tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88062378589711056352024-03-19T13:06:20.239+00:00Without BoundariesWelcome to Nicola's Weblog. Copyright Nicola Batty (c) 2010 - 2012. If you can see html code or can't see the sidebar links please use a different browser. I use Google Chrome now.Nicola Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17066855901263569768noreply@blogger.comBlogger93125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8806237858971105635.post-91830382349518091242012-07-07T16:51:00.004+01:002013-02-03T01:20:20.134+00:00Killing Time - Chapter Eight<br />
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<span style="color: #660000; font-size: small;"><i><a href="http://rawprintz.blogspot.com/">Please clink~this~link to Nicola's Newsletter Raw Meat..</a></i></span></h1>
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<span style="font-size: 26px;"><span style="color: #000099;"><br /></span></span></h1>
<h1 style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; margin: 0px; position: relative; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 26px;"><span style="color: #000099;">KILLING TIME</span></span></h1>
<h1 style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; margin: 0px; position: relative; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 26px;"><span style="color: #000099;">A novel by</span></span></h1>
<h1 style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; margin: 0px; position: relative; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 26px;"><span style="color: #000099;">NICOLA BATTY</span></span></h1>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Chapter Eight.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b>8<sup>th</sup> September, 1888 - 29, Hanbury Street, Whitechapel.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> As
the early morning light grows steadily stronger, gathering its’ strength in
preparation for the new day, the battered body of Annie Chapman becomes visible
to the crowd of curious onlookers who gather in the narrow street outside. Fibres of necks twist and stretch to get a
glimpse of the woman who is lying on her back, her stomach gaping open, and
eyes staring vacantly at the creeping new morning. Those people who live upstairs and whose windows overlook the
back yard are following the advice of an enterprising laundry-woman across the
road and they are doing a brisk business charging a ha’penny for ‘a good view
of the gruesome murder’. The policemen
however, try to assume their usual manner of detached professionalism; treating
it as routine, they try to ignore the smell of blood in the air, the violence
of Annie Chapman’s’ death. They try,
but they mostly stand around the yard, shocked and silent. The Police Surgeon, having examined the
body, turns his back on it and wanders over to the other side of the yard. He fixes his eyes on some vague area of the
sky, watching the ragged pieces of cloud blown slowly across the pale
background, tearing themselves away from each other, leaving messy wisps greyly
straggling. Annie Chapman has been
disembowelled. The murderer has been
even more thorough this time, more meticulous in his operations. Perhaps he had more time at his disposal, or
his hand had simply become more confident, more controlled, the second time
around. He has removed her uterus and
the upper portion of her vagina and most of her bladder – and these are still
missing. The policemen are looking
reluctantly in dustbins and gutters; but it is generally accepted that the
murderer will have taken these organs away with him, either to destroy away
from the scene of the crime or else to keep as macabre souvenirs. The rest of the intestines, the murderer has
left for the policemen to see, draped over Annie’s left shoulder like a Roman
toga. Blood surrounds the body, though
most of it has been soaked up by her clothing.
Like Polly Nichols before her, Annie has two deep red gashes running
across her throat, side by side, neatly severing her windpipe. Indeed, the murderer has cut so deep as to
almost slice her head from her body.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> Already
the policemen are beginning to piece together the last few hours of Annie
Chapman’s life. Some women friends who
were also prostitutes had last seen her alive in a pub in Spitalfields market
place. That night, ‘Dark’ Annie had
been wearing black, as she had been ever since the day her husband had died,
about four years ago. From the sight of
her habitual wearing of black, a special attachment to her husband may have
been guessed at. In fact, this was not
so; Annie Chapman now lived alone, having been separated from her husband
fifteen years before. She only realised
he was dead when the money he paid her every week to live on, had suddenly
stopped. Since then, ‘Dark’ Annie had
been earning a living by taking in odd bits of crochet work, sewing, selling
flowers and prostitution. She lived in
various lodging houses around Whitechapel and Spitalfields, confronting each day
of life with a determination that was derived only partly from the bottle. Small and thick-set, she concealed within
her compact frame an energy which far surpassed her forty-five years. With features that echoed the colour of her
clothes, a broken nose from a fight and two missing front teeth, nobody would
call her a pleasant woman to look at, particularly since she had acquired a
black eye following a disagreement with another prostitute over a borrowed
piece of soap. Ever since this
incident, her friends will tell the police, Annie had been complaining of
feeling unwell. She suspected that
something might have been damaged inside, though Annie was neither too weak nor
too drunk to struggle against her attacker, as the bruises on her face and neck
show. The last person to have seen her
alive since she left the pub, was a night watchman, who will describe the man
she was apparently haggling with in the backyard of twenty-nine Hanbury Street,
as ‘dark, foreign looking and wearing a deerstalker hat’. This house is a well-known ‘picking-up’ spot,
although not an established brothel.
Annie had taken her client into the back yard and she had been standing
at the top of the steps leading up to the back door, when the night watchman
had seen them. An hour later, a man who
lodged in the house, when he left to go to work had found Annie’s body at the
bottom of the steps.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> The
bright red handkerchief that is tied loosely around her neck looks like another
bloodstain against the black of her clothes.
The Police Surgeon still stands with his back turned towards the body,
staring into the sky. He leans against
the broken fence, which separates this yard from the next; he has not said a
word to anyone since he first arrived and set eyes on Annie Chapman’s corpse,
nearly an hour ago. The murderer has taken
great care to rob Annie of any dignity she may have clung to in life; the few
last remaining shreds ripped from her.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> A
strange touch, the murderer has left all of Annie’s worldly possessions laid
out in a neat row by her feet; two brass rings and a few pennies and
farthings. She lays flat on her back,
exposed like a pig on a slaughterhouse table, her legs drawn up, her knees
turned outwards, her skirts pushed up over her hips. She has been posed specially for death. There is no mistaking the contempt, which the murderer must have
felt for his victim as he moved her limbs into the position that he has chosen
for them. He carefully manipulated and
he smiled to himself as he did so. He
was doing the right thing, he was quite sure of it. There was not a trace of doubt in his mind.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> And
as the early morning greyness strengthens, the murderer is walking along the
Victoria Embankment, back to his lodgings on King’s Bench Walk. He lives in what is known as the lawyer’s
area, that strange, classless part of the Temple, hovering somewhere between
shabbiness and respectability. It
exists in the space between, neither one nor the other. The murderer feels perfectly at home here, as
one would imagine that he would; his feet sink easily into this vacated space,
for he’s an adaptable sort of person, a man for all seasons. He can’t afford to live on his barrister’s
wages and so he teaches part-time at a boy’s school in Blackheath village, on
the other side of the Thames. He finds
the scholarly hush of both the Law Courts and the classrooms stifling and so he
unwinds by playing cricket for the school team. Those wide-open grassy fields remind him of the countryside where
he grew up, in Dorset. The murderer
pauses on the Embankment for a moment, turning his great, sad eyes back in the
direction he has just come from. He’s
remembering how he used to sit on his mother’s knee and make daisy chains with
her when he was young in the field, which they always used to go to. (He and
his mother both used to call it ‘our daisy-field’ and then smile secretively at
each other, as though sharing something quite special and particular between
them). Both he and his mother had long,
nimble fingers and they threaded the flowers together to form one single chain,
which seemed to go on forever.
Sometimes his brother William would come and join them in the field; but
he would soon grow restless and impatient, wanting his brother to come down and
swim in the river with him. He would
refuse to sit down and join in the ritual threading of the flowers; for he was
clumsy and would probably only have broken the chain. The murderer leans on the railings, looking down into the filthy
Thames below. He can remember those
days as though they were only a moment ago, or even as though they still exist
for him, trapped beneath the false glass surface of his mind. The past becomes the present; it all churns
up into one vast tangled stew of memories and experiences, experiences and
memories, he doesn’t know which anymore.
But he doesn’t allow this long grey area to worry him. He accepts all things with a protective
layer of dignity wrapped all around him, an air of melancholy resignation,
which shields the inner core. The inner
core, which no one can reach; his own alienation from himself terrifies
him. He is not in control anymore. Slowly the murderer descends the steps of
the Embankment to the water’s edge. His
dark eyes scan the surface of the water sadly, as though searching for some
lost part of himself. He strokes the
wavering line of his thin moustache, looking around quickly. His movements are changed; he drifts without
reality no longer. Stooping right down
and simultaneously drawing his hands from his pockets, he washes both them and
the knife in the river. He thinks for a
moment of dropping the knife into the Thames but decides not to; it has become
almost a part of him now, moulding itself to him like a sticky extra
organ. With a knife in his hand he can
dictate the circumstances, he can carve out the niche he wants them to fill. He replaces the knife in his pocket and
climbs the steps back up to the roadside.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> Back
in Hanbury Street, the Police Surgeon throws a piece of sacking over the body
of Annie Chapman. There is an almost
tangible feeling of relief amongst the other policemen in the yard, though
still, nobody says anything. The
Surgeon watches them standing around in silent groups, cracking their knuckles
nervously. One of them begins to whistle
softly; but the sound soon trails off, crushed by the brutality of the situation. The Police Surgeon picks up his bag and
begins to walk out of the yard, going out through the back gate so as to avoid
passing the body again. He must now
return to his office and write a report on the state of the butchered remains
of Annie Chapman. He closes his eyes
briefly as he pauses, one hand on the wooden board which serves as a gate. The photographs he has taken cling to the
retina of his mind’s eye. He wonders
how the murderer is feeling now.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><a href="http://rawprintz.blogspot.com/">Now go to Chapter Nine.</a></span></b>Nicola Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17066855901263569768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8806237858971105635.post-43148597285241801372012-07-01T14:30:00.002+01:002012-07-07T16:55:16.317+01:00Killing Time - Chapter Seven.<br />
<h1 style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; margin: 0px; position: relative; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 26px;"><span style="color: #000099;">KILLING TIME</span></span></h1>
<h1 style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; margin: 0px; position: relative; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 26px;"><span style="color: #000099;">A novel by</span></span></h1>
<h1 style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; margin: 0px; position: relative; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 26px;"><span style="color: #000099;">NICOLA BATTY</span></span></h1>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>Chapter Seven <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b>6<sup>th</sup> September 1991 - Shoreditch High Street<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> Early
on the following Monday, Louise left the house heading for Shoreditch. She carried the black card Guy Saint had
given her clutched inside her jacket to protect it from the driving rain. She kept glancing at the address as she
hurried along Hanbury Street and onto Commercial Road, as though she feared
that the elegant silver letters would fade away into nothingness while she
wasn’t looking. Despite both the early
hour and the rain, there were several people lingering in front of shop
windows, or striding purposefully to work, briefcase in hand, or to take their
children to school. Louise tried to
avoid meeting their eyes, feeling that this would compromise her in some way;
she felt guilty, as though she had broken some unwritten law which everybody
else held sacred, though she didn’t know why.
She passed a number of old Victorian warehouses which now contained
offices or studios, before she found the right one. It was a grimy building with a large window in the front, where a
grey blind was pulled down. The words <i>Homeopathy - Acupuncture - Spiritual Healing
- Clairvoyance</i> were written in violet across the bottom of the window and
Louise recognised Guy Saint’s black card displayed with a few others just
inside the doorway. She hesitated
before pushing the door, unsure if it would be open yet. It led into a narrow corridor, with a flight
of stairs at the end. To her left was
an office from which a young woman appeared.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “Can
I help you? We’re not actually open
yet.” The woman shuffled the pile of
papers she was carrying officiously, although her smile was open and
friendly. “Do you have an appointment
to see someone?”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> Louise
shook her head. She felt
panic-stricken, as though every move she made was being watched and hindered,
obstacles placed in her path.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “No,
but I want to see … Mr. Saint.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “I’ll
see if he’s in. Who shall I say…?”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “Tell
him Louise. He’ll know me.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> The
young woman nodded and smiled, picking up a phone on her desk. Louise waited in the doorway, folding Guy
Saint’s card over and over until it was just a tiny square.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “Mr.
Saint’ll see you. Upstairs, second door
on the left.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> Louise
needed no further prompting. She almost
ran up the stairs as if they were her own heavenly escape route leading to her
private sanctuary high above the clouds.
There were two doors on either side of the landing; both of them grey
with a pane of frosted glass - both unmarked.
She felt disorientated, as though this was a deliberate move to try and
confuse her. But then one of the doors
opened and the tall figure of Guy Saint emerged to greet her with the slight,
vague smile that was so typical of him.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “Louise,
come in!” He led her into his office and closed the door; he seated himself in
front of his desk, which was pushed into an alcove immediately behind the door,
right in the corner, so that it could hardly be seen. “Can I offer you some coffee?”
<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> Louise
shook her head, looking round the room for a chair. A dark blue armchair near
the window seemed the only one; either that or a matching two-seater sofa along
the wall.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “Drag
a chair over.” Instructed Saint. “What can I do for you?”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “I
need to speak to you.” Louise hesitated, realising that this much was already
obvious. “It’s about Harriet, I thought you might be able to help.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> Saint
took out a cigarette and lit it slowly. Louise watched his movements, which
seemed to flow along with the grace and inevitability of a dream. His white
shirt was fastened at the wrists with slender black chains she noticed; it was
almost impossible to tell where the smooth fabric of his shirt ended and his
flesh began. He was dressed entirely in
black and white, like a character from a ‘film noir’ classic, cut moodily from
the celluloid background, shadows falling across his face… black and white,
areas of alternating light and dark.
The dimensionless black of his eyes - which she now realised were turned
directly upon her.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “Ah,
<i>Harriet</i>… your Victorian self.” He
nodded thoughtfully, “I thought you might run into problems with… her,
eventually.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “Why?” Louise felt suddenly suspicious.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “Well,
it’s common sense, isn’t it? Anyone can
see it’s not going to be easy juggling two times around, two lives. It can't be easy.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “But
that’s just it, you see.” Louise sat
forward on her chair. “It is easy for
me – in fact, it’s becoming so damned easy, that it’s… doing my head in,
completely. I’m so scared… I don’t want this to happen anymore. I don’t want anything more to do with
Harriet. I hardly know who I am anymore,
I’ve got no control.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> The
vividness of her dream returned to her with a sharp chill like the edge of a
blade as she spoke about it, giving some sort of temporary substance to the
Victorian London. The terror of turning, the terrible ease of it.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “But
you know… you don’t really have to be frightened of it. This is an incredible… gift you have. And you can learn to control it, to click in
and out of Harriet, at will.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> Louise
stared at him, lost for words.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “I
can’t believe you’re saying this. You’re
seriously telling me I don’t have to be frightened?”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> Saint
chuckled wryly beneath his breath.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “I
know, I know. Look, I appreciate how
incredible it must sound now but you have to stand back, get things in
proportion.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> Louise
stood up, turning away from Saint and gazing out of the window instead. <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “Proportion! Oh, what <i>are</i>
you talking about? Don’t try and tell me I’m making a big thing out of this, I
should treat it like a big adventure…"<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “Louise,
I’m not saying that. Of course I’m not
saying that.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “Well,
that’s what it sounds like. This was a mistake coming here. I thought you might
be able to <i>do </i>something to help.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “Which
I can, I’ve said. I’ll teach you to
control this… Harriet.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “Oh,
I don’t know.” Turning from the window,
Louise found herself staring at a huge print, which hung on the wall above the
dark blue sofa. At first she thought
that it depicted nothing but vague grey shapes against a very faintly pink
background. The picture disturbed her,
seeming to imply bulky, formless things without actually naming them - which
made them none the less real. Then she
recognised the painting as Turners’ <i>Sunrise
with Sea-monsters</i>, but instead of the familiarity soothing her, it
increased her unease. “I’d rather just
get rid of her, I want to stay me.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b>
“But you can, that’s what I’m saying.
It may feel like Harriet’s taking you over and using you according to
her own whims, but you can control her.”
As Saint spoke, Louise noticed that there were spots of colour high on
his sculptured cheekbones and his eyes glowed with an almost religious
fervour. “And then, don’t you see, you
can use your… experiences as you will…
it doesn’t have to be frightening at all?”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “Maybe
not for <i>you</i>.” Louise caught his eye
briefly and looked away at the rain masking the dome of St. Paul’s. She felt safer with her back turned to him,
when she didn’t have to risk the draining confrontation with his eyes. “But, I’m the one who’s actually going
through this and I’ve had enough, I want to finish it here. Why can’t you
understand? Why won’t you <i>do</i>
something?”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “Louise,
I do understand, I really do. But I
think you’re looking at it the wrong way.
In time, you’ll feel more in control.
All right, you feel scared now but that’ll pass. Think … think what you could learn about
life a hundred years ago! Your fear will pass you know, as you learn to
manipulate your experiences. Become
distanced from them… and that’s where I
can help you.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “I
don’t think I want that kind of help. All this talk of manipulation and being
able to control becoming Harriet seems irrelevant. Can’t you see I don’t want any part of it?” Louise gazed at the
print on the wall, seeing the sea-monsters rising up like long-forgotten ghosts
through the gloom, the thick grey fog of Whitechapel. “If you’d been there… if
you’d seen that murdered woman… stood so close you could smell the blood… <i>then </i>you'd understand.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “But
that’s just it, you see. I understand
all this much more than you think I do, and that’s why you learning to control
your experiences isn’t irrelevant, it’s a necessary part of coming to terms
with Harriet.” Saint paused, looking at
the books, which were lined above his desk on three shelves, reaching almost to
the ceiling. “You were right to come
back to me, you know. You think I don’t
understand your fear but you have to see beyond all that. While the rest of us can only read about
Victorian times, you can actually <i>be</i>
there. It’s <i>real</i> to you.” He shook his
head slowly, “Really Louise, you can’t even think about missing this opportunity,
<i>take it</i>!”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> Louise
tutted irritably. “You talk about it as if it was a free prize-draw or
something.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> Smiling
vaguely, Saint stood up and walked over to Louise. She could feel him standing behind her; a presence cut from the
shadows themselves, an imagined shape and substance, torn out with a ragged
edge half-say between this world and the next.
A misfit, like Caliban; devoid of any sense of really belonging
anywhere.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “Perhaps
there’s an element of truth in that.
Life’s a series of choices, isn’t it?
It’s all a big game, really - you just have to try and stay in control.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “Easier
said than done though, isn’t it?”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “Of
course, it always is but that doesn’t mean it can’t be done.” He took Louise’s arm, leading her back to
the armchair. “Sit down Louise, this is
where I can help you.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> She
took a step back as though she were being physically cornered. “I don’t think so. What are you going to <i>do</i>?”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> Saint
smiled faintly. “Just hypnotise you,
relax you a bit. Don’t worry, it
doesn’t hurt.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “I
don’t like the sound of that. Wait…
wait a minute, I don’t think this is a good idea.” Louise felt the hard edge of Saint’s desk behind her back. She wanted to turn and flee as far away from
this office as possible. “I’ve told you
what I want and it’s not that… to go into a trance and not even know what I’m
doing. You say it’ll make me feel more
in control but it won’t - it’ll do just the opposite. <i>You'll </i>be in control;
you'll be the one who’ll be manipulating <i>me</i>.
I won’t really have any say in it.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> Saint
looked at her, he appeared genuinely confused.
Then he shook his head and shrugged helplessly, laughing.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “Oh,
come on, you can’t really mean that.”
He paused, perching on the arm of the chair Louise had vacated and took
out another cigarette. “Think about
it. Do I really look like a villain to
you?”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “Well,
that’s what it feels like, anyway.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “You’ve
got a wild imagination, you know that, don't you? I only want to help you."<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “Oh,
I know… I don’t really know what I mean.”
Sighing, she turned away; as she did so, she knocked against the pile of
books which were balanced on the edge of Saint’s desk, which in turn knocked a
couple of others off the other end. She
stopped them just before they fell to the floor. “Sorry,” she mumbled, pushing them to the back of the desk. As she did so, she noticed that the book
underneath was lying open and she thought she recognised the layout of the
pages. The photograph on the right-hand
page was of Annie Chapman, the second Ripper victim, lying flat on her back in
the yard on Hanbury Street. The book
was <i>The Real Jack the Ripper</i>; a bigger edition than Louise’s certainly
and hard backed, but nevertheless, unmistakable. She sneaked a quick glance over her shoulder at Saint, who was
not looking at her but gazing instead at the print of <i>Sunrise of Sea-monsters</i>, smoking thoughtfully. Putting the other book back on top of <i>The
Real Jack the Ripper</i>, she glanced at the spine. <i>A Study of the Mind of the Ripper</i> she read and put the
book down quickly. She felt as if she
had uncovered something vaguely nasty and perhaps even dangerous. A few sheets of paper covered with Saint’s
elegant writing were now exposed where she had pushed the books on top of them
back. She read the words,
‘Whitechapel – August 31<sup>st</sup>
1888 – murder of Polly Nichols on Bucks Row.
How much does Harriet know of this murder? Did she see the Ripper?
Would she be able to identify him again?’<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “What
do you think you’re doing?” Saint was
beside her suddenly, his voice strained and hard, a cutting edge. “These are private papers, you know. Confidential.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “Yes,
I can see that,” said Louise icily. She
allowed herself to be pushed aside, feeling drained and powerless. “Now I see why you’re so interested in
Harriet. Why you want to make me go
back again.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> Saint
piled the papers up and shoved them in a drawer. Every muscle in his face seemed tightened, as if they were all
attached to the same pulley system which had been wound round several times,
pulling in the catgut threads. He sighed,
staring at her coldly. <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> "I'm afraid I really don't know what
you’re talking about.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> "Oh, I think you do, Mr. Saint.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “The
Ripper book, is that what you’re so upset about?”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “I
don’t like being used for your fucking <i>research</i>,
that’s all and I’m sure Harriet feels the same.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> There
was a pause. Saint gazed at her
impassively, taking a long draw from his cigarette. The scar across his face seemed to be livid and pulsating, a
thing alive amidst the blank space.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “You
amaze me, Louise. I’ve never encountered anyone quite so paranoid.” He shrugged, smiling slightly. “There’s absolutely <i>no</i> reason for you to react like this.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “Really?” Louise gestured towards the drawer
containing Saint’s papers. “Then what’s
all that… about Harriet?”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> Saint
didn’t flinch. “Just notes, about you,
about Harriet. It’s an exceptional
case, you must appreciate that.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “And
all this stuff about the Ripper?”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “Background,
that’s all. I like to know what I’m
dealing with. I’ve got a particular
fascination with the Ripper, I thought you knew that.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> Louise
hesitated. She stared at the smouldering cigarette between Saint’s
fingers. “I did.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “Well,
then I don’t really see why you should be so suspicious. What do you think I’m going to do to you?”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “I
don’t… I just think there’s more to it
than that.” She paused, beginning to
turn away. “I just don’t think I trust
you, that’s all.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “Well,
at least I know where I stand.” Saint said brightly, leaning over his desk and
stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray there. He leant back against the desk, folding his arms
thoughtfully. “But seriously Louise,
think about what I’ve said, I’m sure I can help you. I’m really not interested in… using you or anything, despite what
you think.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> Louise
said nothing. She paused in the doorway,
reluctant now, to leave and close the door on this, perhaps her only chance of
escape from the turmoil. She glanced
back at Saint, who was still standing by the desk, watching her. As their eyes met, he smiled vaguely and
gave a little shrug, almost of apology.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “Of
course, I’m not going to force you to do anything you don’t want to. And I understand your reluctance… I think
I’d feel the same way in your position, anyone would. But I really don’t think you’ve got much choice in the
matter. Which sounds melodramatic, but…
well, I think you appreciate that the situation is a pretty desperate one,
don’t you?” Raising his eyebrows, he
walked towards her resting his hand above her head on the edge of the door. He seemed to be on the point of physically
preventing her from leaving, but then again, he could simply be leaning, or
even keeping the door open for her. It
was all so ambiguous; everything about him had two edges, the blade and the
healing wand. Health restored, sanity
regained. The control rope caught and
pulled tight. “Because I don’t think
that this thing with Harriet is going to become any easier to keep under
control unless you… allow me to intervene, to help you master the time-slip. You really can’t just let things go on the
way they are now. What’ll happen is
that you will lose your grip, sooner or later.” He paused. Louise stared
at the scar trickling over the line of his jaw; it struck her for the first
time that the deep gash was surely the result of a knife attack. “But I think you know that already, don’t
you?”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> Louise
nodded mutely. She swallowed and shook
her head.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “But
still… I can’t do it.” She looked at
him quickly, just feeling the impact of his words. “What do you mean, ‘lose your grip’? On what? Sanity… or
myself, <i>me</i>?” Again, the vague smile, the scar creased for
a moment like a paper bag. Louise could
feel the answer suddenly creeping towards her on silent claws, its’ inevitable
stealth contained within the tough skin, the long drawn-out line of Fate. “Or both, maybe?” Turning quickly Louise broke the thread that ran between them,
the eye contact that held her like a wizard’s spell, a healing promise tainted
black around the edges. She left
quickly, heading downwards, following the sucking spiral without looking back,
taking the stairs two at a time.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Now go to<a href="http://nicolabatty.blogspot.co.uk/2012/07/killing-time-chapter-eight.html"> Chapter Eight.</a></span>Nicola Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17066855901263569768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8806237858971105635.post-71308077780364469262012-07-01T13:38:00.000+01:002012-07-01T13:38:09.092+01:00Floating...<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
FLOATING</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
All my life I have
never been able to deal with</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
this idea of gravity
pulling me down to earth,</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
so I still bear scars
to remind me of it!</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
I love that sensation
of floating so much,</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
whether in the water
or in the air, I don’t care.</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Even in my mind I can
achieve this</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
by lying asleep and
dreaming. </div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
I may well need
oxygen to keep me alive</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
but just to be
floating is the real object of my life.</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Thinking about this
makes me think of Stan,</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
who will understand
what I’m talking about.</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
I wonder if this is
what the scientists were driving at</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
when they were so
obsessed with flight.</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
I can understand
this, though I have never</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
before had any time
for science,</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
I don’t really think
it’s scientific at all,</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
merely a way of
living,</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
a sensation like that
is such a beautiful one.</div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12pt;">Thank you so much for listening to me, Nic</span></div>
</span>Nicola Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17066855901263569768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8806237858971105635.post-71208583596328945292012-06-16T17:29:00.002+01:002012-06-16T17:29:46.980+01:00A Dream...<br />
Here is another dream:<br />
I kept a large cage with a few budgies in it. It was such a large cage I could go right inside. I was responsible for feeding the birds one of which was yellow, it was like a budgie I used to have called Gabriel.<br />
As I stood inside the cage more and more budgies appeared out of nowhere and kept on coming so that I was surrounded by those idiots pecking at me. I can still feel those little feathered bodies crowding around me, pressing in and filling my lungs with feathers so that I found it difficult to breathe. It was such a horrible feeling that I never want to set eyes on those budgies again as long as I live.<br />Nicola Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17066855901263569768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8806237858971105635.post-8060621050098329252012-06-16T14:43:00.000+01:002012-06-16T14:43:01.446+01:00Killing Time - Chapter Six Cont.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b>Chapter Six continued.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b>As she began to move towards the door, she
thought that she heard vague music. She stopped and listened. Where was it coming
from? But no, it was not really there at all. The silence encased her, the meat
between two slices of bread, and the space between filled with an aching of
nothingness. She felt unsteady, on the point of collapse… of complete
disintegration. Like a vampire, she would fizzle away to nothing as the light
fell upon her. A spark of light caught her eye, a red light; it winked from the
side of the projector. Louise moved slowly towards it, puzzled. Hadn’t she seen
Nigel just…? She moved slowly through the thick air, layer upon layer, folding
in upon itself like a molten Swiss roll from a silver spoon. She felt like a disembodied shadow of
herself, the essential soul sliced through with a sharp knife. Her conscious self
had become threadbare, shredded; now she didn’t know where she was, she wasn’t
in control any longer. Moving slowly, she was moving slowly… as though walking
under water. As if wading through the memory of a dream, her limbs moved as if
disconnected from her body. The red light, the red light winked and her hand
paused on the switch, swimming through time. Her fingers touched the warm body
of the projector and lingered over it as though they were sliding over a
different surface, an alternative flesh. Falling over the frame of her bones,
cascading around her ankles like a soft shell, a vain effort to disguise her
body from herself. Standing over the projector, she was drawn down; her head
was drawn down and her eye became fixed on the viewer. She heard the music,
sensed the atmosphere, and knew the bustle of life like it was her own, even
before she actually saw anything. She felt as if she was falling; things
shifted around her, the entire projection room was turning inside out. There
was nothing to grip on to, essence dripping through her fingers, slipping like
vapour through the crevices in the concrete wall. Music filtered through the
membrane of her ears with a soft, padded footfall, growing louder and she knew
she was there, there, amongst the audience, clapping and singing along with them.
She heard singing; discordant voices rose to a shriek in gravelly union, tinged
with a ginny hysteria. Colours, many colours argue and fight for supremacy;
vivid cotton frocks, cheap materials, jostled one another for the best view of
the stage. The blurred figure, the toothless grins, the place vibrating with
energy. And she can see herself – that is, she can see Harriet; she can feel
Harriet; she can feel the fumes of cheap gin filling her head, the pain in her
shoulder where her landlord had pushed her against the edge of the front door
and the continual empty ache of her stomach. Her bones seemed to touch each
other, she was so thin; they were brittle and weightless, like dried out reeds
or quill pens. She realised how weak
she was and felt she must sit down. She could feel rivers of sweat running down
her back and the tightness of her skin stretched across her face, every pore
filled with grime and city filth. The sense of dirt clung to her. Her eyes
watered needlessly and she saw everything through a film of moisture; she had
to close her eyes tightly to stop the air rushing past her, the headlong flight
through time. She was aware of a woman on the stage, wearing a red velvet gown
and black fur stole, elbow-length black gloves and a huge hat with a long black
feather which drooped down her back and trailed along the stage behind her as
she stepped quickly across the boards. She carried an elegant black cane, which
she tapped lightly against her hip in time to the song she was singing. Harriet
remembered her meeting with Mr. Ross and the spilled blood on the cobbles
dripped behind her eyes; was it all a dream? Or had it actually happened? The
woman on the stage shrieked out the words, encouraging the crowd to sing along
with her, to raise their glasses, abandon their factory lives and immerse
themselves in the gaudy decorations around them. The posters and the playbills
that covered the shabby walls, the coloured lights and coloured feathers, the
discordant music, the pianist dropping his sheets of music every time he turned
over a page… the words stretched out like raw and rising dough, mouths wide in
unison. Harriet leaned against the back wall of the theatre, having left her
friends somewhere in the crowd. She felt dizzy and flushed; she wondered if she
had caught a chill from sleeping in doorways and under railway arches, as she
had been forced to do the past few nights.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “You
alright? You don’t look too well.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> Harriet
started, surprised to find a man standing next to her, leaning back against the
wall. She hadn’t seen or even sensed his presence there though he stood so
close to her, he almost touched her. For a moment she was unsure whether he had
really spoken to her or not; for he didn’t look at her. His eyes - which were a
startling green - looked oddly out of place in his pale, unshaven face, with
his matted dark hair, which obviously hadn’t seen a comb in quite some weeks.
His thick, heavy eyebrows formed a straight line across his forehead and they
were pulled so far down, that they almost concealed the fragile beauty of his
eyes. He wore an old, patched jacket and a large yellow cravat knotted around
his neck. The cravat gave him the appearance of a Regency buck; Harriet
wondered if he wore it in an effort to distract attention from the shabbiness
of the rest of his clothes. If so, it worked admirably.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b> “I’m alright,” she
said finally, trying to assess him by his appearance and attitude towards her
for the amount of money he would be willing to pay. But she found it very difficult to glean any information from
him, other than that he was neither rich nor poverty-stricken and that he was
unmarried, which she could always tell at once. When he finally caught her eye briefly, she dismissed him
instantly as a prospective client, seeing something else in that shifty,
sidelong glance, though she was not sure what.
He looked away from her again and spoke almost without moving his lips,
so that his words were disembodied the moment they appeared, lost alley cats wailing
amongst the dustbins.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “Well,
you don’t look it.” The man’s voice was
hoarse, as if he had been standing on a street-corner shouting for hours. Perhaps that was how he earned his living,
hawking stolen goods in those parts of Whitechapel that ‘bobbies’ would not
venture into alone and then only in daylight.
