river, he saw a fire had been lit by the jetty at the end of the long, tangled garden. Vague, shadowy shapes huddled around it, hands held out to the flames. He was about to scream at them to get off his land when one of them started to sing. The words were distorted by the echo from the river, but soft, as though the singer sang only for himself. The song ripped through Edward’s drunken mind . . .

  Can you rokka Romany,

  Can you play the bosh

  Can you jal adrey the staripen,

  Can you chin the cosh . . .

  He pressed his face against the cold, damp window and began to sing the words, dredging them from his past. In the red glow of the flames, the singer turned towards him and smiled. Edward was rigid with fear as the man rose to his feet, still singing softly, but now looking at Edward. The man was Freedom.

  ‘Come on, Eddie, don’t be afeared, boy. Gimme yer hand, make a Romany of thee.’

  Involuntarily, Edward made to move from the window, but pressed close again as he saw a small, naked child walk through the overgrown garden. The child lifted both arms to Freedom, and Edward knew he was watching himself. In slow motion, shimmering in the fireglow, he watched Freedom lift the boy and carry him to the flames . . . The voice whispered close; he could feel the warmth of the man’s breath as he whispered over and over, telling him not to be afraid. A knife glinted and the child’s eyes widened; he sobbed in fear, but Freedom was holding him safely, holding him with those deep black eyes, with gentleness, with such love it was overwhelming . . .

  ‘Give me thy hand . . .’

  The child held up his right hand, and Edward pressed his own flat against the window, wincing with pain as the knife cut clean down his thumb. A single, bright red tear of blood dripped down the child’s hand, and Freedom knelt before him, licking at the blood . . . then turned and spat into the fire. The flames rose higher and the coals burned brighter . . .

  Edward backed further and further from the brightness beyond the window, moving away from the memory, away from the sight of his father – moving away from the memory of himself as a boy, the long-forgotten memory of his initiation into the Romany clan. He didn’t want to see any more.

  The song started up again and repeated, over and over:

  Can you rokka Romany,

  Can you play the bosh . . .

  Edward was crazy with fear. Turning to run from the room he was caught by his own image in the mirror – but it wasn’t his own face staring back at him, it was the face of his father. He screamed, ‘Get away from me! Go away!’ But still Freedom’s face remained, and then the tears flowed down his cheeks, terrible, streaming tears. Edward closed his eyes to shut out the face of his father, but it remained as clear if not clearer than the image in the mirror. The tears continued dripping down the high, carved cheeks, falling on to naked shoulders while the eyes stared wide, unblinking.

  Edward’s chest heaved as the deeply buried memories surfaced, exploded, and he remembered killing his father, remembered every fragmented second . . .

  Once more he was screaming with rage. He was seventeen years old, shouting and punching out at Freedom, screeching that he was going to Cambridge, no one would hold him back – no failure, no has-been boxer, no pitiful loser like Freedom could stop him . . .

  Freedom began to undo the thick leather belt from his waist. Now Alex was there, little Alex weeping for them to stop, crying to them not to fight.

  Edward put his arm over his face as if to block out the image that would appear next. He couldn’t bear to face his mother, but she was there, standing at the kitchen door and begging for them to stop. He could see her clearly, her white pinafore, her dark red, coiled hair. She tried to come between them, but Edward pushed her aside and she fell backwards. The dog was barking – Rex, the white bull terrier, growling and yapping, scuttling between their feet, jumping up as if even he was afraid of what was going to happen. He yelped as Freedom tripped over him and lurched against the kitchen table . . .

  Slowly, the inevitable happened again, so slowly . . . Edward opening the kitchen drawer. Edward taking out the sharp knife, the big knife Evelyne used to carve their Sunday roasts. He took out the knife as his father turned to him . . .

  Edward’s face was distorted with blind rage as he screamed, ‘Come on, you bastard! I dare you to fight me now! Come on!’

  Freedom seemed to relax. He no longer attempted to take his belt to his son – instead, he smiled, and lifted his arms in a gesture of love, opening his arms wider and wider, moving closer and closer to his son, closer to the knife.

  Edward tried to stop the memory, tried to stop the memory continuing . . . Picking up a bottle, he smashed it against the fireplace . . . but the smiling face of his father would not go away. He moved closer, as if to embrace his son. Edward snatched up a poker from beside the fireplace and brought it crashing down between the open arms, crashing into the face that haunted him, the face that would not let him be in peace, would not let him forget. He smashed the face in the mirror into a thousand pieces, broke his own face into myriad jagged pieces . . . but Freedom was still there.

  Can you rokka Romany,

  Can you play the bosh . . .

