Blackened Cottage Page 7

  The small window at his back is a painting of freedom; angel lights in the sky bidding me come. But it is too small to escape through. It mocks me with its false promise.

  “Answer me Lisbeth,” he repeats. His voice is more growl than purr.

  I lean away. My back touches the door. Hard. Immovable as stone from this position.

  I clear my clogged throat and lick my lips.

  I whisper, “I, I – I sometimes fear the worst is all. I felt that perhaps this knife would offer protection from, well, if a dangerous person or persons were to invade my room as I slept.”

  The insincerity in my voice is so obvious to me that I do not believe he will accept my tale. I wait. His eyes narrow into slits. His tongue clucks. His eyes scrutinise my eyes.

  I hold his gaze and my breath, praying fervently to a God I no longer believe in that he will back away.

  His tongue roams around his upper lip, tickling his trimmed moustache.

  He steps back and drops Villette onto the bedclothes. She meows and rolls around with a ball of wool; her favourite plaything. As I look at her I am reminded of the innocence I once possessed, and how I would give anything to be unaware of this bleak reality.

  I want to hold Villette to my breast, but dare not move. Jean-Bernard, apparently deep in thought, taps the knife's smooth side against his upturned palm in a quick, constant patter-cake. I cannot predict what he will do if I move at this precise moment.

  He steps further away and paces back and forth in front of my desk. His legs are so long and my room so small that two strides are enough to take him the width of the space. With him wafts the burnt scent of a sickly sweet future; sweet for him, sick and twisted for me.

  Abruptly he stops, whirls to face me, the knife poised by his eye.

  “Are you afraid of me Lisbeth?”

  “No,” I reply. I dare not tell him the truth.

  “Then why are you so reluctant to join me? Charles wishes it, and he has your best interests at heart, as do I.”

  He halves the gap between us in one stride. I press myself into the door, struggling to think of a good response.

  “I suppose I am reluctant to leave my Father,” I say.

  “Your Father?” Jean-Bernard's voice is suddenly harsh.

  I know he can see right through my lies. He is as incisive as they come.

  “Yes,” I say, lifting my chin.

  “Why would you be reluctant to leave him?”

  “Because...because I do not think he will be able to cope alone. And when Eddie returns, he shall need me too.”

  Jean-Bernard's face loses all mockery, “Eddie shall not be returning.”

  I feel as though I have just had acid thrown in my face, “What do you mean? Of course he will be back. He shall return for the holidays.”

  Jean-Bernard shakes his head sadly, “I am afraid not. It is just you and Charles left now and Charles can fend for himself.”

  My certainty melts. No longer are my legs strong enough to support me. I crumble to the floor pulling my knees tight in front of my chest; a barrier and a support.

  “It cannot be. How could he take him away from me? Why?”

  “These are things we can talk of when we arrive at my home,” Jean-Bernard says moving to sit beside me on the floor.

  He holds the knife in both hands. Its lethal tip wavers beneath my ear.

  “Where is he? Where is Eddie?” I whisper through my hands.

  Jean-Bernard does not answer. Instead, he places the knife on the floorboard between us and strokes my hair.

  I shiver at his touch. His nails scrape my skull like a wolf scraping soil for bones. He catches a scab, rips it off. I wince, get up, move to the bed and hastily lift Villette to my shoulder. I soothe her and bury my face in her fur. She has an inimitable kitten baby smell about her tiny head. Powdery and buttery and soft. She relaxes into me purring throatily.

  My heart yammers madly. A tingling sensation runs up and down my left arm and I have difficulty drawing breath.

  “I know this must come as somewhat of a shock. Please, sit down, rest a little. We do not need to leave quite yet. My driver will wait.”

  He guides me to the bed by my arm. His grip is strong, insistent, there is no saying no. I perch on the edge. All I can think is that I will never see Eddie again.

  “Where has Father sent him?” I ask.

  I peer up at Jean-Bernard through a mist. His expression is inscrutable. One moment I think he is pitying me, the next I think he is angry. So intense is his gaze. So unblinking are his eyes.

  He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, thinks better of it. Finally says, “I am afraid I cannot disclose that information to you at present.”

