by Carol Hedges
“When you have seen one blasted heath and one desolate moor, you have seen them all. Besides, I would rather feast my eyes on something far more pleasant.”
His glance brings a blush to her cheek. She drops her gaze to her lap and keeps it there until the cab draws up at the Golden Cross Hotel.
Hawksley hands her down.
“Tea is laid in my suite of private rooms. I thought it more suitable than taking you to a public restaurant. We don’t know who might be listening to our conversation. We wouldn’t want anybody of ill intent hearing about Her Majesty.”
He takes her arm lightly, leads her across the carpeted foyer and up two flights of stairs. Unlocking a door, he shows her into a nice little sitting-room papered with bright flower-patterned wallpaper.
There are two comfortable armchairs and a sofa covered in maroon velvet. A fire crackles in the grate, and on a little table at the centre is a plate of thinly-cut bread and butter, rolled neatly, and a selection of delicious-looking cakes.
Belinda Kite’s mouth waters.
Hawksley pours and serves the tea, handing her one of the bone china cups. Then he passes her a plate and the bread and butter.
“I hope you are hungry, Miss Kite. May I now, as we are on our own, call you Belinda?”
She nods. She is always hungry. For food, for experience, for sensation. For life itself. She makes short work of the bread and butter, and moves swiftly on to the cakes. While she eats, he describes the banquet, practically word for word as Josiah Bulstrode has already done in his letter.
She watches him, listening to his voice but not hearing the words. It is her first time alone with a man – other than Bulstrode, and he hardly counts, being her employer and not very attractive.
She notices the way his dark eyes look into her face, warm and caressing, his gaze occasionally moving down to her bare shoulders and white neck.
When the cakes are nothing more than crumbs and memories, Hawksley goes to the sideboard, where a bottle protrudes from a silver bucket.
“I thought a glass of champagne might refresh us,” he says.
The cork emerges with a loud pop. She utters a little scream of surprise. He smiles at her, pouring the frothy pale liquid into two long-stemmed glasses. He hands her one. Bubbles bead the rim.
Belinda sips. It is sweet and delicious. She can feel the cool champagne in her throat, and the heat of her skin as the fire warms it. It is to do with being watched, this sudden self-consciousness. Being watched and wanted. The intoxication is subtle, as is the growing awareness of her own desire.
Hawksley gets up and comes over, raising her to her feet and bending his face to hers. His mouth finds her lips. Her first proper kiss. Tender, unhurried. A declaration of intent. A taste of fruits to come.
She leans against him. He lifts her hand and kisses the racing pulse at her wrist, kisses her neck, puts his mouth to the little hollow below her throat. He gently cups her breasts. She moans, already wet with desire for him.
He moves his hands to her shoulders, then down her back, unhooking her dress with practised ease. She steps out of the clothes that made her appear desirable, protected, and stands naked, her body an explicit invitation. He lifts her effortlessly, wrapping her legs around his waist, and lowers her onto the sofa.
Time stretches. The clock seems to rest in its relentless journey.
He is a thoughtful lover who wants only her pleasure. His hands stroke her breasts, her inner thighs, unhurried and tender. His fingers circle subtly and teasingly between her legs. Only when he senses that she is absolutely ready, does he part her thighs and enter her.
The fire crackles in the grate. The velvet is warm under her back.
When she eventually comes, it is a miracle, an unexpected gift. Their lovemaking over, she lies in his arms, amazed and exhausted. They sail on through what is left of the afternoon. Hawksley initiates her into the delights of lovemaking in all its varieties, his long caresses releasing her into more delight than she ever imagined from her illicit night reading.
Eventually she falls asleep in his arms. When she wakes, it is with a start. She is lying across his body, her face buried in his chest.
“What is it?” he asks, looking down.
“I was dreaming of monsters. What does that mean?”
He cups her face between his hands.
“Monsters are warnings.”
“Of what?”
“Of whatever you are afraid of.”
