Gavrila pursed his lips. He wouldn’t allow the other man to see how those words affected him. He looked down to the candle in Hathaway’s hand and concentrated on the flickering flame. He was all too aware Hyacinth would no longer be there whenever he did leave that building. The boy would have left him. And that was likely best for both of them.
Struggling to maintain composure, he mounted a counterattack. “How is your wife?”
Hathaway inhaled sharply.
Gavrila showed his crooked teeth through a joyless smirk. “Oh, pardon me, I forgot that she… flew the coop.”
Angrily, the inspector yanked him to his feet then threw him against the wall and punched him in the stomach. Gavrila nearly threw up on the man’s black service uniform and its large, gold buttons running in two rows down his chest and belly.
“Don’t you dare talk about my wife, you monster!” Hathaway roared. A vile individual had crowned him with a cuckold’s horns. His wife had taken up with one of the young recruits and had followed him to another country after the affair had been discovered.
“What do you intend to do about it?”
“I can beat the cold shit out of your body, damn bastard,” his foe whispered and let Gavrila feel his hot breath in his face. It was the first time the chef de police forgot his highly praised and so essential manners. Gavrila had hit a deeply seeded sore spot and it pleased him more than it should have. He had inherited his father’s sadistic vein – and it didn’t matter whether he meant the biological or the other father. Each had been a contemptible scumbag in his own way. The only difference was, one of them could hide his nasty character behind a handsome façade while the other had malice written all over his face.
“Then do it. Don’t hold back,” he responded callously and gritted his teeth so hard he made his own tongue bleed.
A second later Hathaway saw to it that the rest of his body hurt as badly as the tip of his tongue. Even worse.
*
Together they hurried through the streets, back to the opposite end of the city. A torrential rain was falling. Hyacinth wrapped his cloak tightly around his freezing body and tried to ignore the numbness of his damp toes in worn-out shoes. “Why in hell would you get into the Meln in this kind of weather?”
“Physical conditioning helps one resist addictive cravings. At least me it does.”
So, had he then intentionally shattered the bottle of whisky? Did he want to stop drinking? That was a sentiment Hyacinth could respect.
“How long have you been living on the street?”
“Three years,” was the grudging response.
That was a long time, but it also meant Sergei hadn’t been born to be a denizen of the streets. “What happened that cost you your middle-class life?”
Perkovic merely shrugged his shoulders. Evidently he didn’t want to talk about it.
However, Hyacinth didn’t intend to make it so easy for him. After all, he was by nature a curious person – besides, he wanted to distract himself from his own despair. He was shivering. “Did you have a profession?”
“A profession and a small house in a good district. I…” Perkovic hesitated for a second before he continued, “...was a newspaper printer.”
Hyacinth pricked his ears, but the man beside him remained silent and stared at the ground. Now he doubted Perkovic had suffered no loss to the secret society, as the rest of the card-playing group naively believed only because he hadn’t been forthcoming with them. Just because a victim stays silent doesn’t mean that he hasn’t suffered. Not at all. There were thousands of reasons for Perkovic’s reticence. Shame, guilt, fear, to name only a few.
“It’s up there. That’s his house,” Sergei mumbled and pointed to a splendid villa. It stood amid others separated from one another by narrow alleys. It rose three storeys and boasted richly ornamented window shutters. Its roof was covered with green shingles. They emitted a misty glow in the moonlight.
Hyacinth swallowed and mustered the courage to climb the three steps to the door. On a small brass sign stood B. Urly. It left no doubt Perkovic had led him to the correct address.
A third hour had already passed, so without hesitating any longer he reached for the door knocker and pounded it against a decorative iron plate provided for that purpose. In the darkness he could barely recognise what the knocker depicted, but finally deciphered that he held between his fingers a likeness of a mouse whose tail dangled from the mouth of a cat.
Bartholomew had very strange tastes, but after all, there was no accounting for that.