  His voice grates against my nerves, “Why ever not? You are not even related to him! He is my brother!”

  The strength of my voice catches me by surprise. Villette jerks awake. I place her on the bed behind me and stand up. A silver glimmer catches my eye; the bread knife lies on the floorboard in front of the door.

  Jean-Bernard holds his hands up to pacify me, “Calm down Lisbeth. Anger solves nothing.”

  “Where is he? Tell me!” I leap over to the bread knife, snatch it off the floor.

  Jean-Bernard stands, takes a step towards me, thinks better of it.

  My eyes are wild. I cannot believe I am threatening Jean-Bernard with the bread knife. The blade shakes in my hand.

  “Put down the knife,” he quietly urges.

  “Just tell me where he is and I will,” I say.

  “Lisbeth. Listen to me my darling. Knowing where he is will simply not do you any good at present. You know you are not going to use the knife. Put it down.”

  My shoulders sag. I know he is right. But I cannot loosen my grip on the knife.

  “Please? Please Jean-Bernard. If you tell me where Eddie is, I promise I will come with you without a fight.”

  “If you hand me the knife, I will tell you,” he says. His pale eyes reveal nothing.

  I hesitate. Look down at the knife, back up at his face. I start to lower the blade, but my hands snaps back up.

  “No. Stay away! Get back!”

  I back towards the door, feeling for the door knob with my free hand. Jean-Bernard attempts to follow but I jab the knife at him and he freezes. He seems irritatingly unpanicked by the situation, whereas my body rivers with perspiration and my heart gallops like a frightened horse.

  “Lisbeth, darling, think about what you are doing. You are not in your right mind. Now lower the knife slowly and hand it to me and I shall tell you his whereabouts.”

  “Tell me or I will run,” I insist.

  “And where will you run to? You will not get far on foot. The cottage is surrounded by acres of woodland. You will starve or freeze to death. Or worse.”

  He edges closer and I grab the brass door knob.

  “I have a place in mind,” I mutter, “Now stay back or I swear something bad will happen!”

  “We will catch you before you can make any ground. Charles cares too much to leave you to the wilderness, as do I. Please, hand me the knife.”

  “Neither of you cares about me. All you want is to have your wicked way and Father simply wants rid of me!”

  “That is untrue. You know it is. You are lying to yourself. Trust me Lisbeth. Have my recent visits shown you nothing of my love for you?”

  His vile touch, creepy advances showed me a great deal, but I say nothing of that.

  “Just tell me where Eddie is.”

  “Alright Lisbeth, you win,” Jean-Bernard says. He sits down on the bed, distractedly soothing Villette's squirming body.

  I relax my grip on the knife a little. My fingers hold the door knob, ready.

  “So where is he?”

  “He is at St Peter’s Boarding School.”

  “Where?”

  “What do you mean by where?”

  I can tell he is stalling. I tighten my grip on the knife, stab it in his direction, “Where
exactly!”

  He sighs, crosses his legs, “I believe the school is south from here.”

  “Town?”

  He sighs again, hesitates, “London.”

  “London?”

  London is nigh on fifty miles. My face blenches.

  “Yes Lisbeth. You see, you will never make the journey by foot.”

  I look at his pale, cold eyes, the stifling room that has become my prison cell. The bread knife in my hand. I think of freedom, Bethan, Eddie. I cannot bear the thought that never again shall I look upon his sweet face, hold his little hand, hear his excited voice. Never again shall I watch him play with Jack. Hear his laughter. Feel the warmth of his small body pressed against mine. The loss is too much.

  My hand is turning the door knob. Jean-Bernard's eyebrows lift a fraction. He never thought I would have the mettle. But he is wrong.

  “Stay where you are,” I say pointing the knife at him.

  He says nothing. He watches me. And I catch a different look in his eye but cannot identify it. Perhaps it is sorrow – he is sorry he has lost his prize.

  Without turning my back to him, I open the door and slide out of the room. I close the door and turn. The small landing seems so long. The floorboards are angry as I creep forward, wincing every time they screak.

