by David Haynes
He grasped the round handle and pushed. His eyes settled immediately on a pair of polished black shoes on the floor and beside them an elaborate adorned cane.
“Robert? Is that you?”
Bishop gasped and turned quickly. He could not see from whom the voice resounded but he could see a dark shape moving toward him.
“Hello?” he called and held the lamp higher, “Who’s there?”
The echo of a speedy footfall bounced about the room until the shadowy form of Victor took shape before him. He reached around Bishop and pulled the door closed.
“There is nothing of interest in there. They are merely my quarters. I still enjoy some privacy, you understand?”
Bishop nodded, “I apologise if I have found myself somewhere I should not be. I can assure you I did not intend to impinge on your retreat.”
“There is no need for apologies.” Victor removed something from his pocket and Bishop heard the sound of a key being turned in a lock behind him.
“There. We should go and see the rehearsals now. Follow me,” He took the lamp from Bishop.”
Without further comment Victor turned and started walking back toward the stairs. “Without this lamp I shall be unable to find my way back through this mess. Especially after a brandy or two!”
Bishop moved quickly behind him, “Why have you kept it all?” he asked.
“What could I do with them, except keep them? They are object of religion and as brave as I appear, I can not bring myself to burn them. My soul would surely be condemned to burn in hell if I do. If it is not already condemned, that is.”
The shadows shrank back into the darkness at the touch of Victor’s lamp.
Victor went straight to his office and pointed Bishop back toward the stage. The production of a play was something he had not witnessed before and he was anxious to begin his education immediately.
“Mademoiselle Bissette, please drop to the floor here after you have been choked,” Metier pointed to a spot on the stage and marked it with chalk. “It will enable us to conceal the conductor until the very last moment.”
Bishop watched from the wings in fascinated silence. With his words, Metier tied strings to the limbs of the actors and controlled them as if they were nothing more than mindless marionettes.
Bishop had already started forming opinions for the future success of the theatre. Metier’s play, although shocking, was in his opinion an act too long and would be more likely to induce real terror if it were shortened into one terrible act. It may be that they could produce a second play, disconnected from the first and separate the two with a comedy. It would raise the shock value of both and by making them shorter a more intense experience would be felt by the audience. Two short, violent episodes separated by one lighter act in the middle; he was sure that was the way to approach it. He would raise the subject with Metier later, when they were alone. It would not be wise to interrupt him and suggest such a change in front of the cast.
Eve Bissette held herself with elegance and followed her direction well. Her movements were fluid and graceful, like a ballerina, yet the confidence she exuded made her appear cold and somehow indifferent to Metier’s constant adjustments. The minor members of the cast treated her with reverence and it was clear she was the star of the theatre, both in their eyes and hers. He was unable to take his eyes from her.
“Be careful, Robert. You may have to kill her, several times. ”
Bishop turned quickly, startled by the unexpected voice behind him. “Be careful of what?” Victor had slipped unseen, and unheard beside him, but he did not stop and walked past him, out onto the stage, leaving Bishop alone in the shadows again.
*
“Your mother has left us, Robert. I do not know where she has gone nor do I care,” Walter Bishop poured a generous measure of brandy into his glass and took his customary place in the chair beside the fire.
“Why has she left us, father?” To a ten-year-old boy, who had already been subjected to the rigours of Dr. Cunningham’s treatment, it was just another wound which would fester indefinitely.
His father’s face was half hidden in shadow, “Why Robert? Because she was selfish and intolerant and I desired her to leave.”
“You made her leave?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes. But the final decision was hers to make.”
“May I go to my room now?”
His father waved a dismissive hand as if the revelation were nothing more than a notification that dinner would be late. He had little frame of reference for his father’s behaviour. The man had always been the distant figure sitting beside the fire, gazing silently into the embers. This was the well-meaning man who had sent him into the arms of Dr. Cunningham when the sight and sound of his son, convulsing in his nightmares became too much of an ordeal. But for whom was it too much?
Certainly, since his discharge from Cunningham’s care, his father had become more morose and distant than before. It was as if he were constantly thinking and considering matters of great import. Robert assumed it was an awkward sense of shame at having put his son in that place; or perhaps it was fear of what he had or would, become.
Either way, in the days leading to his mother’s departure, the house had become a grim and grey place where laughter had become a faded memory. It was a place where raised voices in the parlour were as common as the deep woody smell of a burning cigar.
Robert kept to the darkness of his room. His parents’ voices were a passing, and unwelcome distraction to the sound of Cunningham’s melodious influence which still held sway in his mind. His words were as the talons of an eagle; sharp, decisive and bloody.
“There are the screams of those in your dreams and there are the screams of those on the brink. You must hear the unique perspective of both to fully differentiate, and I dare say, appreciate.”
