The Binding

by Bridget Collins

  ‘I’m sorry too.’

  I took a step down, towards her; but with a quick movement she turned away, muttered, ‘I’ve got to go to the privy. Women’s things,’ and slid out into the yard. I turned to watch her pick her way across the cobbles, holding up her cloak to stop it dragging in the straw.

  I might have called after her, I suppose; but I didn’t. I went back to my room, to wait.

  I was dressed and ready before the sky started to go blue; the moon had set, but the stars were still as thick as a harvest when I crept down the stairs and outside. I couldn’t get the breath deep enough into my lungs. I went out on to the road, and ran all the way to the crossroads.

  At first, in the dim pre-dawn light, all I saw was the glimmer of a lamp and a thick patch of darkness; as I got closer I could make out the shape of a horse and cart. I wanted to call out, but the silence lay everywhere like a spell, and I was afraid to break it. I could see Lucian – wrapped up against the chill, his hood over his face – stamping impatiently beside the horse’s head. I felt a wide, idiotic grin spread over my face, and I broke into a sprint. ‘Lucian! Lucian!’

  He turned as I reached out for him, my heart hammering.

  It wasn’t him.

  I took it in all at once; as if, deep down, I’d already known. It was Acre standing beside the horse, his face half-covered by his hood. Another man was slumped in the back of the cart – yawning, now, with a casual weariness that made my backbone creep – and—

  Alta.

  She was asleep. No. There was a shadow across her forehead, cast by nothing; one of her eyes was swollen, and there was a dried trickle of blood between her nose and mouth. I opened my mouth, but when I tried to speak there was nothing but a dry gasp, like the wheeze of a bellows.

  ‘Do as I tell you, and she’ll be fine.’ Acre pushed his hood back. For a long time neither of us moved; then I realised he was pointing at the cart. He wanted me to get in. At last he said, ‘Don’t make this harder than it has to be, boy.’

  ‘Where’s Lucian?’

  He snorted. ‘Lucian? Not very sharp, are you, boy?’

  I should have known. I should have guessed.

  I said, in a strangely steady voice, ‘And how did you get hold of Alta?’

  ‘Same trick, of course. She was even more eager than you were.’

  The other man gave a high-pitched giggle that made me jump. ‘She’s a madam, isn’t she? She’ll be a handful when she’s a real woman.’

  ‘Don’t talk about her like that.’

  Acre clicked his fingers. ‘Enough of this,’ he said. ‘Get in the cart, will you? It’s a long way.’

  I stared at Alta, and then forced myself to look back at him. It was a bluff. They wouldn’t hurt her more than they had already. A slap was one thing; anything more than that was a crime. ‘I’m not going anywhere with you.’

  ‘You’re past the negotiation stage, boy.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  ‘Get the bag, will you, Wright? Thank you.’ Acre reached into the cart and held up a sack. My gut flipped over. ‘Now. I believe in giving people second chances. I am going to show you how serious I am, but because I am a kind man I won’t start with your sister. Do you understand?’

  It was wriggling. Acre held it higher, so that I could see the bulges where paws and muzzle were scrabbling against the sackcloth. It whined: a desolate, lonely, terrier-whine.

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘no – please!’

  ‘I never thought I’d see a Darnay love anything, but apparently one overgrown rat-whelp can get fond of another,’ Acre said. ‘Wright picked up this little runt yesterday, when it tried to attack his ankles. What is it called again? Splat?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No? Not that it matters much. Wright, will you do the honours, please?’

  ‘You can’t – please don’t – please.’

  He dropped the sack on to the bottom of the cart. It landed with a thud and a yelp. I flung myself forward, but before I could haul myself over the side Acre had grabbed my arm and wrenched it up behind my back. ‘Go on,’ he said, to the other man.

  ‘No – Splotch, no—’

  The man – Wright – stood up, unfolding like a giant. He had a cudgel next to him, and he hefted it and adjusted his grip. He was smiling. He nodded at Acre like a musician about to begin a tune; then he swung the cudgel into the sack. Once. Twice. Three times.