A minute passed, and when nothing stirred, he knocked again and exchanged a concerned glance with Sergei who was looking quite grim.
“Try again. The old man is bound to be at home,” Perkovic instructed before inhaling through his nose.
Hyacinth did as he was told. His heart beat in his throat when he finally heard footsteps. He thanked a higher power for having heard his prayer. Now he only needed Bartholomew to demonstrate benevolence.
A moment later he was standing opposite the man with the snow-white beard. Confused, weary eyes examined Hyacinth, then concern flashed up in them. The long hair which nearly reached to his chest wasn’t as usual bound and braided but stood out dishevelled on all sides. His perplexed gaze wandered momentarily to Sergei. “What’s happened? Are there new developments? You two look dreadful.”
“Vrila was arrested,” Hyacinth said in a raw voice and realised the reality affected him more each time he said it. Usually the reverse was true, and things lost their power if someone called them by name often enough. “I’m asking you for help, Sir, because I alone can’t get him out of prison.” Hot tears streamed from his eyes, and he was barely able to restrain them. “Please, help me.”
Chapter 7
A grey morning dawned outside the tiny window. Dense fog hung in the air. Gavrila licked blood from his split lips then coughed from a scratchy throat.
After Hathaway had taken out his formidably painful wrath on him, at least the chains had been removed from his hands, and he could rub his chafed joints.
He had stretched out lengthwise on the pallet which would serve as a bed. The cover was merely a small, musty, tattered sheet and the iron grill of the pallet, overlaid only by a thin mattress, pressed uncomfortably into his back. He’d never be able to get any sleep on that surface – not that his own bed would have afforded him any either. But there at least his lad would be lying beside him and provide consolation with his peaceful breaths. Grumbling, he closed his eyes and took his hands away from the face everyone hated to look at. People asserted that his ugly external appearance put his internal depravity on display. In the past he’d defended himself, but nowadays he allowed the mockery and hatred to flow over him because he could no longer be certain if what people said wasn’t really the truth. No, actually he knew they were right. He was a despicable being. Dark of soul and horribly looking. Neither a spark of chivalry nor any other quality anyone would have wished for existed inside him.
The self-pitying emotions harboured in despair caused his breath to catch in his chest. But his fate was of no concern now! It was unimportant that he was sitting in a dungeon. It was only important that Hyacinth wasn’t – that he was out there in freedom and, above all, in safety.
As soon as he was allowed visitors, he would send for Seymour and appeal to his conscience. At whatever cost, he had to prevent anything from happening to the young man.
His distress stifled his revolting weepiness and kept him alert until the door opened so unexpectedly he started in fright.
“On your feet, Your Hideousness!” one of the two guards shouted and crudely helped him up on his wobbly legs.
“Did your meeting with the inspector put you in a bad mood, hmm?” The other guard curled his lips and gazed down sneering at him before he grabbed Gavrila by a forearm and led him out.
Where were they taking him? Hathaway had given orders allowing no one else to talk to him about the circumstances of his offen
ce and arrest. Gavrila had overheard it through the food slot and felt relief that this time he would be spared additional examinations by a hoard of other policemen.
Now his relief transformed into anxiety. Had Hathaway changed his mind? Did he want to obtain more information through abuse? Cold shivers ran down his aching back, and he braced himself for the worst.
A dark-haired cop opened the door to the entrance hall, and Gavrila let himself be drawn into the room.
His lips parted in astonishment when he caught sight first of Perkovic then of Bartie.
Just when he believed he couldn’t be any more surprised, he was. It was then that his husband, blond locks and all, rose from one of the benches and directly, openly flung himself around his neck.
Nothing, absolutely nothing could have disconcerted him more.
He was in a state of shock because Hyacinth, without compunction, freely embraced him and pressed his body against his own. Gavrila hesitantly placed his arms around his husband’s slender waist. His stomach felt like a strange, knotted lump, and his pulse beat faster than ever before.