In the days following his mother’s departure, the house fell into gloomy silence. Were it not for the sound of his father’s footsteps on the rug outside of his room, he may well have thought himself entirely alone. Abruptly after two days his bedroom door was flung open and his father stepped inside, beaming. “I have decided, Robert that we shall visit my sister in Lyme Regis. You must pack your bags for we are going to the sea-side!”
And with that, it was as if the last fifteen years of marriage had been packed inside Rose Bishop’s case and hurled into the Thames.
They stayed for the entire winter and spent many happy days collecting fossils from the beach and cliffs. A glorious, natural symphony accompanied them as they picked and searched. The sea roared and hissed and smashed into The Cobb sending foaming spray high into the leaden sky. It was a wonderful time and for once Cunningham’s voice was quietened if not silenced.
When at last they returned home, life resumed and became once again the introspective collection of shadowy forms in the night. Save for one important difference, nothing had changed. For Robert, the change was not the disappearance of his mother; it was the change in his father her departure had wrought.
The man who had once been the distant figure beside the fireplace, became the affectionate father and friend he had always yearned for. And in the deep dark hours of night, it was not his own dreams which awakened him from his slumber. It was the terror stricken sound of his father’s voice hurtling through the empty rooms of their home which forced him wide-eyed into the waking world. It seemed they had more in common than either of them realised.
*
“After we close tonight, we will go to Café d’Harcourt to celebrate your new position within our diminutive company.” Victor stood in the doorway to the little office.
“I’m afraid I may have to refuse this evening. I am quite tired and…”
“Nonsense! I insist. Besides we will all be there and it will be a good opportunity to get to know your new comrades,” he leaned into the office a little further. “Mademoiselle Bissette will also be there,” he walked away without further discussion.
“It is useless to try
and refuse him. When he sets his mind to something, seldom does he allow that course to be altered; at least under the direction of a man,” Metier kept his eyes fixed on his papers but addressed Bishop.
“And will you also be coming to the café?” Bishop asked.
“Of course. It is expected and the excuse that we are to celebrate your arrival is just that – an excuse. It is something we do most evenings. I hope you have a strong constitution.”
Bishop heard a trace of humour in Metier’s clipped tone.
The show was once again a success and the theatre full to the very brink of comfort. Bishop watched from the wings as three ladies fainted and were tended to by a remarkably assured and convincing Victor. The screams were piercing and loud but their breath did not sway the angels who stared down with bored indifference.
The subtle changes Metier had rung were an improvement, but to Bishop the show was still too long, and the final scene, laboured. Nevertheless, the nervous laughter at the end of the performance was indicative of the spectacle Metier had created. In that respect, Bishop was impressed. He had never heard the gasps from readers of his books or seen them trying to avert their eyes when it was too much. The immediacy of their reaction was captivating and alluring. It was a seduction from the most beautiful woman in Paris and he yearned with all his heart to create that deathly embrace.
“Come, we shall take the table in the corner.” Victor led them through the crowded café to the corner table. There was scarce enough room for them all to sit but they managed it. Bishop found himself wedged firmly between Metier and Eve Bissette.
“I think Champagne is the only drink we can have tonight! We must celebrate another perfect performance!”
“It was imperfect. There are changes I will need to make before tomorrow’s performance.” Metier spoke slowly.
“Oh really, Alexander! Must we come so early tomorrow?” Eve leaned across the front of Bishop; her words were spoken rapidly but lightly accented. Her hair smelled of perfume and tobacco.
Metier looked straight ahead without looking at Eve. “As tonight is a celebration of Robert’s arrival, we can make it a little later. I suggest ten o’clock.”
“Pah!” exclaimed Victor, “tomorrow we shall meet at midday, and not a minute sooner!”
The din made conversation difficult but not impossible. It seemed, even at this late hour, the whole of the city had come together to sing and dance and to enjoy one another’s company.
A table of students playing a quiet game of dominoes and talking earnestly sat beside a group of middle-aged men involved in a raucous drinking competition. In the centre of the café, a young girl, whirled and twirled and kicked her legs high in the air. Her tribute to Le Moulin Rouge ended with a coquettish grin at a nearby gentleman before she collapsed in his lap, laughing. An incomprehensible, but obviously ribald, song drifted in from the pavement where a crowd had gathered, all laughter and cheers.
The champagne arrived, followed by a cauldron of broth and bread. Not a word was spoken by the troupe, for the theatre of the Parisian night was as glorious a spectacle as a night at the opera.
“How have you enjoyed your first day at Le Grand Guignol, Robert?” Eve asked.
Bishop plunged his bread into the broth then removed it, allowing the warm liquid to run down his fingers. He cared not, this did not appear to be the place where decorum was acknowledged, “I have enjoyed it immensely Mademoiselle Bissette. Although I fear I have much to learn.”