  I was shouting. I fought so hard that Acre nearly lost his grip on my arm, but he hissed through his teeth and hauled me back. Then I was on my knees, retching, my mind empty of everything except the blazing pain in my shoulder. When it faded everything was quiet: no more thumps or whines, nothing but the faint whisper of a breeze. My face was wet. Threads of spit and stomach acid swung from my mouth.

  ‘Get up.’ A foot smashed into my ribs. It knocked the air out of me, and for a second I clawed at the ground as if it could help me to breathe; then my lungs started working again, and I got to my feet. Acre nodded at the cart. ‘Get in.’

  I reached out and supported myself against a wheel, noticing with a numb interest how much my legs were shaking. My whole body was juddering, as though I was driving over a rough road. I took a few steps towards the back of the cart, where Wright had let down the end panel. I clambered up and collapsed on to the seat. If I looked sideways I could see the bloodied sack; it was so still I could almost imagine that they’d been bluffing. But I’d heard her bark, and the frantic heart-rending whine when she recognised my voice.

  Every time I blinked, the world blurred. Water rolled off my chin and soaked my collar. It didn’t feel like crying; it felt like I was dissolving from inside.

  ‘Now,’ Acre said. He sighed as if the worst was over. ‘We’re going to drive out to the binder’s house, and when we get there you’ll tell her that you want to forget all about Lucian Darnay. And then we’ll drive back, and you and your sister will be fine, and no one will ever bother you again. How does that sound?’

  Opposite me, Wright gave me an eerily childish smile and patted Alta’s knee.

  ‘All right,’ I said.

  ‘And when she asks, it’s because you want it, you understand? You say a word about us, or the Darnays, and – well, as I say, let’s not go into that.’

  ‘I understand.’

  He seemed to be about to add something else, but he clicked to the horse and we set off.

  The sun had risen. In the east the sky was too bright to look at. I bowed my head and stared into the jolting shadows. There was a ribbon of red unrolling along the boards, inching closer and closer to my feet. I stared at it and wondered whether, after all this, I’d remember Splotch – or would she be taken away, along with everything else?

  Everything else gone. Every memory of Lucian – every time he’d looked at me, smiled, laughed at a joke – every touch, every detail of his body, his bony intelligent hands, his chest, the back of his neck, the base of his spine – everything he’d said … Are you getting excited, Farmer? … I won’t let you down … Trust me … Let me … Yes.

  I love you. But that wasn’t real.

  I clenched my eyes shut. If I went over and over it all, now, before I saw the binder … Maybe I could keep some of it, maybe some of it would stay – not all of it, but some – please, just the first time he kissed me, or the last time, the last thing he said to me – please, if I could only keep that memory, I’d give anything, because at least if I remembered I could live it again and again, even if I never saw him again that would still be something.

  ‘Get a hold of yourself,’ Wright said, ‘you’ll flood the cart.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Acre said from in front, ‘if he looks like he’s upset she won’t ask him too many questions.’

  I took a deep breath through my mouth, tasting the salt on my tongue. A wisp of grass had stuck to the line of blood on the bottom of the cart, between a shadow of a footprint and a badly-hammered nail. The blood ran into the slit between two planks, and I
imagined red droplets falling on to the path like a trail of beads. The air had a different smell to it now, already tinged with the moist thick scent of the marsh; a bird called, high and plaintive. The only other sounds were the rumble of the cart and the quick step of the horse.

  Perhaps I could lie. Or fake it. Perhaps there was a way I could keep my memories, as if my own heart was a secret book made of muscle and blood. No one would know.

  If only I knew more about binding. When I thought about it, all I could think of was a kind of death: a door to walk through, and no way to imagine what was on the other side. Lucian was the only person who had ever spoken about it.

  He had known they’d do this to me. Lucian had known.

  I caught my breath. He’d hated the sight of books. Because, I thought, because … The thought was vast and sickening. Because this was what happened to everyone he’d seduced. The word sat and looked at me and wouldn’t retreat. Yes, seduced. He’d seduced me. And he’d known that sooner or later this would happen; he hadn’t wanted to think about it, but – yes – he’d known. It was a risk he’d been prepared to take.