“Wh-what are you doing here?” he choked forth with effort, although his voice hardly cared to obey him and sounded shamefully hoarse.
“Picking you up. Bartie paid your bail,” Hyacinth whispered into his ear while he nuzzled against his cheek.
Gavrila trembled and his legs began shaking. He didn’t exactly comprehend what he had been told.
A female guard muttered behind him – though loud enough so Gavrila would be sure to hear it: “Disgusting. Such a pretty thing defiled by such a dreadful creature.”
“We should go now,” Perkovic stated soberly, and their eyes met for a moment. The homeless man nodded slightly and the sudden realisation overcame Vrila – as reluctant as he was to admit it – he’d found a true friend.
Hyacinth nodded as well and released him without letting go of his arm.
“Sergei is right. It’s time,” Bartholomew agreed. Clearly he was also a greater friend than Gavrila had suspected. Never would he have thought the man would pay bail for him – Hyacinth must have talked him into it.
“A wonderful morning to the worthy ladies and gentlemen.” Bartie’s tone was sarcastic and biting as he glanced around at the policemen before he turned to leave.
Dazed, Gavrila followed them outside and climbed into the coach where he fell feebly onto the seat.
His husband didn’t leave his side and didn’t remove as much as a finger from his arm until he’d had to give him room to enter the vehicle first. Hyacinth studied him with his sparkling, green eyes. “Are you all right? You look groggy.”
“I’m fine,” he replied in a raw voice and licked his dry lips. His heart stopped short when Hyacinth bestowed a smile on him which was not mocking or mischievous but rather… endearing.
“I’m sorry it took so long. The bastards made us wait until we were allowed to hand over the money.”
The horses began to move. The further behind they left the police building, the more grew his relief.
“The scumbags took more than an hour to get the paperwork done,” Perkovic grumbled while wiping his dirty face.
“Not to mention they almost took us to task because Hyacinth already knew about your arrest before a messenger had been sent to him with the news,” Bartie interjected and stroked through his long, white beard which appeared unusually unkempt.
“Luckily, Sergei remembered that this little beggar with the red cap always hangs around across from the police headquarters. He told the cops that the beggar informed me because he happened to see you and hoped for a coin or two. I think we owe him that much since we used him as our excuse for knowing so soon,” Hyacinth told him and suddenly appeared fatigued.
Only now did Gavrila notice the young man’s pallor and the dampness of his clothes. A glance at his shoes riddled with holes revealed how wet they were – as wet as his half-frozen feet must surely had to be. For Heaven’s sake, what had his husband undertaken to get him out of prison? And why?
“I don’t understand,” he began in a whisper and shook his head.
Again, Hyacinth’s smile met his gaze. “I’ll explain everything to you when we’re at home, huh?”
They spent the remainder of the ride enveloped in silence, and more than once Vrila felt like his eyes would shut from weariness, though he still couldn’t sleep any.
The sun was about to rise. The night had been endured. Who would have thought he’d spend this morning in freedom?
The coach stopped in front of his – their – small row house, and for the first time Vrila was happy to see it.
Perkovic tried to get out with them, but Bartholomew held him back with a strong clasp of his shoulder, pulling him onto the seat. “We want to give the married couple a little time for each other,” he suggested with a smile on his lips and gently nodded a farewell to them.
Hyacinth opened the entrance door and drew back in shock before he laughed softly. “Mr Wiplay, you gave me a horrible fright.”
Confused by Seymour’s presence, Gavrila stepped over the threshold.
“Thank Heavens you’re in good health,” his fatherly friend exclaimed as he leapt out of a chair next to the fire in the hearth and clasped his hands together. “I was terribly worried about both of you.”
“Hyacinth, what…?”
“Later, huh?” The young man waved off the question and lit the lamps. In their weak glow he looked even more exhausted. In a few sentences he told Seymour about the treatment they had received at the police station. “Those damn bastards,” he muttered as he finished.