“And we will teach you.” She carefully licked soup from her own fingers, “won’t we Victor?”
Victor took her hand in his own, “Oh how I wish you would teach me!” he stared at her for a moment then laughed, “Would you care to dance ma cherie?”
Eve bowed her head, “But of course.”
In the midst of the din, a musician had entered the café and started playing his violin.
Bishop turned to Metier, “I have much to ask you about the craft of writing for theatre but I will try not to encumber you. I will follow your steps tomorrow if that is agreeable?”
“Of course. I will teach you what I can, but I am no master.”
“No? You certainly appear so, in my eyes.” replied Bishop. Metier conveyed a façade of assurance which made him appear the maestro when directing the cast.
“It is a new skill for me also,” he paused, “it was not a skill I sought to possess but like you, the opportunity was too great to refuse.”
“I see,” Bishop replied, “and how was it that you and Victor became acquainted? Through a mutual friend?”
“Acquainted?” asked Metier, moving his body to address Bishop directly. “Why, he is my father, of course. That is, I am his bastard.”
Bishop did not know how to react to such a frank admission and remained silent.
“He would not want anyone to know of course,” Metier paused, “at least none of those in the theatre. Although I dare say it would not prove to be the scandal he fears. You seem shocked?”
“No, not at all,” he stuttered and turned to watch Victor spin Eve around as if she were a ballerina. In truth, Bishop was shocked. Not at the revelation but at the ease with which it had been disclosed. He had more in common with Metier than he supposed. One absent father in a childhood is as relevant as an absent mother.
“I dare say there are more Cresswell bastards in London, but for now I am the only one he has revealed,” Metier added.
Bishop watched Victor and Eve dance as if they were young lovers in their first joyful burst of romance.
“She is beautiful but she will never be his. She is too aware of his ways. Do you not consider her beautiful?”
Bishop shrugged, “I have not given it much thought but she is indeed, striking.”
More champagne arrived and was consumed with enthusiasm by Victor, until the only ones from the theatre remaining were the four of them. The café was starting to empty and Bishop felt weary to his bones.
“I fear I must return to my bed now or I shall not wake until deep into the afternoon,” he rubbed his eyes and stifled a yawn.
“Oh but it is still early!” Victor shouted.
Eve put her hand on his arm, “He is right, Victor. We should all go home and rest,” she looked at Metier, smiling, “He will work us all to death tomorrow, I can see it in his eyes.”
Victor was at once placated and the small group walked out of the café and onto the quiet street. The spring morning was cool and the first glimpses of sunrise had started in the sky.
“Gentlemen, it behoves us to ensure Mademoiselle Bissette is safely tucked in her bed. There are ruffians about who would like to see her in their bed!” Victor laughed and offered his arm to Eve.
The boulevard was lined with trees and the nesting birds had already begun their morning chorus. The gas lamps stood sentry beside the trees, sending weak light spluttering across the leaves and onto the pavement. A carriage clattered past and the occasional croaking voice could be heard competing with the birds in song. The air was fresh and smelled vaguely of blossom and ladies’ perfume. It was peaceful and although he was weary, Bishop was once again enjoying the company of his own thoughts.
So distracted by his musings was he that failed to hear the sound of footsteps slapping the path behind him. Without warning, a sharp blow to the back of his head sent him spinning into the trunk of the nearest tree. He raised his hands to stop his head splitting open on the trunk and they raked against the rough bark. Another sharp blow hit him in the kidneys which knocked the wind from him before he could turn to face his assailant.
“Donnez-moi votre argent!” a voice barked into his ear and rough hands started rummaging through his coat.
Bishop brought his elbow back sharply and felt the other man fall away a step. It gave him the opportunity to turn and face the thief. He tensed his body and clenched his fists, ready for the next attack.
“Release me!” Metier’s voice was strained as he was pinned by the throat against the sid
e of a building. His legs kicked furiously at the shins of his attacker.
Bishop looked quickly back at the thief. He was much bigger and his eyes held the wild madness of a murderous lunatic, but he was not about to hand over a year’s worth of francs just because this man demanded it.
“You will not have my money, Monsieur!” he roared at the man, hoping his voice did not betray the fear he felt.
The man sprang forward and swung his clenched fist at Bishop’s temple. Bishop saw it late and managed to avoid the full force of the punch but the blow glanced off his head and knocked him to the side and onto the boulevard.
There was no time to consider what to do next; his anger erupted and he flew towards the man screaming as loud as he could muster. For a man clearly used to operating in the business of violence, the attack was crude and easy to avoid. The thief simply stepped to the side allowing Bishop to crash to the pavement on his face. Immediately warm blood sprayed from his split lip and painted the grey pavement red. He felt searching hands pull and tug at his coat but he was powerless to prevent it. All he could do was roll onto his back and stare at the filthy brute who had bested him.