  I narrowed my eyes and looked into the brightest part of the sky. My vision blurred and stung, but nothing changed. When I turned my head away a black circle hovered in front of me, blotting out Alta’s face.

  I reached for the note in my pocket. There was no need to read it again, even if I could have blinked away that dark sun; it was burnt into my memory. I love you. It wasn’t true – but maybe, after all, it was Lucian’s handwriting. I held it out, over the side of the cart. The wind had dropped. When I let it go it fluttered straight down and stuck in a tuft of reeds by the side of the road.

  When we came round the last curve and saw the house it looked as if it was burning. The sun was dipping behind us, and every window reflected a flat, coppery fire: too still to be real flames, but enough to send a prickle of unease down the back of my neck, as if I was about to walk into an inferno. I set my jaw and refused to look; instead I watched Alta, who was hunched into the corner of the cart, her eyes shut. She’d woken a few hours ago in a daze, and asked where we were and where we were going; but when they told her she didn’t protest or try to run away. I didn’t know if she was in pain, or if it was because she was afraid. Wright gave her water and she drank a few mouthfuls, avoiding my eyes. Once, after a long time, she murmured, ‘Em? Are you all right? Maybe it’s for the best, anyway …’ but I didn’t answer. I hadn’t told her what was in the bloodstained sack at our feet, and she didn’t ask.

  The cart turned off the main road and down a track. A breeze blew warmth into my face, tinged with a miasma of mud. I held on to the side of the cart and splinters dug into my palm. Under my shirt Lucian’s ring knocked against my chest with every jolt. I could walk out of the other end of this, like a miner stumbling out into the sunshine. Start again. Fall in love with someone else. I’d be innocent again. It would be for the first time, again.

  The cart rolled to a halt. A thick cud of bile pushed into the back of my mouth. I swallowed hard, fighting the urge to vomit.

  ‘Go on.’

  I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think.

  ‘Ring the bell,’ Acre said, with heavy patience. ‘Tell her you need her to bind you. She’ll ask if you’re sure, and what you need to forget. Then you tell her about Lucian. It’s not hard.’ He dug in his pocket and passed me a card. ‘If she asks about money, give her that.’

  Somehow I took it. Mr Piers Darnay, Factory Owner. I stared at my other hand, clenched on the side of the cart, and wondered how to make it let go.

  ‘Em …? Please.’

  I glanced at Alta. Wright was digging one finger into the side of her neck. He gave me another wide, infantile smile.

  I got up. I had to think about it step by step: if I did it like that it was manageable. I promised myself that after the next step I could change my mind; just one more, and one more …

  Then I was on the doorstep, tugging the bell-rope. The bell jangled, off-key.

  After a long time the door opened. ‘Yes?’ She was ancient, and she looked like a witch.

  ‘I need to be bound,’ I said, as though I was reciting a lesson. I looked past her to the dark-panelled hall, the staircase, the doors that led off in every direction. Inside, it was dim; only a lattice of reddish sunlight lay on the floor, and shone. It was exactly the colours of a flame, a fire-varnish on the old wood, smooth and steady … I stared at it, because I didn’t want to look into her face. ‘I need to forget.’

  ‘Are you sure? What’s your name, boy?’

  I answered; it must have been the truth, because I didn’t have to think about it. The light on the floorboards shimmered. Outside there was sun and sky and sunset. I clung to that thought.

  I don’t know how much time passed. She took my arm and led me through a passage and into a workshop. I went with her, numb all the way to my feet. There was a door that she unlocked. There was a quiet room where the last dregs of sunlight fell across a bare table. She gestured to a chair, and I sat. There was sympathy in her face, as if I could tell her everything and she would understand.

  ‘Wait,’ she said. We waited for a long time, until the sunlight had crept all the way to the far wall, thinning and reddening on the grain of the floorboards – until, in spite of myself, I felt my heartbeat slow, and exhaustion start to unknot the threads that held me together. Then, at last, she reached out her hand and touched my sleeve, and I didn’t move away. She said, ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Lucian,’ I said. ‘The ruins. We shouldn’t have been there.’

  Darkness swooped out of nowhere and ripped me apart.

