by Euan McAllen
‘Gallows for you, you pointless little shit!’
No response. Grimble was doing his best to play it cool, to take the pain. As The Hangman shouted him into the ground, Grimble studied it, point-blank. The stone surface was smooth. It was hypnotic. It had worn well. It would outlast him. It would outlast all of them.
‘She’s dead, you know.’
Those words sent a shock wave through Grimble and he rejoined the fight. Sinead dead? Not possible! But deep down he accepted that such a thing was possible. He should never have left her side. He wanted to weep, no holds barred but was too distracted by the pain which was already assaulting him. Weeping aside, he wanted to jump up and stick a knife into the chest of his torturer. But he could not move, and he had no knife.
‘Curse you!’ he shouted. ‘Put a curse on him!’ he shouted again.
But The Witch was not in the mood for handing out curses now. The whole village was already cursed. And it had brought the curse down upon itself. She almost felt redundant.
‘You killed her? I’ll kill you. That’s a promise.’ Grimble spoke with authority, with absolute conviction.
‘I don’t think so. You’ll hang from a rope first.’
And with that reminder, Grimble began to weep. Such was his state of hopelessness.
‘Ah. Mummy’s boy is crying. Missing mummy are we?’
Breamston knelt down and ruffled the poor boy’s hair like Grimble was his pet dog or a woman who had just been forced to have sex with him.
‘No.’
That unmistakable straight answer threw Breamston slightly off balance. ‘Well, you will.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Mean? Mean what? She’s dead, stupid.’
‘My mother’s dead?’ A wave of relief swept over Grimble.
‘Yes stupid! I just fucking said that!’
‘Good. Good riddance.’
Breamston stood up quickly, recoiling from close contact with what he now regarded as alien, infected, and revolting. His fire had burnt out. His lie had fallen flat. Suddenly, this stinking cell was not a place he wanted to be. He kicked Grimble one last time, for good measure, for what he thought was the last time that day. Still, flat out on the floor; racked by pain of both body and brain, and not interested in pulling himself up, Grimble struggled to feel something for his dead mother. But nothing. She had been long dead.
But still Breamston had one more thing to say, and he could not leave until he had said it.
‘Don’t know why I did it.’
Grimble did not respond as desired, so Breamston had to kick him again.
‘Did what?’
In his mind Grimble was trying to get far away: far away from the hangman; far away from his own body; closer to his crazy bitch; perhaps closer to the God which gave her so much energy and confidence.
‘Let her sleep with me.’
‘Let who sleep with you?’
‘Your stupid mother, stupid! Who else?’
Breamston drew a deep breath for his next onslaught. Grimble was proving tiresome. Grimble was tiring him out.
‘She was crap, never any good in bed. Past it. Had no clue how to please a man like me. And she smelt - like one of your fucking skunks. Body has seen better days. And to think I poked her in the place where you, the little shit, popped out. Disgusting. Makes me want to vomit.’
That was all too much for Grimble to take. Writhing and shaking as if possessed by a devil in meltdown, Grimble fought with every drop of the energy now exploding inside to rise up; ready to fight again. But Breamston was too heavy and kept him pinned to the floor. He kicked Grimble in the back of the head for good measure. Grimble was subdued again and went very quiet. It was also too much for The Village Witch to take. She put a curse on Breamston. Suffer you, sadist. Hanging’s too good for you. Bleed slowly. Become a cripple. Be a beggar. See what friends you have then.
One day, thought Grimble, I will kill you Breamston, and slowly. One day I will have you down on your knees, begging for mercy. One day, Breamston.
Enough. The Village Hangman had definitely had enough now. He called the guard, not wishing to spend another second in this stinking hole.
‘Guard! Open the door!’
The guard jumped to attention and unfastened it in double-quick time, nearly dropping his keys; still sensitive to the caution he had received the day before for dereliction of duty.
‘I’ll see you next at the end of a rope, Grimble. Enjoy the rest of your life while you can.’
He laughed at his joke and left, though saving his last words for The Village Witch.
‘You never saw this or heard this understood?’
She nodded, and her terrified look convinced him that he had said enough. He exited the cell in a rush, desperate for fresh air and sunlight. She spat at him then watched as Grimble almost collapsed into a coma; wishing to switch off, ready to die; stuck between consciousness and sleep, life and death; his body broken, refusing to respond until it had mended itself; his brain trying to fend off a new, painful truth.
His mother - his one only mother - had slept with the devil. Mother was no more. He was all alone now, all by himself. No! Correction! It was him and Sinead: alone but together. Alone together, they would take on The Village. They would rule it. She could have their heads and their souls. He would take the rest. The sweet satisfaction which began to permeate his body almost sent him off to sleep. But it was not to be: he was interrupted by a cold, sweaty hand which touched the back of his head and lingered there for far too long as if to tickle, as if to mock, as if to read him his last rites.
‘Fuck off witch!’ he cried and lashed out.
A soft voice spoke softly, wishing to reassure him. It was not the voice of a witch.
‘It’s me, Sinead.’
She had been recaptured.