  I reach the top of the staircase. Look back through the gloom. My bedroom door remains closed. The air is silent, murky, uncertain. Fire smoke wafts up the stairs.

  I tiptoe down the stairs. Every screak shrieks through me.

  My bare foot hits the ground floor. The living room is cloaked in shadow. The flames are dwindling.

  I know which way is South. The sun tells me and it shall guide me on my journey. The distance terrifies me, but my desire to see Eddie safe overrules all else. I just have to get out of the house undetected by Father.

  Hurrying across the living room to the front door, I grab the door knob, turn, but it is locked. I yank my heart from its sinking place and swivel, determined to escape through the back garden. But a hulking black figure bridges the space between me and the kitchen.

  Father.

  Father - stinking of whisky, half of his face alight. The visible half almost forces me back; such is its rawness. Anger seizes the muscles of his jaw, crunches the space between his eyebrows, bruises his eyes. His hands are fisted. His feet shoulder-width apart. His body swaying with drunken rhythm.

  I begin to back away then remember the knife in my hand. I hold it up, my sword and hope, arm trembling, palm sweating, heart haemorrhaging with emotion.

  “Let me go Father. Please. Just let me go.”

  My voice is a low crackle. I swallow my tears. Assertion is my friend; it will not let fear defeat me.

  Father steps toward me. He does not speak. Indeed, he does not need to. His face and body talk for him. He is angry, hateful and will stop at nothing to win. His back is to the fire and I can see the whole of his rage.

  “I shall use this knife! I do not want to but I shall if pressed!” I say shrilly.

  Still, he descends upon me. I feel my arm weaken. I cannot hurt Father. Mama's voice jumps into my ear. She tells me to trust my instincts. But I have no instincts; I am a victim to uncertainty.

  “Please Father,” I beg.

  A peripheral figure; white dress and face. Bethan! She is here. She edges towards the hearth, arm out-stretched.

  I move too. Edging towards the flames.

  Father moves closer.

  Bethan lifts the poker from its brass bucket.

  Father shakes his head.

  She lifts the poker.

  I nod.

  “Lisbeth,” Father growls.

  Bethan brings the poker down swiftly upon his temple.

  I gasp. Father hits the ground hard as Jean-Bernard runs down the stairs.

  “Run!” Bethan screams.

  I drop the bread knife and race across the living room, passing the bottom step and narrowly missing Jean-Bernard's lunging hand. Bethan is an inch behind me. She screams. Jean-Bernard has her. I know it.

  “Run!” she shrieks, “Save Eddie!”

  I turn, already halfway down the garden. Bethan lies splayed out upon the kitchen floor. She still breathes, but her eyes are closed. Jean-Bernard jumps over her and pursues me, tiger after antelope, his long legs cutting the distance in seconds.

  Once I have Eddie I will come back for her.

  Picking up my skirts, I run.

  CHAPTER 10

  IN THE WOODS

  Jean-Bernard follows at a frightening pace.

  One of his strides is two of mine. He wears leather shoes while I wear nothing save the skin I was born with. He is lean and fit with sinewy muscles and I am weak and frail with limbs unused to the demands of running.

  Two things are in my favour: my age and my desire to escape. I can only pray that my need to be free is stronger than his need to possess me.

  I wear only a velvet dress. The wind torments my naked parts with its death-cold hands, but my heart fends off the cold with its rising heat, hot blood weaving through the vines of my veins. My heart is triumphing – for now.

  I slip across the ice-slick bridge at the bottom of the garden. Hear Jean-Bernard curse in his own language as he falls. Hear him scramble up, rush after me. He is no longer a man but a French bulldog. Gone is his pretence of sophistication and elegance. The thought that I may elude him has stripped away his gentleman-like façade exposing him for what he really is: a rampant dog.

  He is so close that I can hear his pant. It is the sound of desire, hunger, anger, violence. My own breath comes in quick, panicky sobs. I shake away the tears and focus on weaving between slim tree trunks of the dark wood, guided by constellations of stars I cannot name, urged on by the desire to find Eddie.