  PART THREE

  XX

  Emmett Farmer’s eyes bulge. He drops to his knees and gulps down his memories like a man being forced to drink water till his stomach splits.

  The smell of burning leather is sickening. Smoke billows out of the fireplace and stings my eyes. My fingers slide off the bell-pull. I can’t remember whether I rang or not. I can’t move. I have never seen anything like this. His face is distorted. Swollen. His hands claw uselessly at the air. He chokes and bubbles like a sackful of drowning kittens.

  I don’t pity him. It’s his own fault, isn’t it? He put the book on the fire, not me. He must have known what would happen. And now if he’s on all fours, scrabbling and retching, ruining my father’s Persian rug, that’s his problem. He asked for it. But all the same I can’t look away.

  ‘Lucian,’ he says. Or does he? A mumble, a vowel and a sibilant, deformed by the grimace on his face. Perhaps I hear my name the way we hear singing in the wind: because we want to find meaning in meaningless things.

  Or else he’s asking for help. But I can’t help him. Even if I could bring myself to touch him, there’s nothing I could do. And if he were asking for help he should call me Darnay. Mr Darnay, ideally. Who the hell does he think he is, to call me Lucian? Or to have said I’m sorry, with that look in his eyes? It’s almost better to see him like this.

  He says my name again, unmistakable now. And – how dare he – he reaches out, balancing precariously on his knees. It’s revolting: like a beggar, only worse, because of the way he’s dressed. A fop, like de Havilland. A weakling. No, he wasn’t weak, when we struggled in the hallway earlier. Weak-minded, rather. A flicker in his eyes when he looked at me, as though he was afraid. Coward.

  I take one deliberate step back. My heart is thudding like an engine. If he tries again to touch me I’ll kick him like a dog. Smoke billows out from the hearth.

  He coughs – no, he sobs. His face is wet. Strings of saliva swing from his open mouth. He bows his head and convulses until bile spatters across the pattern of my father’s rug. I stumble sideways. Stay on your feet, you fool.

  The book is almost gone. It’s burning faster than you’d expect, as if the paper is only half real. But the smoke is thick and dark and gets into my throat. It aches. I swallow and swallow again. I wipe my face with my loose shirt-cuff. The linen comes
away grimy and wet. Fury blazes through me. They have no right – Emmett Farmer has no right – to do this. To infect me with their dirty magic … He’s a binder, he deserves what he gets, but I’m innocent. This is nothing to do with me. Whatever sick sadness is getting inside me, coating my lungs with sticky ash, it’s not mine. I don’t want the tiniest smear of Emmett Farmer’s memories on my skin.

  The book flares in a final crown of flame. Then it’s over. There’s a pile of ash – the pages powdery and grey like the gills of a mushroom – on the glowing coals. The leather has curled away into brittle rags. The smoke begins to clear.

  ‘Lucian,’ Emmett Farmer says, one more time. He tries to get to his feet. He goes to grab the table for balance and misses. He blinks convulsively. ‘Please – Lucian—’

  His eyes roll upwards. For an instant his stare is white and blank. Then he drops forward, his jaw thudding into the floor. Liquid gurgles out of his mouth. He’s still breathing, so he isn’t dead.

  Silence.

  What do I do? Now that Farmer isn’t moving, the thought of touching him isn’t quite so horrible. I could check his pulse, but I can see the rise and fall of his ribs. Or I could turn him so that he won’t choke on his own vomit. But he’s already face down and the spasms seem to have stopped. I drop to one knee next to him and reach tentatively for his shoulder. I don’t know what I’m going to do. Find out whether he’s really unconscious, perhaps. But as soon as my knuckles brush his clothes my body swarms with shivering heat. I recoil.

  I have to get a grip on myself before someone comes.

  I stagger to my feet and empty the last dregs of brandy into my glass. The decanter rattles against the rim like chattering teeth. I slop some brandy on my collar as I drink. It runs down my neck and mingles with the cold sweat on my chest. The red flowers on the walls gape like mouths, wider and wider, behind the lingering smoke. How my father would mock if he saw me trembling like this. I have to pull myself together.