Gavrila, dropping onto the sofa, was still dazed and didn’t utter a word.
With patience, Seymour scrutinised him. “I’m overjoyed everything turned out favourably today. I’ll leave you two in peace now. We’ll talk when you’re rested. Hyacinth, we’ll skip your lessons for today.”
The lad escorted him to the door. “Thank you so much. We appreciate your thoughtfulness.” He locked the door behind the old man who returned to his shop, his overcoat wrapped tightly around him.
When Hyacinth turned to him, Vrila was overwhelmed by the compassionate look directed his way – it seemed to have something tender about it. “Would you like some soup from yesterday’s dinner? I can warm up a bowl.”
Vrila shook his head. “You belong in a hot bath. I’ll draw some water,” he announced hoarsely and rose to his feet. Everything went black before his eyes.
“Vrila!” Hyacinth hurried to his side and caught him as he began to fall.
At such close proximity to one another, he lost his breath.
The young man was stronger than the impression he gave and helped him back onto the sofa. “You need to rest.”
“I feel fine,” he said assuredly and tried again to stand.
However was prevented by gentle hands pressed against his chest which had been beaten black and blue.
“You said I ought to be stricter with you. It seems I really have to because you’re too stubborn to recognise when you need rest. You’re as white as chalk. Well, you always are, but now more so than usual.”
To be cared for was an entirely unknown situation for Gavrila. Accordingly he was rattled by it. He tried to assume a grim facial expression. “You need to get out of those wet socks, otherwise you’re going to catch a cold.”
“I’ll go change right away,” the lad replied tenderly while immediately grabbing the back of Vrila’s knees to make him lie down on the sofa. A look of concern fell upon the spots of blood barely visible on his black shirt. But they could not remain hidden from Hyacinth.
*
He studied his debilitated husband and exhaled. The split lip was obviously not the only mark Hathaway had left on him. Hyacinth tightened his jaw. This sack of shit who called himself chief of police! “I’ll be right back.”
He hurried into the bedroom to remove his damp clothes and put on something dry. Then he grabbed for one of the thick blankets on the
bed and carried it with him to the living room. Vrila still lay on the sofa, his eyes closed. He must have fallen asleep. Hyacinth swallowed hard and covered him, unintentionally dropping to his knees beside him – after those hellacious hours of the previous night, his strength simply failed him.
Absorbed in thought, he inspected his husband’s hard, grave facial features and lost himself in them. Strands of hair fell over Vrila’s forehead, his cheeks appeared more lean than ever and around the slim tip of his nose he looked as white as the wall behind him.
What was it that caused Hyacinths heart to suddenly hammer against his chest? Was it compassion that also put his stomach in such an uproar?
Unconsciously he reached out to tuck his husband’s hair behind his ears. As he instead touched the surprisingly delicate skin on Vrila’s cheek, the man jerked so violently Hyacinth gasped in fright and fell onto his backside. Their gazes met, and his husband’s dark eyes appeared to be black.
“What are you doing?!” Vrila demanded while he strained to push himself halfway up then gave him a hostile glare.
Hyacinth blushed with an unfamiliar intensity which he felt by the heat in his face. “I thought you’d fallen asleep.”
Discretely rubbing his rear end, he stood up then sat beside his husband on the sofa. He still owed Vrila an explanation. “After I saw how they… led you away, I ran to Mr Wiplay’s. He couldn’t help me. Then I remembered what Sergei said about Bartholomew, that he was a fine gentleman. So I hoped he wasn’t only that but also rich. Since I didn’t know where to look for him, I went to find Sergei first.”
“How did you know he lives under the Pecan Bridge?”
“He mentioned it sometime or other.” He shrugged his shoulders and stared into the fire. Vrila’s gaze was fixed on him and made him nervous.
“And then?”
“Well, I found him.” At the memory of Perkovic’s nakedness, he had to clear his throat and scratch himself on the neck. “Together we…”
A Hyacinth for His Hideousness Page 10