The Branded Man

by Catherine Cookson

  When, after shaking her head, Marie Anne ran up the stairs to fetch her hat, Don said, ‘Thank you, Sarah; you managed that beautifully,’ and, unsmiling now, Sarah answered, ‘You can never do too much for a friend.’

  Marie Anne was lying in the shade of the old willow tree, roots of which strayed from the land into the water. Its boughs, following suit from a pollarded trunk, showed its age.

  A glass of spring water, with pieces of lemon bobbing on its surface, stood on a small tray to her side. Beyond lay Don, his back supported by the bank.

  Speaking softly, Marie Anne said, ‘This morning, when I woke up, I never dreamed I would later be picnicking here. It’s lovely, so peaceful. You are lucky to be so close to the river, you know.’

  Don broke in, saying, ‘See there!’ and he pointed up the river; ‘two more swimmers are coming down;’ then he sat bolt upright when Fred Harding’s voice came from across the water; ‘Hello, there! Taking it easy, are you?

  Don got to his feet and from the edge of the water called back to the farmer, ‘What are you doing across there?’

  ‘Well, did you hear those screams a little while back? They may have been of delight, but it could have been otherwise: six bairns from the village had got themselves onto one of the little islands, and not one of them could swim. They were out for a picnic, the twelve-year-old told me; bottles of water and bread and dripping, you know the kind. I got them off and took them back to the farm and Sally gave them a feed. I’ve now set them back on their way home because there’s a mother of a storm coming up fast. You see’—he pointed—‘it’s black over Durham, and I’m not the only one who’ll be glad when it comes. This weather makes the animals uneasy…Nice to see you, miss. How are you keeping?’

  Marie Anne had not risen, but now she got onto her knees on the sand, and called back, ‘Fine, Mr Harding. Fine.’

  ‘And the baby?’

  ‘Oh; she’s in fine fettle, too. But it’s too hot to bring her out.’

  ‘Hi-ho! Listen to that!’ Fred Harding pointed into the distance, saying, ‘That’s nearer.’ Then his voice dropping into a loud whisper, he added, ‘Have you seen this one that’s coming down? He’s been in the water on each of the last four days. He’s a strong swimmer, but why, in a slow river like this, he’s wearing automobile goggles, I don’t know.’

  Don made no reply, but stood with Marie Anne beside him, waiting for the swimmer to come into view.

  The swimmer appeared, moving steadily, his head well out of the water. His hair looked long and dark, and was held down at the back by the strap of the goggles. He seemed to have a small beard. When he was opposite the beach, he turned his head and looked towards them, then continued steadily on.

  Not until the swimmer had disappeared round a bend in the river beyond the woodland did Mr Harding speak again. ‘I wonder where he’s left his automobile? I know where he’s left his clothes. They’re on a little island below the dam. It’s a good job those bairns didn’t come across them. Oh, there we go again! And look; the sun’s hazing over, so I’d better be off. Bye-bye, miss…Look in some time.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Harding. And yes, I will.’

  ‘Are you afraid of storms?’ Don asked Marie Anne now; and she answered, ‘It’s odd; no, I’m not. Strangely, I rather enjoy them. When I used to run, I always stayed outside in a storm. I would gallop like some wild animal through the wind and the rain.’

  ‘In that case,’ Don said, ‘I’ll slip up and make us something quick to eat, and we can have it out here before that storm actually reaches us…You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Oh yes; yes. And just to lie back here. It’s so peaceful.’ …

  How long she lay with her eyes closed, dreaming of what might happen before he took her back to the house, she never afterwards remembered, only that it seemed a long time, during which there were further rumbles of thunder and the sun disappeared altogether. What she was to remember was the moment the hand came over her mouth; she knew she had felt it before, and the scream inside her swelled her body against it and the pain of her hair being pulled from its roots as she was dragged to and through the water.

  She had glimpsed the goggles before her assailant thrust her face downwards in the water, but the rage that was now filling her body gave strength to her limbs, and blindly she clutched and clawed at his loins, which caused the hand to be lifted from her mouth and allowed her head to come up, enabling her to let out a most piercing scream.