Harriet watched him remove his battered black cap and push his unruly
hair out of his eyes. The movement
seemed to belong to a young man, though she doubted if he could be much younger
than her. As he caught her eye again
she felt his glance take in her whole body, the state of her clothes; she felt
stripped naked, exposed and left on a rock for the carnivores to feed
upon. She looked away from him,
“'s'pose yer lookin' for a room.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b>
It was a statement rather than a question one to which Harriet felt she
could say nothing. So she pulled her shawl tighter around her and stared
furiously at a group of men standing in front of her, sailors killing a few
hours in the East End before returning to St. Katherine’s Dock for their night
passage home.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “I’ve
got a room yer can use.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> Harriet
looked at the man sharply, wondering if she had heard him right. She knew that he would expect something in
return. However, she knew also that she
was in no position to refuse a reasonable offer.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “'Ow
much?” she asked quickly.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> In
reply the man shook his head, still not looking at her. He gestured with his head towards the doors,
which led out of the music hall round to the back of the stage.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “Me
name’s Tom,” he said, beginning to move off.
Harriet followed, having almost to run to keep up with the man’s
strides. She hadn’t noticed before how
tall he was; he stood nearly two heads above her, despite her own fairly
generous height. As Tom turned into a
narrow passageway, which ran away from the music hall itself, he stopped
abruptly by an unmarked door and took out a bunch of keys on a chain. He opened the door, glancing quickly left
and right as he did so. Harriet
hesitated before following him into the room.
It was tiny and cramped, with almost every inch of space taken up by an
old iron bed, covered with a few tattered, greying sheets and a blanket rolled
up to use as a pillow. At the foot of
the bed was an obviously unused fireplace and on the floor beside it, a pile of
old newspapers, a kettle, cup and a chamber pot. There was a window along the wall facing the door, but it was so
blackened by soot and grime that it was impossible to see out. Harriet had to squeeze between Tom and the
doorframe in order to distinguish anything through the thick layer of gloom
that coated the room like a London fog.
She turned as she felt Tom nudge her and press something into her hand.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “’Ere’s
yer key.” He replaced the other keys in
his pocket and began carefully to retie his cravat, bending to see in a tiny,
spotted mirror, which hung on the wall beside him. Harriet watched him, unsure what to do or say. “What’s yer name?” he asked, straightening
up and looking at her directly.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “’Arriet,”
she answered nervously.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “Well,
make yerself at ‘ome, ‘arriet. I’ll be
around.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> And
he was gone, striding away down the passage, closing the door quietly behind
him. Harriet stood where she was,
staring blankly at the closed door.
Finally she sat down on the edge of the bed and began to unpin her straw
bonnet, the mechanical motion of her fingers reassuring her, lulling her nerves
into a smooth concoction, laying down all the ragged edges. Numbness washed over her, a great physical
relief and she lay back on the bed, which seemed to her to be unbelievably soft
and welcoming. She threw both her arms
out and closed her eyes, knowing that she was smiling to herself for the first
time in several days.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b>Louise could still hear the distant sounds of the music hall as she
opened her eyes. She was lying on her back, with her arms outstretched and at
first she couldn’t recognise anything around her. She felt as though she were
hanging suspended from the ceiling, or had been stuffed carelessly on one of
the shelves along with the reels of film.
She felt heavy, huge and clumsy; she could hardly lift her arm, or raise
her head. Her eyes stung as if she had
been looking into the wind. She sat up slowly. There were several squashed
cardboard boxes beneath her. She was
sitting on the floor of the projection room, at the foot of the projector; the
sounds of the music hall were gradually weakening, until they were nothing more
than shelves around the silence, dim shapes like ghosts which touched her
still. As she got to her feet she was
sure that she could still smell the gin and the greasepaint, still feel the
aching fatigue that belonged to Harriet, not Louise. As she reached her hand to switch out the red light on the
projector, she noticed that she was trembling uncontrollably. It seemed that she was looking at someone else’s
hand. <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<br /></div>
<b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Now
go to </span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Chapter Seven </span>Nicola Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17066855901263569768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8806237858971105635.post-89412812390532061862012-06-09T15:13:00.000+01:002012-07-01T14:39:48.259+01:00Killing Time - Chapter Six<h1 style="text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="color: #000099;">KILLING TIME</span></span></h1>
<h1 style="text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="color: #000099;">A novel by</span></span></h1>
<h1 style="text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="color: #000099;">NICOLA BATTY</span></span></h1>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b><u>Chapter Six.</u></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">6<sup>th</sup> September 1991</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> In
dripping letters of blood, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Hands of
the Ripper</i> was scored across the poster as though by some lurking madman.
Louise turned away, reminded again of the dark pool of blood surrounding the
body of Polly Nichols. The image was still burning fiercely in her head after
all this time. Of course it had only been a dream, triggered no doubt, by <i>The
Real Jack the Ripper</i>, but it was Harriet who had disturbed her, rather than
the murder victim. The effortless transformation of her own self into another
seemed too easy - almost natural - she had slipped into a completely different
way of thinking as though she had known Harriet all her life, had always
bordered on the edge of a different existence. She sat at the crossroads and
waited, hovering between self and other. Louise stared out of the glass
entrance doors to the foyer. She folded her arms quickly to keep herself from
shivering. She felt cold inside, cold with a sinister fear. She felt like she
was falling and there was nothing to stop her.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> Louise
wandered around the empty foyer of the <i>Palentine Cinema</i> where she
worked, searching for something to distract her mind. Her eyes roamed
relentlessly over the walls; here and there pieces of plaster had fallen away
and cracks appeared, tunnelling behind the posters which might well have been
put up in an effort to conceal this decay. Louise began to count how many
different looks of terror she could spot on the posters around the walls; and
then she would award marks of ten for the most convincing. She moved around the
room slowly. The wall behind the refreshments counter scored the highest so
far, as the cinema had been showing the complete series of small-budget vampire
films and this was where all the posters were arranged in a long line.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “What
do you think you’re doing, Louise?” Mr. Hawkins, her boss, stood behind her,
leaning against the counter where her half-filled refreshments tray was lying
beside her elbow. His voice was rough and gravelly, even more so than usual -
it was quite painful to listen to it. “I don’t pay you to stand around looking
at the posters, you know. Get this tray filled up. The interval’s in a minute
and where’s Clare?”</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> Louise
shrugged, moving behind the counter slowly. Mr. Hawkins tapped his rings (he
wore one on every finger – huge gold ones, some with black circles in the
centre), irritably against the side of Louise’s tray, his little piggy eyes
almost hidden beneath his enormous eyebrows as he frowned. Louise supposed that
he was about forty-five or fifty, but his insistence on dressing like a
seventies pop star seemed to accentuate the frown lines across his brow and the
roundness of his beer-belly. He moved with a curious twist and swagger, almost
as if he were dancing instead of merely walking. This hip movement of his
became exaggerated if there were any women present, including Louise or Clare.
When Louise had first started work at <i>The Palentine</i> eight months ago,
she had regarded him with a mixture of amusement and pity. By now, however, all
her compassion had turned sour, everything had become too familiar.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “Aren’t
there any more King Cones in there, Louise?” Mr. Hawkins moved quickly behind
Louise as she bent to reach inside the fridge. “Get some more! You don’t want
to run out of the most expensive ones now, do you?”</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “My
God, no. Whatever would I do?” Closing her fingers thankfully around the last
of the ice creams wedged at the back of the fridge, she withdrew her hand,
swinging round to face her boss. The heavy gold cross, which he wore round his
neck, hit her in the eye.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “Christ!”
She let the fridge door shut violently.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “Sorry
Louise,” chortled Mr. Hawkins.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “You
could get nicked for carrying that around, you know. It’s a bloody offensive
weapon!”</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “Yes,
well, let’s not exaggerate.” Mr. Hawkins clapped his hands together as if he
were an Infant School teacher hurrying the children along. “Come on, get this
tray on! Look sharp!” Beginning to prance away across the foyer towards a door
marked ‘Staff Only’; he called over his shoulder, “And don’t forget to take
those reel-cases up to the projection room.” He winked at her before
disappearing through the door. Louise stared after him morosely.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Later that night, Louise climbed the stairs
up to the projection room; she was relieved to find the door open, as it would
have been difficult - if not impossible - for her to open the door whilst
carrying an armful of reel-cases. She stumbled over an empty cardboard box,
which was standing just inside the door and dropped all her reel-cases.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “Shit!”
she said, beginning to scrabble around on the floor for the scattered reels of
film.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “Here,
allow me.” A voice behind her made her leap out of her skin. She turned round
but could only see a dark shadow.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “Jesus
Nigel, don’t do that, you nearly gave me a heart attack. Why on earth haven't
you got the light on?”</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “Because
I was just leaving when you barged in, sweetheart.” Nigel stood up, pulling the
collar of his cream linen sports jacket up so that it covered the straggling
edges of his lank brown hair. He didn’t smile. She wondered if he was even
capable of it.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “Well,
what a bloody stupid place to leave a cardboard box,” she answered.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> Nigel
shrugged, saying nothing. He began to shove the reel-cases into any gaps he
could find in the shelves, which lined one entire wall of the room. She watched
him, fascinated. </b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">“Don’t you put them in any order?” she
asked.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> Nigel
swung the last reel-case onto the top shelf, shaking his head. </b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">“No", he said without turning around,
“there’s no order.”</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> He
scowled at her impatiently, taking a pair of mirror sunglasses from his pocket
and putting them on. Louise stared back at him and saw her own face reflected
in his glasses, surrounded by Nigel’s greasy brown hair. She thought for a
moment that he was someone else; her eyes were glowing with such ferocity that she
almost couldn’t recognise herself. She looked away quickly as Nigel turned,
glancing around the room to check that he hadn’t forgotten anything. Seeing that the projector was still on, he
went over and switched it off. Then he went out and Louise heard his soft
footfalls quickly descending the stairs. She shivered, she only rarely bumped
into Nigel and each time she did, he gave her that same disturbing feeling… a
slithering unease, a quiet insinuating snake. She suspected that he and Mr.
Hawkins were related in some way; they both seemed to have a similar effect on
her nerves.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </b></div>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">Now go to the <a href="http://nicolabatty.blogspot.co.uk/2012/06/killing-time-chapter-six-cont.html">continuation of ChapterSix.</a></span></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Chapter Six Continued:</b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b>As she began to move towards the door, she thought that she heard vague music. She stopped and listened. Where was it coming from? But no, it was not really there at all. The silence encased her, the meat between two slices of bread, and the space between filled with an aching of nothingness. She felt unsteady, on the point of collapse… of complete disintegration. Like a vampire, she would fizzle away to nothing as the light fell upon her. A spark of light caught her eye, a red light; it winked from the side of the projector. Louise moved slowly towards it, puzzled. Hadn’t she seen Nigel just…? She moved slowly through the thick air, layer upon layer, folding in upon itself like a molten Swiss roll from a silver spoon. She felt like a disembodied shadow of herself, the essential soul sliced through with a sharp knife. Her conscious self had become threadbare, shredded; now she didn’t know where she was, she wasn’t in control any longer. Moving slowly, she was moving slowly… as though walking under water. As if wading through the memory of a dream, her limbs moved as if disconnected from her body. The red light, the red light winked and her hand paused on the switch, swimming through time. Her fingers touched the warm body of the projector and lingered over it as though they were sliding over a different surface, an alternative flesh. Falling over the frame of her bones, cascading around her ankles like a soft shell, a vain effort to disguise her body from herself. Standing over the projector, she was drawn down; her head was drawn down and her eye became fixed on the viewer. She heard the music, sensed the atmosphere, and knew the bustle of life like it was her own, even before she actually saw anything. She felt as if she was falling; things shifted around her, the entire projection room was turning inside out. There was nothing to grip on to, essence dripping through her fingers, slipping like vapour through the crevices in the concrete wall. Music filtered through the membrane of her ears with a soft, padded footfall, growing louder and she knew she was there, there, amongst the audience, clapping and singing along with them. She heard singing; discordant voices rose to a shriek in gravelly union, tinged with a ginny hysteria. Colours, many colours argue and fight for supremacy; vivid cotton frocks, cheap materials, jostled one another for the best view of the stage. The blurred figure, the toothless grins, the place vibrating with energy. And she can see herself – that is, she can see Harriet; she can feel Harriet; she can feel the fumes of cheap gin filling her head, the pain in her shoulder where her landlord had pushed her against the edge of the front door and the continual empty ache of her stomach. Her bones seemed to touch each other, she was so thin; they were brittle and weightless, like dried out reeds or quill pens. She realised how weak she was and felt she must sit down. She could feel rivers of sweat running down her back and the tightness of her skin stretched across her face, every pore filled with grime and city filth. The sense of dirt clung to her. Her eyes watered needlessly and she saw everything through a film of moisture; she had to close her eyes tightly to stop the air rushing past her, the headlong flight through time. She was aware of a woman on the stage, wearing a red velvet gown and black fur stole, elbow-length black gloves and a huge hat with a long black feather which drooped down her back and trailed along the stage behind her as she stepped quickly across the boards. She carried an elegant black cane, which she tapped lightly against her hip in time to the song she was singing. Harriet remembered her meeting with Mr. Ross and the spilled blood on the cobbles dripped behind her eyes; was it all a dream? Or had it actually happened? The woman on the stage shrieked out the words, encouraging the crowd to sing along with her, to raise their glasses, abandon their factory lives and immerse themselves in the gaudy decorations around them. The posters and the playbills that covered the shabby walls, the coloured lights and coloured feathers, the discordant music, the pianist dropping his sheets of music every time he turned over a page… the words stretched out like raw and rising dough, mouths wide in unison. Harriet leaned against the back wall of the theatre, having left her friends somewhere in the crowd. She felt dizzy and flushed; she wondered if she had caught a chill from sleeping in doorways and under railway arches, as she had been forced to do the past few nights.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “You alright? You don’t look too well.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> Harriet started, surprised to find a man standing next to her, leaning back against the wall. She hadn’t seen or even sensed his presence there though he stood so close to her, he almost touched her. For a moment she was unsure whether he had really spoken to her or not; for he didn’t look at her. His eyes - which were a startling green - looked oddly out of place in his pale, unshaven face, with his matted dark hair, which obviously hadn’t seen a comb in quite some weeks. His thick, heavy eyebrows formed a straight line across his forehead and they were pulled so far down, that they almost concealed the fragile beauty of his eyes. He wore an old, patched jacket and a large yellow cravat knotted around his neck. The cravat gave him the appearance of a Regency buck; Harriet wondered if he wore it in an effort to distract attention from the shabbiness of the rest of his clothes. If so, it worked admirably.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b> “I’m alright,” she said finally, trying to assess him by his appearance and attitude towards her for the amount of money he would be willing to pay. But she found it very difficult to glean any information from him, other than that he was neither rich nor poverty-stricken and that he was unmarried, which she could always tell at once. When he finally caught her eye briefly, she dismissed him instantly as a prospective client, seeing something else in that shifty, sidelong glance, though she was not sure what. He looked away from her again and spoke almost without moving his lips, so that his words were disembodied the moment they appeared, lost alley cats wailing amongst the dustbins.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “Well, you don’t look it.” The man’s voice was hoarse, as if he had been standing on a street-corner shouting for hours. Perhaps that was how he earned his living, hawking stolen goods in those parts of Whitechapel that ‘bobbies’ would not venture into alone and then only in daylight. Harriet watched him remove his battered black cap and push his unruly hair out of his eyes. The movement seemed to belong to a young man, though she doubted if he could be much younger than her. As he caught her eye again she felt his glance take in her whole body, the state of her clothes; she felt stripped naked, exposed and left on a rock for the carnivores to feed upon. She looked away from him, “'s'pose yer lookin' for a room.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> It was a statement rather than a question one to which Harriet felt she could say nothing. So she pulled her shawl tighter around her and stared furiously at a group of men standing in front of her, sailors killing a few hours in the East End before returning to St. Katherine’s Dock for their night passage home.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “I’ve got a room yer can use.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> Harriet looked at the man sharply, wondering if she had heard him right. She knew that he would expect something in return. However, she knew also that she was in no position to refuse a reasonable offer.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “'Ow much?” she asked quickly.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> In reply the man shook his head, still not looking at her. He gestured with his head towards the doors, which led out of the music hall round to the back of the stage.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “Me name’s Tom,” he said, beginning to move off. Harriet followed, having almost to run to keep up with the man’s strides. She hadn’t noticed before how tall he was; he stood nearly two heads above her, despite her own fairly generous height. As Tom turned into a narrow passageway, which ran away from the music hall itself, he stopped abruptly by an unmarked door and took out a bunch of keys on a chain. He opened the door, glancing quickly left and right as he did so. Harriet hesitated before following him into the room. It was tiny and cramped, with almost every inch of space taken up by an old iron bed, covered with a few tattered, greying sheets and a blanket rolled up to use as a pillow. At the foot of the bed was an obviously unused fireplace and on the floor beside it, a pile of old newspapers, a kettle, cup and a chamber pot. There was a window along the wall facing the door, but it was so blackened by soot and grime that it was impossible to see out. Harriet had to squeeze between Tom and the doorframe in order to distinguish anything through the thick layer of gloom that coated the room like a London fog. She turned as she felt Tom nudge her and press something into her hand.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “’Ere’s yer key.” He replaced the other keys in his pocket and began carefully to retie his cravat, bending to see in a tiny, spotted mirror, which hung on the wall beside him. Harriet watched him, unsure what to do or say. “What’s yer name?” he asked, straightening up and looking at her directly.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “’Arriet,” she answered nervously.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> “Well, make yerself at ‘ome, ‘arriet. I’ll be around.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b> And he was gone, striding away down the passage, closing the door quietly behind him. Harriet stood where she was, staring blankly at the closed door. Finally she sat down on the edge of the bed and began to unpin her straw bonnet, the mechanical motion of her fingers reassuring her, lulling her nerves into a smooth concoction, laying down all the ragged edges. Numbness washed over her, a great physical relief and she lay back on the bed, which seemed to her to be unbelievably soft and welcoming. She threw both her arms out and closed her eyes, knowing that she was smiling to herself for the first time in several days.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b>Louise could still hear the distant sounds of the music hall as she opened her eyes. She was lying on her back, with her arms outstretched and at first she couldn’t recognise anything around her. She felt as though she were hanging suspended from the ceiling, or had been stuffed carelessly on one of the shelves along with the reels of film. She felt heavy, huge and clumsy; she could hardly lift her arm, or raise her head. Her eyes stung as if she had been looking into the wind. She sat up slowly. There were several squashed cardboard boxes beneath her. She was sitting on the floor of the projection room, at the foot of the projector; the sounds of the music hall were gradually weakening, until they were nothing more than shelves around the silence, dim shapes like ghosts which touched her still. As she got to her feet she was sure that she could still smell the gin and the greasepaint, still feel the aching fatigue that belonged to Harriet, not Louise. As she reached her hand to switch out the red light on the projector, she noticed that she was trembling uncontrollably. It seemed that she was looking at someone else’s hand.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<br /></div>
<b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Now go to </span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Chapter Seven </span><br />Nicola Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17066855901263569768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8806237858971105635.post-49491374493944687572012-05-19T16:39:00.003+01:002012-06-09T15:15:10.288+01:00Killing Time - Chapter Five<h1 style="text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="color: #000099;">KILLING TIME</span></span></h1>
<h1 style="text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="color: #000099;">A novel by</span></span></h1>
<h1 style="text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="color: #000099;">NICOLA BATTY</span></span></h1>
<h3>
<u><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Chapter Five</span></u></h3>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2<sup>nd</sup> September, 1991</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> Louise
rubbed her eyes again. It was as if she had sand or dust in them, some grainy
substance to prevent her from ever seeing things properly again. Perhaps she was simply tired. Dropping <i>The
Real Jack the Ripper</i> on the floor beside her bed, she reached across and
switched off the lamp. She was thinking of the Sandman, stalking through Victorian
children’s picture books as she fell asleep. Only the figure seemed to be
bordering on something else; the bag of sand slung over his shoulder wavered
and could have been anything, a heap of clothes left on the cobbles for the
laundry woman to collect the next day. But then she moved closer and she saw
the blood.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> Harriet
was the first perhaps, to discover the mutilated body of the murderer’s victim
as it lay upon the cobblestones as if waiting its own resurrection. Harriet had
gone over to the bundle to search through it, hoping to find some pretty rags
to wear, as she couldn’t afford any new ones at the moment, not even another
shawl to wrap around her emaciated shoulders. But she had found the bundle to
be flesh and the red strips of cotton blood! She had backed away clutching her
hand as though she had touched not a body but a contagious, disease ridden
thing. She didn’t scream or even cry out, though she recalled talking with this
woman in <i>The Ten Bells</i> only a few days earlier. They had not been great
friends, both working in different areas of the East End; but still, Harriet
knew that this could easily have been her, ripped open and left to die on the
cobbles. But she felt certain that she would not have surrendered her grip on
life quite so easily. She knew that Polly Nichols had been at least twenty
years older than she herself; would her own comparative youth really have
shielded her from death? And Harriet also knew that her own gaunt face was as
pale as the dead woman’s beneath the grime of the city, her grey eyes dull with
fear. She retreated behind the wall of an old, decaying building nearby.
Sitting on the floor, hunched up by the window, she waited for someone else to
come and discover the body and call the police. She could not do it herself.
She could only watch, as the sky grew lighter.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> Harriet
was tired. She had been roaming the streets of Whitechapel, Bethnal Green and
Shoreditch since nine that evening, looking for business. Tomorrow was rent day again and as she was
already twelve shillings behind she fully expected to return home to find her
few remaining possessions pawned by the landlord and the room let to someone
else. She had found only two punters that night; one was a middle-aged worker
from the docks, the other a young sailor just arrived home. She was glad that
she still had the looks to attract the younger ones. She had not yet lost all
her charms completely, not like that poor old bag of bones outside. Harriet was
tired and she closed her eyes.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> She
was awoken from her doze by the sound of footsteps directly outside the
glassless window. As she listened the steps gradually halted. They were
accompanied by a tapping noise, which continued. Harriet raised her head from
where it had been resting against a wall. The pain of the muscles in her neck
almost made her cry out. She heard the man outside strike a match, and watched
it whiz past her nose as he threw it in through the open window when he had lit
his cigarette. The tapping noise started again and Harriet wished that the man
would move away so that she could look out and discover what the sound was.
Early morning light had begun to seep in through the window now, and she
wondered how many hours she had dozed, one maybe two? She wondered if the
police were here yet. Could she hear men’s voices coming from further up the
street? She listened, absently picking pieces of plaster from her long, dark
hair.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> At
last the man’s foot crunched wetly, as if he were turning on his heel. Harriet
heard him walk slowly past the window. She stood up carefully, keeping in the
shadows and peered after him. Through the half light of dawn she could see the
back of a well dressed gentleman in a tailored black coat treading deliberately
along the wet cobbles as though he were walking to the hangman’s noose. He wore
a silk top hat and dark gloves; in his hand he carried a shiny black cane with
a silver handle, which he tapped steadily against all the walls of the
buildings as he passed them by. Harriet noticed that a grim huddle of policemen
surrounded the body of her former acquaintance, and she cursed herself for
having fallen asleep; how much of the drama had she missed? She was appalled to
realise how detached she felt now, as if her initial fear had been crushed. The
policemen stood around, silent and morose, their capes gleaming like newly
exposed skin in the sinister half-light, their truncheons tapping uselessly
against their thighs.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> Harriet
watched from the broken-down window; she was able to see the scene clearly from
her position. She watched as one of the policemen detached himself from the
group and walked towards the approaching gentleman, as if to greet him. The
rain glistened over the dark-blue of his uniform, highlighting both the colour
of it and the shininess of the brass buttons. She could even make out drops of
moisture nestling in the thick blackness of his beard and side-whiskers,
decorating his otherwise pale and expressionless face with sparkling gems.
Harriet thought that he looked as though he was walking under water very slowly,
as if in part of some strange ritual dance. The smart man stopped and turned to
face the policeman; she could see now that he was a young man, a very young
man. He was clean-shaven and stood almost a foot smaller than the policeman.
Despite this, the policeman touched his helmet deferentially before he spoke.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “Morning
Sir,” he said and his voice carried well to Harriet’s ears. The surrounding fog
seemed to encase the sound, to encapsulate it, pickle it like sugared fruit in
a tall glass jar, preserved in spirits for all to see.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “Morning,”
the young man replied, without inflection. He was smoking a cigarette steadily,
perhaps to calm his nerves. Though, to Harriet, he didn’t seem to be in the
least bit nervous or even concerned by the policeman’s appearance; his bright
blue eyes pierced through whatever they touched mercilessly, glinting with a
hard, ironic intensity. The humour lying just concealed there told Harriet that
he hadn’t yet seen the mutilated body near him, surrounded by policemen as it was.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “Nasty
business.” The policeman gestured with his head towards the cluster of his
associates. “Murder, I’m afraid,” he continued, taking out a notebook and
pencil from his inside pocket. Harriet closed her eyes briefly; she had known
that woman. The policeman then stroked his sparkling handlebar moustache with
the tip of his pencil, gazing thoughtfully at the young man. “Do you mind if I
ask you a few questions, Sir? Just routine,” he added nervously.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> The
young man returned the policeman’s gaze without emotion.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “Of
course not,” he replied quickly. “Please do.”</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> The
policeman nodded, pleased.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">“Your name, Sir?”</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> Harriet
watched the young gentleman remove his hat. He appeared younger than ever
without it, a child trying to act grown up. He scratched the back of his skull,
his straight, short hair gleaming like oil in the day’s new light.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “Robert
Ross.”</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “And
your address?”</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “Sixty
Holloway Road.”</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> Ah,
thought Harriet to herself, thought he couldn’t be a local. Must be on his way
home from some posh West End club. The policeman obviously thought this too,
for he looked up, after scribbling down Robert Ross’s address.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “And
may I ask what you’re doing here, Sir? At…” The policeman consulted his watch,
returning his eyes critically to the young man’s face. “Four thirty in the
morning?”</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> There
was a pause. Harriet watched the elegant figure of Mr. Ross lean heavily on his
cane, gazing off into the distance as though he were trying to remember his own
identity, to recognise the city around him. For a moment she thought that he
looked directly at her; she drew back into the shadows quickly, her nerves
suddenly on edge. But Ross turned away, throwing his cigarette stub onto the
cobbles and grinding it to death beneath the heel of his polished boot. A
strange sense of unease crept over Harriet, a dull recognition of the action,
as though it had featured significantly in some almost forgotten dream from her
childhood. The young man seemed to her to be playing for time. He watched his
cigarette fizzle and die on the damp ground without curiosity.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “I’ve
been… to a party.” Ross spoke with great deliberation, slowly and heavily, as
if to an idiot. He gave the impression of possessing both great knowledge and
experience. “At Tite Street, Chelsea.”</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> The
policeman looked up sharply. He tapped his teeth with his pencil.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “And
there are people who can vouch for your whereabouts at this party, Sir?
Reliable people?”</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> Ross
paused again and Harriet understood his dilemma. While wanting to provide
himself with an alibi he did not, naturally enough, wish to involve his friends
with the police. Though they would be able to look after themselves. Those with money always could. And Chelsea –
the West End in general – was the home of the rich, the decadent, of the
notorious. She had been there a couple of times with gentlemen, real gentlemen,
who occasionally came to the East End to sample for themselves the fights, the
poverty, the gaiety and bustle that went with it. The West End had seemed to
Harriet an intimidating and awesome place, full of wealth, colour and texture.
She had wanted to linger over sparkling shop windows laden with sugared
confectionery, or lengths of chiffon or velvet and hats decorated with ribbons,
yards of lace and silk flowers. She had felt that she could only stay there so
long, drinking in the spectacle; for not only was the scent too heady for her
thin veins, too intoxicating, but she was also aware that she had no right to
be there. She felt awkward, an intruder, she had crossed the forbidden
threshold; she had transgressed.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “Oh
yes,” replied Ross finally and Harriet could tell that he was trying his
hardest to conceal a smile in these grim circumstances. “Many reputable people
saw me. Would you like the full address?”</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “Not
necessary, Sir.” The policeman closed his notebook with a snap, returning it to
his inside pocket. For the first time he smiled fleetingly; it seemed that he
was satisfied with the young man’s story. Though she could not say why, Harriet
felt absurdly relieved. She yawned and shifted her position carefully; perhaps
she would be able to leave this grisly scene now, under cover of the young
man’s exit. For now he appeared to be moving away, tapping his cane against the
cobbles. But the policeman stopped him, touching his helmet again.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “I’d
get a cab if I were you, Sir. It’s a nasty business.”</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> Ross
shrugged and glanced over at the huddle of policemen surrounding the body of
the murdered woman. Harriet wondered how much he could see. She shrank back as
the policeman hurried past her, evidently trying to find a cab for Mr. Ross,
who followed him slowly. He seemed reluctant to leave the scene of the crime,
as though he could not really believe in its reality and wanted to watch it pop
and disappear, explode in the early morning light, transient as a soap bubble,
fleeting as the policeman’s own slight smile. Ross’s steps were unhurried; he
lit another cigarette as he ambled past the building in which Harriet was
concealed, his black cane tucked neatly under his arm. She waited for him to
throw the dead match in through the window, but he didn’t. He looked directly
at her - she froze. He stood there, holding the dead match between his fingers,
staring at her. She couldn’t move, she
heard the clatter of horses’ hooves and the policeman’s voice.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “Here’s
your cab, Sir.”</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> Ross
blinked and turned slowly to the policeman, dropping the dead match onto the
cobbles.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “Thank
you,” he said as he moved out of Harriet’s sight. She heard him climb into the
cab and saw the policeman pass the window once again to rejoin his colleagues.
She was still unable to move, her fear was huge and vague but with the
immediacy of one who has been standing near to a grisly murder victim for any
length of time. She heard the horse’s hooves again; the cab was turning round,
right outside the window. It stopped and she heard Ross’s voice again, low so
that the policeman wouldn’t hear.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “Hey!
Can I offer you a lift?”</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> Harriet
looked back at the policeman’s ambling figure, his broad back getting smaller
as he moved away from her towards the scene of the murder. Most of his
colleagues had dispersed by now and were examining the surrounding buildings,
loose cobbles and drains along the street. The grey morning poured its watery
light over the body of Polly Nichols, whose throat had been slit right open and
the blood mixed with rain that gleamed darkly over the cobbles. Harriet
suddenly turned and clambered out through the window and into the cab, which
had drawn up alongside. She caught her cotton skirt on the edge of the window
frame and heard it tear as she tugged it free. Harriet gazed anxiously back at
the pathetic red rag hanging on the window frame, waving slightly in the
breeze.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “Where
do you live?” asked Ross gently.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> She
pulled her head back inside the cab quickly, remembering the policeman behind
her and then there was the <i>Jarvie </i>too. Ross was risking a lot, it
seemed; he would be severely compromised if anyone he knew saw them together.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “I
live on Fashion Street” she answered.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> Ross
nodded and pushed up the trapdoor on the roof of the cab with his cane to shout
instructions to the <i>Jarvie</i>. When he had sat down again, he removed his
hat and gloves and leant back against the seat with a deep sigh. Harriet played with the fringe of her
patterned shawl, watching him nervously. He continued to smoke his cigarette, not looking at her.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “Thank
you… fer yer kin’ness t’me Sir,” she muttered finally, uncomfortable with the
silence. He looked at her and his face broke easily into a grin. It seemed a
relief to him to drop this pretence of maturity.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “It’s
nothing.”</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “Well,
that may be, Sir, but… however it is, I’m glad yer come along when y’did.”
Harriet stared at her restless hands, twining like a Medusa’s head in her lap.
Her thin fingers were white with cold. “I was… I was very much frightened.”</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> Ross
nodded, saying nothing. The murder was unmentionable.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “See…
I knew ‘er,” Harriet said suddenly.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> Ross
frowned.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “Did
you?”</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “I
spoke wiv ‘er only a few days ago. Just a few words… the time o’day, yer know.”
She picked at the hem of her dress, biting her lip. “An’ now look at ‘er.