Grimble’s mind exploded with the sudden change in circumstance, and his body jerked with determination as he dragged himself up and into her waiting arms. Here was his salvation: Sinead, his promised land. Here was his best sex ever. Here was his crazy bitch.
She kissed him on the head and stroked his hair. They hugged. They wanted to kiss with passion. They wanted to make love, but their bodies were too broken, and they had an audience, a captive audience. They wanted to cry but crying would be to admit defeat.
The old witch, watching like some old maid interested in the actions and emotions of young lovers, almost felt sorry for both of them now. But she did not lift her curse. She could not just forgive and forget. Forgiveness was not her thing. And these two were, on any other day, two dangerous animals.
Later as they huddled together, leaning against each other to conserve body heat; hands clasped in celebration of their total union; minds battered but still brave, still willing to fight for the ultimate cause, for each other, they received an unexpected visitor. Not Breamston The Village Hangman this time. Not The Village Idiot with his stupid questions. Not any member of the gang. Not the disgraced Vicar come to gloat. Not her estranged brother, come to make up. No, it was Grimble’s mother. She was not dead, but she did look terrible.
Grimble’s reaction was surprisingly low-key for he could take only so many shocks, only so much helter-skelter in one day.
‘You’re supposed to be dead?’
‘Dead? No, why would you think that? I kept well away from all that bad stuff.’
‘He said you were dead.’
‘Who said?’
Grimble became angry, and Sinead had to hold him in check.
‘Who do you think who said! That scum of The Village that’s who! That man you slept with!’
Her face dropped. ‘I’m sorry.’
He could barely hear her. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said, I’m sorry.’
/> And with that Grimble’s mother began to cry: something he found distasteful, unbearable. He closed his eyes and tried to pretend she was not there, but it was hopeless. Sinead held his head in her hands.
‘Probably best you get out,’ she said.
‘Yes, get out. I don’t want to see you again,’ he said.
‘I am sorry.’
But even with such an apology, this mother could no longer command her son’s attention - though she did have Sinead’s, and that of the witch. Sinead continued her attack, enjoying it now.
‘Don’t you get it? He said, get out. He doesn’t want to see you anymore. Don’t you understand?’
His mother did understand, perfectly, but pretended not to. Sparks flew between her and the crazy bitch who had stolen her son. Then she gave up and left. Her son was a lost cause.
Alone again - the witch now forgotten, now just part of the scenery - Sinead and Grimble hugged, and hugged, and carried on hugging until they had hugged themselves into a state which invited sleep if only rough sleep. They both needed to sleep. They hugged their problems away, but not their demons. Those they continued to embrace, for their demons made them stronger, less able to feel pain. He said her name once. She said his, also once.
‘Sinead.’
‘Grimble.’
Once was enough.
***
The previous evening, the announcement by Mutz of their departure had been greeted with grudging acceptance by Esmeralda and a bitter smile - a smile to match the real one of Lady Agnes. Their leaving was a hard thing for Esmeralda to swallow. She had nearly choked. She had to pretend it didn’t hurt. She had not slept a wink.
Today brought on the tears, and her friends rallied round to ease her pain. Lady Agnes did her best to comfort her. Helmotti promised to return one day when his business was done. Determined not to be outdone, Lady Agnes also promised to come back one day. Esmeralda didn’t believe she meant it, but didn’t mind: it still sounded good to hear. Lady Agnes wished her luck with the baby, as she wished herself luck with hers.
‘Doc will take care of it all,’ she said. ‘He’ll keep you safe.’
Esmeralda wanted Timothy to take care of her, to keep her safe; no one else. Some of the girls also tried to help the situation in various ways: some gave Esmeralda strong advice about men; some gave her survival tips; one tried to squeeze the life back into her.
Mutz stood silent while Aunt Rosamund kept telling them that she would be fine, and once Timothy was back, she would be even better. Some girls were sad to see Mutz go. Others were not. Some hearts had been broken. Some had been mended. Some had been stretched. One had been consumed.
Lady Agnes was happy but hid it. Mutz was happier, and looked it, despite his discomfort with all the emotions flying around him. He was keen to re-enter the Maze, to ride his horse. He was a soldier: he needed to march, to soldier on; he needed a mission, an adventure to stretch him. He needed an army, for an army was the best place to be, the safest place.
Lady Agnes thought of her previous life, pre-prince, pre-prison. She ticked the list she kept nailed down inside her head. She would have her baby. She would get Mutz to sleep with her to insure it. She would make her mother a grand-grandmother, and her mother would have to like it or lump it. She was looking forward to a big soft bed again with breakfast in bed again; and clothes which cleaned themselves; and servants who didn’t answer back; and knights in armour; and peasants who kept out of sight, and out of mind.
To have all that again, she would have to take on The Maze again, and tough it out again, and sleep rough under the stars or sodding clouds; and stay as strong as the men. In the Maze, her femininity would have to be put on hold again. And for days on end, she would have nothing to do except eat, sleep, ride, piss and shit, rub her sores, scratch her bites; and not be intimidated by those fucking walls. But that was the price to be paid for her ticket home, and she accepted it.