  My sleeve catches on a thorn and I tear it free. Bushes prick my ankles and I force on through. Roots trip me and I stumble, get up, carry on. I feel my thighs growing weary, my arms beginning to ache. My breathing becomes ragged, dragged up and down against its nature, reluctant, struggling.

  I give myself a focus: Eddie.

  Eddie, Eddie, Eddie, Eddie, Eddie...

  I chant his name over and over again, matching each syllable to each footfall.

  Jean-Bernard clatters along behind. He is close. Too close.

  A large bird, probably an owl, frantically lifts and escapes the chaos. If only I could get away so easily.

  His pounding footsteps are strong, terrifyingly so. My footsteps are light and quick, but my feet cannot take much more. They are bruised, scratched, bloody. Putrescence runs out of my nose, soiling my lips. The ice air drags up and down my throat and I feel it rubbing my oesophagus raw; choking phlegm, the sweet taste of blood catching in my throat.

  I try to concentrate on matching each footfall to my chant. Edd-ie, Eddi-ie, Edd-ie. I leap over a root and land awkwardly, twisting my right ankle. I cry out, but limp on.

  Jean-Bernard is gaining. I can hear his rattling pant.

  One, two birds soar into the sky mocking me with their easy escape.

  My ankle twinges but the pain is not devastating. I manage to maintain speed, but my lungs are weakening. My right side flares up, urging me to stop, bend over, rest, but I cannot. I battle the stitch.

  Jean-Bernard curses. I glance back. He has tripped, landed on all fours.

  This spurs me on. I up my pace a fraction. My muscles roar in response, but I keep going.

  Eddie, Eddie, Eddie...

  Jean-Bernard is chasing again, but his footfalls are louder, heavier, slower. His breathing is erratic, frantic.

  Pleasure at his pain gives me extra zest and my legs move more fluidly. My body suddenly feels lighter, almost as if my senses have adjusted, adapted to the harsh demands being asked of it. After almost giving up, it has changed its mind.

  EDDIE, EDDIE, EDDIE...

  My chant is more powerful, assertive, sure. I pick up speed, hands balling, arms propelling me along, body working like a tuned piano.
>
  EDDIE, EDDIE, EDDIE...

  Jean-Bernard's footsteps grow yet heavier, slower, quieter, more distant, less threatening. He drops away, fades away until I can only hear my own pounding footfalls.

  I keep up my pace, continually glancing back, just in case.

  After a while I slow to a fast walk, allowing my heart to recover and my trembling limbs to calm.

  Looking through the icy wood, I know I am lost. Where I am I know not. But I am not far from Blackened Cottage. Not far from Father's rage.

  An hour seems very little so I continue to stride onward at a good speed.

  A force remains in my blood giving me the energy to keep going, but the cold chills my perspiration and my muscles begin to stiffen.

  I am not too tired yet, which is good. I fear what the cold will do to me when I inevitably succumb to exhaustion.

  I think of my little Villette – will I ever touch her again? I think of poor Bethan. Poor, reckless, sweet, brave Bethan. They have her. I close my mind to thoughts of what they may to do her. If I dwell upon it, I am worried I will turn back and surrender rather than journeying on to find Eddie.

  London. Such a distance. And in such foul weather. The journey will be full of hardship, but it is a journey I am willing to make.

  My teeth start to chatter. My skin grows more numb by the second. I scan the darkness for some sort of shelter; if I do not find refuge soon I will freeze. Father and Jean-Bernard will soon think me dead, and I hope they do for they are far less likely to search for me that way. Of course, I will be dead shortly if I do not find shelter.

  All I see are trees tall and white, leaves shining silver, frost-crisped ground, the odd statued roe deer. The scene reminds me of a Christmas card, but it is a mirthless scene. This could be the setting for my death.

  Panic grows as I force my feet forward. Each step is tougher than the last. My body trembles with the effort and the cold scrubs my nerve endings like wire scouring a pan. I imagine what I would look like if I were to die here, now, like this.

  I see a form that is not my own. It is Mama's: frost-hardened hair framing her pallid face, her parted lips blue, icicles dripping down like fangs. Her eyes are open but unseeing; glass eyeballs with ice for eyelashes.