Murdered… in such an ‘orrible way, too. I’ll admit, it’s frightened me
somethin’ terrible, Sir.”</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “Well,
you’re safe now,” said Ross, putting his arm around her shoulders. She
stiffened at once; but this was quite a different touch from that which she was
used to, intended simply for reassurance. “Yours is a dangerous profession,” he
added.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> She
looked at him sharply but he was gazing out of the window again at the rows of
bleak slum houses, crowded together into every conceivable space, every yard,
alley and court. He had spoken of prostitution as if she had told him she was a
dressmaker or a cook. She liked this attitude of his. She had never come across
it before.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “What’s
your name?” he asked suddenly.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “’Arriet,”
she replied, automatically guarded.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “Well,
Harriet here we are at Fashion Street. Which number is it?”</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “Twelve.” </b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> “Number
twelve, please!” Ross called to the Jarvie. He then turned and grinned at her
once again; she thought that he had a lovely face, with its youthful naivety
and candour, almost concealing the sharp wit in his clear eyes. “I hope to see
you again, Harriet. Here’s my card.” He gave her a small white square of card,
which she stared at blankly, not being able to read what was written on it. But
she kept it anyway. “I’ll watch you go inside. Goodbye!” he called, as she
slithered down from the cab and ran up to the door of the house in which she
lodged. Turning in the front doorway, she waved to the cab as it carried on
towards Brick Lane and north to Shoreditch. She could just see Ross waving his
top hat in her direction as she tried to open the front door. As she had
expected, the landlord had bolted it from the inside so that she could not get
in. She considered pounding on the door until he opened it, but decided that
causing such a fuss would just make him even more bad tempered than he was
already. So she crouched down in a corner of the doorway, trying to shelter
from the rain, and waited.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Now go to <a href="http://nicolabatty.blogspot.co.uk/2012/06/killing-time-chapter-six.html">Chapter Six</a></span>Nicola Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17066855901263569768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8806237858971105635.post-11590031048481684252012-05-12T14:31:00.002+01:002012-05-19T16:44:38.737+01:00Killing Time - Chapter Four<h1 style="text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="color: #000099;">KILLING TIME</span></span></h1>
<h1 style="text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="color: #000099;">A novel by</span></span></h1>
<h1 style="text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="color: #000099;">NICOLA BATTY</span></span></h1>
<h1 style="font-weight: normal;">
<u>Chapter Four</u></h1>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: -54.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 54.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: -54.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 54.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Spring 1882 - San Francisco,
U.S.A.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: -54.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 54.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">" Lady Stephenson, may I introduce Mr.
Oscar Wilde?"</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The crimson plume on Wilde's wide-brimmed black
hat swept the carpet just in front of the old lady's feet. She raised her
finely arched eyebrows slightly, saying nothing. The grey-suited man standing
beside him turned his own hat nervously round and round in his plump fingers
and cleared his throat.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Mr. Wilde, our city's most famous
chiromantist, Lady Stephenson."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"I must say how charming it is of you
to meet me at such short notice, Lady Stephenson," said Wilde in his rich,
deep voice. "I did so want to meet you before I left your beautiful city -
which, alas, I find I must do tomorrow."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Ah, your lecture tour continues to
keep you busy, I see." As she smiled, the startling green of her eyes
seemed to grow even brighter, lighting up her whole face. She still held on to
a quite striking beauty and dignity, despite her years. "It's most kind of
you to find time to visit me. I trust you're enjoying your stay here in San
Francisco, our ‘beautiful city’, as you call it."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Wilde handed his short black cape, hat and
ebony cane to the manservant and watched him go out through the white double
doors. "Well, of course, when I say 'beautiful city', I was speaking only
comparatively," he said, brushing back his long, brown hair from his face.
"One cannot really have a 'beautiful city', it's a negation in terms. Cities
are horrid, noisy places, filled with smoke and metal, and the tragic
consequence of this is that the ugliness of a city is always reflected in the
faces of its' inhabitants. Take Pennsylvania, for example." He tutted and
frowned. "A quite appallingly ugly city. I met a group of - coal-miners, I
believe they were - there and, do you know, they were without exception, quite
the ugliest people I have seen collected together in a single room for a long
time. It made me feel quite drained." He turned back to Lady Stephenson
smiling suddenly, "and that is the reason why I referred to your city as
'beautiful', Lady Stephenson, because I saw your beauty reflected in its'
streets."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Mr. Wilde, really." She turned
to the other man in the grey suit. "Mr Fray, you didn't tell me that
Englishmen were such flatterers."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Mr. Fray opened his mouth to speak, but
Wilde interrupted him swiftly.
"Ah, but I am not an Englishman, Lady Stephenson, I am an Irishman,
and there is a world of difference between the two, as any Irishman - or woman
- will tell you."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Indeed, Mr. Wilde, I believe so, my
mother was Irish."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Really? Then I see that Fate has
brought us together and is smiling down upon us in a most indecorous - one
might even call it a presumptuous manner." Wilde glanced behind him irritably as Mr. Fray gave another
nervous cough. "I do wish, Mr. Fray, that you would devise some other way
of getting my attention, one that is not so grating upon one's nerves. What is
it?"</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Mr. Fray blushed crimson. He shuffled his
feet as he hesitated. "It's just that… I… I really should be getting back
now." He paused, expecting someone to speak, but no one did. "I'll…
er, pick you up at five then."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Let me see," Wilde frowned
briefly, "upon what subject shall I be speaking tonight"</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"'Beauty in the Modern World' I think,
Mr. Wilde."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Then five o'clock will allow me quite
sufficient time to prepare myself. It would never do to be overdressed whilst
speaking on such a delicate subject."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Mr. Fray hesitated again, then began to
edge towards the door but he was brought to an abrupt halt by Wilde's voice,
accompanied by his arm being raised authoritatively above his head. As he did
so, the sunlight that fell through the long windows, slanted through the
billowing sleeve of his white shirt. </b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Mr. Fray! One more thing please,
before you go." He paused. "Do make sure that you refrain from
wearing anything patterned tonight. I myself will be wearing a striped
waistcoat and the two designs would clash quite appallingly."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">When Mr. Fray had closed the door behind
him, Lady Stephenson turned to Wilde, trying to conceal her smile behind her
hand. </b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Poor Mr. Fray, I feel quite sorry for
him. You are cruel, Mr. Wilde."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Wilde looked distressed. </b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Oh, I hope not. It's just that, as my
publicity agent, the man has no sense of style. Which, as you are probably
aware, is true generally of publicity agents, they are a breed quite
apart."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Gathering her skirts around her, the old
lady sat down at one end of the embroidered couch which was set in front of the
large bay windows, overlooking fields that led down to San Francisco Bay. The
afternoon sunlight fell through the branches of the trees that lined the
street, dappling her silver grey hair with golden highlights. "Do sit
here, Mr. Wilde. It's a beautiful day, is it not?"</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Indeed, the day is quite charming.
And what a splendid view you have from here! Yes…" He stood by the window
for a moment, his hand on his hip, gazing out. "The way the sun is falling
through those branches seems almost like a beautiful painting - perhaps of the
French Impressionist school, almost I say.
Nature, alas, is always to be found wanting." With a sigh he sat
down next to Lady Stephenson. "And now that the tedious business of polite
introductions is over, Lady Stephenson, perhaps we can turn to more interesting
subjects."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: -18.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 54.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Of course, but only if you
call me Elizabeth from now on."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Alright, and here I suppose, I should
say ‘and you must call me Oscar’… but I find that the name has a quite
undignified ring to it today. Such a pity.
Sometimes it has about it… almost a regal air." He slapped his hand
irritably on the knee of his velvet breeches. "Ah, if only one could
choose one's own name! Then, I feel quite sure we would be a race of artists,
each in perfect control of his or her own destiny."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Elizabeth frowned briefly. "But do you
really think names are so important?"</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Oh, certainly. Names are
everything." Wilde paused. "Take you own profession for instance. Is
it not true to say that the beauty of the word 'chiromantist' had something to
do with your choice of career?"</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Well, I don't know about that.
However, it is true to say that I would much rather be introduced as a
'chiromantist' than a 'palm reader', or worse still, a 'fortune teller'."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Wilde made a face. </b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Quite demeaning," he agreed.
"Names influence our Fate, I am certain…"</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Elizabeth looked at him sharply. "Do
you mean to say you believe in Fate, Mr. Wilde?"</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Most certainly I do." He paused,
then added, "not however, to the extent that some people do."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"What do you mean?"</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Standing up, he wandered over to the window
and looked out for a moment. "Let me tell you of a gentleman whose faith
in his own destiny knows no bounds," he continued. "Do you mind if I
smoke, Elizabeth? I can concentrate so much better if I do." </b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Elizabeth waved her hand dismissively at
him, shaking her head.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Turning back to the window, Wilde lit his
cigarette slowly, then continued to gaze out towards the silver-blue stretch of
the sea, silent for several moments.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"And so, Mr. Wilde, I do hope you are
going to tell me what became of this fatalistic friend of yours. No, thank
you," she added, declining the offered cigarette.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"I shall tell you then, the complete
and tragic tale of the unnamed gentleman. It began with him having his palm
read by a rather renowned chiromantist, who had such a commonplace name, that I
have quite forgotten it. However, the
essential fact is that the chiromantist, turning quite pale, told the gentleman
that he saw in his palm, a terrible Fate - his destiny would be stained with
murder!"</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"I hope that the gentleman was wise
enough to remain sceptical of this chiromantist."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Alas my dear lady, I regret to say
that he was a quite charming and well-bred person and therefore completely
devoid of common sense. He took his destiny to be as unavoidable as sin;
consequently he grew quite sick with worry and refused to marry the woman he
loved, such was his conviction in the truth of the words of Mr… the
chiromantist." Turning away from the window, he wandered slowly back over
to the couch, pausing to examine the pictures on the wall, hangings, and
furniture as he passed. "The tale concludes in a suitably tragic manner,
the gentleman's Fate could not be avoided. Some time later, as he was walking
along by the Thames, in a state of great agitation and despair, the gentleman
recognised the chiromantist standing nearby. In a desperate bid to escape the
chiromantist's prophesy, the gentleman pushed him from the bridge into the
water below."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Good gracious, Mr. Wilde, I hope this
isn't a true story."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Resuming his seat next to the old lady,
Wilde raised his forefinger. "It illustrates an abstract idea quite
perfectly," he said. "Which is something a truth can never do"</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Elizabeth leant forward, smoothing the
folds of her soft, blue gown over her knees. "And what happened to the
gentleman when he realised what he had done?"</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Why, nothing of course. He lived
happily ever after with his beautiful wife in… West Kensington, I
believe."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"But Mr. Wilde, you cannot have that,
that is hardly fair."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"No, but it is beautiful, which is far
more important."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The white double doors opened suddenly and
Elizabeth's servant stepped into the room. "Shall I bring tea in here,
Lady Stephenson?"</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Elizabeth nodded, standing up. "Yes
do, Francis, lay it on the table."
</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">She turned back to Wilde, clasping her
hands together. "You will take a cup of tea with me before you leave, Mr.
Wilde? I should consider it most discourteous of you to refuse."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"And so should I!" Wilde
exclaimed, looking around him for an ashtray.
"Of course I shall stay, Elizabeth."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Good - then we can continue our
conversation," said Elizabeth, handing her guest an ashtray. "I admit
that I found your tale quite fascinating, if somewhat… lacking in moral
fibre."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Ah, but morals are totally irrelevant
to all matters concerning art." Wilde watched as the young Francis
returned, bearing an ornate silver tray loaded with cups and saucers, teapot,
milk-jug, sugar bowl and a plate of biscuits. He set down the tray on the table
indicated, wheezing slightly. He was very thin and delicate looking; Wilde
wondered if he had something wrong with his lungs. "Is that not right,
Francis?" he asked.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Francis started and glanced nervously at
Wilde. Then his eyes flickered away quickly. "I believe it is sir,
yes," he muttered, barely audibly.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Wilde nodded slowly, he watched Elizabeth begin
pouring the tea. Francis stood slightly behind her, his dark hair almost
obscuring his eyes from view and giving him a sullen, petulant look.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Tell me Francis," continued
Wilde, brushing his own hair back from his face, "Is that your first or
second name; Francis?"</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"My second name, sir."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"And what is your Christian
name?"</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Stephen, sir."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Stephen! Well, that is quite
charming. I can see that you are destined for great things. Fate has your
future mapped out for you."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Francis continued to stare at the floor,
saying nothing. Finally, glancing furtively at Elizabeth, who dismissed him
with a wave of her hand, he hurried out of the room.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Wilde turned to Elizabeth. "The
boy is trying to run from his own destiny," he remarked with a slight
smile.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Elizabeth wagged her finger at him,
frowning. "The boy is painfully shy, Mr. Wilde. I don't think that you
should tease him so." She sat down next to Wilde and sipped her tea in
silence for a few moments. "But, do you know, I find myself quite disturbed
by what you have just said concerning the nature of destiny."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Really? I did not intend it to be so.
But then, one is constantly finding oneself contradicting one's own intentions.
Indeed, it is inevitable the moment they become established."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Your views on the role played in
one's own life imply a sort of distance from it, a sense of not really being
involved."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"That Elizabeth, is a result of living
in the nineteenth century, in such an absurd, narrow minded culture as that of
England. I can see quite clearly that here, things are vastly different. The
space between what one is and what one does is not nearly so great. Indeed, the
distance appears to be almost negligible."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Mr. Wilde, I should be most
interested to read your palms. Would you allow me to?"</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"I should be deeply honoured."
Leaning forward and replacing his cup and saucer on the table, he laid both his
large, pale hands palm upward on Elizabeth's knee. "It will be one of my
most treasured memories of my stay in San Francisco."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Elizabeth made no reply, she was bent over
Wilde's palms, examining the deeply embedded lines and curves which
criss-crossed his flesh, moving in different directions, sweeping aside the
debris of whatever he had left behind, pointing upwards, forwards, to his own
destiny. The room was silent but for the clatter of a horse and cart going
along the street outside and the gentle churning of the sea in the distance.
Wilde gazed down at his outstretched palms and he had a sudden vision of
himself, begging for money. Or was it really something so commonplace as money?
Wasn't it something more? Punishment, perhaps? He glanced across at Elizabeth
and saw that she was not examining his palms any longer but was staring out of
the window, a frown covering her face. New, harsh lines appeared around the
side of her mouth, the bright green of her eyes seeming dulled by her thoughts.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"What is it?" asked Wilde, trying
not to allow the alarm he felt to creep into his voice. "What evil things
does destiny have in store for me?"</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Elizabeth stared at him, as if trying to
remember who he was. "It is really very strange, Mr. Wilde." She
shook her head slowly, returning her gaze to Wilde's palms, which were still
resting upon her knees. With her forefinger she traced the surface of his right
hand, then his left. "I cannot work it out at all."</b></div>
<h3>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"> </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Now go to <a href="http://nicolabatty.blogspot.co.uk/2012/05/killing-time-chapter-five.html">Chapter Five</a></span></h3>Nicola Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17066855901263569768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8806237858971105635.post-45705417137123189992012-04-28T13:14:00.001+01:002012-05-12T14:37:27.351+01:00Killing Time - Chapter Three<h1 style="text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="color: #000099;">KILLING TIME</span></span></h1>
<h1 style="text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="color: #000099;">A novel by</span></span></h1>
<h1 style="text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="color: #000099;">NICOLA BATTY</span></span></h1>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<u><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">Chapter Three</span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<u><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">1<sup>st</sup> September 1991.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">As Louise
turned from Brick Lane onto Fashion Street, she felt a hand on her shoulder.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">"Alright,
you're nicked," said a low voice in her ear.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;"> "Hello,
Gary," she replied, without looking round.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">With a tut of annoyance, a short,
slightly tubby figure appeared beside her. "My impression of a police
officer obviously leaves something to be desired," he said looking
offended. However, his round face was not made for such an expression and so it
didn't really have much effect at all. Louise shrugged. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">"I
recognised your voice, and you an actor as well. Doesn't say much for your
skill, does it?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">"Only
a part-time actor, it doesn't take much skill." Gary put up the hood of
his green nylon anorak as it began to rain steadily. "Quick," he
urged as the two of them stopped before number twelve and Louise fumbled in her
pocket for her key. "I hate getting wet."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">Opening
the door, she allowed Gary to push past her as though he was escaping from
boiling water and not rain. She hesitated before closing the door; her
attention caught by the figure of a boy dressed all in white, standing on the
pavement opposite. He was leaning against a lamppost, staring at the toes of
his pointed white shoes as though trying to identify them through a haze of
indistinct memory. He had a mass of
golden curls falling almost to his shoulders; he looked ethereal. Everything about him looked odd and
incongruous, from the way that the rain didn't seem to make any mark on the
blank smoothness of his suit, to his straw boater hat which was tied round with
a red and white striped ribbon. He looked like a character from <i>Brideshead
Revisited</i>, a university student deliberately slipped out of time in order
to confuse the established order, a ghost sent to sabotage the rigid structure.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">"What
are you doing, Louise? Shut the door, can't you?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">She did
so quickly, feeling a little guilty, as though she had been caught spying. As she moved past the window, she drew aside
the net curtain and looked out; she wasn't surprised to find that the figure
was no longer there.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">"Andy's
not going to be late, is he?" called Gary from the kitchen.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">"Don't
think so, he didn't say anything." Throwing down her copy of <i>The Real
Jack the Ripper</i> on the table, Louise removed her jacket and flung it down
on a chair. "Have you got the kettle on? Good."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">She
watched as he picked up the book from the table and studied the cover
carefully, frowning as he did so.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">"You're
not reading this, are you?" He made a sound of impatience, rather like a
horse, causing the ends of his sandy-coloured moustache to quiver as though
alive. "No wonder you're so jumpy."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">Louise
smiled vaguely, saying nothing. She considered telling Gary about her meeting
with Guy Saint, but somehow doubted that her choice of words would do justice
to the significance that the occasion had assumed for her. It occurred to her
that the incident had grown to grotesque proportions, filling out unseen
dimensions to become symbolic of something even more abstract.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">"That
book reminds me actually, of the play I'm trying to adapt for the group at the
moment. Are you at all interested in this Louise?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">"Of
course I am." Pushing 'The Real Jack the Ripper' aside, Louise sat on the
edge of the table, drawing up a chair on which to rest her feet. "Is it
about 'Jack' then, this play?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">"Not
'Jack', though it's set in roughly the same time. Another murderer - a
fictional one. I'm adapting it from 'Lord Arthur Saviles' Crime', one of Oscar
Wilde's short stories. Ever read it?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">"It
sounds vaguely familiar. That's his crime, is it - murder?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">"Well,
yes but he's driven to it really, by Fate. Destiny foretells the terrible truth
in his palm when he reads it at a party. Sugar?" Gary stirred both cups
and handed one to Louise. As he did so, he bent close to her and whispered
dramatically in her ear. "And guess who the victim of this appalling crime
was?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">Louise
bit her lip apologetically. "I think I have read it, actually. It was the
fortune-teller, wasn't it?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">"None
other. So Fate has her little joke, after all. Which just goes to show that you
shouldn't take superstition too seriously."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">"Mmm…
well, I'm not so sure about that. I remember reading that Wilde, who was
actually very superstitious, never forgot what a palmist said to him concerning
his destiny."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">"She
foresaw his fall from glory, then?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">"I
suppose she did, in a way." Louise kicked the cupboard door closed with
her foot gently. "In his right palm, which shows what you'll do with your
destiny, there was tragedy, sorrow… stuff like that, but the strange thing was
that the markings on his left hand, which show your destiny, were completely
different. They showed success, fame, a
brilliant career… so, you see he brought about his own downfall."</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
"A sort of death-wish, you
mean?" Gary frowned, stirring his tea. "I'm not really sure if I
believe that. Why would he want to wreck everything?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: -18.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 54.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">Louise shrugged. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">"It's
only something I read in a book. I think it's a bit of a dodgy theory
myself."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">"Well,
anyway it's an interesting sideline." He paused, removing a huge white
handkerchief from the pocket of his jeans and blowing his nose loudly. "But to return to the fortune-teller.
Who, incidentally, I'll be playing."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: -18.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 54.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">Louise tried unsuccessfully to smother a laugh before it properly
surfaced. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: -18.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 54.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">Gary looked away, offended. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">"Nothing
against your acting ability, it just never ceases to amaze me how you manage to
lead such a double life," she explained. "In the day, such a
respectable bank clerk and at night…"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">"At
night, Padgers the fortune-teller," finished Gary triumphantly. "A
double existence is entirely necessary to me, you see. And to most people I'm
sure. Take your brother, for example. Do you know what he gets up to in that
office of his all day?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">"Insurance,
isn't it?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">"Ah,
but how can you really be sure?" Gary paused for a moment as the front
door clicked quietly open and shut again. "Beneath that innocent exterior
may fester a hideous mangled texture of lies, deceit and trickery".</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">Louise
shook her head, sliding off the table as her brother came in.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">"I
think it's highly unlikely Gary," she said putting on her jacket.
"Andy's straight as a die, aren't you?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">Andy
shrugged, looking completely disinterested. Removing his spotless grey jacket,
he hangs it carefully over the back of a chair so that it wouldn't crease any
further. He stood behind the chair, his hands in his pockets, looking all round
the kitchen, whilst taking care to avoid catching anyone's eye.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">"There's
some tea in the pot," said Gary, moving aside to allow Louise to pass.
"You off to work?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">Louise
nodded, reaching for her book, which Andy had picked up and was leafing through
a look of disgust on his face. He was a tall, thin man who gave the impression
of being a policeman or some other figure of authority, due to his permanently
grim expression and formal manner. He was always ruthlessly clean-shaven,
leaving on a meticulous line of black on his upper lip. He and Gary together,
appearing as joke opposites, two sides of a caricature.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">"You
shouldn't read stuff like this, you know," said Andy, frowning at Louise.
"It gives you bad dreams, disturbs the balance of the mind."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">"Just
give it to me, will you?" Snatching the book from him, Louise turned to
go, nodding to Gary as she did so. "See you again, Gary. Good luck with
the script."</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">As she passed the front window, she couldn't
resist peeking out once again just to ensure that the young man in white hadn't
returned while she had been in the kitchen. He hadn't.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Now go to <a href="http://nicolabatty.blogspot.co.uk/2012/05/killing-time-chapter-four.html">Chapter Four </a></span>Nicola Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17066855901263569768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8806237858971105635.post-16890173906845577562012-04-21T15:09:00.000+01:002012-04-28T13:16:23.919+01:00Killing Time - Chapter Two<h1 style="text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="color: #000099;">KILLING TIME</span></span></h1>
<h1 style="text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="color: #000099;">A novel by</span></span></h1>
<h1 style="text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="color: #000099;">NICOLA BATTY</span></span></h1>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: -2.0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 2.0cm;">
<b><u>Chapter Two</u></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: -2.0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 2.0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: -2.0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 2.0cm;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">1<sup>st</sup> September 1991</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: -54.0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
Louise shivered as she crossed the
road again and wandered aimlessly into the next street; there was a sharp edge
to the air and already autumn had begun. It was becoming more and more obvious
to everyone that as each year passed, the ozone layer grew more threadbare and
frayed around the edges. Ripping steadily apart, allowing through not only the
ultra-violet rays, but the harmful edge of the cold air as well, so that soon
nobody would be allowed to venture outside without protective clothing and a
mask to shield them from the dangerous weather. Louise buried her hands quickly
into the pockets of her donkey jacket, not wishing to expose them a minute
longer. However, discovering that the book she was holding would not fit in her
pocket, she decided to solve the problem by pausing at the end of the street,
where there was a low wall running right the way across. It appeared to signify
a dead-end, anyway.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Laying <i>The Real Jack the Ripper</i> on
the wall beside her, Louise perched carefully on the edge of the wall, choosing
the most solid-looking area she could find. The wall was in the process of
crumbling away, like the boarded-up warehouse behind it. Louise turned to look
at the empty building, wondering how old it was. Possibly it had been standing
there, watching silently, the night Polly Nichols had been murdered. The name
of the street had changed, that was all.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Turning back, Louise took out a cigarette
and lit it. She cupped her hands around the glowing tip; the heat did not
affect her, although the skin of her fingers almost touched it. This cold was
uncanny, the way it had descended so suddenly; and the sun - where had that
gone? A veil of straggling white cloud now covered the sky, grown stealthily
over to conceal the eye, an opaque milky substance causing instant blindness.
Louise closed her eyes. The street was
silent; she felt she could be anywhere, anytime. The years stretched out, long
ribbons of celluloid, unmarked and unidentified… tangled and trespassing upon
one another. She thought of all the
feet that would have trodden these same streets in Whitechapel so many times
before… she would never know their lives, nor they hers. Strangers separated by
a few flimsy threads of time.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Excuse me."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Louise leapt to her feet, knocking her book
onto the ground. She stared at the figure who seemed to appear from nowhere.
Taking a step back, she tried to sort out her thoughts into some coherent
order. The man, who was very tall and slim, was wearing a long, black coat that
reached almost to his ankles. He stepped towards her, taking his hands out of
his pockets. He held one of them outstretched towards her; she stared at it, it
was very pale and smooth. Between his fingers he held a cigarette very lightly,
as if he were afraid it would explode.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: -18.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 54.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"I only want a light. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten
you."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Sinking back down onto the wall, Louise
fished the lighter out of her pocket and gave it to the man. She noticed, as he
took it, that he wore only one ring, an antique one with a red stone in a
silver setting. For some reason she could not bear to look up and confront his
intense stare, which she knew was fixed on her.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Thanks," he said, lighting his
cigarette. As he straightened up and turned away from her, Louise noticed that
the glare of the flame below, accentuated the dark shadows crawling over his
face; the sockets of his eyes seemed to tunnel right through to the back of his
head. Black strands of hair straggled like lengths of shadow across his
forehead. Every bone stood out, sharp and bleak, a blade to slice the darkened
hollows. She shivered; glancing down at her book which was lying on the cobbles
by his feet.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"There's the reason I'm so
jumpy," she said, nodding at it.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">He bent down to pick it up, glancing at the
cover as he did so. He smiled slightly and nodded, as if this were what he had
expected.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"And the way you crept up - I didn't
hear you coming at all." Louise felt as though she was defending herself
against potential accusations, which she knew, secretly, would never take
shape. "You must be wearing rubber-soled shoes or something."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">He laughed very softly; it was almost as if
he were trying to stifle the sound.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Not I, I'm afraid. I really don't
have anything in common with the Ripper at all."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"I didn't know he wore rubber-soled
shoes."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Well, it's just a theory someone put
forward, I can't remember who… perhaps it's in that book, later on."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Louise had to strain to catch what he was
saying; his voice was very soft and he spoke quickly, as though in a hurry to
expel the words from his mind, before it was too late. </b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"You must have started it though, if
you're here looking for Bucks Row," he continued.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Louise studied him carefully. She wasn't at all sure that she liked having
her motives stripped instantly bare; it made her want to be as secretive as
possible, to deliberately mislead the all-seeing stranger. And yet, at the same time, she felt a
strange intimacy with him, a trust that he did not deserve after such a short
space of time.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: -18.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 54.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"What makes you think I'm
looking for Bucks Row?"</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">He didn't seem in the least concerned by
her suspicion, but merely shrugged. </b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"It seems obvious to me. Why else would you be wandering around here
reading a book about 'Jack'?"</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"There could be other reasons, I could
live here."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Ah, but you don't, do you?" He smiled slowly. "You live in
Spitalfields, near Brick Lane market. Isn't that right?"</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Louise stared; she looked around quickly,
feeling suddenly vulnerable. "How… have you been following me?"</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">He laughed very softly, dropping his
cigarette on the cobbles and grinding it beneath the heel of his black leather
boot.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Now, why would I want to follow
you?"</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"How do you know then?"</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">He shrugged again. "Lucky guess."
He paused, looking around him carefully, as if he could see beyond the visible
world. </b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">She felt infuriated by him and
simultaneously fascinated. </b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"You feel like that with some people,
don't you think? On the same wavelength… there's some sort of connection there.
You know what I mean, don't you?"</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"I'm… not sure I do, really." She
replied.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Yes you do. You know exactly what I
mean, I can see you do."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"You can see everything, can't
you?" She said angrily.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">He gazed at her, reaching inside his
coat. "Most things, it's my
profession you see. I'm a Medium." He handed her a piece of black card
with the words 'Guy Saint - Medium' written on it in elegant, flowing silver
letters; underneath was an address on Shoreditch High Street. "It's
nothing uncanny really. I just… certain people… I feel I know them
already."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"I'm sure everyone feels that at one
time or another," Louise put in, not wanting him to feel that he deserved
special treatment.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Oh, I'm sure they do." He
paused, looking at her intently. "You yourself feel that now, don't you?
With me?"</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Well…" She looked behind her
briefly, at the boarded-up warehouse. "I suppose we have a mutual friend
in common."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">He smiled vaguely. "Do you mean 'Jack'?
I wouldn't call him a friend… more a fascination."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Well there's something we have in
common."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">He tutted impatiently, he seemed to be
struggling to find the words to convey his meaning accurately. "No, it's
something more than that. Some… I don't know some sort of capability you have,
some link. Don't tell me you can't feel it. Though perhaps you don't realise it
yet, you don't recognise what you can do. You'll remember this conversation one
day and it'll all become clear to you, it'll all fit into place."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Louise looked down at her hands; they were
clenched together so tightly in her lap that she could hear the bones creaking
and complaining at the unfamiliar pressure. She felt exposed, a piece of paper
turned inside out, folded along the dotted line. It was an unnerving
experience, tinged with a fraying edge of danger, the distant click of a safety
catch in a darkened room. </b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"There's much more to this than you -
or I, for that matter - can understand yet.
But…" His voice trailed off as though he had lost the drift of what
he was saying.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Louise waited for him to retrieve the
thread, but he didn't. She cleared her throat carefully before speaking. </b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"I'm afraid I really don't know what
you're on about at all," she said, shrugging. "It all sounds a bit
mystical to me."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Oh no, it's not mystical at
all." Guy Saint almost spat out the words, curling the edges with the
contempt it deserved. "Its a very real… change this, as real as you or
I."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Change? What do you mean?"</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"I'm afraid that's all I know at the
moment. This is as much a mystery to me as it is to you. But look here…"</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Louise," she interrupted.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Louise. Will you do something for me?
Will you promise to come and see me… in future, if you ever need to speak to
someone?" He looked at her directly, drawing a promise from her, she felt
trapped, unable to look away.
"You've got my card. I just feel you may need someone to speak to
soon… someone who'll understand, or at
least be sympathetic."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The lightless vacuum of his eyes drained
her of power, sucking out her soul and absorbing the sense of her, draining her
to the marrow so that she felt limp and weak.
</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Guy Saint stepped towards her and took both
the black card and her book from her hands.
She didn't resist. "Look, I'll put this here, I'm afraid you'll
lose it," he said, placing the card between the pages of the book and
giving it back to her. "And I'd
like to see you again, Louise, I feel very curious to find out… exactly what it
is that we've been talking about." He laughed very quietly, "Perhaps
then you'll be able to enlighten me."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">She could only nod vaguely, then shrug, as
if by the formation of the words she would commit herself to making an
appointment she did not intend to keep.