  Edward put his hands over his ears to cut out the sing-song voices – and suddenly there was silence. He felt his father’s arms embrace him as the knife cut upwards into his heart, opening his chest. Freedom sighed, he sighed just as he had done on the day it happened . . .

  Edward stepped back, looking at his blood-stained hands. Splinters of glass had cut his palms to shreds and he was covered in his own blood, but his mind was so confused and disorientated that he believed it was his father’s.

  Freedom was lying face down on the floor, l
ying where he had fallen, embedding the knife deeper into his heart. Evelyne knelt beside him, rocking him in her arms, as his blood spread like deep crimson flowers over the carpet, over her white apron . . . Edward’s mother cradled Freedom until his body was stiff, until they had to prise his arms away from her.

  Slowly the images faded, the song stopped, the fire outside the window was gone. Edward was left with his own blood still wet, still dripping from his cuts. Now he knew what he had done, and he felt the pain opening him up within; he felt his head draw back as if the pain was so great it was splitting him into two beings. And the howl, when it came, was so loud, inhuman, it sounded like the baying of a wounded animal.

  At the top of the house, Dewint heard the howl. At first he thought it was an animal, something trapped. As he listened he realized it was coming from the sitting room below.

  He crept down the stairs, fearful of what he would discover. The sound was quieter now, and he listened at the door. Gradually the howling subsided and was replaced by sobbing. Concerned, yet too afraid to go and see, he sat on the stairs and waited.

  Will walk in his shadow, bleed with his blood,

  Cry loud with his anguish and suffer his pain.

  Edward lay face down on the sofa, his head buried in his hands. At long last he was able to ask his father’s forgiveness for what he had done. When Dewint inched open the door, he saw the blood all over the floor, the broken mirror, and Edward’s still figure. Above the fireplace, where the mirror had hung, a red spray of blood resembled a necklace, with small blood drops like pearls. The talisman.

  Creeping closer, he saw that Edward was still breathing. He hurried to the telephone.

  Alex arrived at the manor within the hour. Dewint let him in and ushered him towards the drawing room. This would be the first time Alex had seen Edward since that terrible Christmas, since the realization that Evelyn was in fact Edward’s son. Any anger or hatred evaporated as soon as he saw his brother, his bloated body, his blotched, boozed-out face and his filthy clothes covered in bloodstains. Like a bum, he half sat, half lay slumped on the sofa staring vacantly at the wall. Aghast, Alex turned to Dewint.

  ‘Dear God, how long has he been like this?’

  ‘Ever since the funeral, sah, and I can’t do anything with him. I think he’s dying, sah. He’s been in this room for days.’

  Alex looked down into his brother’s face, now hardly recognizable. Looking closely at him, the physical change was frightening. He must have weighed almost twenty stone, and was such a tragic figure that Alex knelt down beside him. ‘Eddie, it’s me, Alex. Can you hear me?’

  Suddenly the ghost of Edward’s old self flashed across his dazed face, he gave a sad half smile. ‘Hello, old buddy. How ya doin’?’

  ‘A helluva lot better than you, by the look of it.’

  ‘You should have been at her funeral, Alex. She was very fond of you, always liked you. You should have given her that much respect, Alex. She hadn’t a bad thought in her poor mind.’

  Dewint carried in a bowl of hot water and a face cloth.

  ‘It was eerie, sah. He sat at the kitchen table, even carved her name on it, he did. Then he went outside, stood by her tree and the phone rang to say she was gone. He seemed to know, sah, as if he’d come back to bury her . . . and he’s been this way since he returned from Yorkshire. I’m going to wash your face now, Mr Edward, just lean back. Shockin’ mess you got your hands in.’

  ‘I’ll call a doctor,’ said Alex. ‘I think someone should be brought in to see him, get him checked over. All this extra weight can’t be good for his heart.’

  Alex looked around the dark bottle-strewn room and moved to open the curtains. Suddenly Edward’s voice was strong, angry. ‘Leave them closed, don’t open them.’

  Alex shrugged and let the dark velvet curtain fall into place. He moved back to Edward and sat on the edge of the worn sofa.

  He tried not to let his anger show, but seeing Edward again and knowing the mayhem he had caused, the trouble he had been through just to get permission to let cheques leave the company without his brother’s signature, the deals he had lost due to delays, constant enquiries about his whereabouts, and not one word . . . He sighed. ‘Where the hell have you been, Edward, where?’

  Slowly Edward turned to him and his bloodshot eyes blinked.‘To hell and back, brother, but I hear you’ve been running things pretty smoothly without me, not made any gigantic steps forwards, but the company is still looking good, brother. But you can take a breather for a while, because I’m back . . . I’m still alive. How’s Evelyn?’