She looks up into his eyes and he reaches for her again. Finally, long after the last gas-lamps have been lit, he helps her into her clothes and accompanies her back down to the street where he whistles up a cab for her.
Belinda Kite is carried away through the bewitchment of the night-time streets, through the dream world of pain and pleasure, where the heavy hazy mist which hangs over every object makes the gas lamps brighter and the brilliantly-lit shops more splendid by contrast.
On the return journey, which flashes by in daze, her cab passes amblers and idlers, strollers and flâneurs, rich and poor, wending their way to club or garret, and a heavily-bearded elderly man and a boy carrying a tin of red paint.
***
For an explanation of this last phenomenon, we revert to a few hours earlier, and a small sub-meeting of The Gathering of The Select & Apocalyptic Brethren, led, as always, by Senior Prophet About.
The meeting has been called to discuss the progress and plot the future development in the campaign to Bring God’s Holy Wrath Upon the Great Whore of Babylon.
It has come to the Senior Prophet’s attention that though many are called (or, in this case, shouted at), few have chosen to follow the path, so it might be better to save his energy for those who are willing to sally forth, brush in hand, pot in other hand, and God’s Holy Word in mind.
Thus, two or three (and the dog) are gathered together in the usual venue.
About gives the latecomers time to assemble. When they fail to materialise, he stands up. It is always easier to dominate any group by standing. By default, they have to look up.
“Brothers,” he begins sonorously. “It is God’s Holy Work we are here to do. So, let us offer up ourselves in silent prayer and meditation and I shall seek His Guidance.”
He closes his eyes and begins to rock on his feet. The group watches him for a few minutes, then begins unconsciously to imitate him, swaying from side to side in their seats. Just as they are getting into a nice rhythm, About unexpectedly opens his eyes wide.
“The Lord has spoken to me!” he announces.
The acolytes instantly cease gyrating and sit absolutely still, eyes fixed raptly upon his face.
“Behold this is what The Lord says: I have seen your Good Works, my Brothers of Christ, and I am Well Pleased. Now go forth and attack the Idols and Statues that Men have built to honour themselves.
“They must be shown the Error of their ways. For Lo! I am God and there is No Other. And I will cover each of you with a Cloak of Invisibility so that you can go about My Work unseen.”
Silence greets his words. Then one of the followers ventures cautiously:
“When He says ‘invisible’, does that mean nobody will see us?”
About acknowledges the interpretation with an incline of his head.
“Like, we will be invisible?”
“That is what the Lord says.”
“Ah,” the follower nods thoughtfully. “I thought that was what it meant.”
“What about Ralph?” a second follower inquires, indicating the Jack Russell. “Will he be covered with a cloak of invisibility too? Only I wouldn’t want to lose him on a dark night coz I couldn’t see where he was.”
About mentally rolls his eyes. Sometimes he wonders why the Lord is testing him by giving him this mission, and these missionaries. If it was just up to him and the Infant Prophet (currently at home, seeking divine inspiration over a plate of whelks), all things spiritual would run a lot more smoothly.
“I am sure you will be able to see R
alph quite clearly,” he says.
“Ah. So it’s not the same cloak of invisibility for dogs as for people then?”
About fixes the interlocutor with a stern gaze.
“My brother, surely ye seek not to question The Lord’s commands?”
“Umm … I wasn’t questioning. Not as such. More like finding out the exact details, if you understand me.”
About draws himself up to his full height, spreads his arms and does the filling-the-space-with-his-presence manoeuvre that always reduces his audience to subdued acquiescence.
“Brothers, ye have heard Our Lord’s words. Let us sally forth, armed with the weapons He has provided. The Night wears on. There is much to accomplish.”
With that he closes his mouth firmly and folds his arms, daring them to venture any further down the slippery road of interpretation.