Something would hold her to her promise; probably her own curiosity, for
she was fascinated by Guy Saint.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Well, it's been a most interesting
conversation," he said taking another cigarette from his pocket. He stood there, twirling it lightly between
his fingers, as though he was wondering what to do with it. "I have to get
back to work now. I hope to see you
again soon, I feel sure that I will. May I just…?"</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Louise lit his cigarette for him. All her
movements, she felt were slow and detached, as though she were existing
underwater. She noticed as Guy Saint bent near to her that he had a neat scar
running from just below his ear down beneath the collar of his coat. It was so
carefully marked that it looked as though it had been painted on with make-up;
the skin around it was as smooth as that of his hands, not puckered or
blemished at all. Louise realised suddenly, that she was staring as she caught
his eye, and looked at him quizzically. But he didn't answer the unspoken
question, straightening up slowly and gazing around him as though trying to
retrieve his baffled bearings.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Anyway, keep in mind what I
said." He began to hurry away towards the boarded-up building, which
presumably would lead out onto Bakers' Row.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">She watched him go
feeling relieved and yet wishing he had been able to stay longer. He walked fast, with his head down and his
hands in his pockets, taking long-legged strides without effort so that he
seemed to glide over the ground without actually touching the surface. She
could feel his presence lingering next to her, long after he had gone. It was
as if he had become separated from his shadow, by accident or by magic and had
left it behind like an old raincoat, a slice of himself he had no further use
for. She looked at the book in her hands, staring hard at the cover, trying to
make it register in her mind as the same book she had picked up from her
bedside table that morning. Everything felt strange and disjointed; something
inside of her had slipped into a new gear, without her permission or even
knowledge. She flicked through the pages of the book, pausing to re-examine the
black card Guy Saint had left. She stared at the silver letters until she could
see right through them, and distinguish faint outlines of what had gone just
below the surface, peeling away secret layers to uncover clues, faint
Hiroshima-like shadows, traces of the past. She closed the book slowly. Guy
Saint - Medium would not disappear so easily, like the Ripper, he would leave
traces in the atmosphere for years to come.</b></div>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Now
go to <a href="http://nicolabatty.blogspot.co.uk/2012/04/killing-time-chapter-three_28.html">Chapter Three.</a></span></b>Nicola Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17066855901263569768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8806237858971105635.post-39574387404166576272012-04-14T16:30:00.008+01:002012-04-21T15:16:00.433+01:00Killing Time - Chapter one<h1 style="text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="color: #000099;">KILLING TIME</span></span></h1>
<h1 style="text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="color: #000099;">A novel by</span></span></h1>
<h1 style="text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="color: #000099;">NICOLA BATTY</span></span></h1>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #000099; margin-right: -0.1pt; text-align: justify;">
Chapter One.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #000099; margin-right: -0.1pt; text-align: justify;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </b>31st August, 1888 - Whitechapel, East London.</div>
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The whole of London is blanketed beneath a thick screen of fog. It’s not yellow, as it is in the paintings of Grimshaw, shrouding the filthy streets and the stinking Thames: but it’s transparent, darkened to the night and yet still there, a hazy aura to the senses. And through the senses he will work, he will feel. Smell the melting poppies as they hang suspended in the air, taste the sickly-sweet droplets as they permeate your skin and luxuriate there. The early hours are here and he stalks through the deserted streets of Whitechapel, his gleaming black hair plastered over his skull.</div>
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It’s just like the pictures you still see of him reproduced in crime or murder books - artists’ impressions, never photographs. He was always too quick, too stealthy, and too ephemeral to be captured by the lens of a camera. Between them he would have slid, leaving a red smear. It’s the legend he has created around himself that endures, and nothing more. He measures his footfalls with great care and deliberation, moving away from the Whitechapel Road and onto Bucks Row with a purpose hanging like a shredded cobweb before his eyes. So that the bloodhound’s vision is never clear, it’s always veiled by threads. He pauses at the corner, stroking his moustache with thin, nervous fingers. Through the fog and the darkness he can just see her. She stumbles against some iron railings further up the road as she walks away from him and she mutters something beneath her breath. The night and the fog together compress the sound so that it seems unreal – in this place, it does not belong.</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">She doesn’t hear his silent footsteps as he moves towards her, but leans against the only gas-lamp on the street, the light thrown over her like a robe. With her cheap straw-hat perched drunkenly on her head and her staggering gait, it’s easy for him to identify her as one of the thousands of East End prostitutes. The night is crowded with them, especially later, when they are being turned out of public houses and are searching for some doorway or lodging-house where they can spend the night, perhaps in exchange for sex. These women all look the same after so many years of degradation: their faces are always lined with hardship and gin, hardness and despair drawn deep into the wrinkles there, the toil, the continual struggle for survival. This woman is no different, no different at all. She clutches her shawl around her as though it were her last protection, leaning back against the lamppost. As he moves towards her, she raises her gaunt face up to the light, closing her eyes; he sees that her lips are moving silently and he wonders if she is praying or singing. The light accentuates the shadows of her face and he realises that she is old, perhaps past fifty. He knows that she cannot see him yet: he is still in the dark, she in the light. That straw bonnet she’s wearing looks new, it stands out against the other drab brown rags she’s got on. A gift from a soldier, perhaps? A payment for favours given? </b></div>
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Pausing in the shadows, he removes his heavy frock coat and drapes it over his arm. There are two reasons for his doing this; one becomes clear as he approaches Polly Nichols, moving suddenly into the light. He watches her blink her eyes and try to focus on him; he smiles at her as he approaches, making it obvious to her what his intentions are. She grins suddenly in return; here is the customer she has been waiting for! Her thoughts turn away from her broken marriage and lonely life with a jolt, she will not be sleeping on the streets tonight. </div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">“Evenin’ Sir,” she says as he comes nearer and has already begun to hitch up her skirts as she walks towards him.</b></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
They are standing in a gateway leading into a yard now: this, he decides, is as good a place as any. He says nothing to Polly but touches her neck lightly, running his fingers over the scrawny surface, caressing her. She smiles and moves closer to him: she isn’t aware of anything in this long moment but the gentle sensation of skin on skin. He doesn’t smile back. The other hand still grips the knife hidden beneath his coat. His left hand transforms itself quite suddenly from a caress to a brutal pressure on her windpipe. Dropping the coat and knife onto the cobblestones, he frees his other hand to assist in the strangulation of Polly Nichols. Within two minutes she is dead. She puts up no struggle; indeed, she seems to surrender up her life to her attacker with complete indifference. He continues to force his fingers down on her throat, ensuring that the last breath is squeezed from her and she slumps against him. As he lays her body down on the cobblestones he throws down his coat and reveals the knife. Slashing her throat with the eight-inch long blade, not once but twice, he watches the blood spill from the wound and river along the gaps between the cobblestones. With half-closed eyes, he plunges the knife into Polly Nichols’ lower abdomen and brings it up over her hip, as though he were gutting a fish. Still not satisfied, he repeats the action, this time ripping his victim straight along the centre, splitting her into two halves. Then, kneeling beside the body, making sure that his own shadow doesn’t come between the gaslight and his work, he begins to disembowel her.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
Afterwards, he stands up and looks at his bloodstained hands. He purses his lips slightly and clicks his tongue but makes no other sound to disturb the stillness of the night. His forearms right up to the elbows are smeared in blood and so is his shirt, although he had taken the precaution before he began his work, of rolling up his sleeves. However, it’s a dark night and there are so many slaughterhouses around Whitechapel anyway, that no one will remark on his appearance if they see him. He will simply be taken for one of the many night-workers from one of those abattoirs. He listens, listens for a sound, a stir, a movement in the darkness. There is only silence… a silence so complete that he wonders for a moment where he is, what brought him to this place? He holds the eight-inch blade in his hand and he stares at it without comprehension. It could be a toy and he a child wondering what to do with it. </div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Blood drips from the knife onto the upturned face of his victim: the unhurried motion of it brings him suddenly to his senses and he picks up his frock coat from the cobbles nearby and puts it on. He buttons it, concealing the crime within - now he can pretend he is a gentleman again. Crouching by the body of Polly Nichols, he plucks at the edge of her brown linen skirt, trying to find a comparatively clean area with which to wipe the blade. As he does this, he hears footsteps and voices. The silence gives them an uncanny quality, as though they were coming from inside his head. Straightening up quickly he can feel the sweat beginning to prickle on his upper lip. As he turns away, he notices his victims’ black straw hat has rolled a few feet away from her head and lies there in the gutter, upside down but undamaged, a finishing touch to this work of art. Thrusting both his hands and the knife into his pockets, the murderer hurries away in the opposite direction so that he will not have to pass whomever the footsteps and voices belonged to. He could not risk being remembered when the murder is discovered.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">As he moves silently through the back streets of Whitechapel, he tries to keep his mind as blank as he can, an Augustan mask of innocence. Though it has been so hot all day, stiflingly hot, now the sky has been ripped open to allow through the cool air, the cold wind, the sharp edge of a knife-blade. The murderer glances around, disturbed by his metaphors, but he need not worry. He has the bland appearance of every middle-class male of this era. Added to this is the extraordinary passivity of his looks; this man appears not to have the feeling within him to drive him to any such livid action, but appearances can be deceptive. This man fears for his sanity. At times he is sure that he is mad.</b></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
He turns from the Whitechapel Road along Leman Street, heading towards the Victoria Embankment. He will be glad to leave both the stench and the oppressive poverty of the East End behind. Each breath is difficult to take without coughing, each lungful of air heavy and sick with factory fumes, industrial grime, human filth and waste. His own lodgings in the Temple area are a little further west, where the wealth is just beginning to show. He takes out his fob watch and looks at it. It’s past three in the morning and he longs for his bed. He should have time to snatch a few hours sleep before he gets up to go to Dorset to play in a cricket match tomorrow, then no one can possibly suspect him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Turning his great, melancholy eyes to the sky, he gazes into the darkness above and around him. He tries to recall the events of the past hour to mind but it is impossible. It’s all a closed book to him now; he cannot even remember the face of the woman he has just killed. He thinks that these occurrences, these actions of his, that they have ushered in some massive, seasonal change… he thinks that they might signify the end of summer. </b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">For the heat of August is wasting away and already autumn has begun.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Now go to <a href="http://nicolabatty.blogspot.co.uk/2012/04/killing-time-chapter-three.html">Chapter two…</a></b></div>Nicola Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17066855901263569768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8806237858971105635.post-43925192864389949702012-04-07T13:26:00.003+01:002012-04-14T17:00:45.847+01:00Killing Time - Introduction<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotoptimizeforbrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <h1 style="text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">KILLING TIME<br /></span></span></h1><h1 style="text-indent: 0cm;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">A novel by<br /></span></span></h1><h1 style="text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">NICOLA BATTY</span></span><br /></h1><br />“… To kill time and pheasants and ‘ennui’ of not having quite set the world on fire as yet.” Oscar Wilde, from a letter to Reginald Harding, 28th November 1879.<br /><br />This book is dedicated to my Dad, with love and thanks and to the South Manchester Writers’ Group. And of course, to the memories of Mr. Wilde and Mr. Ross.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);font-size:130%;" >Prologue. </span><br />If this is a garden, it's an enchanted one. I can't step into it. I teeter on the brink, scared to shatter the illusion. I crouch beneath an over-hanging leaf, a minute now, waiting for something to happen. I'm not the same person I used to be ten minutes ago. I feel weak before the intense light, the overpowering perfume of the flowers as they nod their heads at me and smile in unison. Lazy upon their beds they’re trying their best to stay awake, trying perhaps to live up to the unnatural brightness of their colours. There’s the sunflower, psychotic as its’ yellow petals will allow it to be; and there’s a green carnation, shot up suddenly from the earth, defying anyone to question its’ right to be there.<br /><br />The air is thick and weighed down with scent. I blink my eyes sleepily. Still I dare not enter the garden, the enchanted garden. I’m like a voyeur crouching here, having left my real self at home in bed. I’m separate from myself, without intending to be, I’ve detached this piece from that and miraculously extended my personality, multiplying the layers one by one. I’m wrapped in tissue, not skin and you can peel away the surfaces but never reveal the inner core. Like a crystal, wearing a white pinafore, striped stockings and hair-band: strolling through the enchanted garden. I may meet with a large red chess-piece, and I will no doubt, be greatly intimidated by Her Majesty. But this after all, is just fancy. I prefer to crouch beneath the leaf and watch – or lie in my bed and dream. But if this is all a dream, it’s a very strange one. I don’t really think for a moment that I’m asleep. I feel like I’m an old photograph, faded brown background and frayed edges, a nameless individual, a housemaid perhaps, or a match-girl – or perhaps, something worse. An individual lost to memory but still alive - alive and still kicking. <br /><br />But all this is separate from me, my head is on the pillow, and I seem to be sleeping. I blink, watching myself; a view from the top of the cupboard. How can these flowers smell so strongly and yet be somewhere else, not here at all? How can the exotic scent of them drug you like poppies and then wake you screaming? I would tell you to lie back, it’s only a dream, but somehow I doubt it. The poppies are melting and the blood drips onto my face as I wake. The old faded photograph is slashed to ribbons even as I watch: the knife leaping wildly, with a life of its own, through the paper, through the garden, through exposed flesh. The poppies are melting and I wake screaming.<br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">Now go to <a href="http://nicolabatty.blogspot.co.uk/2012/04/killing-time-chapter-one.html">Chapter One...</a></span><br /><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:26.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;mso-fareast-language:EN-US; mso-bidi-language:AR-SAfont-family:";font-size:10.0pt;" ></span></b>Nicola Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17066855901263569768noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8806237858971105635.post-13799533598089153762012-03-31T16:06:00.005+01:002012-03-31T16:33:06.565+01:00Catching The Light - Chapter Six<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotoptimizeforbrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">CHAPTER SIX</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">A thin, hazy mist began to descend as darkness fell, so that the brightness of the moon was veiled. Nevertheless the three characters pressed on their way without a moment’s hesitation, for they didn’t need their way to be too brightly illuminated, they had made this journey several times before. The darkness of the woodland seemed to be more intense than ever as King Oscar approached the first few scattered trees around the edge of the woods and noticed how silvery the light appeared as it filtered between the branches. Carefully he raised one of his great hands and parted the dark green leaves as they brushed against his face. He turned his head sharply away as one of the branches touched his sore ear.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Ow…” he remarked mildly. “I keep forgetting… Now I must forget that I am a king again.” So saying, he reached up and removed his crown, hanging it on a branch as he had done so many times before. In between the trees, fleeting shapes materialised and then were gone, leaving colours trailing after them. King Oscar tried his best to capture one of the figures and hold it static, but it was no use, so he gave up and turned instead to the artist, Basil, as he hopped quietly along just behind him. “This way to the Secret Glade, I think.”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Wait,” said Basil, laying a restraining hand upon the royal robe. The artist shifted the large canvas in his arms, so that he was able to point ahead. “What’s that?” The silvery light caused the bells on the ground to flash dangerously as Basil hopped towards the stick and picked it up. The bells upon it jingled furiously. “Lord Henry’s jingling stick.” </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">King Oscar stared in wonder as he took the stick from Basil. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Which way was it pointing?” he asked.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">Basil gestured vaguely to the left, away from the Secret Glade… towards an area of woodland where the trees grew even more densely packed together. Laying his hand upon Robbie’s shoulder, King Oscar began to stride into the darkness without hesitation. He glanced back at Basil and gave him an encouraging smile. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Then let’s go” he said. “We may still be in time to help him.”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">The three of them set off towards the trees, even though it seemed there was no way they could get through. The giant Oscar searched amongst the trunks, running his fingers lightly over the bark and branches until he found what he was looking for – a branch moved back with an audible creak, and several trees moved aside as if joined together on a panel. King Oscar drew in his breath, nodding towards the entrance.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“After you,” he said to Robbie.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">As soon as they entered the small clearing, which was still surrounded by trees on all sides, they saw the brightly coloured diamonds of Lord Henry’s suit as he sat motionless on a fallen tree trunk, right on the edge of the clearing. His head was in his hands and his elbows were on his knees; he looked up very slowly as the others appeared, but gave no reaction other than a very slight smile. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Lord Henry!” cried Basil, hopping towards him, but he stopped as he saw the reason for Lord Henry’s immobility. A large, heavy ball of lead was tied around the harlequin’s ankle and the chains glittered in the gloom. Lord Henry got to his feet very slowly, managing only a weak, small smile of recognition as his friends came towards him.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Basil… your majesty… thank you for coming here. I’m most grateful…” His words sounded so strained and forced that it was difficult for King Oscar and the others to believe them. Lord Henry swung his head from side to side like a pendulum as the minutes ticked past. “I – I’m sorry not to be of better company to you, but…” </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">King Oscar approached the harlequin quickly, taking his hand in his own massive one. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Lord Henry, what happened to you? Did the Darkmen do this?” There was really no need for Lord Henry to reply, though he did manage to nod silently and look away. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“But why?” demanded King Oscar, “How? What have you done wrong?” </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">Lord Henry gave a great sigh and shrugged once again, the many-coloured diamonds on his suit changing colour with emotion.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"></span>“Well, I’ve been to the Secret Glade, haven’t I? That’s not allowed. That imp with the black face has been telling tales, so…” Once again he gave a great sigh, only this time it was edged with a distinct bitterness. “What am I to do? I can do nothing.”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">King Oscar squeezed Lord Henry’s hand gently before carefully releasing it and taking a step back. He stared at the sad figure for a long while without speaking, then eventually he said, in a low voice, “You must be patient, Lord Henry… just wait and things will change. Your friends – we’ll bring about this change…” King Oscar broke off as he caught sight of a couple of black and white figures moving just behind him. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span>“Look out!” hissed Robbie suddenly, “Darkmen!”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">Ducking quickly behind the trees, they watched the single Darkman come into the clearing and approach a willow tree, which suddenly seemed to come into view on the edge of the clearing, it’s bright green leaves forming a curtain through which nothing could be seen. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">The black and white, blank-faced figure glanced carefully around before parting the willow’s trailing branches and slipping inside. King Oscar clutched at Robbie’s shoulder, pushing him forward.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Come on… let’s follow!” he whispered, and the two of them approached the willow.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Be very careful… we don’t want to be seen,” murmured Oscar as he gently parted the leaves. He had to stare carefully for several moments before he could make out anything behind the willow’s curtain of leaves, for there was only a very strange sort of light that seemed to come from nowhere and only caught on the rippled surface of the pool. The pool was so still that it was difficult to tell at first where the water began and the sandy ground ended. The sinister figure of the Darkman approached the pool, still glancing watchfully round him. When he stood beside the pool, King Oscar could see his reflection as clearly as he could see that of the Darkman himself… In fact the reflection seemed to be even more sharply defined than the original Darkman, as he stared and stared at him. Very slowly, the waters began to move, until a second Darkman rose up, out of the water, stepping out beside the original one. The original Darkman turned away at once without interest, ignoring his new creation. The two Darkmen didn’t even exchange a single glance, moving separately in different directions. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“So <i>that’s</i> where they’ve been coming from,” breathed the giant, releasing the leaves. “They create themselves out of their own image. We should go away from here… come on.”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">The green willow leaves fell back into place, only moving very slowly, to allow the two Darkmen to pass through the clearing, into the woodland, and back onto the island where they would infiltrate the many-coloured inhabitants with their dark monotone presence. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">Only pausing to retrieve his canvas from where he’d left it propped against the tree trunk, Basil followed King Oscar and Robbie as they made their way towards the Secret Glade. It was strange; Gradually the trees around them began to thin a little, and coloured fairy lights began to appear as if guiding them towards the Crystal Boy. King Oscar’s excitement began to rise so that he felt quite breathless as he watched the fairy lights dancing before his eyes, making him feel quite giddy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He became more and more aware of the thudding sound of Basil’s one boot as the artist took a few hops away from them to a fallen tree trunk nearby, against which he placed his canvas.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“This spot will do nicely, I think,” Basil said with a slight smile, and he removed his painting satchel and began to take out his<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>brushes. “The Crystal Boy will appear soon, won’t he?” King Oscar nodded, feeling that there was no need to answer such a question, for how could the Crystal Boy possibly not appear now? So he waited anxiously, bringing his massive hands together. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">Soon enough, the dancing fairy lights began to glint upon the Crystal Boy, standing motionless, directly in front of King Oscar, in fact, so close that the King thought he must surely be in reach. The colours of the fairy lights caught on every facet of the Crystal Boy, flashing bright blue, scarlet, emerald green in turn. King Oscar felt one of his great hands creep towards the glass figure as if drawn by an invisible magnet, though he fully anticipated the scream even before it rang through the Secret Glade. It was the scream of the Scarlet Marquis. This time the scream was so terrible that King Oscar froze instantly, though he didn’t move his eyes away from the vision before him. He could feel the ground shaking as the Scarlet Marquis jumped furiously up and down, brandishing his stick, which he waved so close to Oscar that the king could feel the air move as it whizzed near his cheek. The silence all around the Secret Glade became suddenly so intense and complete that it seemed unbearable. King Oscar suddenly knew that something was about to happen. He was still touching the Crystal Boy, for King Oscar himself had no control over his own limbs any longer. He felt the hard surface of the Crystal Boy beneath his hand, just as he saw the coloured fairy lights reflected on each facet. The scream of the Scarlet Marquis formed itself into words.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“What have you done now? I told you never to touch my Crystal Boy!”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">The coldness of the crystal suddenly completely vanished so that King Oscar’s fingers were left dangling uselessly in the air. At the same time, the scream of the Scarlet Marquis became the sound of breaking glass, shattering with an easy, slow motion, like the tide turning. It seemed to be an almost endless moment that was stretched out to full extension as the Crystal Boy shattered. King Oscar felt the space beneath his fingers so intensely that he didn’t need to be able to see. He kept his eyes squeezed tightly shut, feeling the sharp sting of pain just below his wounded ear as the stick of the Scarlet Marquis made contact with his face. He could feel the Crystal Boy had gone, was no more, nothing. Through the tears of both fury and sadness, the fairy lights seemed to become entangled. King Oscar’s fingers felt a large piece of glass next to the Scarlet Marquis. He lunged forward, desperately, reaching for the glass. In truth, he didn’t really care what happened then. He only wanted something dramatic to come out, to signify this was the end. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“No, Oscar! Stop!” The words reached Oscar’s ears as if coming from a great distance, though he could feel the elf trying to pull the shard of crystal away from the Scarlet Marquis.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Murder! The giant has committed murder!” The Scarlet Marquis said; his breathing becoming so short, so much so that his speech became almost inaudible. “Not only have you killed my Crystal Boy, but you’ve killed the artist as well. Cold blooded murder!” King Oscar stood paralysed as around him black and white figures seemed to materialise out of the shadows. They slowly formed a circle around Oscar. He realised that his hands were chained together, and the weight of all of the chain seemed to echo the complete hopelessness he felt. He could only stare at the crumpled figure of the artist where it lay beside his canvas, across the unfinished painting of the Crystal Boy. As Oscar turned his eyes slowly, the shard of glass protruding from the artist’s neck caught the light painfully, and Oscar felt the last remaining shred of hope fade within him.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“What do I do now, Robbie? What is left for me to do now?” he whispered, for his throat was so dry he was barely able to speak at all. “Not only have I killed Basil, but also a part of myself… the artist within myself. What is there left for me now?”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Oscar, I –” began Robbie, as one of the Darkmen pushed him roughly aside. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Don’t speak anymore to the prisoner, we are taking him away.” The Darkman said in a voice as flat and callous as his appearance. As the Darkmen surrounding King Oscar began to move slowly away, the giant was forced to move also, in order to keep his balance. Beside him, Robbie watched helplessly as the dancing fairy lights hovered around his head, occasionally falling upon one of the shattered shards of the Crystal Boy, lying upon the ground and catching the light. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">As he stumbled through the trees, King Oscar was aware of the presence of Robbie the elf moving alongside him, just too far away to touch. A few moments later, Robbie was joined by Charles, his flaming beard and hair lighting up the dark trees to theatrical effect. King Oscar also glimpsed the still shaking figure of the scarlet marquis, his fury still there, simmering just below the surface. As King Oscar drew further away from the Secret Glade, into the woodland itself, he saw also his crown of sunflowers hanging morosely on a tree, looking rejected and forlorn. He thought for a moment that he saw a fleeting little shape of the black-faced imp, prominently displaying the sunflower Oscar had given to him on his chest… but then the imp was gone. Still, King Oscar was forced to move endlessly forward through the trees, as the trees began to thin out slowly and they began to make their way towards the Palace Beautiful. King Oscar felt his heart grow heavier and heavier as the palace came into view… He didn’t want to see it, now that everything had changed so drastically. He could still feel Robbie by his side, and the knowledge of his constant devotion was the only thing that kept the lonely giant on his feet. Looking at the row of sunflowers in the palace garden, illuminated by Charles’s orange flames as they drew near, King Oscar remembered sadly, how he and Queen Constance had chosen them carefully and planted them together. How much time and attention they had given to the Palace Beautiful! The king could feel tears begin to trickle down his face as he caught sight of the scarlet nursery tower now standing like a blank pillar or memorial, still with the drawbridge pulled up, and the nanny goat still bleating hollowly. He drew in his breath sharply as his tears touched the open wound on his face where the Scarlet Marquis had slashed it. It was all he deserved, now that everything had been taken from him.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">The pale first light of dawn began to finger its way around the edges of the sky as Oscar lifted his face and felt the fresh sea breeze blowing against it; he realised that by this time they must be approaching the coast, though he hadn’t been exactly this way before. He knew they must be near the beach where he used to tell his stories to the children in the old days. As Oscar took in great lungfuls of the salt air, the Darkmen surrounding him came to an abrupt halt right on the edge of the long harbour wall, and he became aware of the sound of the waves’ monotonous pounding in his ears. He squinted all around him, searching for the boat he knew must arrive. His heart began to beat so fast, he thought it would surely burst. He looked quickly towards Robbie and met his eyes for the last time. He felt the chains around his wrists pull him with some magnetic force. The Darkboat approached silently and slowly, as if time had no meaning for it. It glided alongside the harbour, and the Darkmen moved towards it, taking the stumbling giant with them. Oscar was trying to keep his eyes on where he was going; trying to avoid tripping over and falling into the water. Such worries kept him from leaving his mind open, for the truth was too painful for him to bear. He could only stand there on the deck of the Darkboat as it drew slowly away, staring blankly back at the island he had so loved. As the boat became gradually smaller, the mists joined around it and engulfed it completely. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">Many years have passed since the reign of King Oscar on the enchanted island, though the island itself still exists somewhere within the peat bog. Nobody knows for certain what became of any of the inhabitants, as nobody has ever managed to reach the island and return. Those courageous enough to attempt to catch one of the frog ferries have simply disappeared into the mists in much the same way that Oscar disappeared all those years ago. However, the magic of the island still remains, touching the surface of the water and just catching the light in the gentle rays of the sun. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"></span><span style="font-size:14.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">THE END</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:36.0pt;tab-stops:414.0pt"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"></span><span style="font-size:78%;">“I am so glad you like that strange, many coloured book of mine: it contains much of me in it. Basil Hallward is what I think I am: Lord Henry, what the world thinks me: Dorian what I would like to be – in other ages...”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:36.0pt;tab-stops:414.0pt"><span style="font-size:78%;">Oscar Wilde.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:78%;"> </span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Times New Roman";">Lawler, Donald (Ed.), <i>The Picture of Dorian Gray: A Norton Critical Edition,</i> 1988 (New York: Norton,)</span></span></p>Nicola Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17066855901263569768noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8806237858971105635.post-37030189209885953312012-03-24T16:53:00.004+00:002012-03-24T17:17:04.075+00:00Catching The Light - Chapter Five<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotoptimizeforbrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">CHAPTER FIVE</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">When he returned to the Palace Beautiful, King Oscar found it more difficult than ever to resume his normal kingly life and forget about what had happened in the Secret Glade. Even more this time, for he had the pain in his ear to remind him of the Scarlet Marquis’ anger and the frequent presence of Lord Henry at the court. Every time King Oscar caught the Harlequin’s eye, images of the black-faced imp came swerving back into his mind with a frightening persistence. The king sat sadly on his throne as Lord Henry danced merrily round before him, aware only of the tickling sensation of the bandage against his face and the continuous space that he needed to be filled by the Crystal Boy. The court seemed to be changed… there were more shadows around the edges of the room, perhaps more Darkmen than ever.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">One afternoon, King Oscar was watching absently as Lord Henry performed a strange little dance that involved spinning very fast on the spot – so fast indeed, that the king was forced to look away in order to remain sitting up straight on his throne. He felt the light touch of Robbie’s hand upon his robe. Robbie was standing so close to him that it was hardly necessary to move his head towards the elf to be able to make out his words clearly. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Oscar, there’s something wrong here… can you see the Darkmen surrounding Lord Henry? Look. I don’t trust them,” Robbie hissed uneasily, “Can you not stop them; make them leave him alone?” Even as he spoke and King Oscar shook his head, the Darkmen around Lord Henry drew closer together so that his little dance was forced to come to a halt, though he continued to wave his jingling stick. The action became more and more frantic until it was like the final wave of a drowning man… as all around him the Darkmen closed in. Very slowly, the figures began to move towards the doors taking the franticly waving jingling stick along with them. King Oscar got to his feet. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Wait! Stop there at once – what do you think you’re doing?” called out King Oscar in his most commanding voice. He raised his great hand as an additional gesture of authority. “Release that harlequin at once. Do you hear?”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">The Darkmen around Lord Henry stared blankly back at King Oscar, continuing to move towards the door. As the King got to his feet, one of the Darkmen broke away from the group and spoke in a tiny voice that was nonetheless extremely clear.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“We are taking the harlequin away. We want to speak to him… There’s nothing you can do.” Even as the Darkman spoke, the great doors of the court swung open and the group of dark figures surrounding Lord Henry moved slowly but surely through them with a gradual motion – very much like the movement of the tide. King Oscar took a few great strides across the room, raising his massive hand so that he hit the great chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and broke one of the candles. All around him, the other courtiers stood back – they had never seen their king so angry before.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Stop!” the king roared, but the Darkmen took no notice, disappearing through the doors and leaving them to swing closed after them.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">King Oscar followed them through, calling out to his courtiers, “Come on! Let’s follow them.”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">Some kind of dark magic must have been used by the Darkmen, because there was no sign of them anywhere in the entrance hall when King Oscar and Robbie made their way towards the palace doors, through which they could just see the group of Darkmen disappearing out into the now fading afternoon sunlight. They tried to go down the palace steps, but their way through the palace doors was barred by something invisible, some sort of barrier or gate. With all his strength King Oscar pushed against the invisible force, but it was no use.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Oscar, look,” Robbie called, pulling on the king’s sleeve, franticly.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">King Oscar tore his eyes away from the disappearing Darkmen and turned in the direction of Robbie’s pointing finger. On the palace steps there were more of them, all moving with the same inevitable, sinister motion that left no room for argument. It was several moments before King Oscar realised what they were carrying.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“How dare you touch my picture! Stop right there!” roared the king, feeling panic begin to rise within him as the Darkmen forced him back from the doors with their invisible barrier. The king could only stand there where he was and watch helplessly as the Darkmen carried his painting of the Crystal Boy outside. As they did so, he became aware of a familiar, thumping noise behind him, as<b> </b>Basil the artist came hurrying across the entrance hall, his one boot thumping with a familiar sound across the tiles. Basil was almost beside himself as he realised what was happening – he began to hop around furiously, franticly wringing his hands. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“My painting! Don’t let them capture the light!” He cried out desperately. “We’ve got to stop them!”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“But it’s no use, Basil,” said the king gently, as the artist tried to fight his way through the palace doors in the same way that Robbie and the King had done. “We can’t get through.”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">The three figures stood framed in the massive doorway - the giant king, Robbie the elf, and the one-legged artist, Basil, who was by now almost in tears as he watched the Darkmen dragging his painting along the stony ground of the courtyard. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“My painting, my painting! King Oscar, don’t let them take my light from me!” sobbed Basil, as he tugged franticly at the royal sleeve; but the king could do nothing. The sounds of smashing wood came drifting to their ears with such an alarming persistence that they didn’t need to be able to see to know they were destroying the painting. King Oscar watched the Darkmen on the lawn raising the axe blade above their heads and slowly bringing it crashing down as the wood splintered and flew off in all directions. Behind them he could just make out the other group, surrounding Lord Henry. He could just see the tip of Lord Henry’s waving stick, as the group became smaller and smaller, fading along with the sunlight from the day. As the sound of splintering wood eventually ceased, King Oscar watched the Darkmen disperse, leaving the shattered painting behind, on the courtyard floor. The light still seemed to shine brightly, even though the painted image had been destroyed. Slowly, King Oscar reached out towards Basil and laid his massive hand very gently on his shoulder.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Don’t be too sad, Basil… we’ll go back to the Secret Glade tonight.” He got to his knees beside Basil so that he was on the same level. “Your can catch the light one more time.” </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">For many hours the sound of splintering wood still came to them from across the gardens, along with the jingling of Lord Henry’s bells.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">From the window of the nursery tower, the sea was just visible in the distance. Queen Constance was even able to make out the foamy crests of the waves as they broke upon the shore, and she thought of the days long ago when her husband used to tell stories to the children gathered on the beach… Those days seemed very remote now; almost forgotten completely. She hadn’t even set eyes on the king for quite some time now that she and the princes were isolated in this tower with the drawbridge pulled up so that nobody could get across the moat. With a heavy sigh, Queen Constance shifted her beautiful brown eyes onto the grassy area immediately surrounding the scarlet tower, on which the princes were playing half-heartedly, for they were almost too old to play children’s games now. Nonetheless, Prince Cyril tried his best to indulge his younger brother as much as possible, although it was difficult to find new places to hide in such a small area! As the boys played, their nanny goat continued to bleat on the other side of the moat, though they ignored her. It was all part of their past; all forgotten now, like their father, the king.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">Turning away from the window, Queen Constance decided to go to the princes and tell them stories herself – perhaps she wouldn’t be able to tell them quite as well as the king used to… but still, she would try. Moving across the brightly coloured room, with its jungle paintings all over the walls, she stood still for a moment at the top of the winding staircase. The way the narrow stairs spiralled away into the darkness below seemed to fill her with such a sense of unease and foreboding for a moment that she was suddenly too frightened. No sound stirred the air around her; nothing moved. With a little toss of her head, Queen Constance began to descend the stairs, lightly. As she neared the bottom of the stairs, Queen Constance lost her footing and fell… She fell in such a way that her whole body somersaulted so that her spine was crushed against the staircase with a great cracking sound. She lay immobile at the foot of the spiral staircase for several moments, wondering what to do… she could call for the princes, but no sound would come when she opened her mouth; her throat was much too dry. She would simply have to lie there in a heap at the bottom of the staircase and wait… She did not mind doing that now, and she closed her eyes gently. Just then, the door of the tower was pushed open by Vyvyan, the Cloud Prince. The slim, fragile child stood silently beside the figure of the fallen queen, seeming to realise straight away what had happened… It was almost as if he had been aware of the whole thing. The white-faced prince got to his knees beside the queen and spoke to her very quietly. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Mama… are you hurt?”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">Queen Constance tried to move her head, but the pain it caused her was so bad that she gave up and tried instead to force her lips to go upwards into a smile – but the expression didn’t really work, so she simply blinked her beautiful doe eyes and whispered a few words.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“I think… I will be alright… maybe if I just stay here for a few minutes, just stay still…”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">Prince Vyvyan took her hand and stroked it gently. Behind him Prince Cyril appeared, bringing with him the brightness of the sun which fell over the queen’s body with an easy sort of radiance. He touched his brother’s shoulder, as if sending his own lifeblood through the Cloud Prince into the queen. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“We will stay with you mama… don’t worry. We’ll stay.” The sun prince sat firmly, his words sounding so filled with confidence that the three figures seemed to be frozen forever in that static image that would never pass away. Even though the hours ticked by and the night began to creep into the nursery tower, nobody moved, not one of them. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">The nanny goat continued to bleat, sadly. The sound she made was so hollow and distressing that Robbie the elf knelt down beside her and wrapped his arms around the white creature, trying desperately to soothe her to stop, but it was no use. The nanny goat pulled away, seeming to be almost determined to embrace her fate. King Oscar shook his head very slowly, removing his crown of sunflowers and examining it absently.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“It’s no use, Robbie,” he said gently, “She realises that she’s not needed anymore. And so what more is left to be said? Where do we go now?” On the other side of the moat stood the silent shape of the scarlet nursery tower… a sad shape now, seeming to appear almost crimson, a deep blood red, as the night shadows surrounded and touched it. The doors of the tower were closed, the drawbridge still up. As King Oscar looked on, the distance between himself and the tower seemed limitless; far too great a distance for his giant strides to carry him. He spoke, his voice seeming to have become so hollow and vacant a space. “It has been so long since I’ve seen my boys and even the queen. I wonder if they remember me. I wish I could go to them now – for I feel they need me wherever they are.” Far away in the distance, King Oscar could just make out the outline of the sea and the cliffs – He was suddenly filled with such a great sense of sadness that he found it too heavy to bear… He turned away decisively. “We should go straight away to the Secret Glade… or else I fear it might be too late,” he said, turning to Basil as the artist came hopping across the lawn towards them, carrying a large piece of canvas and his painter’s satchel over his shoulder. “Are you ready, Basil?”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Yes, of course I’m ready,” replied Basil in<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>a trembling voice, for he was hardly able to contain his excitement as he hopped about manically in the bright moonlight. "Let’s go quickly… I want to catch the light once again.”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“And perhaps we might also be able to find Lord Henry in the woods,” put in Robbie, taking his heavy satchel from his neck, and transferring it to his own. “We might be able to help him too.”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"></span><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Yes…” King Oscar agreed thoughtfully, switching his gaze to the other side of the island, towards the woodland deep within it. The moon seemed to throw such a bright light on the trees that the secrets they held were only increased, becoming ever more secret by the moment. King Oscar clapped his mighty hands together with a resounding smack as he began to move away. “Come on then, let’s go!"<br /></span></p><p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;mso-fareast-language: EN-US;mso-bidi-language:AR-SA"><span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);">The final chapter - Chapter Six will be posted next weekend.</span><br /></span></p>Nicola Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17066855901263569768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8806237858971105635.post-69851612798053536842012-03-17T15:26:00.000+00:002012-03-17T15:26:00.773+00:00Catching The Light - Chapter Four<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotoptimizeforbrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">CHAPTER FOUR</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">Afterwards, nobody could tell for certain when the first of the Darkmen appeared or where he came from. Only a few of these silent monochrome figures were to be glimpsed amongst the courtiers at the Palace Beautiful at first, where they contrasted sharply with the colour and life that surrounded them. Each Darkman was dressed in a black suit with a tiny neat grey tie, which looked as if it had been painted on the crisp white shirt below. The faces of these Darkmen were completely devoid of expression; the thin lines of their mouths seemed incapable of making any movement into either a smile or a cry of frustration or anger. Every Darkman spoke in a similar fashion, the words monotonous so that nobody listened to them, but perhaps this was the reason for the silence. Whatever, the Darkmen increased so quietly and gradually in number that the courtiers only came to notice the negative quality seeming to drain everything around them of vitality. This made them very conspicuous; at first it was possible for Lilly to droop her flower head and ignore the presence of a Darkman or for Charles to light up the white face of a Darkman with his flaming beard, but the number of them at the Palace Beautiful began to cause some discomfort and disturbance to everyone.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">King Oscar’s attendance at court was becoming more and more sporadic, but even he noticed these Darkmen standing out in the court. Even though some of them now stood around in small clusters of two and three, they still didn’t speak to each other at all, but stood silently like sinister puppets, just watching the king; just watching. The king shifted uncomfortably on his throne, catching the elf Robbie’s eye and leaning towards him.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“I don’t trust the Darkmen at all… Where did they all appear from?” he whispered in Robbie’s pointed ear. “They make me feel so uneasy, they never seem to speak. Have you ever spoken to one?”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">Robbie shook his head, glancing over at a couple of the silent, black-clad figures standing motionless in the brightly coloured surroundings.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“They hardly ever seem to speak… just a few words. I think they communicate between themselves by some other means. I don’t trust them either. In fact…” Robbie touched the King’s elbow. “I think we should go outside for a while… Let’s go for a walk around the grounds. The sun’s shining… let’s forget about these Darkmen.”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Alright,” the King agreed, slowly getting to his feet and uncoiling his massive body like a cobra rising. “But let’s not go outside. Let’s go to the Princes’ bedroom. I want to see my picture… and I also want to begin writing the story I have in my head before I forget it.”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">Several of the courtiers had to move aside quickly to allow the giant King to pass through them. Both Charles, with his flaming beard and the harlequin, Lord Henry, were squashed against the doorway as he passed through on his way towards the staircase, closely followed by Robbie in his green and brown garments. As they mounted the stairs together, the king continued to speak to Robbie in a low voice edged with a certain excitement. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“I feel I’ve been without words for far too long, Robbie. Now’s the time for me to begin my story; the story that’s been waiting for so long. I have all the ideas – the harlequin, the artist… and the Crystal Boy, of course. I’m just not sure about the ending, though I’m sure it’ll finish on a beautifully tragic note.”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Ah.” Robbie waited beside the king as he unlocked the door to the princes’ bedroom and stepped inside. “And what do you think the story will be called?”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Well…” King Oscar moved into the bright sunlight that streamed in through the large arched window and gazed out at the nursery tower, which seemed to be almost too bright to look at. “Names are everything, so the title is most important. I think I’ll call it The Picture of The Crystal Boy… or some such thing.” As he said this, an idea struck him, raising one finger. “How about Catching the Light? That seems to be suitably shining.”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Yes, I like that,” said Robbie, waiting for King Oscar to go on. But the king remained silent, staring sadly out of the window at the nursery tower, in the windows of which no figures moved. The nanny-goat stood on the outer-edge of the moat that surrounded the tower, bleating helplessly for the princes. The sound of her bleats carried across to the king’s ears, seeming so forlorn and bleak even though his surroundings were so bright around him. He raised a hand slowly to his face, perhaps wiping away a tear. “I can’t remember the last time I saw my boys or Queen Constance, but it must be many months… perhaps now the boys are too big to need their nanny-goat, so now she’s been left outside and the drawbridge has been pulled up. Perhaps nobody can go across now, not even the king.” King Oscar turned away from the window, slowly, allowing his sigh to reverberate around the room with a great heaviness. His eyes fell upon the painting of the Crystal Boy and he moved instantly towards it, seeming to have been lit with an inner spark. He clasped his hands together. “What else is there for me now but to go back to the Secret Glade and capture that light? What else can I do now, Robbie? Nothing, except maybe to write, to write my story of Catching the Light. I might begin it now, so be a good chap Robbie and find me some paper and a pen and ink.” So saying. King Oscar seated himself at a small table and waited as Robbie did as he asked. After writing a few sentences, the King glanced up at Robbie, gesturing him to go away.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“That’ll be all Robbie… if you don’t mind leaving me for a few hours, and later on we’ll go to the Glade. Perhaps you could see if Charles wants to join us, maybe even Lord Henry or Basil, to help me capture the light.”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“I’ll go and ask them,” said Robbie, closing the door gently behind him as he left the king alone with his writing.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">The evening shadows were just beginning to lengthen across the princes’ bedroom as Robbie firmly pushed open the door and stepped inside, closely followed by Charles with his flaming orange hair and beard. King Oscar looked up from his writing and began to get to his feet. Though he was hardly able to make out the figures clearly in the gloom, he could tell by the merry tinkling of bells that Lord Henry was amongst them.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Good evening, Oscar… are you ready now? Basil is too busy finishing his painting to come with us, but Lord Henry’s here, and Charles of course,” said Robbie, as he lit the oil lamp and placed it on the table beside the king’s story. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Thank you – but it’s all right, I’ve finished that chapter now, so let’s go.” King Oscar began to take giant strides across the room towards the door, adjusting his crown of sunflowers upon his head as he went. Charles led the way down the palace staircase and out into the bright moonlight which shone down between the clouds. King Oscar took such great strides that he kept having to pause to allow the others to catch up with him; he was hardly able to contain his excitement within him. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Come on, Lord Henry… hurry up, I don’t want you to miss seeing the Crystal Boy! You’ve never seen him before, have you?” King Oscar asked the harlequin skipping along side the giant. Lord Henry shook his head in reply, making the bells on his cap jingle wildly.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“No… this will be my first visit to the Secret Glade,” he replied enthusiastically. “Have we much further to go?” </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“No – here’s the woodland,” King Oscar said, clasping his hands together as his excitement bubbled furiously, threatening to overflow at any minute. The tiny blue elf came and latched himself onto Robbie as he had done before, and as they proceeded deeper into the woodland, the light from Charles’s orange beard became their only guide as the moon was obscured by branches. As they drew near the Secret Glade, King Oscar pointed out to Lord Henry the many bright fairy lights which hovered all around their heads, glinting with their magical quality that seemed more magical than ever when accompanied by the constant jingling of Lord Henry’s bells. As before, King Oscar remembered to remove his crown of sunflowers and hang it on a branch before entering any further into the Secret Glade itself. Lord Henry was joined by a tiny black-faced imp with a wicked grin, who chatted non stop, greedily consuming the harlequin’s attention. King Oscar watched the two of them for a while, not quite trusting the black faced imp, though not sure why. The king tried to join in with their conversation but it didn’t seem to lead to anywhere, so he gave the black-faced imp one of the sunflowers from his crown and a brief kiss on his black face before turning away. He could see Robbie sitting with the blue elf, on a fallen tree across the other side of the Glade; he moved restlessly from one foot to the other as he waited for the Crystal Boy to appear. Soon enough he did – each sparkling facet of crystal catching the fairies’ lights so that the boy now had a pink face, now a gold one, now a green one. Once again the boy’s crystal outline became clearer and more distinctive, so that the narcissi flower within his body became visible only after several minutes of intense staring by King Oscar. The air around them seemed to tremble with anticipation; even Lord Henry’s bells seemed to quieten in respect. King Oscar found himself reaching out towards the Crystal Boy without being able to control his limbs. Just as his fingers made contact with the glass body, a scream of anger ripped through the glade as the Scarlet Marquis rushed out, waving his cane above his head and hopping furiously from foot to foot. King Oscar stared at the squat, ape-like figure blankly, taken aback by his fury but not frightened by it; the Scarlet Marquis seemed to be even more outraged than ever as his screams filled the Glade. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“How dare you! I’ve warned you before to keep your hands off my Crystal Boy!” His cries seemed to become louder to Oscar as the Scarlet Marquis jumped up near the giant’s face, lashing out with his cane and striking the giant on the ear. Oscar cried out with pain, feeling the blood beginning to run down his face. Both Robbie and Lord Henry ran to his side, driving the Scarlet Marquis away.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Are you hurt, Oscar?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>called Robbie over his shoulder, as the giant figure sat down heavily on a tree stump.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Just a little,” Oscar replied absently, his eyes still fixed on the dissolving figure of the Crystal Boy. “My ear is bleeding, but I think I’ll live another day. Did you see the Crystal Boy, Lord Henry?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>King Oscar gestured towards the vaguely illuminated image as the harlequin came and stood beside him, the sound of his bells beginning to wander back as reality seemed to re-establish itself.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Yes, I saw him, Oscar,” replied the harlequin as he approached the king, taking a small roll of bandages from inside one of the diamond shaped pockets of his suit. The black faced imp still hovered like a shadow. “What a wonderful place the Secret Glade is! But you should let me look at your wound, your majesty, it may get infected unless I bandage it!” </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Oh, all right!” King Oscar leaned down so that Lord Henry could wrap the bandage around his head, covering up the bleeding ear. “It will be fine, you shouldn’t worry. Is the Crystal Boy gone completely now? I wish we could make him stay forever!” The king’s giant sigh seemed to shake every branch all around the Glade, as Charles appeared beside him.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“We should go back to the Palace Beautiful now, Oscar… it’s almost daylight. Here’s your crown.” He handed the king his circle of sunflowers, taking care that they didn’t catch fire on his beard. As Oscar slowly got to his feet and began to move further into the trees, he stopped suddenly as his attention was caught by two dark figures standing silently nearby, deep in conversation with the black-faced imp.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Look!” King Oscar hissed to Robbie as the elf came to his side. “What are Darkmen doing in the Secret Glade?”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“I’ve no idea… should we follow them and find out?” whispered Robbie, tugging at the sleeve of King Oscar’s robe.</span></p> <span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;mso-fareast-language: EN-US;mso-bidi-language:AR-SA">But the king was distracted by Charles’s shout of “Follow me this way!” When he glanced back at the Darkmen, they’d disappeared. In fact King Oscar thought he might almost have imagined them, as indeed he might have imagined the image of the Crystal Boy… but he still felt the sharp pain in his ear to remind him of the reality of the Secret Glade.</span>Nicola Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17066855901263569768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8806237858971105635.post-24646709230592784972012-03-11T14:38:00.002+00:002012-03-11T14:42:35.763+00:00Catching The Light - Chapter Three<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotoptimizeforbrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">CHAPTER THREE</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">Back at the Palace Beautiful, King Oscar tried his best to resume his normal king’s life with his queen and his courtiers, but he found it very difficult to do so. Every time his giant’s eye fell upon either Robbie or Charles, he was reminded of the Secret Glade and that incredible vision of light that he could never recapture. Though he returned to the Secret Glade the next week with Robbie, it happened just the way Robbie had told him it would. Exactly the same confrontation with the Scarlet Marquis was played out once again, and Oscar could only sit and watch the Crystal Boy turning slowly, basking like a lizard in his own perfection. Oscar could only look… never touch. And the image would gradually fade away, until it was completely dissolved in the reflection of the fairies coloured lights as they danced off each and every facet. Oscar would always sit entranced for hours afterwards, unable to move a single muscle. Eventually he would be joined by Robbie, or sometimes he would go back to the Palace Beautiful alone. As time went on Oscar began to return to the Secret Glade by himself, and went there more often than he stayed at the palace. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">Meanwhile Queen Constance spent most of her time in the nursery tower with the babies. She watched the artists moving around her as she played with the princes, decorating the large round walls of the nursery tower with jungle pictures of trees entwined with brightly coloured flowers, animals and birds. A covering for the floor was made of woven rushes and coloured strands of the tendrils hanging from forest trees found deep within one of the distant forests, right on the edge of the enchanted island, far away from the palace itself. King Oscar would occasionally join the queen, though his appearances became gradually more infrequent. Soon Queen Constance had a room of her own made below the princes’ nursery, so she rarely returned to the palace. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">One day, Queen Constance went down to the beach with the princes’ nanny-goat, who came in useful for pulling the two princes along in their little cart. Queen Constance herself walked some way behind the nanny-goat, feeling a little sad. Despite being so proud and contented with her life, King Oscar’s dissatisfaction made her uneasy. When they reached the shore, she saw a group of children sitting miserably on the beach. She suspected she knew who they were waiting for. A couple of the smaller children were crying, so she asked them what was wrong. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“We’re waiting for the king to come and tell us his magical stories! We need his enchantment so much… Where is he?” they sobbed, as they held on to each other’s hands. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Queen Constance, please tell us where King Oscar is! Make him come back to us!” </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">The queen could hardly shake her head. She turned away and watched the nanny-goat moving across the sand dunes, the wheels of the cart squeaking gently behind her.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"> </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">One day the following week, a travelling artist arrived at the Palace Beautiful from a distant part of the island and asked to be presented to the king. He said he had brought a gift – a picture, naturally. King Oscar was making one of his rare appearances in court that day and so he was there to welcome the artist. He stood up from his throne and came down the few steps to shake the artist’s hand warmly. He had slight trouble finding the artist’s hand, for he did not seem to be a complete figure at all. In fact, only half a body with only one leg and one arm. Despite being such a slight figure, the artist was a very strong and tall man, so that King Oscar felt an instant kinship with him. He was also very softly spoken, so that King Oscar had to lean forward and strain his ears to catch his words when he spoke.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“I’ve travelled many miles to the Palace Beautiful with this particular picture for you, King Oscar,” the thin artist told him, hopping forward to show his painting to the giant king. It was a very large and heavy painting, in an ornate gold frame, and King Oscar stared at it for several moments before he could make out what exactly it was. It seemed to be simply a dark background with a few coloured spots on it. Then he moved his head very slightly, and he recognised the image. He clutched at the ornate frame with his massive hands and stared, entranced.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“But this is my Crystal Boy! How can this be?” He tore his eyes away from the picture and gazed in wonder at the artist’s half-face. “How did you manage to catch the light?”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Ah…” The artist gazed sadly at his painting with his one eye; his half mouth twisted into a strange sort of smile. “I had to wait for many years… I had to go back many times to the Secret Glade before I was able to capture his image. I thought it was dangerous to do so… I was playing with fire, I knew that. But still, I wanted to catch the light forever and put it permanently in my heart where it could never pass away.” The artist sighed deeply and wiped away a single tear that trickled from his single eye. “This is a dangerous game we’re both playing, you and I, your highness, but that crystal boy had to be caught… he leads all the time, and you follow… just as I myself followed. In the end, you may catch the light, King Oscar.”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">King Oscar frowned as he continued to gaze at the painting.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“I’m going to hang this painting in a special room upstairs, where nobody else can see it. I want to keep the Crystal Boy all to myself.” He looked at the artist who was beginning to hop away, back across the court. “Thank you for your gift… it will look wonderful in the Palace Beautiful. I have much need for beauty in my life at the moment. Things around me seem to be growing gradually darker, if you see what I mean, Mr… what is your name?”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">The thin half-artist paused as King Oscar met his eye once again. They seemed to be almost joined… part of the same giant body.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“My name is Basil,” replied the artist, in a tiny voice, his thin words almost swallowed up by the vastness of the Palace Beautiful. King Oscar watched him hop away out of the throne room. The giant king felt every movement of the artist’s thin body as if it was his own, somewhere within himself. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"> </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">Not long after this, another traveller arrived at the Place Beautiful – a brightly coloured Harlequin who bowed low before King Oscar’s throne, the bells on his cap jingling with a merry musical sound. When he spoke he seemed to be singing, his voice rising and falling, so that his words seemed jumbled crazily.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“May I introduce myself, King Oscar? My name is Lord Henry… I travelled many miles across the island to come here and make you laugh, make you sing, entertain you… whatever you like.” Lord Henry straightened himself up, shaking bells on the wooden stick he held, to accompany his words. Although his body was almost completely covered by <em><span style="font-style:normal">psychedelic</span> </em>diamond shapes, a black mask covered his eyes, and there seemed to be no flesh beneath – or at least invisible to King Oscar and the rest of the courtiers. But still, he was quite able to make them laugh and sing along with him, clapping their hands and even dancing. King Oscar himself watched the harlequin spin round and round in delight – These days, he was much in need of merriment to distract him from his troubles. “What would you like me to do for you, King Oscar? Would you like to hear some stories, perhaps? I have many to tell.”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">The giant king leaned back in his throne with a sigh, watching Lord Henry dancing around before him, with his kind eyes full of wonder as well as sadness. Beside him, the elf Robbie stood close, almost touching the king’s massive shoulder.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Yes, I should like that very much,” said King Oscar, trying his best to smile. “I myself used to tell stories to the children… but those days are over, or so it seems. I have no stories left to tell now… so you must take my place.” </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">Lord Henry’s laughter died away slowly, and the bells on his stick stopped jingling as his invisible hand became still. Even the crazy colours on his diamond suit seemed to become static, not quite so alive as they had been. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“But where have your stories gone? Where can they be?” demanded Lord Henry in his sing-song voice. “They must be somewhere… must be hiding somewhere at the back of your mind, King Oscar. They can’t have disappeared… Once a story teller, always a story teller.”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">King Oscar gave a little laugh, even though the sound seemed forced and hollow. As he tried to look into Lord Henry’s vast, invisible eyes he felt a strange kinship with the harlequin, as he had done with Basil, the artist. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Those are kind, encouraging words, but the enchantment has left me… The magic has died, I feel.” King Oscar sighed once again, removing his crown of sunflowers and turning it round carefully in his giant hands. “So please, entertain me with your stories… make me forget about the magic I have lost. Distract me… make me laugh once again. Please, you are welcome here… I feel as if I know you very well, even though we’ve only just met. Does this make any sense to you, Lord Henry?”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">The bells on Lord Henry’s cap and stick tinkled haphazardly together.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“I think I’ll simply give you an idea… simply the characters, and I’ll leave you to make the story. You have all the characters here in your court before your eyes, King Oscar… you have the story in your head already. Did you know that?” </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">The king got slowly to his feet, bending his head to avoid hitting it on the ceiling. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“I think I know what you mean, Lord Henry… but please tell me how the story ends. Does it end sadly, with the death of Dorian, the hero?” </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">Lord Henry’s laughter dissolved away into a very faint trail of silvery sounds.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“You must finish Dorian’s tale yourself, your highness. You know who Dorian is… I believe you’ve seen him many times in the Secret Glade.” Lord Henry pointed his tinkling bells towards Basil’s painting, which was propped up beside King Oscar’s throne. “You’ve seen the Crystal Boy for yourself… That’s the story anyway; the light that you’re so desperate to catch. So you must finish the story yourself… I have no way of knowing if you will catch the light, or not.”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">There was an uncomfortable silence, which Lord Henry tried to fill with his music. The creatures of the court clapped their hands and tried to join in as best they could, but they knew their king was sad… so very sad. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">Carefully picking up the painting, King Oscar got to his feet abruptly, obviously on the verge of making a decision. His giant figure blocked out the light coming through the window, before he moved away through the courtiers, towards the entrance doors. Robbie followed close by his side, as did Basil the artist, hopping across the tiled floor on his one leg. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Come with me, Robbie… I know where to hang this painting.” The giant king’s voice was echoing all around the court so that the tinkling of Lord Henry’s bells and the strumming of his guitar became squashed beneath the weight of the sound. Oscar paused in the doorway, looking back over his shoulder at the artist and the harlequin. “Will you come with me please, Basil? And you, Lord Henry… we must all be together on this occasion.”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">As he left the court and began to climb the massive staircase, King Oscar knew that Lord Henry was close behind him, by the jingling of his bells, and he knew also that Basil was accompanying him as he reached the top of the stairs, because he could hear his single boot thudding in a monotonous drum beat. He could feel Robbie close beside him all the time. His tiny elfin face was serious and composed, yet ready for action.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“<i>This</i> is the room we’ll hang the picture in, I think. It’s been a long time since I’ve been here,” said King Oscar as he opened the door. “I hope that the room’s still intact!”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">In the centre of the room, stood the princes’ empty cribs. Beneath the window was the little chair on which Queen Constance used to sit and watch them as they slept. King Oscar only glanced briefly at these sad remnants of his past life, before turning his attention back to the painting. Something in the picture seemed to glint and catch the light momentarily as he turned the painting, trying to find the best place on the wall to hang it.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“This painting should hang in a secret place… for I knew as you spoke, Lord Henry, that the story was a secret one… it’s my own story, about myself. The giant king has become split into three different characters, all of whom appear in this story. Basil the artist is there… do you recognise yourself, Basil? <i>You</i> are how I see myself… as an artist, a creator of beautiful things… a story teller.” Very carefully King Oscar raised the painting in his massive hands and hung it on the wall. Taking a giant stride back, he gazed at the picture, a faint smile touching the curve of his lips. Lord Henry’s bells tinkled very gently as he moved his invisible hand to scratch his invisible face. King Oscar glanced at him, gesturing towards the painting. “And <i>you </i>are also in this story… the wit. You make people laugh, forget their troubles. You are how the world sees me. The final part of me is… <i>there</i> he is, catching the light; the Crystal Boy, Dorian. He is how I will be remembered… how I shall become in other people’s memories.”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">Falling silent, King Oscar turned very slowly away from the painting, and a great weight seemed to settle on the giant’s shoulders and he seemed to stagger slightly across the room. He gripped on to the window sill as he gazed out into the sunlight, which was now growing fainter as the afternoon wore on. Behind him the soft tinkling of Lord Henry’s bells filtered through the lengthening shadows and King Oscar could also still hear the creaking of Basil’s one leg as he shifted his weight upon it. Close by his side moved Robbie quietly, sitting down in the little child’s chair beside the window. King Oscar caught his eye. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“And so… what is there left for me to do now? I have this story in my head, but I cannot write it yet, can I, Robbie? You understand, don’t you?” he asked the elf abruptly, reaching up to remove his crown of sunflowers. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">Robbie gazed back thoughtfully.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“But I thought you were the greatest teller of stories, King Oscar? Why can you not finish this one?”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">King Oscar continued to gaze out at the tall nursery tower jut across the courtyard outside, watching the scarlet of it becoming crimson as the sky around grew darker. The giant flinched with pain as he caught sight of the Queen Constance’s figure as she came out with the nanny goat, pulling the two princes in the cart. King Oscar stared at the figures without moving, watching them cross over the wooden drawbridge, his fingers now gripping on to the edge of the window sill. He shook his head, feeling sure he would never see them again. </span></p> <span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;mso-fareast-language: EN-US;mso-bidi-language:AR-SA">“There’s something I have to do first… before I can write the story of my life. I have to do something,” he said sadly, feeling as though a weight was pulling him down further. “I have to go back to the Secret Glade and catch that light forever.”</span>Nicola Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17066855901263569768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8806237858971105635.post-19246890610340869892012-03-04T16:35:00.006+00:002012-03-04T16:41:30.537+00:00Catching The Light - Chapter Two<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotoptimizeforbrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <h4 style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt">CHAPTER TWO</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"></span></h4><h4 style="text-align: justify; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"> Early one morning, just before dawn broke over the Palace Beautiful and the islanders began to stir; a green elf came out from the woodland, bringing in his arms a small baby for the king and queen. The elf carefully laid his tiny bundle inside the golden crib that the queen had prepared for the child’s arrival – both she and the giant king were very excited. The new baby had a round face that seemed to smile all the time. His entire body seemed to give off a warm glow, so that it was a real pleasure to stand near him. King Oscar lifted him gently from his crib, marvelling at the magic of it all. </span></h4> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"> “This baby shall be called Cyril… the Sunshine Boy,” he said, giving a long sigh of contentment and pride, raising his eyes to meet Queen Constance’s beautiful dark brown ones. He smiled, holding out his hand towards her. “Now I truly do have everything I want. Nothing can alter this perfection; I am quite sure of it.”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">Queen Constance simply smiled sadly. Without taking any notice, the king glanced all around Prince Cyril’s bedroom.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"> “This room is much too small for our prince… a new Tower shall be built; the Nursery Tower… it should be filled with bright colours and toys; a rocking horse, naturally, toy soldiers and a castle. It can go just over there…” he pointed just out of the window. “And it’ll be surrounded by a moat, so that nobody can disturb or harm my children, for I do not doubt the elves will bring us more. But now…” he went on, laying the baby back inside his crib and gathering his magicians robe around him. He straightened himself as much as the small room would allow him to do. “I must go down to the beach to tell the children their stories. They’re waiting there for me. Now that my life is full, the stories spill from me like water. Indeed I’m overflowing with words.”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"> The Queen still said nothing as the King left the room, his massive shoulders bending down so that his crown didn’t become dislodged by the doorway.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"> </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">At once work was begun on the building of the Nursery Tower, which was to be painted with scarlet and gold. King Oscar supervised all the work himself, giving orders to the artists and designers. Among them, James strutted all around the tower with his peacock tail displayed and paintbrush held aloft while the wooden William busily carved an ornate doorframe for the tower, and then began work on a drawbridge, which would be necessary to cross the moat. Soon the moat itself was dug and filled with water, and gold and scarlet fish as well. King Oscar helped with the painting of the tower, inside and out, when he was not telling stories to the children beside the sea and also writing them down in books. He also spent much time playing games with baby Cyril, making puppets and other toys, and a new crib for the forthcoming arrival of the new baby. During these few years, King Oscar was very happy and content and so was Queen Constance. Sure enough, another green elf came to the queen one night, and handed her another tiny baby, before slinking away back into the forest. The queen took the baby without a word, trying to feel happy – but her heart was heavy. This baby was quite different from the first, he had a thin pointed face, and his skin glowed only dully, like the luminous glow of the moon. When King Oscar saw this baby, he looked at it only briefly before returning it to its crib.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>“Well… this baby shall be called Prince Vyvyan, the Cloud Boy,” said the King, trying to put an arm around the queen’s shoulders. “We should love him equally… even though I feel that things are changing.” He sighed, removing his crown of sunflowers and throwing it down on a chair. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me… I feel so restless, surrounded by all this beauty and privilege. I want something more than all this, Constance… something <i>more</i>.”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>The Queen made no reply, only turned away, gazing sadly out of the window at the work going on below. Her fingers clutched at the edge of the window sill as the artists moved busily around the nursery tower, shouting instructions to one another. Their activity seemed to encourage Queen Constance. She took King Oscar’s hand gently in her own and squeezed it. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>“It looks like the nursery tower should be ready soon for our babies… shall we take them over to their new room now? You should stop thinking these thoughts – the princes both need your magic stories, and the other children do as well.” She brushed his face lightly with her finger tips. “So… please, Oscar, think of the Children.”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>Oscar readjusted his magician’s robes so they hung properly from his massive shoulders.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>“You’re right, of course… I shall go down to the beach at once.” So saying, he left the room and went down the staircase, with the intention of going to the sea and perhaps stopping at the nursery tower to check on the decoration. But as soon as he stepped outside into the sunlight, he was met by his friend Robbie the elf. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>“Ah, Robbie… I was going to see how the prince’s room was coming on. We’re almost ready to bring the princes over.”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>“The walls are just about covered in colour now – a jungle mural has been painted. The most fantastic mural you can imagine! The princes will be very happy there.” He stopped, glancing at the friendly giant quickly. Being an elf, Robbie had a special magical communication with Oscar, especially as they had been friends for quite some time. Carefully, Robbie rubbed one of his pointed ears as he cleared his throat. “But what’s wrong, your majesty? What’s darkening your thoughts?”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>“Oh, I don’t know Robbie… I can’t explain. I have everything, I should be happy… but I’m not. I don’t know why. “ King Oscar sighed once again, turning away from Ross so that the elf couldn’t see the tear glistening like a rain drop in the king’s eye, as the rays of afternoon sunlight slanted through the great palace doors. Robbie clutched at King Oscar’s sleeve, lowering his voice. “You should come down with me to the Secret Glade. I’ll meet you there when it gets dark.”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>King Oscar looked at the elf curiously. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>“All right… what happens at the Secret Glade? I’ve never heard of such a place before,” he said. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"></span> Robbie simply smiled, before slipping away, back into the courtroom of the palace. King Oscar stared after him, still seeing his tiny figure, long after it had vacated the spot.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>It had only just begun to get dark that evening when King Oscar was joined by Robbie and another of the courtiers, Charles. As the three of them descended the palace steps outside, only a few stars were visible, because the sky was so cloudy and Charles’s flaming hair and beard came in very useful to light up the way. Robbie took hold of King Oscar’s sleeve and whispered, standing on tiptoe to reach the giant’s ear. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>“Don’t worry, Charles knows all about the Secret Glade, I’ve already been there with him quite a few times.”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>King Oscar nodded assuredly.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>Outside the palace gates, they turned away from the usual route that would lead them down to the beach, and instead headed inland, towards the large area of woodland. King Oscar found himself slightly nervous for he had never entered the woodland before, but he knew that elves and other strange creatures came from within the trees.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>As they finally drew near, the trees around them grew thicker and the branches met overhead, blocking out the stars so that Charles’s flaming locks were even more vital. He led the way through the trees; Robbie and King Oscar following, getting caught in the branches.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>“Is it much further?” King Oscar called out to Charles, trying to avoid the branches scratching his face. Charles made no reply, but Robbie called back.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>“We’re nearly there! I can see the Glade!” </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>As the trees had begun to grow thicker, they stopped abruptly, so that a large area ahead was completely clear – small figures flitted across the glade; strange coloured figures that disappeared back into the dark trees. King Oscar stared in wonder as a tiny red imp approached them, rubbing his hands together and laughing manically all the time, so that King Oscar wasn’t entirely sure whether to trust him or not.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>“Greetings, Robbie,” laughed the imp, glancing upwards. “But who’s your friend?”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>“This is King Oscar,” Robbie replied, pulling on the giant’s sleeve so that his massive form was completely visible to the imp. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>The red imp pointed up at the giant’s head, still laughing. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>“You’ll have to take off your crown, I’m afraid. There’s no place for royalty in the Secret Glade.” </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>With shaking hands, Oscar reached up and removed his crown of sunflowers. He hung it on the branch of a nearby tree, and turned back to the imp and the elf quickly. Ahead of him he could catch little glimpses of coloured light which he thought might be fairies. His excitement was growing within him.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>“I want to see inside the Secret Glade… so lead the way, please,” he told the imp. “I don’t mind leaving my crown behind for once.”