  When her head was again pulled under the water, her arms groped upwards and her hands clutched at the face, bringing the goggles down onto the man’s throat, which she gripped so hard that her thumb broke through one of the goggle glasses.

  Then she became aware of there now being other arms about her, dragging her from the man, and as she was thrown aside she realised Don was locked in combat with the man and that they were moving further out into the river; and she could see blood seeping from the man’s throat.

  When they disappeared beneath the water, she dragged herself up to grip one of the overhanging branches of the old willow, and gradually pulled herself along to its end. The water was now up to her oxters and she dare not go any further.

  She tried to call Don’s name but found this impossible. Then almost, as though in a mirage, two bodies rose from the river. They were locked together.

  And now she did cry out, ‘Don! Don!’ and her heart gave a great jerk of relief when Don began to swim towards her, using one arm, the other dragging the man with him.

  Now Don was standing beside her, struggling to draw in deep breaths, and there, on the surface of the water, not a foot from her, lay her brother, Vincent Lawson.

  ‘He’s dead! He’s dead!’ she cried. ‘You’ve killed him, Don. Oh! You’ve killed him, Don.’

  Don looked at her, and all his mind could say was, Dear God! Dear God! He now looked at the gash in the man’s throat made by the broken glass.

  A flash of lightning lit up the darkened sky, and with the crash of thunder he shuddered; then, in a mass of stinging pellets, the rain came, and he mouthed to her, ‘Go back!…inside,’ and as he thrust her away, he pushed the body towards the middle of the river, and remained treading water until the stream took hold of it, and with the rain now blinding him he was unable to see how far downstream it drifted.

  So dark was it now that it was almost impossible to see beyond the bank; and when he found Marie Anne lying there, her face buried in her hands, he yelled above the torrent of rain, ‘Come On! Get up! Get up out of that,’ and roughly hauled her to her feet and up the bank. From here, and blindly, he half carried her to the cottage.

  The door was still open, but this he closed with a backward kick before dragging her to the mat lying before the dead fire; then dropped down beside her and lay inert.

  His body was aching; he had a great desire for sleep. For a moment he imagined he was in the river again, thrashing at the body as they both dropped into deeper water. He had known he must have air or be finished, and when his feet hit a shelf of rock they were sent bouncing upwards. When his head broke the surface he had gasped, spluttered, then drawn in air, the while realising that the man’s arms were still around his shoulders, but hanging limp, as though he were unconscious.

  When it came to him that the man was dead, he recalled the blood rushing from the man’s neck before, locked together, they had sunk to the bottom. The neck was now washed clean of blood, although a piece of glass remained partly embedded.

  It was at this point he had heard Marie Anne screaming his name; then her voice saying with relief, ‘You’ve killed him, Don. Oh! You’ve killed him, Don,’ and his mind answering, ‘My God! She thinks I killed him.’

  ‘Don. Don; are you all right?’ Marie Anne’s voice was now a low tremble. She had turned her head towards him, and he, as if coming up out of sleep, muttered, ‘Yes, yes.’ Then his hands went up to his head to straighten his mask, to find it wasn’t there but was hanging over his shoulder. Immedia
tely, his hand covered his cheek.

  They were sitting up now, staring at each other through the dim light. Instinctively, he was about to grope for the mask and to slip it on when his mind yelled at him. ‘No! No; there’ll never be another moment like this. Let her be repulsed. That will determine the way for us both.’

  Slowly his wet hand dropped from his cheek, and there it was, the long ugly scar, at this moment looking worse, if that were possible, for the ridges were still glistening wet, and small pieces of river debris were clinging to the distorted skin.

  He watched her eyes travel from his brow down to his chin and on to his bare chest, where the black merged into grey before taking on its natural skin colour.

  His heart was racing, even more so than when he had been combatting the river and the man. He watched her eyes close for a moment before her mouth opened as if she were about to speak. However, no words came; instead, she lifted her hands and cupped his face, and when her lips fell on the scarred cheek, he uttered a deep cry.