***
Marianne Corvid is dreaming of white hair. It is growing down through her head into the muscles of her heart. She can feel it, silky and smooth, cold as clarity. It crystallises into something hard and monstrous. Even in her dream she knows that she will always be aware of its presence inside her.
The dream changes. Now she is walking along a street. The houses lean in at grotesque angles; they seem to crowd together, blocking out the light. She sees a man in the distance walking towards her. Her heart pulses, then withers.
As he comes nearer, she recognises him, though his face is hidden from her. He grows taller and taller, looming over her like a man-mountain. Marianne calls out – and wakes to find herself crying silently, her face contorted with sorrow.
Her life draws her back like gravity, filling her with vague dread, as if she is falling through the routine of days towards something unforeseen and terrible. She has a feeling of being trapped, of wanting to walk out of her life into another.
She sits upright in bed, slowly reacquainting herself with the familiar atmosphere of the room, the valency of light. The lovely moony night slides through her casement window, dappling the room.
There have always been women like her, all wanting the same thing. It is what connects them, this thick rope of desire. She feels the connection, even as she recognises the futility. It is a kind of drug, this longing, a kind of fetish.
She has seen it in the eyes of other women, bright, eager. In their hands clinging tightly to the arm of some man, as if they are drowning. She has even seen it in the sad sullen stares of the whores in the doorways.
Marianne Corvid takes stock of her situation. She listens to the silence, hears what it is saying to her:
It is time to stop dreaming dreams, and pull all the pieces together. One of those pieces is you.
***
An icy cold morning. Cold enough to freeze the extremities off a copper statue. But this is no ordinary statue: it is the famous sculpture of King Charles the First on horseback that has, since 1812, dignified the entry to Westminster with its presence.
At the foot of the statue are gathered the inevitable crowd of bystanders who specialise in standing in an updraft waiting for something to happen. Now they stare bemusedly at the red-painted indignity, upon whose surface the words THOU SHALT NOT WORSHIP GRAVEN IMAGES shout their slightly uneven and trickly message.
Near the foot of the statue lies a brush, and next to it an upended pot of red paint, dribbling carmine onto the cobbles. Stride and Cully, who have just arrived on the scene, survey the statue with perplexity.
“How in God’s name did they get up there unnoticed?” Stride muses. “There are cabs and carts passing by all night. Let alone people.”
Cully narrows his eyes.
“I think they must have used a ladder to mount the pedestal. From there I suppose they could have hauled it up, propped it against the horse and—”
“Yes, I get the picture,” Stride says.
“They have been disturbed – they made off leaving the paint pot and brush behind.”
Stride glances round and swears under his breath as a familiar figure barrels through the crowd, coming to a halt beneath the statue.
“I heard it on the grapevine and I have to say, I didn’t believe it when I did. So I came straight down to see for myself,” Dandy declares.
Behind him, The Inquirer’s illustrator flips open his sketchbook and begins drawing furiously.
“How has this been allowed to happen once again, Stride?”
“Detective Inspector Stride.”
Dandy pulls out a notebook, removes a pencil from the brim of his hat and repeats the question.
“I have nothing to say to the press,” Stride says woodenly.
Dandy writes this down, enunciating every word loudly and clearly so that the crowd, now gathered around in a semicircle, can hear.
“Maybe not, Stride. Maybe not. But what do you have to say to The Man in The Street – whose money went to pay for this noble and patriotic statue of our beloved ex-monarch?”
“Yes, let’s hear what the p’licman ’as to say,” the inevitable man’s voice from the back calls out.
Strides mouth tightens.
“We have doubled the night patrols.”
“Seems they weren’t patrolling down here last night though, were they? Stopped off for a smoke and a chat in some convenient doorway like what they usually does,” the critic interjects. “Never find a p’liceman when you want one, that’s what I say.”
“It’s true that,” a woman in a shawl agrees. “We had a robbery in our shop last week. Not a p’liceman in sight. Had to send the boy over to Drury Lane to find one.”
Dandy writes furiously, his florid features one big beam of pleasure.