Helmotti hated having to desert his little Esmeralda for she was clearly in a vulnerable state. He promised her again and again that he would be back, but she sensed that he was lying for she could see how he hated her village now. He kept reminding her that the twins were safe and would return soon. She didn’t care about the twins; she cared only about her Timothy. Meanwhile, an impatient Teeto kept up his demand that they go immediately.
Now the ultimate, absolute moment Esmeralda had been dreading had arrived: her friends were actually leaving, leaving her house, mounting their horses; one being her first true friend; the other being her first true girlfriend. And she was not going with them, for she had made this place her home, her future, and for now she had to bear its weight without Timothy. All she had to hold on to was her baby to be. So hold on she did, as goodbyes were said and kisses were swapped, and hugs were handed out; and genuine promises were avoided.
‘I’ll be back as soon as I can,’ said Helmotti. ‘One day.’
He would not set a deadline.
Doc, Aunt Rosamund and most of the girls waved them goodbye - some from their windows. Esmeralda could not do it, and her Stevie had no clue as to what was going on. He just knew something was up and jumped around. She remained seated in the kitchen and wondered how she would explain the state of the classroom to Timothy. She looked out of the window on to a street which now unsettled her. It looked ugly. The few people who walked up and down it looked ugly.
Doc felt guilty that he was not returning with them. Ingella held his hand tight to support his resolve. She had told him, repeatedly, not to feel guilty but to celebrate the joy of his new life ahead. Here in The Village, he would be a proper doctor, a highly respected member of the community: he would mend lives, save them, secure them; he would command the respect of Elders, traders and peasants alike, whether they be sick or well, insane or sane. The old witch had never achieved that, Ingella declared with a passion. Upon mention of the witch, Doc set himself the challenge of getting her released. Could he turn a wicked witch into a first-class nurse? He asked himself, first as a joke then as a serious question.
They were gone - no coming back. The big brothel house suddenly felt too big for Esmeralda while The Village felt too small. But she was stuck here, stuck at the heart of a great big Maze.
The four travellers headed on down the street at a gentle pace, and then another. They passed smashed windows and fresh litter and dejected faces. They passed a statue which had lost its head. They invited curious looks. They quickened their pace, wishing to escape the gloom and despondency of The Village and the people who made it so.
As they headed towards the duck pond, they encountered the Skins. The gang was hanging around, looking bored despite the fact they were standing over a fallen Skunk, taunting him to get up and fight. Boredom would turn to defiance if anyone dared to look at them in the wrong way. Mutz was the exception. They cheered as he approached. Mutz did not want to know and quickened his pace, well ahead of the others, but not fast enough to escape his young friend Festez, who ran up and tugged at his boot until he stopped.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked.
‘Leaving,’ said Mutz firmly, not wishing to be drawn into conversation.
‘When are you coming back?’
Mutz looked at the boy as if he was stupid.
‘Never. This is not my home. You know that.’
Festez had to admit that he did know that, but still, he begged Mutz to stay. Mutz refused to be drawn and almost kicked him away. Distance was what he wanted now. He just had one last thing to say to Festez then that was that.
‘Tell your sister I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry? Sorry for what?’
‘She’ll understand.’
Festez made a promise to tell his sister his exact words and watched with a heavy heart as the great Captain Mutz rode on into his great big adventure. The Skins would make him proud, Fe
stez promised.
When they reached the duck pond, they found it trashed, which did not come as a surprise. It looked sad. The ducks looked sad. They were glad to see the back of it and rode on.
Beyond The Village Limits, they had to run the gauntlet of Farmer Giles and his men. Farmer Giles was now Furious Giles. And his men were the most miserable men. They were demolishing part of a wall to steal the blocks of stone. The men stopped heaving stone and looked up, which made Farmer Giles turn around to see what was distracting them. He saw Mutz first, which made him think of money, then he saw Lady Agnes, which made him think of much more.
Mutz wanted to thump him, smack him to the ground and kick him; but he held back, for he knew deep down that trouble right now was not the best idea: must move on quick; fight someone your own size - and someone worth the fight. Lady Agnes was not afraid. She stared right back at the farmer, giving no ground; demolishing him with all the insults she did not speak out loud. Her open contempt was obvious to all. It stabbed the air.
His reality was hot. Hers was cold. And the air which circulated between them was frozen by the exchange of looks between the jilted, would-be lover and the ice maiden. It was their final exchange, the final reckoning. Their affair had not started with a friendly kiss, and it had not ended with a sad acceptance by way of passionate lovemaking.
Mutz drew his sword and Helmotti, instinctively sensing danger, drew his. Alarm bells inside Teeto began to sound so loud that they threatened to shake him off his horse. Like many times before, Helmotti had to reassure him that all was fine; that things looked bad when they were in fact just fine. Teeto was hard to convince.
Nothing happened, so they put their swords put away, thinking the dangerous moment had evaporated, and then Farmer Giles spoilt it. He had to make trouble. He had to have the last word.