</span></p> <span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">Oscar, Charles and Robbie drew together instinctively as they followed the red imp across the glade, which seemed to become even darker and more mysterious, even though there were no trees in the Glade, and no rocks on the ground; nothing in fact, only space, a vacant black space which seemed to be filled with coloured lights and slim green shapes – several friendly elves came and clung on to their arms. One small purple one</span><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"> came and attached himself to Charles, ignoring the flames from his beard which licked the elf’s purple face. All the time the coloured lights of the fairies flickered in and out of existence and the red imp seemed to be changed into a yellow one, or perhaps another imp had taken his place. King Oscar moved through the shadows of the trees, enchanted.</span> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>“I’ve never been in such a place as this… What’s inside the Secret Glade, Robbie?” asked Oscar breathlessly.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>Robbie didn’t answer at first – his attention was distracted by a tiny blue elf tugging desperately at his arm, demanding his attention. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>“You must find out for yourself, Oscar,” Robbie called out to the king over the blue elf’s head. “I can’t say what’s inside the Secret Glade – only you can find out for yourself.”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>Feeling tiny hands tugging at his sleeve, Oscar turned round to see a very slight opaque figure that might have been an elf, or something more ephemeral, more fleeting, for the next moment it was gone. But still Oscar lumbered after it, feeling sure he had to. This was it, this was the Secret Glade… As he moved forward through the darkness, bright lights continued to flit about above his head, and as he stared intently into the blackness immediately before him, he thought he caught sight of a piece of glass, turning slowly, catching the light. Oscar’s throat was as dry as sand paper; he was sweating and he rubbed his moist palms together franticly. Just ahead of him, the glass figure of a boy seemed to be there, though only when it caught the light from the fairies flying overhead, then different facets of the Crystal Boy exploded into light, and mingled with a strange shimmering golden haze around the boy’s head. As the Crystal Boy moved very slowly, he seemed to be absolutely aware of his own beauty; his own fascination… Oscar stared so hard he thought his eyes must surely come loose from his face. In the fairies’ light he could just make out something within the body of the Crystal Boy, but he couldn’t see what it was… He took a few careful steps towards him, holding his hand outstretched. Although his eyes began to ache with the strain of looking, he recognised the shape inside as a flower; a perfect white narcissus. The flower’s head seemed to droop with the weight of its own perfection… And the crystal surrounding the flower glinted all the colours of the rainbow, each lasting for only few seconds before changing, sparkling, fleeting. The Crystal Boy stood still where he was as Oscar moved towards him. Oscar ran his tongue over his dry lips, hardly recognising his own voice as it was forced out from deep within his chest. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>“<i>This</i> is the secret of the glade! I must touch the Crystal Boy… I must hold him; capture this light!”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"> A hideous screech rang out through the glade, which could have belonged to an animal or bird or some other magical creature…The sound froze Oscar just as his fingers touched the hard crystal. The fairies lights continued to catch different facets of the boy, and Oscar wondered if the Crystal Boy had ever really existed, or if he had simply consisted of light. Oscar looked around him desperately, searching for the owner of the screech. He half expected to see feathers, but he saw instead, scarlet… and he heard the thumping sound of a creature jumping. As Oscar stared helplessly at the ape, he felt his hairy arms whiz past his body – There was no doubt in his head that the Scarlet Marquis fully intended to strike him and stop him in his tracks. Oscar drew back, not a little alarmed by his ferocity. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>“Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare touch my Crystal Boy!” Once again came the grating, squawking scream that echoed round and round the Secret Glade, bouncing against each tree trunk, so the sound became increased in intensity as it was enclosed within the glade itself. The heavy scarlet ape jumped up and down, swinging his long arms all around. “You should keep away – who do you think you are? You have no right to touch my Crystal Boy. Just keep away!”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>Oscar simply stared in confusion, shaking his head at the scarlet monkey. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>“I don’t think you should talk to me like that… Don’t you know who I am? I’m King Oscar!” the giant said, rubbing where the Marquis had struck him. The scarlet ape simply laughed.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>“You’re not a king – you’re just a common, clumsy giant! Stay away from my Crystal Boy! You may look, but don’t you dare touch.”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>Oscar covered his ears with his great hands, turning away from the monkey so his vision could be filled once again with the beautiful, striking image of the Crystal Boy. Every face ignited a different shade beneath the fairies’ changing lights. Within the crystal figure the narcissus bent and adored its own beauty, echoing round and round its drooping head. Just as the flower was full of life, the Crystal Boy himself lived and Oscar knew that he must touch the Crystal Boy; he must hold him.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>Even though the fairies’ lights seemed to have grown faint, Oscar could feel the intensity of his own desire welling up inside him.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>“I must capture the Crystal Boy, I must catch the light,” he said to himself, as the dancing lights dissolved away into the shadows of the trees.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>Hearing a scuffling noise beside him, Oscar turned to see Robbie and the blue elf clinging to his arm. From the dazed expression on Robbie’s face, Oscar could tell that he too had seen the Crystal Boy, and witnessed Oscar’s confrontation with the Scarlet Marquis. The knowledge that they had both shared the experience of catching the light for a moment drew them both together even closer. After a while, Robbie cleared his throat very quietly and spoke in a low voice.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>“Oscar, we should go back now to the palace. Look, the sky is beginning to become pink around the edges… and I see Charles approaching on the back of a unicorn. Do you remember where you left your crown?” He added as Oscar began to move slowly towards him.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>“Yes, I think I remember.” With a great sigh, Oscar shook his head, still trying to clear it of the crystal image, but the image remained fixed at the back of his mind, refusing to die away. Moving through the trees with giant strides, Oscar found his crown of sunflowers eventually, and placed it back on his head, but it didn’t seem to belong there at all anymore. He felt as though he was playing a part on stage, not a real giant any longer. He was filled with an intense desire to go back home.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>“Well then Robbie, we’ll go back to the Palace Beautiful, but please…” He stooped so that he could whisper in Robbie’s pointed ear as the elf drew alongside him. “We must return to the Secret Glade soon… I can’t possibly just go back and forget all about that Crystal Boy. So when can we come back?”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>Robbie looked up at King Oscar, shaking his head and smiling sadly.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>“You know that I’ll come back with you whenever you want, but you also know exactly the same thing will happen all over again… The scarlet marquis won’t let you touch the light of his boy, I’m sorry, that’s the way it is – he won’t let you recapture the light.”</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:0cm"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>As the trees on either side of the two companions began to grow thinner, the faint pink dawn became more visible through the branches overhead, so that the flaming beard and hair of Charles was not so necessary as it had been. King Oscar shouldered his way roughly through the trees, breaking off several of the huge branches in his frustration.</span></p> <span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;mso-fareast-language: EN-US;mso-bidi-language:AR-SA"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“But I must try at least. I must come back to the glade again, Robbie!” The king shouted and he heard the echoes of his voice bouncing off the tree trunks around him. Ahead of them the final small green wood elf disappeared back into the wood, perhaps returning to the Secret Glade.</span>Nicola Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17066855901263569768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8806237858971105635.post-59347194387400502982012-02-25T16:43:00.003+00:002012-02-25T16:52:36.432+00:00Catching The Light - Chapter One<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpL4LQFvRVMmzMN2Rqo1lSNkhFUU7c0Tp-GWm814uovqSift2rhY7_KjwYvDiWNVqMgmiGFrC5LRip-mBR4RCJWSOuWotuI6a5juFHv5oKcaNXYPKoVuWWj5ytrAR-DdCclaIScIdxAnY/s350/cover12_copy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 248px; height: 350px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpL4LQFvRVMmzMN2Rqo1lSNkhFUU7c0Tp-GWm814uovqSift2rhY7_KjwYvDiWNVqMgmiGFrC5LRip-mBR4RCJWSOuWotuI6a5juFHv5oKcaNXYPKoVuWWj5ytrAR-DdCclaIScIdxAnY/s350/cover12_copy.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotoptimizeforbrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <h4 style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt">CHAPTER ONE</span></h4> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:36.0pt"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"> In a land not so far away, there is an island in the middle of a massive peat bog that is said to be enchanted, because it is completely shrouded in mist and can only be reached by a small boat; and only sometimes. Most of the time the island isn’t there, and even the slim boats moored on the mainland to take you there can not be seen. The peat bog itself is too treacherous to walk across – many people have<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>missed their footing and been swallowed by the water – so the only way to reach the island is by the slim boats that are steered carefully across the bog by strange creatures, who are partly human and partly frog. They resemble frogs to differing degrees – some of the boatmen simply have a reptilian quality and colour to their skin, while others are almost completely frog like, with wide mouths set into huge, flat faces, never speaking, but just croaking from time to time. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:36.0pt"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">If you’re lucky enough to be taken across the bog to the island, and actually feel the island’s solid ground beneath your feet, then you might be able to meet a few more strange creatures who inhabit the island, along with many children. The children are held by an enchantment. They are entranced by the magician, who is also a giant – but a very friendly one, who’s name is Oscar. Everybody, all the people on the island, are quite willing captives. They come and listen to the magician’s stories, a truly magical experience, you can never forget. As the children on the island grow up, they develop into different animals, though some of these changes are only very slight. Some of the changes overtake the child completely, so that there is little human left. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Although Oscar knew that he had magical powers, he didn’t want to be in control of the island, and so when the other inhabitants, the children and the animals, asked him to be their king, he refused.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:36.0pt"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“No,” he told them, “you don’t need anyone to be in charge. That would only lead to bad things happening.” </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:36.0pt"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“But Oscar, we want you to be our king!” cried out a child who looked somewhat similar to a hyena. “You don’t need to control us, we just want you to look like a king, all covered in jewels and golden embroidery!”</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:36.0pt"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Well…. let me think about it,” said Oscar, turning away from the group of friendly creatures. As he did so, he noticed a beautiful woman – she resembled a lovely young doe with great brown eyes and a soft muzzle. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:36.0pt"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Hello,” Oscar said to her, gathering up the hem of his magician’s robe so as not to trip over it. “I don’t believe that we’ve met… what’s your name?”</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:36.0pt"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">The doe-woman blinked her long eyelashes demurely. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:36.0pt"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“ My name is Constance, I’m very pleased to meet you,” she said. “Will you really become our king?”</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:36.0pt"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">Oscar smiled slowly, taking Constance’s hand in both of his. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:36.0pt"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Only if you’ll become my queen,” he said firmly. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:36.0pt"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">A great cheer rose gradually from the inhabitants of the island, who were all assembled nearby waiting for Oscar to begin telling his enchanted stories.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:36.0pt"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:36.0pt"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Long live king Oscar and queen Constance!” they shouted, and burst into spontaneous applause. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:36.0pt"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">Soon after this they were married, and there was a great, colourful wedding with lots of flowers, food, wine and music… the wild celebration continued for several days and nights, with all the children joining in, of course. Following the wedding came the crowning of the new king and queen; both of their crowns were garlands of flowers, Oscar’s was made with white lilies and yellow sunflowers, and Constance’s was made with blue and purple wild flowers.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:36.0pt"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">The inhabitants of the enchanted island built a beautiful palace for the king and queen, filling it with richly coloured silks and exotic jewels and embroidered tapestries… everything about the palace was carefully chosen and designed so that every colour and texture either blended into each other or contrasted sharply, so that the whole was absolutely a delight to look at. Both Oscar the magician and queen Constance were perfectly satisfied to be surrounded by such beauty… which was made even more special by the magician’s powers of enchantment which crept over everything and held it in place. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:36.0pt"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“I think I am the happiest magician alive!” King Oscar told Constance one evening, as they sat together upon the gold embroidered couch. From a birdcage came the gentle chirruping of wild birds. “I want for nothing.”</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:36.0pt"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">Constance smiled at him. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:36.0pt"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Not even our own child, Oscar?”</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:36.0pt"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">Oscar took Constance in his arms and spun her around in a wild dance. Around them flowers came showering down like confetti, though nobody was quite certain where they came from. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:36.0pt"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">Outside the Palace Beautiful the crowds of children and creatures all cheered and jumped, the great singing and shouting rising above their heads in a joyous melody. The colours of the flowers they threw all mingled together with the colours of their scarves in perfect harmony. Most of the inhabitants of this enchanted island were artists in one way or another, and as they had created the Palace Beautiful, so they felt they had also created the new king and queen. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:36.0pt"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">But not all of the crowd joined in the celebration; one hairy little man, who looked more like an ape than anything else – his long arms dragging along the ground by his sides – turned away from the rest of the celebration. He wore a red kerchief fastened around his neck, for his name was the Scarlet Marquis… a vicious creature whom everybody disliked. His tiny, malicious eyes moved restlessly over the shadows that were thrown by the jumping creatures in the crowd, searching… and then he stopped, catching a glimmer of light amongst the shadows. The glimmer came again and then disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, so that it might have just been imagined. But still… the Scarlet Marquis saw it, and king Oscar himself thought that he might have seen something, as his eyes looked over the dancing crowd. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:36.0pt"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:36.0pt"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:36.0pt"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">One of the first things the new king did was select courtiers from amongst the inhabitants of the island. As the Palace Beautiful was designed to be a work of art, it was right that his courtiers should be artists themselves… along with musicians, dancers, actors and writers. There was Charles with his tiny, tamarind face and flaming orange beard that was in fact a flame. His head tapered to a point and on top was another orange flame that burned with a warm brightness. Aubrey, whose thin pointed face finally turned into an axe blade, was a very strange looking creature indeed! Also at king Oscar’s court was a fairy, Lily, whose pale face of course became a lily that drooped as though struggling to bear its own weight. There was James, who forever strutted back and forth across the court; his face became a beak, and he had both the gorgeous tail and crown of a peacock. Meanwhile, William appeared to be a strange mixture of flesh and wood, some of his limbs were ornately carved pieces of furniture, while all over both his body and face were beautiful designs of leaves and flowers entwined. Always beside King Oscar’s throne stood the slight figure of a wood elf named Robbie, coloured green and brown. Every one of the courtiers was always busy, for they were driven on by a constant need to create beauty around themselves and to keep on creating. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">King Oscar sat back in his golden throne one day and turned to the queen and said, “How happy I am! I have everything I want, I have beauty all around me and you to share it with.”</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:36.0pt"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">Constance smiled sadly, shaking her head.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:36.0pt"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Everything is too perfect; I feel something must happen to change it all.”</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:36.0pt"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">“Ah, but you forget… I’m a magician,” King Oscar said, getting to his feet so that a shadow was cast over the entire court. “and I can control everything. Nothing is beyond me. Now, I’m going to go down to the beach to tell my stories to the children. They’re waiting for me.” </span></span></p> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;mso-fareast-language: EN-US;mso-bidi-language:AR-SA"></span></span><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotoptimizeforbrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;mso-fareast-language:EN-US;mso-bidi-language:AR-SA"> As King Oscar moved across the court with great, swinging strides, all his courtiers stood aside so that he could pass through the giant door and down the ornate steps of the Palace Beautiful. As the doors of the court closed behind him, King Oscar paused for a moment, as he thought over Queen Constance’s words. How could all this possibly change? As he looked around the marble covered walls, he saw the tiny figure of a man crouching back in the shadows, or was it monkey, or even an ape? He was scarlet red. As King Oscar watched it slink away back to the court, something flashed… for a moment it seemed to be a figure made entirely of glass or crystal, with many facets. It turned, catching the light, and then was gone. King Oscar stood immobile, his eyes fastened on his own giant shadow, not sure what it was he had seen. He went into the sunlight outside.</span></span>Nicola Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17066855901263569768noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8806237858971105635.post-81456334596171569842012-02-19T13:47:00.004+00:002012-02-19T13:58:15.871+00:00The Reluctant Vampire - Conclusion<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">STOP PRESS</span></span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">If you enjoyed reading <i>The Reluctant Vampire</i>, I was considering several other things I might follow it with… but would like you, as my readers to make the ultimate decision. Here are the alternatives – I was thinking of following the vampire with… </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:40.7pt;text-align:justify;text-indent: -18.0pt;mso-list:l1 level1 lfo2;tab-stops:list 40.7pt">1.<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> </span>Another early novel.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:40.7pt;text-align:justify;text-indent: -18.0pt;mso-list:l1 level1 lfo2;tab-stops:list 40.7pt">2.<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> </span>Dry Rot – A black<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>tale of Catholicism and decay set in Old Trafford.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:40.7pt;text-align:justify;text-indent: -18.0pt;mso-list:l1 level1 lfo2;tab-stops:list 40.7pt">3.<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> </span>Catching The Light – My short Fairy Tale based on the life of Oscar Wilde.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:40.7pt;text-align:justify;text-indent: -18.0pt;mso-list:l1 level1 lfo2;tab-stops:list 40.7pt">4.<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> </span>Killing Time – My ambitious novel about Jack the Ripper, an alternative psychic medium and Oscar Wilde… called by a friend <i>Sensational! </i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:40.7pt;text-align:justify;text-indent: -18.0pt;mso-list:l1 level1 lfo2;tab-stops:list 40.7pt">5.<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> </span>The Light Fantastic – I’ve already started a novel which involves chapters written by my own readers… You can read it on <a href="http://nicolabatty.blogspot.com/2011/07/raw-meat-book.html">this blog</a> and take it further as you choose!</p> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;" >Please leave your choice in my comments box. Many thanks! Nic<br /><span style="font-size:100%;">By the way</span>,</span><span style="font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;mso-fareast-language: EN-US;mso-bidi-language:AR-SAfont-family:";font-size:12.0pt;" > The Reluctant Vampire will shortly be available as an E-book, which you can order from Rawprintz Manchester.. </span><span style="font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;mso-fareast-language:EN-US; mso-bidi-language:AR-SAfont-family:";font-size:12.0pt;" ><br /></span>Nicola Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17066855901263569768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8806237858971105635.post-43326709489686122822012-02-18T18:07:00.008+00:002012-02-25T17:47:32.643+00:00Catching The Light - Introduction<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpL4LQFvRVMmzMN2Rqo1lSNkhFUU7c0Tp-GWm814uovqSift2rhY7_KjwYvDiWNVqMgmiGFrC5LRip-mBR4RCJWSOuWotuI6a5juFHv5oKcaNXYPKoVuWWj5ytrAR-DdCclaIScIdxAnY/s350/cover12_copy.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 248px; height: 350px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpL4LQFvRVMmzMN2Rqo1lSNkhFUU7c0Tp-GWm814uovqSift2rhY7_KjwYvDiWNVqMgmiGFrC5LRip-mBR4RCJWSOuWotuI6a5juFHv5oKcaNXYPKoVuWWj5ytrAR-DdCclaIScIdxAnY/s350/cover12_copy.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotoptimizeforbrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endi--><span style="font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;mso-fareast-language: EN-US;mso-bidi-language:AR-SAfont-family:";font-size:100%;" >To make a complete change from <i>The Reluctant Vampire</i>, here follows the introduction to the very first short children’s story I had ever written <i>Catching The Light</i>… which actually turned out to be equally as readable to adults. See what you think.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><h4 style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:100%;" >INTRODUCTION</span></h4> <p class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:36.0pt"><span style="font-size:100%;"> When I heard about a competition held by the Sunny Worthing Art Group, I was immediately inspired. It asked for just the first chapter of a children’s story based on the life of my ultimate hero, Oscar Wilde. I was particularly excited by their encouragement of imaginative freedom so that the story should be an embroidery of history and imagination. After completing the first chapter I had to go on and finish the story. The whole project took just a few months, making it one of my most speedy creations to date! Most readers will by now be familiar with my long standing obsession with Wilde, and so this idea of creating fiction based on historical facts of someone’s life was one I was very keen to try, or try further, I should say, as I’ve already been working on a trilogy based on Wilde for some time, </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >The Space Between</span><span style="font-size:100%;">. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:36.0pt"><span style="font-size:100%;">Although I hadn’t written for children for quite some time, I found it instantly enjoyable and very easy – the ideas came flooding into my mind; indeed the ideas came flying into my mind, scrambling over each other in a psychedelic jumble. Before me is this sense of colour, light and vision that I feel so strongly running right the way through the story making it filled with life and excitement for me and for you also.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:36.0pt"><span style="font-size:100%;">When I was researching for my dissertation on reinventions of Wilde, I’d come across several ideas of his that sparked my imagination – one of them being his obsession with Bosie, who he called his “Golden Boy.” I wanted to interweave this idea with Wilde’s life story, so Bosie became the Crystal Boy. Ever since reading about his writing of </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >The Picture of Dorian Gray</span><span style="font-size:100%;">, I’ve been intrigued by his vision of the novel being autobiographical:</span></p> <h4 style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">“I am so glad you like that strange, many coloured book of mine: it contains much of me in it. Basil Hallward is what I think I am: Lord Henry, what the world thinks me: Dorian what I would like to be – in other ages...”</span></h4> <p class="MsoBodyText2"><span style="font-size:100%;"> It was easy for me to use Wilde’s ideas on his three selves and embroider them in </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >Catching the Light</span><span style="font-size:100%;">, where they seemed to fit quite naturally as the one-legged artist, the harlequin and The Crystal Boy himself. I can envision Wilde reading this story aloud to friends, and I feel quite confident he would have liked it as much as I do. He would have called it, “a most charming little tale” and I hope you’d agree with him.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:36.0pt;tab-stops:414.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:100%;" >I’d like to say a special thank you to my Dad for his speedy artwork and to Ruth for her patient typing and of course to Andy and Stan for proofreading, typesetting etc.<span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;font-size:100%;" >Read the first chapter <a href="http://nicolabatty.blogspot.com/2012/02/catching-light-chapter-one.html">here.</a></span></p>Nicola Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17066855901263569768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8806237858971105635.post-17242809139564761402012-02-04T13:27:00.005+00:002012-02-26T15:44:08.005+00:00The Reluctant Vampire - Alternative Ending<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotoptimizeforbrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal">NIC’S ALTERNATIVE ENDING</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Final part rewrite…</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">By the time I arrived back at Dudley Road it had really begun to rain, a sort of depressing mid-September drizzle which suited my mood perfectly. Thomas closed the front door with a final bang and turned to me but we couldn’t bring ourselves to speak or look at each other directly for quite some time, neither one of us daring to break the silence. I sat on the edge of the sofa, from my right Bosworth<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>jumped onto my lap but I couldn’t even bring myself to push him away even though the weight of<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>the fat animal caused my legs to ache. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">After a while I looked round slowly as Thomas came into the room and stood beside me; I could feel the blackness of his cloak almost touching me but not quite, hovering inches away. It seemed like a promise of something remote, intangible. I could feel one of the cups in Thomas’s hands almost scalding my cheek and I stared at it blankly for several moments<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>wondering what it was. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">“Brought you a cup of tea,” he announced with his usual theatrical flair. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">He sat down next to me and I could feel his black cloak swishing past me as he moved, the shadows in the room seeming to mingle with his presence and become one. I took the cup from him and took a sip savouring the intense heat of the liquid, it seemed a welcome sensation in the circumstance. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">“It might make you feel better about this… steady your nerve.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">My tears continued to fall, unbidden. I swallowed down a great lump in my throat before managing to speak in a strangled voice. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">“It feels like a last request… Thomas, do you really mean to go through with this? I still can’t believe it.” I shook my head firmly, trying to make sense of what was going on, I still felt as if I was slithering down a steep slope into black water, absolutely nothing to grab onto to save myself. Bosworth leapt off my lap as I stood up, spilling some tea onto Thomas’s beautiful cloak – I hoped that he wouldn’t notice. Perhaps tea stains wouldn’t last on a Vampire’s clothes.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:22.7pt;text-align:justify">I got to my feet and took Thomas’s cold hand pulling him up.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">“Come on, let’s go upstairs then… we might as well get it over with.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">As we climbed the stairs I was aware of Thomas following behind me, still the reluctant vampire right to the end. A sort of numbness had descended upon me which was absolutely self protecting, I was just unable to handle this situation. I reached out towards the bedroom door but Thomas stopped me, laying an icy hand on my shoulder.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">”Not in here… I want to die underneath Chatterton,” He told me gesturing towards the back bedroom. “In here.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">It was only when we had moved into the back bedroom and he lay down on the bed that the full detail and horror became real. As I bent down to pick up the stake and hammer my grip upon these objects failed me completely, so I dropped them uselessly upon the floor. I couldn’t stop crying by then, I just stood there stupidly shaking my head. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">“I can’t do this, Thomas… I’m sorry, but I just can’t.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">We looked at each other desperately or at least I felt desperate – Thomas simply seemed to look completely resigned and even peaceful, and just waiting for the hammer to strike.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">“But we agreed, Alison,” he said flatly.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">“I know but I just can’t!” </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">“But we agreed!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">I looked down at the beautiful face of my eternal friend,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>an idea gradually gelling within my mind. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">“There must be some alternative… some other way.” </p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin-left:0cm;text-align:justify; text-indent:22.7pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;">Still Thomas’s eyes remained fixed on me although he didn’t speak. And then he sat up slowly reaching out his hand towards me.</span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin-left:0cm;text-align:justify; text-indent:22.7pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;">“There is.” He said simply. </span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin-left:0cm;text-align:justify; text-indent:22.7pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;">I was drawn towards him so that I was completely enveloped by that magical sensation of the excitement of the unknown night filling me completely and making my nerves tingle with excitement. As Thomas kissed me tenderly once again I felt the sharp prick of his fangs… but I wasn’t at all frightened – I just wanted him to go on, to go further, to go the whole way. I lifted my chin, exposing my throat… I suppose rather like a sheep asking for its own slaughter.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">“Go on then,” I whispered.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">Thomas didn’t need any encouragement, obviously. As I felt his fangs sink in further and further below my skin, I thought about the horror my friends would feel when they found my dead body lying there on the bed with<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>big fang marks in my neck. The thought made me almost laugh despite the pain of the actual kiss off the vampire… I suppose there was no way they could keep on telling me my stories weren’t true anymore! And Doctor Lloyd-Jones would be really pissed off now that he would never get another chance to meet Thomas, now that we had both escaped together never to return to Timperley. Where we would fly to exactly, I wasn’t sure…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>perhaps the Carpathians or some such suitably gothic and remote spot. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:36.0pt"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">I was quite happy to follow Thomas blindly as he flapped his bat wings against the stillness of the night… I felt myself unfurl my bat wings quite naturally even though I couldn’t explain where exactly at what point the actual pain had stopped and the change into bat form had begun – it had happened without a doubt. I followed Thomas off into the night, and as we rose higher and higher above Timperley I was completely filled with such excitement that there was no room for even a single trace of reluctance. </p> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;" >THE END<br /></span><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotoptimizeforbrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">You can now read my CONCLUSION post <a href="http://nicolabatty.blogspot.com/2012/02/reluctant-vampire-conclusion.html">here</a>.<br /></p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;" ><span style="font-size:100%;">By the way</span>,</span><span style="font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;mso-fareast-language: EN-US;mso-bidi-language:AR-SAfont-family:";font-size:12.0pt;" > The Reluctant Vampire will shortly be available as an E-book, which you can order from Rawprintz Manchester.. </span><span style="font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;mso-fareast-language:EN-US; mso-bidi-language:AR-SAfont-family:";font-size:12.0pt;" ><br /></span>Nicola Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17066855901263569768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8806237858971105635.post-69433318602040719392012-01-29T18:17:00.003+00:002012-02-04T13:36:48.158+00:00The Reluctant Vampire - Chapter Thirteen<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotoptimizeforbrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">CHAPTER THIRTEEN</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The night is made up of so many colours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Not only colours… textures too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>There is the velvety softness of indigo, the sort you long to rub your face against and bury your sadness in, hoping that it will muffle the emotion as it would deaden the sound of church bells.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Then there is the smooth sensuality of pure blackness, like treacle pouring over your body and caressing it as it coats and covers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Twilight is silent; dark and lightless, silhouetting all objects and removing dimensions from everything it touches; it whispers and shrouds, preparing for the witching hours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Dawn seeps through, watery and grey, killing the night and bearing with it a feeling of death, light fingers revealing the greyness of it’s body in its state of eternal slumber.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">Tomorrow, the dawn will light upon the body of Thomas, my friend whom I must kill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>My tears shatter the dream of nights which shimmers so slightly in a puddle below the seat of the swing on which I sit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The fragments are like the pieces of light, which fell from the stained-glass windows in the <i>Sitting Duck</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I sniff and wipe my nose on my sleeve.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I can’t stop crying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Thomas sits on the swing beside me, saying nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He moves the swing gently back and forth and it squeaks quietly, a rhythm that will not cease.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Clouds cover the moon and there is no light but that thrown over the hedge from the streetlight on the main road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I sniff again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I can’t imagine where all these tears are coming from.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Certainly not from inside me, for where would I store them all?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Yet they keep on coming, blow after blow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I remember when I first saw Thomas change into a bat, while I hid, terrified in the undergrowth, in this very same park.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It seemed years ago, but it couldn’t be more than two weeks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The realisation was shocking to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I had only known Thomas for three weeks at the outside and yet; here I was claiming to be madly in love with him to such an extreme that I could not imagine life without him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He must have some sort of supernatural attraction about him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>This followed; Othello was assumed to have bewitched Desdemona into loving him, for he was black – probably thought then of being an equal handicap to that of being a vampire nowadays.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>A vampire!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Strange to think of Thomas as being a vampire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Well, no one would believe me now; it was pointless even to argue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But I could think of one person who would argue, demand and generally hassle until he got his own way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Thomas would be truly safe from the clutching hands of Dr. Lloyd-Jones, as he reposed upon the bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Like Chatterton, intangible in death.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">I suppose there would be a sort of glory, a vague triumph, in such an act of selflessness on my part.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But, however, the more I thought about it, the more selfish I felt and greater was my disgust at Thomas’s demand upon my humanity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Surely this act was just too brutal and inhumane to carry through!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I still harboured the vain hope that perhaps Thomas would suddenly realise this and tell me to forget the whole thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But my sense of dread wrestled with this fantasy and began to throttle the life from it… there was no point hoping, no point at all!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>My tears splashed as gently they hit the puddle and shattered the dream</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">“So, I gather from all this that you really are going to go through with this… this… agreement?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">Thomas’s voice caused me to start violently so that I nearly fell off the swing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>His voice floated up on the dark air like a bat, disembodied as it was, a sound with no apparent source.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>His frail, lean figure was shrouded in nets of blackness, so that he could not be distinguished from the landscape of the night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I digested the words, chewing the cud and my bitterness welled up in me like a swollen river.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">“Agreement? Agreement?” I found myself laughing hysterically, such were my previous thoughts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“Oh… so that’s what it is now, is it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I’m committed now… it’s settled, it’s agreed, is it?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">“Well, I thought so, yes,” came the reply.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">I said nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I knew that it <i>was</i> agreed, really.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It just sounded so final that I didn’t really like to admit it out loud.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">“You have been giving that impression, haven’t you?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Look Alison,” he continued, and I heard the swing creak finally as he rose and stood over me, “I really do realise how hard this is for you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Much harder than it is for me.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">“Oh, well why on earth do we have to do it then?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">There was a silence for a while.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I heard the rain falling around us, two lonely figures lost in darkness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>When Thomas spoke, his voice was right next to me; he must have been squatting down beside me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I thought of his cloak, trailing in the mud.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">“You know, don’t you?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>You know why.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>His accent seemed stronger than ever, getting stronger all the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“Don’t let me down now, will you?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>You know what this means to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>You know how much I want this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>How long have I waited, and you never know what happens after death, do you?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">“What do you mean?” I asked.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">“Well, I could return to you as someone else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I could become human.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">This brought on a fresh outburst of tears.