“So,” he asks innocently, looking hard at nothing in particular, “do any of you good and upstanding citizens feel that the Detective Division, as represented by these two officers standing here before you now, is not fit for the purpose for which it was created?”
“I certainly do,” the man says.
“I agree with him,” a second man says.
“Thank you, good gentlemen. And your names are?”
Without a second’s hesitation, the two men supply Dandy with their names, ages, addresses and would probably have gone on to add the names of other family members and their pets if Stride hadn’t jostled the reporter out of the way.
“Oi, that’s harassment, that is!” Dandy exclaims, bending down to pick up his pencil.
“And you are impeding myself and my fellow officer in the pursuit of our duty,” Stride growls. “And if you don’t cease from impeding forthwith and get on your way, I shall have no hesitation in arresting you and escorting you to Scotland Yard to answer charges.”
Dandy smirks.
“You think you’re so bloody high and mighty, Stride? You couldn’t stop a couple of people covering a statue with red paint. Truth is, you can’t stop them painting whatever they want, wherever they choose, and whenever they like. You know it, I know it, and they all know it too.”
He turns to face the crowd.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, I’m sure you’ll all agree that the forces of law and order have become the farces of the same. So, we at The Inquirer, the ONLY newspaper that speaks for The Man in the Street, are prepared to offer a generous reward to anyone who can give us the names of the miscreants who have desecrated our fair City with their painted outrages.”
“You can’t do that,” Stride snaps.
“I think you’ll find that I can, Stride. Freedom of the Press and all that. Anyway, I just have. So there.”
Dandy spins on his heel.
“We’re off now. Let’s see who catches them first, shall we? ‘Scum of the earth’ – isn’t that what you lot call us? Maybe not for much longer.”
He gestures to the illustrator and they both hurry away in the direction of Holborn. Stride watches them leave, his face red with fury.
“There must be something we can arrest that swine for!”
“Impersonating a civilised member of the human race comes to mind,” Cull
y says drily.
Stride rolls his eyes.
“I wish. Right, Jack, whistle up some constables and let’s get the statue clean and back to what it ought to be. And then let’s prepare for the worst … The press are going to hound us to kingdom come and back again over this. You mark my words.”
***
Georgiana Undercroft enters the dining-room and seats herself opposite her husband. The table is laid for breakfast. Starched white linen napkins are set by both plates.
Eggs and bacon wait under a silver-domed dish. Toast sits in its rack, surrounded by new butter and a dish of marmalade. Clean breakfast china sparkles in the early morning sunshine that streams through the window.
The maid pours coffee into two porcelain cups.
Georgiana Undercroft unfurls her napkin and places it on her lap. The same mechanical gesture that she has performed every day of her married life. The napkins were a wedding present, as was the china and the silver toast rack.
Thus, every morning as she goes through the familiar routines, she is reminded of the day that united her with the man she has come to hate with a passion so great that she could not imagine she would be ever capable of feeling for another human being.
“I trust you slept well, Frederick,” she says, her voice flat and toneless.
He gives her a glance from under heavy eyelids. Last night was spent in the soft fleshy arms of Hectorina Rose, whose comforting curves are a complete contrast to Georgiana’s skin-and-bone body.
He didn’t leave her bed until the small hours, then, unable to find a cab, he walked home through the night city, just another lost soul. As he turned the key in his own front door, the street lamps were going out and milk carts were beginning their rounds.
The green hills of Hampstead were starting to come alive in all their beauty. The house was silent, torpid with sleep. Giddily, he had mounted the stairs to his bedroom, throwing himself down on the bed without taking off his clothes.
“I slept as I always do,” he replies.
Matrimonial pleasantries thus exchanged, each partner concentrates upon the matter in hand: the consumption of breakfast. She cuts her bacon and eggs into tiny squares, pushing the bits around her plate. He butters his toast so ferociously that it splinters into charred fragments.