  Alex clenched his fists, and with all his will-power kept his voice quiet, even managed to keep the smile on his face as he answered, ‘Evelyn is just fine. Well, if there’s nothing I can do here, I’ll leave you in Dewint’s obviously capable hands, but I’ll organize a doctor to give you a good check-up, all right? I’ll show myself out.’

  ‘Not going to say you’re glad to have me back, eh? Aren’t you glad to have me back?’

  Alex slammed the door behind him. Edward let loose a deep shuddering sigh, shaking his head. ‘Why do I do it? Norman? Why do I always have to goad him? Even now . . . Hell, I try so hard, even want to put out my hand to him, hold him, but instead I torment him, why?’

  The old pixie face peered up at Edward. ‘Well, sah, maybe because you know that you can. Straightaway you ask him about his son, knowing it’ll be like a knife . . .’

  Edward frowned, then leaned back. ‘And you, you old faggot, know more than you should. Now, leave me alone and let me sleep.’

  Dewint’s knees cracked as he straightened up. He paused before he left the room. ‘You carry on this way, sah, tormentin’ him and you will be sorry. Leave his son alone. You can’t always have what you want, that’s the way life is.’

  Edward looked at the man who had served him for so many years. He smiled. ‘What did you want that you never got, Norman?’

  Dewint cocked his head to one side. ‘Well, I would have liked a round-the-world travel ticket.’

  Edward laughed and held up his hand for Dewint to help him up from the sofa. Dewint buckled beneath his weight as Edward leaned heavily against him. ‘Right, Norman, I think it’s time for breakfast television.’

  They staggered into the hall and began slowly to mount the stairs. The telephone rang and leaving Edward already out of breath only three steps up, Dewint went back to answer it.

  ‘It’s Skye Duval, Mr Barkley.’

  Edward leaned over the banister to take the phone, and spoke into it briefly. ‘Okay, I’ll sort it out, leave it with me . . .’ He eased his bulk to sit on the stairs and hung up. ‘Norman, if you get anyone asking for me, I am unobtainable, that clear?’

  ‘Is it trouble, sah?’

  ‘You could say that, there’s a warrant out for my arrest.’

  Alex decided to go straight to the office. He still had no idea where Edward had been for all that time, but he was back and Alex knew if he intended holding on to the reins, now was the perfect time to have Edward declared unfit to return as his partner. He called George Windsor to arrange for two independent Harley Street doctors to visit Edward that morning. He wanted proof of his alcoholism, proof he was incapable in his present condition of running the company.

  At eleven-fifteen Miss Henderson rang through to say two gentlemen had called to speak to Edward. She knew he had returned to London for the funeral, and wondered if he was coming into the office.

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘They wouldn’t give me their names.’

  ‘Tell them Edward is indisposed and can’t see anybody.’

  Two hours later Miss Henderson entered his office. She appeared flustered and said that the two men had returned and were refusing to leave. Alex sighed and briskly told her to find out who the hell they were. She said they were customs officials and now wished to speak to him; they had said it was a very urgent matter. Alex checked his watch, he had already set up the board meeting to discu
ss his brother’s return and subsequent dismissal, and had two appointments for that morning. Miss Henderson waited for his instructions.

  Angrily, Alex said she was to show the men in but interrupt him in five minutes.

  Alex knew instinctively something was up as the two men entered. Both wore ill-fitting grey suits with white shirts and silk ties, and carried identical leather briefcases. They were sun-tanned and very confident. Alex’s hackles rose like those of an animal who could smell danger. These were no ordinary customs officials.

  ‘Well, gentlemen, how can I help you?’

  He glanced at their identification, and indicated two seats for them in front of his desk. They were from the South African Government. He continued, ‘I’m afraid my brother is unobtainable, but if you would like to tell me how I can be of assistance . . .’

  The two men were investigating the illegal exportation of semi-precious stones from South Africa. Their neat briefcases contained thick files on Skye Duval of Duval Limited.

  ‘Do you have any knowledge of this company, Duval Limited, Mr Barkley?’

  Warily Alex shook his head. How many times in the past had he heard that name? He wished he had checked more thoroughly. He could feel the sweat trickling down his spine, knowing that this must have been what his brother had been doing for the last six years. His hands were steady as he took the documents outlining the vast mining activities of Duval Limited. His eyes flew over the pages . . .

  ‘The Duval company has, over the past ten years, systematically bought up thousands of acres of perlite territory. The crosses indicate the exact locations of the productive mines. The mines close to rivers, marked with blue lines, have been producing semi-precious stones.’