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">“But I wouldn’t want you to be human!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I don’t want to kill you!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">There was a brushing of velvety darkness around me and I was falling through black space into the arms of my beloved vampire; I clung to his nocturnal presence, my body wracked with sobs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He waited, surrounding me with his cloak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The nocturnal seeped into me and I began to feel its strength, the strength that opposes life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It swept through me like a whirlwind while I tried to hold some of it within.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Thomas held me tighter as I shook and waited until the blast had subsided.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">“Alison, I don’t want to leave you crying.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Thomas’s words did not seem to emanate from his body but from out of the shadows themselves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“I want to leave you strong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Don’t think like this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Promise me that you’ll be brave and strong… remember that you’ll be acting upon my wishes.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">It was so hard to remember that. My tears still continued to fall and I watched them, felling a little distanced from everything that went on around me, except the night, of course.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">“Come on, then.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I felt the polished prick of my gentle vampire’s fangs against my lips as he kissed me lightly and then stood up, pulling me alongside him and I offered no resistance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Leaving his cloak wrapped around me like a protective cocoon, Thomas and I set off towards home; my mind flooded with the image of me sharpening one of the posts from my garden fence to a sharp and lethal point.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:-45.0pt;text-align:justify;text-indent: 45.0pt"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">*<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>*<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>*<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>*</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">“This room, I think,” he said, pushing open the door of the back bedroom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“It’s always been my favourite and this is where we met, do you remember?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">“I remember,” I snapped.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">I followed him in, dragging the stake and hammer behind me, where I couldn’t see them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I was careful to keep directly in Thomas’s shadow… had he possessed one; the Undead cast no shadow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I wanted to become shrouded in him, in his presence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I didn’t want him to feel alone in this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Giving <i>Chatterton</i> a mournful, hostile glance, my eyes returned to the carpet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>They were burning, full of fire, a killing flame.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I wished the atomic blast would melt my eyeballs, or else put them right out, like Gloucester’s in <i>King Lear</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Would I still see visions and sense such pain then?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The painting hung ominously above the bed, silent and powerful; guiding fate, ordering destiny to progress in this or that direction, creating and destroying lives in a single sweep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It grinned like the Incubus in Dr. Lloyd-Jones’s <i>The Nightmare</i>.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">“It is… appropriate, I suppose,” I mumbled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Who knew whether I was referring to <i>Chatterton</i>, or the back bedroom… or even <i>The Nightmare</i>, they all echoed the future.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">I squeezed my eyes shut; there was a sudden clatter as I dropped the hammer and stake on to the floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Thomas spun round and his eyes latched themselves onto mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Remembering my promise, I looked away quickly.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">“Wouldn’t you rather… er… do it… in your coffin?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">For some reason I felt hot and constricted in this room, as if it were already full of corpses that had been stored there for weeks and weeks with the door shut and the curtains drawn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I longed to run about in the garden and howl at the moon, but Thomas walked over to the bed and sat down, his eyes still on me.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">“Why?” Although his voice was quiet, it seemed to shatter the night brutally, the fragments falling, falling dangerously.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">“Why what?” I said irritably.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">“Why should I want to die in my coffin?” He stopped and pointed a gleaming white finger at me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“You just think it’ll be more convenient for taking me to the undertaker’s, that’s all.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">“Bullshit!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Striding to the window, I flung it open. “My God, I can’t breathe in here.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">I gulped in the night air compulsively until I almost choked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It was so cool and silent outside, I could have stayed there forever, leaning out of the window, drinking in the darkness… so sensual… the very elixir of life – like blood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I felt the liquid air slide down my throat, treacle soft and smooth, sliding and then diffusing throughout my body, poisonous fumes of poppies as I lay and am covered with a drowsiness that calls me deeper, deeper into the dark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>To sense, to feel, to touch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>This numbness lulls me to receive and subsequently, to act.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>So this is what it was like to be a creature of the night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>To be able to call the darkness a friend, a lover, intimate and loyal to the last… it didn’t seem such a bad life, after all.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">“Alison.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">The curtains stirred and I turned, I found myself gripping the edge of the windowsill behind my back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Thomas’s eyes were still upon me, staring without ceasing, as if they had never ever closed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Suddenly it seemed to me that he looked a little unsure, a smile flickered across his face and then was swallowed by the darkness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Stretching out his hand towards me, it seemed as if his strength had suddenly been sucked from him, the leeches of life and death and his hand dropped on to the eiderdown like a beached white whale, inert, a bright surgical white against the rich scarlet cover.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>A dying fish, it twitched once, twice and then lay quite still.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I watched it closely then but was unable to move towards it, to do anything to prove to myself my own reality… existence, life, will… was death really that precious?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Would it really bring release, release from what?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I didn’t know, I couldn’t say!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Who was I to handle fate like <i>Plasticine</i> in my hands?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I couldn’t do this!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I couldn’t!</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">“I can’t do this!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I cried.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I clutched at the curtain, which billowed, gently against my shoulder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“You can’t expect me to do this, Thomas!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It’s unfair!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">For the first time Thomas dropped his eyes and turned away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>His silence was a knife between the ribs to me; never in my life have I wished to change into a bat and flap away through the window quite so desperately as I did then.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">“I know I promised!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I continued in a frenzied scream “But I can’t do it!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I can’t!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">My passion rose to such a height that I clutched at the curtain so hard that a couple of the hooks at the top snapped and ricocheted off the walls, one bouncing on to the bedspread and settling beside Thomas’s hand and the other spinning across the floor and disappearing, finally behind the wardrobe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Absently Thomas flicked the curtain hook off the bed with a delicate, ivory finger, it whizzed past my ear and flew straight out of the open window.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I fancied that I could hear it hit the ground below with a tiny click.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Thomas ignored the flight of the curtain hook; he was staring intently at the bedspread as if it were entirely to blame.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">“Just do it,” he said and I could tell his teeth were clenched almost as tightly as mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>His words dropped like pebbles on to scummy water and they floated on the surface, wanting to sink, but unable to break through the thick green skin and become digested within the murky depths.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The words were indigestible anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But there was no way out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I found myself the Edgar Allan Poe victim again, groping in the blackness for a door, feeling my flesh decaying, falling from me like rolls of pastry, my fingers disintegrating as they touched the walls, my whole self degenerating into a sobbing, invertebrate mass.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">“Just do it,” Thomas said again.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">Or was it just an echo?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>There was no way out. The realisation washed over me, leaving me drained and resigned to the fact that there really was no way out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Imaginary fumes of opium drugged me mercifully; poppies fell like a royal carpet at my feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Dragging them behind me, I stepped between the petals to the foot of the bed and picked up my hammer and stake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I could hardly lift them, they seemed so heavy, instruments of death, they glittered like fangs in the pale moonlight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Straightening up, I stood there, glaring at <i>Chatterton</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It was a horrendously ironic omen now; I cursed Henry Wallis for ever painting it, and also myself for setting eyes on the damned thing!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>If I had never seen it, would this whole thing never have happened?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Could fate really be avoided, or postponed indefinitely?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Could it really all be blamed on my obsession with Mr. Chatterton?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>My guilt was heavy and hard to bear and I was glad when Thomas stood up and grasped my arms lightly, I would probably have fallen on to my face otherwise.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">“I am to blame,” I muttered inaudibly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I felt as if I were rehearsing a role, reading the script as it appeared before me, written by another distant hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Thomas shook me briskly, attempting to rearrange my brain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I was thankful to him for that.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">“You must stop this, Alison!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Stop thinking like this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>You’re doing me a favour remember!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">He sounded as if he were smiling and when I looked at his face; I discovered that he was, slightly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I stared for a moment; I found it incomprehensible that his sense of humour could go downhill quite so rapidly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">“I want this more than anything,” he continued, the smile stigmatising his face, withering its beauty like a fading, dying poppy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“You know I want it!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>You, of all people… know… it’s what I want.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">I was tempted to shout ‘what about what <i>I</i> want?’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>as they do in the movies but it didn’t seem worth it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>What good would it do?</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">“Don’t let me down now,” he went on, a sadness curling his voice like an autumn leaf.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“I know for you… it must be… hard, but don’t let me down now.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">I almost smiled at his understatement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Hard?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I was being torn apart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He hugged me and sat on the bed, gathering his cloak around him, like a shroud.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The ghost of a smile was settled on his face, the hint of a fang gleaming from a corner of it, just visible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Slowly he swung his legs up on to the bed and lay back. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">“Now” he said. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">He was waiting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I couldn’t take my eyes from the black of his shoes, his cape, and his hair against the shocking scarlet of the bedspread, the bloodbath, and a shadow in a bath of blood like Marat waiting for the knife.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I walked like Charlotte Corday in her drowsy state of numbness to the bed, hands outstretched, eyes closed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And then, a scalpel, the surgical whiteness of his shirt, the lining of his cloak, his skin, the barely visible fangs, a diamond passion, death and birth mixed before my eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>A dangerous white, clean and sharp; an operating room of blades and scissors soiled by the black shadows, the lightless night, the immortal night… and behind it the blood, splashes of crimson staining the sharp edges, so much blood washing over and around everything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>A ceaseless flow of blood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Thomas swam in it… and beside him, the pale hand, a beached whale.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">But fate could not be averted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He wanted it done – he wanted it done right now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I held the stake poised over his left breast but I was shaking so much that I thought there was a fairly good chance that I would miss his heart altogether and end up impaling his liver or some other vital organ.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I noticed the small dint that the point of the stake had made in Thomas’s shirt, I raised the stake slightly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I couldn’t bear to think of hurting Thomas in any way, especially not now, he didn’t deserve pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Three drops of moisture fell on to his shirt in quick succession.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Tears and not blood, I noted mechanically.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I raised the hammer in a shaking hand.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">My whole body was tensed to breaking point.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Through that numbness that held me suspended in its shroud like grip, I felt Thomas’s eyes on me.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">“Go on then,” he pleaded.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">I thought that my jaw would shatter; my teeth were clenched so tightly together.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">“For God’s sake, don’t look at me,” I hissed and Thomas obediently closed his eyes.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">My hand, the one holding the hammer, faltered but I raised it again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I couldn’t let him down now.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">The first strike was weak and I only just tore the flesh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Crimson spread across his shirt even so, as if to spite the whiteness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Thomas did not cry out but as I brought the hammer down again and again, he screamed; his eyes snapped open and searched my face wildly for something – mercy, violence, whatever; his hand grasped desperately at mine, with no effect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I could only think of those terrible screams ripping through my head, I had to stop them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>What would the neighbours say?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The blood bubbled and spurted, red staining red.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>A dribble of blood appeared at the corner of Thomas’s mouth and ran down his chin; I was appalled by the violence of his death, this creature whom I claimed to be so fond of, even – yes – to love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I was appalled by my own violence… but I couldn’t stop now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I felt the stake dig deeper into Thomas’s heart, the point could not be seen now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>His screams weakened into pale moans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Again. He tried to catch his breath and could not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The hammer slipped from my grasp as I crumpled to my knees. Thomas gave up fighting for breath; his hand flopped on to the bedspread beside him, the beached white whale finally dead.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">I stayed down there on my knees for quite a while, my face buried in Thomas’s cloak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I could still hear the screams and smell the blood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The silence ached and throbbed around me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Instead of being a negation of sound, it seemed to be full of noise and activity; my eyes were tightly shut but psychedelic visions in <i>Technicolor</i> exploded before me; black, dazzling white and red, scarlet, crimson, cascading down endlessly from a bloody backcloth, spurting and pouring, again, again, again and again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>My hand was twitching compulsively, reliving those brutal moments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I thought desperately of <i>Lady Macbeth</i>, washing her hands every night, unable to forget.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I sobbed hysterically until my head ached and the silence no longer seemed such a threat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>When I finally raised my head and opened my eyes, the grey morning light had begun to seep into the room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It fell on the edge of the bedspread and caused it to glisten like wet blood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Perhaps it was wet blood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>There was blood everywhere; the room was awash with it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>All over the floor, the walls, the bed, Thomas, me… how would I explain this to my mother?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Well, the bedspread was red already; that was all right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But the muted grey wallpaper was now viciously mottled; a few spots had even found their way on to <i>Chatterton</i>; two dribbles on the floorboards of Chatterton’s garret, one on the bedspread and one staining the poor boy’s white shirt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I was glad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I resented the fact that Chatterton could lay there dead, but quite unmarked and unscarred, beautiful even, while my Thomas, his disciple, lay in a similar state – yet how different!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Drowning in a horrific array of blood and violence, death and brutality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>No peaceful, easy sleep of tranquillity for him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Arsenic seemed a luxury he could not afford.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I was seized with a sudden fury.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Dropping the bloodstained stake that I was still gripping for dear life, I grabbed the picture in my bloody hands; striding to the window I flung it out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>A smile of satisfaction crept across my face as I heard it smash below, frightening several starlings that were searching for worms in the grass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>They flew off, shrieking.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">It was dawn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I had to decide what to do with Thomas’s body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>If I left it where it was, it would dissolve into nothing (as I had read in Nosferatu). This thought made me feel sick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I couldn’t bear to lose him like that, so completely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The alternative was to drag his coffin upstairs and put him in that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>This seemed preferable, but what could I do with the coffin then?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>To give it over to the undertaker’s at the mortuary would be impossible, it was clear; too many difficult questions would be asked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>To bury him myself was also out of the question; someone was bound to notice if I started digging six-foot trenches in the garden.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I could ask for no help, certainly not from either Joseph or Cassandra, who thought that Thomas was safely on a plane back to Romania.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I wiped my hands pensively on my jeans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I wondered how Thomas felt now. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Relieved?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Overjoyed?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Peaceful?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He certainly didn’t look very peaceful, blood trickling down his chin, his mouth half open in a sort of agonised snarl and his brow furrowed with pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Unlike humans, vampires can’t relax for a moment, I thought absently.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>His skin had acquired an ethereal grey sheen in death.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Perhaps I would leave him to vanish with the first light, I decided.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Perhaps I should be glad to let him disappear without a trace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Perhaps, like Chatterton, it was finally his end.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">I turned my back on Thomas’s body and stared out of the window at the lightening sky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I thought I could see some pink in it but it could have been my eyes playing tricks on me, after all that blood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In the grass below I could see <i>Chatterton</i> in pieces.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Tears began to course down my cheeks once again and I thought of Thomas, sitting there in the dark, reading <i>Ode to a Nightingale</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Why did I have to kill him?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>A sudden panic seized me; he hadn’t really wanted to die!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He had just been joking!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But no, I knew really, that he had wanted to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Hadn’t he made me promise to help him die?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He had been alive for too long.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Much too long.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">But oh, the pain of parting!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The sun began to glimmer through the clouds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The intolerable pain of it all!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Well, it was done and he was free.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The window was wide open; his soul would soar through. The pale sun grew brighter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I gazed into it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I didn’t want to turn round.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I knew that Thomas would be gone, leaving only his crumpled clothes upon the bloodstained sheets.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">I was still standing by the window, when the hammering at the front door began.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I listened for a while but it didn’t stop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I listened for voices but there were none.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Just a bang – bang – bang, again and again, until the noise shook my little house on it’s foundations.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">I stared out of the window.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The sky was blue, speckled with grey and white clouds, the sun dodging between them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The early morning air was fresh and cold, like a slap in the face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The knocking went on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It was probably a neighbour complaining about the noise last night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I walked slowly away from the window, stepping over the hammer and stake that lay beside the bed, near the door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Or, it could possibly be Dr. Lloyd-Jones.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I gazed absently at the blood all over my hands and down the front of my shirt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Either that, or the police.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt"> </p> <span style=" Times New Roman";font-family:";font-size:12pt;" >THE END… Or is it?<br /></span><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotoptimizeforbrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">ALTERNATIVE ENDING</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:22.7pt">Too horrific an ending to accept? Well, that’s what I thought when I reread it… so I decided to rewrite it, and give things a slightly more positive slant – see what you think, Nic</p> <span style="font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-fareast-Times New Roman";mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;mso-fareast-language:EN-US; mso-bidi-language:AR-SAfont-family:";font-size:12.0pt;" >It will be appearing next week!!!<br /><a href="http://nicolabatty.blogspot.com/2012/02/reluctant-vampire-alternative-ending.html"><span style="font-size:100%;">Here's the Alternative Ending.</span></a><br /></span>Nicola Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17066855901263569768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8806237858971105635.post-55324666155947024792012-01-21T17:29:00.002+00:002012-01-29T18:25:22.008+00:00The Reluctant Vampire - Chapter Twelve<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 9"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 9"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:/Users/nicola/AppData/Local/Temp/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotoptimizeforbrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Wingdings; 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mso-level-number-format:bullet; mso-level-text:; mso-level-tab-stop:86.25pt; mso-level-number-position:left; margin-left:86.25pt; text-indent:-68.25pt; font-family:Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";} ol {margin-bottom:0cm;} ul {margin-bottom:0cm;} --> </style> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">CHAPTER TWELVE</p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin-left: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;">I was so shocked when I opened the front door that I found myself quite unable to speak for a few moments.<span style=""> </span>The familiar white face stared back at me from the twilight gloom, grinning from ear to ear.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin-left: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;">“What the hell do you want?”<span style=""> </span>I muttered, finding my voice at last.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">Dr. Lloyd-Jones (for it was indeed he) raised his eyebrows and shook his finger at me admonishingly.<span style=""> </span>That horrid grin never left his face.<span style=""> </span>The texture of his complexion suddenly struck me as being identical in tone to those foam rubber masks you could get of Popeye or Mickey Mouse.<span style=""> </span>The flexibility was there, mixed with the same menace.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Now Alison, that’s not a very friendly greeting.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“I don’t regard you as a friend, “I said coldly.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Well, let’s put our personal feelings aside.”<span style=""> </span>The doctor leaned against the doorframe loftily and glanced past me into the hallway.<span style=""> </span>“They don’t really come into it.<span style=""> </span>I’ve come to meet your friend.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">The sheer audacity of it!<span style=""> </span>I found it difficult to keep my anger in control.<span style=""> </span>The ordeal that I had been subjected to but two nights previously was still fresh in my mind, as were Dr. Lloyd-Jones’s motives concerning Thomas.<span style=""> </span>And he had the nerve to come along and casually expect to be allowed to visit Thomas! In my house, what’s more! I spoke through clenched teeth.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“I’m quite aware of what you’ve come here for, Dr. Lloyd-Jones.”<span style=""> </span>I stared icily into those dancing, flinty eyes, longing to smash my fist right into them.<span style=""> </span>“And I would strongly advise you to turn round and get back in your sodding car and bugger off before I call the police.<span style=""> </span>Now, if you’ll excuse me…“</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">I stepped back and swung the door shut with some force but that loathsome man had jammed his foot in it.<span style=""> </span>The grin was still on his face as I opened the door again, sighing.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Look, what do you want?<span style=""> </span>I’ve told you, you’re not coming in.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">The doctor spat on his fingers and rubbed his black shoe vigorously until it shone once again.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“You damned near broke my foot then,” he complained mildly, “and my shoe’s marked now.<span style=""> </span>I could get you for grievous bodily harm.” He glanced behind me into the hallway again.<span style=""> </span>“Alison my dear, I really can’t see why you won’t let me meet your friend.<span style=""> </span>According to you, there’s absolutely nothing out of the ordinary about him.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">I swallowed.<span style=""> </span>The doctor had me trapped in a corner once again. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“No… no, that’s right.<span style=""> </span>I mean, I’m not trying to hide him from you.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Well, you’re putting on a fairly convincing act then!”<span style=""> </span>Dr. Lloyd-Jones tittered gleefully, quite aware that he was winning.<span style=""> </span>“You’re acting very suspiciously, my dear.<span style=""> </span>May I ask why I can’t meet this friend of yours?<span style=""> </span>I’ve heard such a lot about him, you see!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“It’s… it’s not suspicious at all really,” I stammered, “he – he’s not in, you see. That’s why you can’t meet him.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">Dr. Lloyd-Jones’s eyebrows shot up as far as they could go and his grin widened incredulously.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Not… in?” he repeated shrilly.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“I’m afraid not, he doesn’t live here you see.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">There was a slight pause in which we stared at each other like rabid dogs.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Well, where does he live?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">As I opened my mouth to speak, I felt a wave of darkness behind me.<span style=""> </span>I could see the <i>Nocturnal</i> reflected in Dr. Lloyd-Jones’s delighted eyes, he chortled and clapped his beautiful white hands together.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Never mind! Never mind! He seems to have just arrived.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">I glanced over my shoulder, panic-stricken; there stood Thomas, black cloak, sharp teeth and all.<span style=""> </span>Our eyes met but I couldn’t read his expression.<span style=""> </span>Resigned, perhaps? Then I felt Dr. Lloyd-Jones push past me.<span style=""> </span>I leapt at him and caught the arm of his jacket.<span style=""> </span>I was quite frightened by my own ferocity.<span style=""> </span>I pinned the horrendous doctor against the wall and would quite happily have given him the full benefit of my right hook, had Thomas not intervened.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“It’s alright, Alison,” he told me, gently prising me from the stick-insect figure.<span style=""> </span>I remembered his incredible strength and didn’t bother to resist much.<span style=""> </span>I stood by the banisters, clenching and unclenching my fist, feeling like a spring that had been wound tighter and tighter and then was prevented from releasing its energy.<span style=""> </span>Thomas was very calm and instantly took control of the situation.<span style=""> </span>“Perhaps you’ll go into the back room and wait for me,” he suggested firmly, turning to Dr. Lloyd-Jones and gesturing with a majestic sweep of his arm.<span style=""> </span>Straightening his jacket, still grinning unceasingly, the doctor instantly did what he was told.<span style=""> </span>When he had gone, Thomas turned to me.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“I assume that’s the infamous Dr. Lloyd-Jones?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">I nodded, my anger building up.<span style=""> </span>It was all my fault!<span style=""> </span>I had started all this!<span style=""> </span>Almost in tears, I gripped Thomas’s arm.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“You shouldn’t have let him in!<span style=""> </span>What the hell are you doing?”<span style=""> </span>I tried to keep my voice down and it came out in a strangled hiss between my teeth.<span style=""> </span>“You’ll regret this!<span style=""> </span>You know why he wants to talk to you, don’t you?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">Thomas fixed his eyes on his feet.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“He thinks I’m a vampire.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“He knows! He’ll get you to admit it!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“I won’t admit it.<span style=""> </span>Of course I’ll deny it all.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“And you think he’ll believe you?”<span style=""> </span>I almost laughed out loud.<span style=""> </span>“Oh Thomas, just get rid of him!<span style=""> </span>He’ll trick you, he’s evil!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Well, who cares what he thinks anyway.”<span style=""> </span>Thomas looked up at me and smiled.<span style=""> </span>“He’ll have no proof.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Don’t be so bloody accepting!<span style=""> </span>He’ll trick you…”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">But what was the use? Thomas had gone.<span style=""> </span>Well he had been warned; I had done all that I could possibly do now.<span style=""> </span>I turned to tramp wearily upstairs, I didn’t want to be anywhere near that rat Dr. Lloyd-Jones now.<span style=""> </span>If Thomas thought he could handle him… well, let him see how he fared.<span style=""> </span>But I knew Dr. Lloyd-Jones’s tactics and they were as underhand as you could get… I suddenly felt that I could not possibly desert Thomas now and I scampered silently back down the stairs and crouched like a gargoyle behind the door of the back room, which was ajar.<span style=""> </span>My role as an eavesdropper was becoming quite firmly established now.<span style=""> </span>I could hear Dr. Lloyd-Jones’s shrill, excited voice clearly and imagined him to be sitting facing the door.<span style=""> </span>He seemed to be in the middle of explaining briefly to Thomas all that I had told him concerning my friendly vampire.<span style=""> </span>I bit my lip as the thought again flitted through my mind; I had brought all this trouble on to Thomas and yet, Thomas would maintain that it was inevitable.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“And so, you must be able to understand my desire to meet you,” Dr. Lloyd-Jones was saying breathlessly.<span style=""> </span>“She was so very definite about your true identity.<span style=""> </span>So convinced was Alison that you really were a vampire, that she attempted to steal blood, presumably for you to drink – and injured herself physically because she was tired through lack of sleep; this, she blamed on your nocturnal visits.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">When Thomas spoke it was in a weary, strained voice, as if explaining a very simple matter to a very small child.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“But surely, as a psychiatrist, you will appreciate that Alison has been ill.<span style=""> </span>She has been suffering from hallucinations and insomnia… it’s happened to people before, hasn’t it?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Ah yes, but not over this length of time and not to this degree.<span style=""> </span>Alison denies most fiercely all her hallucinations now, which is not normal.<span style=""> </span>After all, why should I believe them in the first place… unless it really is all true?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">There was a period of silence and I imagined Thomas to be staring out of the window.<span style=""> </span>Then Dr. Lloyd-Jones spoke suddenly.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Anyway, if you’re not a vampire, who are you?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">I clenched my teeth in the pause, almost biting my tongue.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“I’m… well, what do you expect?<span style=""> </span>I’m just a person.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“What about your accent?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“I come from Romania.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“That’s… just a coincidence, of course?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Of course. That’s probably where Alison got the idea from.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Like your cloak, the way that you’re dressed.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“I’m a waiter.<span style=""> </span>I start work at eight.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“And how do you explain your pallor?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">I could sense Thomas rising angrily.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“I think you should leave now, Dr. Lloyd-Jones. This has gone quite far enough.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Because I know?<span style=""> </span>You’re a vampire, aren’t you?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">Thomas’s voice became louder as he moved towards the door.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“I’m afraid it’s your word against mine, Dr. Lloyd-Jones.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Not so!<span style=""> </span>Not so!<span style=""> </span>People will believe me instantly!<span style=""> </span>Look at the following the Abominable Snowman has!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Dr. Lloyd-Jones… please…”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">Although there was apparent chaos then, with people moving and shouting, that tiny ‘click and whirr’ shot through my brain like an electrical impulse.<span style=""> </span>Maybe I was in tune with the wily ways of that detestable psychiatrist… maybe I was just nearer to the doctor than Thomas was, whatever, I leapt up and ran into the room and onto the doctor in one impressive bound.<span style=""> </span>Thomas fell back against the dresser as I pushed past, causing the plates and ornaments to jangle dangerously and the musical box to play a single note of defiance.<span style=""> </span>Grasping Dr. Lloyd-Jones’s shoulders I knelt on his chest with my Doc Marten’s embedded in his stomach I tore at his jacket like a crazed <i>Beatles </i>fan.<span style=""> </span>From his ridiculous position, the doctor sniggered and grinned nervously.<span style=""> </span>It seemed I had caught even him by surprise.<span style=""> </span>Straightening himself up, Thomas wandered over and watched me, amazed.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">At last my hand closed around the object that I had been searching so wildly for.<span style=""> </span>I held up the offending black box, leaping off the doctor, leaving him crumpled and confused.<span style=""> </span>I glared at him, my disgust rendering me temporarily speechless.<span style=""> </span>Examining the black box, I pressed a few buttons at random and, as I had expected, Thomas’s voice issued forth, muffled yet unmistakable.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“What do you expect?<span style=""> </span>I’m just a person.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“What about your accent?” (That in Dr. Lloyd-Jones’s shrill tones, of course.)<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“I come from Romania.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“That’s… just a coincidence, of course?”</p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="margin-right: -0.9pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">I had heard enough, I switched the tape recorder off.<span style=""> </span>The phantom voices still hung eerily in the air.<span style=""> </span>Again, I switched my glare to the sheepish, yet smiling countenance of the psychiatrist.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Dr. Lloyd-Jones, your underhand tactics will never cease to amaze me,” I spat at him, the tape recorder swinging gently from my raised hand.<span style=""> </span>“I’ve no doubt at all that you planned to produce this tape to your fellow doctors as ‘evidence’ that Thomas is a vampire.”<span style=""> </span>I glanced at Thomas, who stood expressionless behind me.<span style=""> </span>“But I’ll tell you something, Doctor, you’re the only vampire round here.<span style=""> </span>It’s you who’s the one who feeds off other people’s blood to keep yourself alive… you’re nothing but a demented, perverted, parasite… and what’s more, you’re certainly not human!”<span style=""> </span>I stared at the grinning, disgusting face, incensed.<span style=""> </span>The grin was fixed now, a painted smile, I felt good now that I had the power over that Daddy-Long-Legs.<span style=""> </span>Parasite! Slowly I stretched out my arm and released the tape recorder from between my fingers.<span style=""> </span>The doctor’s eyes followed it, the grin still fixed and he flinched as it crashed to the floor.<span style=""> </span>Very carefully and slowly, I raised my Doc Marten’s and brought it down mercilessly upon the recorder.