  Then his arms were about her and he was kissing her, her eyes, her cheek, her mouth, her neck, and with a fierceness that sent them down onto the mat again, gasping with exhaustion, even more so than when they had come up out of the river.

  Marie Anne began to speak, her words coming in stilted phrases: ‘I love you, Don. I love you. When did I start loving you? I don’t know. All my life. You’ve been a necessity to me for so long, like the wind and the rain and the sun. The feeling I have for you supersedes all others, even that for Anne Marie.’

  His face alight, Don lay listening to her; and now he said quietly, ‘Will you marry me?’

  Marie Anne gave him a push, saying, ‘What have I just been saying to you?’

  ‘Yes; I know, my dear, but I should have added “in spite of”, not because of my face—that you have accepted, thanks be to God—but in spite of the three men who now rule your life. What do you think they’re going to say when I, a man almost twice your age and looking as I do, and with no great prospects, say to them “I am going to marry this beautiful young girl of yours”? Your grandfather will likely yell the house down and say, “The hell you are!” Your father will look at me with that cold stare he assumes at times, and Pat will likely react with, “Oh, I like you, Don, but this is not on.” That surely is what will happen, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, if that is so, you know what I shall say? “You, Father, can stop me marrying until I am twenty-one, in which case I propose to take Anne Marie and live with him…in sin in the cottage, until such time as we can marry…Scandal, Father? I’m not afraid of scandal; I have served an apprenticeship in that, haven’t I?”‘

  ‘Oh, my love, my love’—their wet bodies were entwined again—‘You would do that?’

  ‘Yes, Don; I would. I would do that, and more, for you.’

  When he squeezed her hand, she gave a little cry of pain, and he said, ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I don’t know, only something in my finger hurt me.’

  After peering at her hand, he said, ‘I can’t see anything in this dimness; I must light the lamp.’

  When he returned with the lamp, he held up her hand to the glass globe; and as he rubbed along the inside of her third finger, she winced again, and he said, ‘Oh my! There’s something here,’ and then exclaimed, ‘Yes, I can see it. It’s a tiny sliver of glass sticking out from the skin. Don’t touch it; I’ll get some tweezers.’

  She did not touch it, but she started to shiver. There was the feeling again of her thumb pressing on the glass of the goggles; then the blood, so much blood, and the way it disappeared in the river as Don grappled with her.

  ‘Stop shivering. It’s only a tiny piece; it’ll be out in a minute.’

  It was out in a minute, but it was followed by a narrow streak of blood and the sight of it made her want to vomit.

  As he pulled her to her feet, he said again, ‘Stop shivering. Are you cold?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied; ‘yes, in a way. I think we must get back, so that I can get out of these wet clothes; and you, too.’

  He glanced towards the window and said, ‘It’s coming down in sheets; but we can’t get much wetter than we are. Can you still run?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Not so fast as I used to, but I can still run.’

  ‘Come on then, darling; we’ll make a run for it.’

  ‘Oh! Don, Don.’ Her arms were around his neck. ‘That’s the first time you have called me darling.’

  Before they were again enfolded, he said, ‘It was a mistake, madam; I apologise.’

  As her hand touched his cheek he exclaimed, ‘Oh my! I had better not go out without my camouflage, had I?’ and straight away pulled the mask from his shoulder and onto his face. Then, as he was about to pull her towards the door, she stammered, ‘When he’s f-f-found found, what will happen, Don?’

  He replied quietly, ‘I don’t know, dear; that’s to be seen. Only one thing is sure; he was out to murder you.’

  ‘Oh, Don! Don!’

  ‘Please, dearest, don’t cry. Don’t cry. Come on!’ At the door, he said, ‘Now for it! Keep your head down, dear.’

  Then, hand in hand, they were running blindly through the woodland; and neither of them exchanged a word; it would have been impossible to shout above the torrent.

  When they burst into the lamp-lit hall, Sarah, who was descending the stairs, exclaimed, ‘God in heaven! Why did you come out in this? You should have stayed put in the cottage.’

  ‘Sarah. Sarah.’ Don was gasping. ‘Let’s go and talk for a minute or so, and then Marie Anne must get out of these wet things, and to bed; she’s had a shock.’

  ‘Shock? What kind of a shock? You’re shivering. Oh, dear God! He hasn’t…? You haven’t …?’

  ‘He has, and she has, Sarah. And look, the best thing is to get Fanny to help her off with her clothes, and into bed. Look; go on, dear.’ He pressed Marie Anne towards the stairs. ‘I’ll explain to Sarah, but you say nothing, d’you hear? Nothing to anyone.’ He said this in a low whisper. ‘I’ll see to it, dear; just leave it to me.’

  Marie Anne just looked at him lovingly for a moment, then went up the stairs slowly, as if she were dragging her feet. Sarah drew Don into the morning room, saying, ‘What happened?’

  ‘Well, he came, but not as we had expected; he was in disguise: dyed hair, beard, goggles, the lot. Farmer Harding had seen the man swimming the river on previous days. It was he who pointed him out to us swimming downstream. Anyway, I left Marie Anne on the beach while I went up to the cottage to make the lunch. The first thing I heard was her screaming. He had come upon her from behind the old willow, then he dragged her in and tried to drown her.’ He paused, then looked down as he said, ‘We fought and drifted to the middle of the river, into deep water. We both went down, and when we came up I found he was dead.’

  ‘Oh, my God! Don. But don’t worry, it would have been either you or him, or her and him. Is he still in the river?’

  ‘He must be; he was carried down by the storm. But see to her, Sarah, will you? She’s bound to have a reaction to this.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure she will; she’ll have a reaction to this, all right.’

  ‘But one last thing, Sarah: she’s going to marry me. She’s seen my face and it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Oh, Don.’ Although her voice sounded joyous, nevertheless the sound was wrenched through pain. But when she took his hands and held them, between hers, pressed to her breasts, she was smiling; and when he kissed her she closed her eyes tightly, savouring it.

  ‘As you can imagine, Sarah, there’ll be combined opposition from the men were I to ask for their permission. But I am not going to ask; I shall merely tell them what we intend to do.’ This brought a laugh from Sarah, who said, ‘Good for you, Don. I should like to be there when you’re doing it, I would, that. But what you must do now is get back and into some dry things.’

  It was somewhat later in the evening when he decided to take a walk along t
he river bank. Earlier in the day he had returned to The Little Manor to find out how Marie Anne was. Sarah had told him she was sound asleep. Apparently Dr Sutton-Moore had been paying his weekly visit to Emanuel, who had asked him to look in on Marie Anne, whom he thought might be heading for a chill after being drenched in the storm. The doctor’s diagnosis was that, like many others, she was suffering from slight sunstroke, and he had given her a draught.

  He had left a message for Marie Anne with Sarah to the effect that he was off to London first thing tomorrow morning, but hoped to be back on Tuesday.

  His mind was in a turmoil, as he wondered what would happen if the hotel-keeper, or whoever Vincent would have been staying with, were to notify the police of his absence and they found his name…his real name among his possessions. Having tried to disguise himself, it wasn’t likely he had registered as Vincent Lawson.

  He cut through the wood, and found that, in places, the water had come over the bank.

  Nearing the river bend he could see Mr Harding in the distance examining one of his fields that was partly flooded. With him he had three dogs. One was Gyp, whom Fred always took care of whenever he himself was absent from the cottage.

  Not feeling inclined, at this moment, to talk to anyone, he did not hail him, but stepped back and around a large clump of bushes, the end of which bordered an inlet, and seeing what was lying there brought him to an abrupt stop.

  What might have been a small hen cree had been caught up in the overhanging branch of a willow, and with it a bale of hay and some sacks attached to a long plank of wood. Lying with his head half on the sacks as if resting, was Vincent.