<span style=""> </span>Like Mr. Henry’s glasses, it crunched and the glass shattered beneath the heel of my boot.<span style=""> </span>I watched Dr. Lloyd-Jones’s grin fade in satisfaction, unlike Mr. Henry’s glasses; I made sure that the recorder was quite beyond repair.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Now, Dr. Lloyd-Jones,” I said icily, “you can take your filthy, degraded, degenerated little mind and get out of here.<span style=""> </span>And don’t come back.”</p> <h1 style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;"><span style=" font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none;font-size:12pt;" >The doctor rose, straightening his suit and without giving me so much as a backward glance, left.<span style=""> </span>I stared at the heap of crumpled plastic on the floor, the useless brown tape spewing like a tongue from its mouth and feeling immensely powerful and, yet at the same time, utterly crushed.<o:p></o:p></span></h1> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">*<span style=""> </span>*<span style=""> </span>*<span style=""> </span>*</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“It looks nice up here,” said Thomas quietly, sitting on the bed.<span style=""> </span>“Very nice indeed.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">I stared at <i>Chatterton</i> wordlessly.<span style=""> </span>I couldn’t see Chatterton lying across his bed; Thomas’s image was superimposed upon the background, the empty bottle of water and arsenic beside him; quite dead of course, as he intended.<span style=""> </span>This was what Thomas had longed for and what Dr. Lloyd-Jones certainly dreaded… that his newly discovered vampire would suddenly die.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">Thomas gazed at the picture grimly; perhaps he too, could see only himself in Chatterton’s place… I know he longed to be there.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“I want to die here,” he told me abruptly. “Here in this room, beneath this picture.”<span style=""> </span>He looked around the bedroom as one would look at a familiar house the moment before moving out.<span style=""> </span>“This is where we first met, do you remember?<span style=""> </span>I was standing over by the window –“</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“I remember,” I muttered, turning away.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">Thomas took my hand and pulled me to him.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Don’t be like that.<span style=""> </span>But isn’t it time, now?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">The silence around us compressed us together like two dried flowers and the nocturnal seeped into the room, through the open window.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“That little incident with Dr. Lloyd-Jones… it must be clear to you now… it’s really the only ending possible.<span style=""> </span>You must see that.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said, refusing to look round at Thomas.<span style=""> </span>I knew he was right… oh, I knew he was right.<span style=""> </span>That was what made the whole situation so very desperate and unbearable.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">Behind me Thomas got up and slowly fastened his cloak around his shoulders.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Alright then,” he said, “let’s go to the pub.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">*<span style=""> </span>*<span style=""> </span>*<span style=""> </span>*</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">We walked in silence.<span style=""> </span>Nothing could be said… there was no room for words now.<span style=""> </span>The rain fell steadily, causing the pavement to reflect the streetlights until the loss of perspective flowed and danced above and below, as if my friend and I were walking among the stars themselves.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;"><i>The Sitting Duck</i> was almost empty.<span style=""> </span>Thomas went off to find a table in a suitably gloomy corner, while I got the drinks.<span style=""> </span>Ms. O’Rourke served me with her customary energy.<span style=""> </span>Her black hair flowed down her back and her black satin ball gown was edged with black lace and net.<span style=""> </span>What a ravishing partner she would have made for Thomas in his last dance with death!<span style=""> </span>Putting such contrived and morbid thoughts aside, I picked up the two pints and turned to go.<span style=""> </span>Ms. O’Rourke laid a gentle hand on my wrist, her grip light yet restraining.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">She nodded towards Thomas, who was barely visible in the shadows of the overhanging beams.<span style=""> </span>Her silver, hooped earrings jangled and flashed magnificently as she moved her head.<span style=""> </span>I smiled wearily.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“His name is Thomas.<span style=""> </span>Perhaps you have seen him around.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Oh yes – I remember him all right,” said Ms. O’Rourke, nodding slowly.<span style=""> </span>“Not the sort of bloke you forget in a hurry.<span style=""> </span>Very… elegant.” She winked at me slyly.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“He is, isn’t he?”<span style=""> </span>I was surprised to discover the edge of pride in my voice.<span style=""> </span>Quickly, I looked down at the pint glasses in my hands.<span style=""> </span>“Unfortunately, he’s just passing through, he’s going back to Romania tonight.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Oh dear, what a shame!<span style=""> </span>I thought you looked a bit unhappy, love.”<span style=""> </span>Ms. O’Rourke frowned sympathetically, leaning across the bar and folding her arms in front of her.<span style=""> </span>“Romania eh?<span style=""> </span>I thought he looked foreign.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Yes, he’s been… having a holiday.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Funny.”<span style=""> </span>Ms. O’Rourke frowned again, looking at Thomas directly.<span style=""> </span>“I didn’t think they let you out.<span style=""> </span>Romania, it’s Communist, isn’t it?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">I was temporarily stumped.<span style=""> </span>I had forgotten how politically minded the entire O’Rourke family was.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Oh… they do.<span style=""> </span>With a special visa.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Ahhh.”<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">Ms. O’Rourke seemed satisfied and I left quickly before I could be enticed into further complexities concerning the Communist laws in Eastern Europe.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“How did you get of Romania?”<span style=""> </span>I asked Thomas, putting down the glasses on the polished wood table and sitting down beside him.<span style=""> </span>“It is Communist, isn’t it?<span style=""> </span>Do they let you out?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“They let <i>me</i> out,” said Thomas, sipping his beer.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Did you fly?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Yes.”<span style=""> </span>Thomas spread out his arms dramatically.<span style=""> </span>“Transylvanian Airlines.<span style=""> </span>Provide your own wings…”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">I chuckled.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Still… it can’t have been easy – how did you carry your coffin?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“I didn’t.<span style=""> </span>There’s plenty of graveyards around… even Communists die sometimes.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“You mean – you dug up corpses?”<span style=""> </span>I was aghast.<span style=""> </span>“And slept in their coffins?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">Thomas was quiet for a moment.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“I put them back afterwards.<span style=""> </span>No one would have known.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">He ran his finger absently through a pool of spilt beer on the table; drawing out the liquid into long, fine points.<span style=""> </span>“You’re right, of course, it is horrible.<span style=""> </span>Perhaps you can see why I don’t want to go on.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Oh, I see alright.”<span style=""> </span>We were back on this bloody subject; my stomach sank, weighted down with misery.<span style=""> </span>“But do you know what you’re asking me to do?”<span style=""> </span>I looked into his pale face, pleading.<span style=""> </span>“You’re asking me to commit murder!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“No!”<span style=""> </span>Thomas shook his head firmly.<span style=""> </span>“You’re helping me to kill myself.<span style=""> </span>It’s not murder.”<span style=""> </span>He reached out a white hand and laid it on my wrist, as Ms. O’Rourke had done, but this hand was ice cold.<span style=""> </span>“Look, surely all that… thing with Dr. Lloyd-Jones has shown you something.<span style=""> </span>There’s no way he’ll let me escape now!<span style=""> </span>He’ll be round tomorrow… he won’t leave until he has me!<span style=""> </span>You surely don’t think he’ll be content to leave it at taping my words?<span style=""> </span>No, he won’t leave you alone until he has me in his grip to show off to all his cronies. The only thing to do now is to disappear from the scene, as it were.”<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">Thomas moved closer to me and I felt that darkness permeate my soul and it seemed that I had gained nothing. My misery pulled me down, down until I was drowning in the nocturnal which had invaded my spirit so purposefully.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Then Dr. Lloyd-Jones will have won.” I said, almost in tears.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">Thomas shook his head and smiled.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“No, he was the straw that broke the camel’s back.<span style=""> </span>We will have won.<span style=""> </span>You… and me.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">I was so deep in the wall of misery now, that Cassandra’s voice echoed and spun round and round before Cassandra; she seemed so far from me at this time and I glimpsed her face as that of an angel far above me, peering down a well.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">Alison! Yoo-hoo!”<span style=""> </span>She flicked her abundant black tresses out of her face.<span style=""> </span>I tried to smile feebly.<span style=""> </span>She gave me a playful shove.<span style=""> </span>“My God, where were you?<span style=""> </span>Don’t tell me… Jane’s taught you transcendental meditation.”<span style=""> </span>She flopped onto a stool opposite me, rain dripping from her shiny crimson Mac.<span style=""> </span>“Bloody rain, it’s like a second flood.<span style=""> </span>Get us a drink, there’s a love Joseph.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">Joseph had been standing behind her, silent, his baldhead shiny and damp.<span style=""> </span>Obediently he turned and wandered off towards the bar at Cassandra’s bidding.<span style=""> </span>I wondered at his incredible amiability.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">When I turned back, I found Cassandra exclaiming rapturously over seeing Thomas again.<span style=""> </span>Thomas was listening politely, his head tilted slightly to one side, his dark hair straggling wetly over his pallid face.<span style=""> </span>Suddenly it felt as if this were quite a mundane, domesticated scene; familiar friends who knew each other and our loyalty spread like melted margarine over the toast of our collective lives.<span style=""> </span>Who would guess that history was truly in the making – for tonight, I would kill a vampire?<span style=""> </span>I could barely guess at the truth.<span style=""> </span>I saw light from the street lamps outside falling down as if it were rain upon the floor near Cassandra’s red boots; it became different colours as it passed through the marvellously ornamented stained glass windows.<span style=""> </span>As the light hit the ground, it fragmented and the red pieces dissolved into thin rivers of blood and trickled away across the tiled floor.<span style=""> </span>Some fragments of light spread into their place and took over; of course, they were of the darkest blue, a midnight hue, and the nocturnal perversion once again.<span style=""> </span>Such a beautiful degeneration though!</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">A scuffed brown <i>Hush Puppy</i> trod into the patterns of light abruptly, squelching wetly.<span style=""> </span>I looked up.<span style=""> </span>It was Joseph, returning with his and Cassandra’s drinks.<span style=""> </span>Plonking them down on the table, he sat down opposite me, smiling faintly as Cassandra burbled on, oblivious to his arrival.<span style=""> </span>He switched his mild gaze to me and winked.<span style=""> </span>I smiled back.<span style=""> </span>I noticed his <i>Celtic Cross</i> earrings and choked on my drink, the irony was almost unbearable.<span style=""> </span>It was a good job that he was not sitting next to Thomas.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">Joseph sipped his drink and glanced at Thomas, then back to me.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“I presume that’s the infamous Thomas?”<span style=""> </span>He said in a whisper.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">I nodded.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“I forgot – you two haven’t met, have you?”<span style=""> </span>I would always regret the fact that my two dearest friends never really met each other face to face.<span style=""> </span>“Ah well.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Never mind.<span style=""> </span>I see Cassandra’s making up for the lack of my conversation.”<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">Cassandra ignored him, or else she simply didn’t hear.<span style=""> </span>She was intent on what she was saying to Thomas, who sat perfectly still, as if modelling for a part of a painting.<span style=""> </span>Joseph turned back to me.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“You know Mr. Henry’s leaving?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“No, when?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Summer, I believe.”<span style=""> </span>Joseph nodded his head slowly.<span style=""> </span>“I read it in a Staff Bulletin on Mrs. Blood’s desk the other day.”</p> <h2 style="margin-left: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;">“Oh dear.”<span style=""> </span>I sighed and turned my glass round and round in front of me.<span style=""> </span>“What a shame, I feel so guilty.”<o:p></o:p></span></h2> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin-left: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;">“So you should.<span style=""> </span>You’ve probably driven him to an early grave.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">A black hole opened before me and yawned; I stared at Joseph, paralysed.<span style=""> </span>He couldn’t have said that… could he?<span style=""> </span>The grave, the grave… that was where Thomas would rest tonight, but not this time, in some usurped Romanian tomb while the resident corpse lay on the freezing ground outside.<span style=""> </span>Patiently, waiting for the sun to set and the vampire to drag him back into his house… the skeletons would take up their fiddles and dance, while Thomas prowled the streets… the grave, such a peaceful resting place.<span style=""> </span>Entombed in raging silence.<span style=""> </span>I gripped the edge of the table to keep myself from slithering onto the floor, smashing amongst those fragments of light.<span style=""> </span>Joseph had fallen abruptly silent, but I could still hear Cassandra’s voice, pouring into my vulnerable ear like the poison that killed Hamlet’s father.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Romania, how interesting but I thought you came from Poland?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">Her words rose, louder and louder, like sirens; they screamed through my head, chaotic, visions of decomposition, death and decay like a book of Edgar Allan Poe’s.<span style=""> </span>I could not, I cannot stand this.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“But you told me you came from Poland.<span style=""> </span>I’m sure you did.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">I suddenly realised that I was on my feet and tugging manically at Thomas’s arm.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“He comes from Romania, Cassandra… Romania… and he’s leaving tonight.”<span style=""> </span>I found myself crying shrilly.<span style=""> </span>“He’s going back and you won’t ever see him again!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">Quickly Thomas stood up, and wrapping his arm round me, met Joseph and Cassandra’s looks of alarm and astonishment with a calm, yet regretful smile.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“That’s right.<span style=""> </span>I forgot how late it was getting” </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">Again Thomas had instantly taken control of the situation.<span style=""> </span>Turning his collar up against the inevitable rain he would meet outside, he continued in the same, sad manner in which he had begun.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“I have to catch my plane soon, we must go.<span style=""> </span>If you’ll excuse us…”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">Cassandra stood up and grabbed at Thomas’s arm, almost knocking her beer over.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“You’re not serious, are you? You’re just going to leave forever, back to Poland or Romania or wherever the hell you come from, just like that?”<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">Again I tugged impatiently at Thomas’s cloak, almost blinded by tears.<span style=""> </span>This was almost too painful to endure.<span style=""> </span>Cassandra, meanwhile, seemed more angry than upset.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Why didn’t you tell us?”<span style=""> </span>She demanded furiously.<span style=""> </span>“Why didn’t you tell, Alison?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">Thomas turned back, a strange look of defiance coming into his eyes.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“How do you know I didn’t?” he said.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? Look at her!”<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">I was thankful that Thomas didn’t.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Anyone can see that this is as much of a shock to her as it is to us!<span style=""> </span><i>More </i>probably.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“I really have to go back.<span style=""> </span>My visa… has ended.”<span style=""> </span>Thomas sighed, turning away again.<span style=""> </span>“I thought it would be easier… not to mention my departure.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">I broke away from Thomas suddenly, running to Cassandra’s table.<span style=""> </span>I thought that my heart would burst with love for her, she and her protective anger.<span style=""> </span>Joseph remained seated, silent and staring at me morosely.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“I knew all along, Cassandra,” I told her. “Of course I’ve known all along – how could he keep a thing like that from me?<span style=""> </span>Only –” I shrugged, “- it’s much worse tonight.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“I see.” Cassandra smiled faintly.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">I could see that she still didn’t think much of Thomas, <i>loving and leaving me</i> like that.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“I’ll come round later.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“No, don’t do that,” I said hastily.<span style=""> </span>“Um – I’d rather be alone.<span style=""> </span>I’ll see you tomorrow.”</p> <span style=" Times New Roman";font-family:";font-size:12pt;" >Cassandra nodded slowly.<span style=""> </span>I returned to the shelter of Thomas’s nocturnal cloak, ducking beneath the arc of his blackness cascading like molten ebony from his arm.<span style=""> </span>From the corner of my eye I could see Ms. O’Rourke like a lacy bat behind the bar, watching me carefully.<span style=""> </span>I loomed at Thomas; his eyes were fixed straight ahead of him and he glanced neither right nor left, nor over his shoulder; but he hurried down the stone steps of the pub and out into the night and, of course, the rain.<span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><a href="http://nicolabatty.blogspot.com/2012/01/reluctant-vampire-chapter-thirteen.html">Now go to Chapter Thirteen...</a><br /></span></span>Nicola Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17066855901263569768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8806237858971105635.post-56832486857589666342012-01-13T16:59:00.001+00:002012-01-21T17:34:09.126+00:00The Reluctant Vampire - Chapter Eleven<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 9"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 9"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:/Users/nicola/AppData/Local/Temp/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotoptimizeforbrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; 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font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} p.MsoBlockText, li.MsoBlockText, div.MsoBlockText {margin-top:0cm; margin-right:-43.7pt; margin-bottom:0cm; margin-left:-54.0pt; margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-indent:36.0pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">CHAPTER ELEVEN</p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin-left: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;">The next day was Saturday, so I lay in bed retrieving my strength and sanity all morning.<span style=""> </span>It was still raining on and off.<span style=""> </span>Every so often, the sky would become dark and menacing and the rain would hit the ground with startling violence and intensity, then it would stop as suddenly as it had begun.<span style=""> </span>I lay in bed with my eyes closed and head buried under the pillow, trying not to think of anything. I was haunted by pictures and sensations of my experience of last night and the image that was the most persistent was that of dark outlines of pine trees against the stormy sky, lit up intermittently by the moon as the clouds raced by.<span style=""> </span>This image seemed to be etched onto the curtains and the folds fell in such a way, that I could still see it, even with my eyes closed.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">I wondered as I got dressed, how a vampire could tell when the sun had set, when there was no sun in the sky.<span style=""> </span>How could he tell any time, when he was sealed within his coffin? One never heard of a vampire climbing out of his coffin before the sun had set, to nip back inside the nearest house to have a quick look at the clock.<span style=""> </span>Thomas had no watch, I was sure of that.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">I fell to thinking about Thomas as I stirred my tea absently, or more specifically, Thomas’s desire for death at the hands of yours truly.<span style=""> </span>I had, and I continued to consider, his request very seriously.<span style=""> </span>Although it made good sense, the more I thought of it, the more the action repelled me.<span style=""> </span>I don’t know why I considered it so seriously; I could never bring myself to hurt Thomas.<span style=""> </span>Not even now that I knew that the enemy (in the form of Dr. Lloyd-Jones) was so alerted to his true identity.<span style=""> </span>There could be no happy ending to this story – not for Thomas, anyway.<span style=""> </span>It was tragic but I was powerless to resist the attackers that bore down mercilessly upon the Nocturnal.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">My mother used her own key to get in the house, and I heard her wrestling to remove it from the keyhole, which had a habit of swallowing a key once it was inserted into its mouth.<span style=""> </span>I strolled out into the hall to assist.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Hello, Mum,” I said, leaning against a wall.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Hello, Alison,” my mother wrenched the key finally out of the lock.<span style=""> </span>“Bloody door, have to get it fixed before we sell the house.”<span style=""> </span>She picked up two Marks and Spencer’s plastic bags and dragged them into the hallway.<span style=""> </span>Her eyes darted about nervously as she looked around.<span style=""> </span>“It doesn’t look as though you’ve vacuumed in here recently.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“I haven’t, I’ve only just got up.”<span style=""> </span>I picked up one of the bags, heading for the stairs.<span style=""> </span>“Is this clean clothes?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Yes.<span style=""> </span>Looks like you could do with some as well.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">I hurried to the seclusion of my bedroom and began to put my clothes away in the chest of drawers.<span style=""> </span>Below me, I could hear my mother vacuuming every surface she could see, in search of those annoying little bits of dust and the occasional fragment of biscuit or cake.<span style=""> </span>It depressed and irritated me to watch her sink deeper and deeper into the void of trivialities, while her imagination rotted. Who was responsible? Could it be blamed on society or was the fault her own?<span style=""> </span>Well, whoever; it didn’t really matter anyway, the damage was done.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">I finished putting my clothes away, carefully keeping my brain blank, remembering that I was supposed to be resting today.<span style=""> </span>It was Saturday after all and I had been through a fairly traumatic experience the night before.<span style=""> </span>Better to let my mind take a complete break from philosophy today.<span style=""> </span>Undue questioning and moralising would only lead to a temporary breakdown.<span style=""> </span>Slamming the bottom drawer shut so that two photos, which were standing on the dresser, fell onto their faces, I hurried back down the stairs, two at a time and deciding to tell my mother about Thomas.<span style=""> </span>Well, I would mention his existence anyway, no harm in that.<span style=""> </span>And maybe that would keep her mind from dwelling on trivialities for a few moments anyhow.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">She was in the front room polishing the sideboard.<span style=""> </span>In one hand she clutched the canister of Mr. Sheen, in the other a yellow duster with which she rubbed every visible piece of woodwork manically, as if hoping to produce a genie.<span style=""> </span>I leant against the doorframe and watched her tiny little face twist and writhe into a multitude of grimaces, as if she were the one being rubbed at, not the sideboard.<span style=""> </span>Her beady little eyes scurried back and forth over the dresser as she worked, frantic and almost panic stricken.<span style=""> </span>She didn’t even appear to notice me.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“I really don’t know why you put so much energy into things like that,” I said at last.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">My mother looked up, startled. She turned back to her work almost at once. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Well, if I don’t do it, nobody will,” she said, kneeling on the floor so that she could polish the legs off the dresser.<span style=""> </span>“And I do wish you wouldn’t sneak around like that. Why don’t you <i>do</i> something?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“I’m not sneaking around.”<span style=""> </span>I walked slowly closer to my mother. “And I don’t mean why do <i>you </i>do it, I mean why do you expend so much energy on such a petty thing?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“If a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">Bosworth strutted into the room and began winding himself around my ankles.<span style=""> </span>I held on to the dresser for balance.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Yes… but it seems so insignificant,” I persisted.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“It is if you go and put your filthy hands on it and smear the polish,” my mother snapped, standing up.<span style=""> </span>I whipped my hand away quickly, sighing.<span style=""> </span>My mum glanced at me sharply. “Anyway, I’m doing more than you are.<span style=""> </span>Why don’t you <i>do</i> something?”</p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin-left: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;">“I am, I’m talking to you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Well, talk then.<span style=""> </span>Actually, I want to talk to you.”<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">She looked at me, her brow wrinkling and I leaned forward expectantly.<span style=""> </span>“Isn’t it time you did something about de-flea-ing that cat? Get it a flea collar, they’ve got some cheap ones in that pet shop near Dane Road station…”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">I gazed blankly at my print of <i>Chatterton</i>.<span style=""> </span>Something needed moving around here.<span style=""> </span>Some action was needed to rest my growing frustration.<span style=""> </span>Kneeling carefully on top of the dresser, I grasped the picture firmly in my hands.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“What’re you doing?” cried my mother, running back into the room and shaking her duster at me frantically.<span style=""> </span>“Alison!<span style=""> </span>You’ll break it!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">I was concentrating on removing the heavy painting from its hook.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“No, I won’t, I’m only taking it down.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Not the picture!<span style=""> </span>The dresser!<span style=""> </span>The dresser!<span style=""> </span>Get down!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">The painting was safely in my arms, I clambered down.<span style=""> </span>Turning to transport the precious cargo upstairs, my mothers’ eyes met mine, fury and frustration were there; her mouth was set, her eyes watering behind her glasses.<span style=""> </span>The last thing I needed now was this amount of hassle.<span style=""> </span>She was bottling it up; it would all come out now. Setting <i>Chatterton</i> down on the sofa, I hurried outside, grabbed my jacket and made for the front door.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Just going to get some nails,” I called, then added, hoping to placate my mother, “and a flea collar for Bosworth.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">It was nearly dark when I arrived home, although it was only late afternoon.<span style=""> </span>Dutifully, I had remembered the flea collar; I caught Bosworth and tied it firmly round his neck, swearing and cursing as the cat struggled and scratched, trying to get away.<span style=""> </span>When I released him, he scurried under the sideboard and glowered at me.<span style=""> </span>Ignoring him, I picked up the painting of <i>Chatterton</i> and began to transport it slowly upstairs.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">My mother was also in the back room, changing the bed.<span style=""> </span>I greeted her and clambered up on the bed to hammer the newly acquired nail into the wall.<span style=""> </span>My mother tutted but said nothing.<span style=""> </span>She waited patiently for me to hang the picture before she laid the clean sheets on the bed.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">I stood back and looked critically, checking that the work of art was straight.<span style=""> </span>I glanced at my mother as she picked up a white sheet and spread it over the bed.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“What do you think, Mum? Do you like it?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">My mother glanced briefly at the painting, frowning.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Yes … it’s a bit modern for this room, though.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Mum, it was done in the Nineteenth century!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“That’s modern!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“I don’t know what you mean.<span style=""> </span>It was one hundred and fifty years ago!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Alison.”<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">My mother gestured with a quick jerk of her head for me to tuck the other side of the sheet under the mattress and, at the same time, to stop arguing.<span style=""> </span>Sighing, I obeyed her.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">I found myself remembering when I had first discovered Thomas in this very same bedroom, leaning against the window and looking out into the moonlight.<span style=""> </span>That was the beginning of it all, then.<span style=""> </span>Such a lot had happened since that point in time, I struggled to place the event.<span style=""> </span>I thought of Thomas telling me to turn the bloody light off and my own bewilderment as to how my <i>Dark Stranger</i> had managed to climb in at the window with no ladder.<span style=""> </span>I chuckled quietly to myself.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“What’s the matter?”<span style=""> </span>Demanded my mother, throwing another clean sheet over the bed so that it billowed and flowed like Thomas’s cloak.<span style=""> </span>I caught the edges and tucked them firmly under the mattress.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Nothing,” I said.<span style=""> </span>Then, remembering my decision to tell my mum about my friendly vampire, I added “just thinking about Thomas.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Oh,” my mother was silent for a long while and I began to wonder if her brain had digested this comment at all.<span style=""> </span>Finally she asked “who is this Thomas then?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Oh, I expect you’ll meet him soon.”<span style=""> </span>I stuffed a pillow into a pillowcase.<span style=""> </span>“He comes round here a lot.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">My mother tossed the red eiderdown over the bed and began to smooth it out, frowning to herself.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Not too much, I hope,” she said, collecting up the dirty sheets.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">I looked up sharply.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“What’s that supposed to mean?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“You know very well what it means.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">I stared after my mother as she disappeared out through the door, an armful of sheets clutched to her breast.<span style=""> </span>I felt a little stunned.<span style=""> </span>I hoped that she didn’t mean what I thought she did.<span style=""> </span>I wouldn’t know where to start with a vampire …</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">After making the beds, we sat down with a pot of tea.<span style=""> </span>It would be nice to say that we indulged in the sort of idle chitchat that mothers and daughters often share; but I’m afraid that would be the most blatant fabrication of the truth, as any reader possessing the merest morsel of intelligence would instantly realise.<span style=""> </span>In fact, we sat in silence.<span style=""> </span>I watched my mother’s anxious eyes flicker round the room like two restless flies from the corner of my own fixed gaze.<span style=""> </span>I knew that lists of criticisms and jobs to be done were reeling through her mind on an ever turning mechanical roll of paper.<span style=""> </span>The thought of that restless movement alone exhausted me.<span style=""> </span>I closed my eyes and tried to imagine Chatterton’s feelings the moment before he died.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">The slam of the back door startled me.<span style=""> </span>Thomas!<span style=""> </span>I glanced at my mother, who had spilt some of her tea in fright and was hastily trying to scrub it from her skirt with her apron before it stained.<span style=""> </span>I tried to imagine what her reaction to Thomas would be.<span style=""> </span>I couldn’t.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Oh – hello,” said Thomas, he stopped in the doorway, hesitantly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you, er, Alison …”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“No, no come in,” I urged, leaping up and dragging Thomas into the room.<span style=""> </span>“This is my mum.<span style=""> </span>Mum, Thomas.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">My mother stood up, nervous.<span style=""> </span>Thomas held out his hand and she shook it incredulously.<span style=""> </span>I don’t think she even noticed how cold it was.<span style=""> </span>It was obvious that she had never met anyone like Thomas before and couldn’t quite believe him.<span style=""> </span>He stood at least two feet taller than her, dressed in his customary black and white, the merest ghost of a smile on his face.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“I’m very pleased to meet you,” he said at last. “Alison told me about you.<span style=""> </span>I wanted very much to meet you.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">My mother blinked repeatedly behind her glasses.<span style=""> </span>Her little mouth pursed and then straightened; licking her lips nervously like an animal under threat, she withdrew her hand hastily from Thomas’s grasp and shoved it into her apron pocket.<span style=""> </span>I hung onto Thomas’s arm for support. That moment seemed very long, the tension unbearable.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">At last my mother spoke, taking a step back as she did so.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“You’re foreign,” she said accusingly.<span style=""> </span>I should explain here that my mother is not generally racist; her prejudice can be attributed to her extreme nervousness, which I think probably caused the statement to sound more like an accusation than had been originally intended. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Yes, I’m afraid I am.”<span style=""> </span>He paused and glanced at me for a second.<span style=""> </span>“I’m Romanian. Originally.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">There was a silence.<span style=""> </span>My mother obviously did not trust herself to say anything else, realising her blunder.<span style=""> </span>She tore her eyes from Thomas’s face and looked him up and down, taking in the expensive cut of his trousers, the beauty of the material, the opulence of his cloak.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“He… works in a restaurant,” I said quickly, catching my mother’s sharp eye.<span style=""> </span>“He’s a waiter.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">Thomas smiled and my mother nodded, frowning.<span style=""> </span>To this day, I don’t know what her real opinion of Thomas was, or even if she had one.<span style=""> </span>She was always very careful to avoid mentioning him in conversation, even in passing.<span style=""> </span>She may have harboured, from then on, a deep-seated fear of him, which would explain why no mention was ever made of my rich friend.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Well, it’s… very nice to have met you too,” said my mother smoothly, turning away and picking up her coat and familiar plumed hat, both of which lay on the rocking chair beside her. “Maybe I’ll see you again.<span style=""> </span>Ta ra, Alison”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Well, bye then, Mum,” I answered.<span style=""> </span>I was a little surprised at the suddenness of my mother’s departure.<span style=""> </span>She usually hung around for hours.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Oh, Alison.”<span style=""> </span>My mother turned in the doorway, that notorious worried frown returning to her brow as she gazed in my direction.<span style=""> </span>“Your father told me to tell you to get rid of that crate in the garden shed or else he’ll burn it himself next time he comes round.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">Thomas and I exchanged glances.<span style=""> </span>With difficulty I managed to stifle my giggles until the door had closed behind my mother.<span style=""> </span>However, Thomas did not share in my mirth.<span style=""> </span>He watched me disdainfully for a while, his hands clasped studiously behind his back.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“It’s an idea, you know,” he told me sternly.</p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">I sat up and attempted to compose myself.</p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“What is?”</p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Burning to death in my coffin.”</p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="margin-right: -0.9pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">My face fell instantly and I looked away angrily.<span style=""> </span>All the light seemed to have gone out of the night and such a weight was continually being piled onto my shoulders; like <i>Atlas</i> trying to hold the bloody globe on his back.</p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Look, I don’t want to talk about that,” I muttered.</p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="margin-right: -0.9pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">Thomas sighed deeply; he walked over to the window and stared out into the gloom.<span style=""> </span>A few raindrops splattered against the window.</p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="margin-right: -0.9pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“No, there must be a less painful way,” he said, ignoring me.<span style=""> </span>I felt as if I wasn’t there.<span style=""> </span>This was my destiny being planned for me, over my head.<span style=""> </span>“Anyway, I’m not sure it would work,” he continued thoughtfully, “killing the <i>Undead</i> is such a tricky business.<span style=""> </span>We need something foolproof – something that we know will work.”</p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="margin-right: -0.9pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">But I could still react to Fate, even if I couldn’t change it.<span style=""> </span>I scrambled up from the sofa defiantly.</p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="margin-right: -0.9pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Thomas, what do you mean, ‘we’? ‘We’?<span style=""> </span>Don’t you mean ‘I’?”</p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="margin-right: -0.9pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">Thomas stared at me for a long while.<span style=""> </span>So vacant was his gaze that it seemed to pass right through me, soaking in the night instead.<span style=""> </span>I saw that the <i>Nocturnal</i> really was both the time and the place for my friend, reposing eternally in the slumber-like death, safe forever from anguish and solitude.</p> <span style="font-family: times new roman;font-family:";font-size:85%;" >“No,” he said slowly, “you know that I mean ‘we.’"<br />NOW GO TO <a href="http://nicolabatty.blogspot.com/2012/01/reluctant-vampire-chapter-twelve.html">CHAPTER TWELVE</a><br /></span>Nicola Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17066855901263569768noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8806237858971105635.post-88558129155086898662012-01-07T18:18:00.001+00:002012-01-13T17:05:54.708+00:00The Reluctant Vampire - Chapter Ten<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 9"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 9"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:/Users/nicola/AppData/Local/Temp/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotoptimizeforbrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} h1 {mso-style-next:Normal; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; page-break-after:avoid; mso-outline-level:1; font-size:14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning:0pt; text-decoration:underline; text-underline:single;} h2 {mso-style-next:Normal; margin-top:0cm; margin-right:-43.7pt; margin-bottom:0cm; margin-left:-45.0pt; margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-indent:36.0pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; page-break-after:avoid; mso-outline-level:2; font-size:16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; font-weight:normal;} p.MsoNormalIndent, li.MsoNormalIndent, div.MsoNormalIndent {margin-top:0cm; margin-right:0cm; margin-bottom:0cm; margin-left:36.0pt; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} p.MsoBodyText, li.MsoBodyText, div.MsoBodyText {margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:justify; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} p.MsoBodyTextIndent, li.MsoBodyTextIndent, div.MsoBodyTextIndent {margin-top:0cm; margin-right:0cm; margin-bottom:0cm; margin-left:-45.0pt; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} p.MsoBodyTextIndent2, li.MsoBodyTextIndent2, div.MsoBodyTextIndent2 {margin-top:0cm; margin-right:-43.7pt; margin-bottom:0cm; margin-left:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-indent:36.0pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} p.MsoBodyTextIndent3, li.MsoBodyTextIndent3, div.MsoBodyTextIndent3 {margin-top:0cm; margin-right:-43.7pt; margin-bottom:0cm; margin-left:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:justify; text-indent:36.0pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} p.MsoBlockText, li.MsoBlockText, div.MsoBlockText {margin-top:0cm; margin-right:-43.7pt; margin-bottom:0cm; margin-left:-54.0pt; margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-indent:36.0pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">CHAPTER TEN</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">I had to wait half an hour before Dr. Lloyd-Jones would see me. Horse-face kept telling me triumphantly that the Doctor was ‘behind schedule’ and I must be patient. Her continual sneering and tossing of the head really got on my nerves, and I only managed to control my anger by sheer concentration of will. I leafed idly through a glossy magazine and read the article on Post-Natal Depression; I was half-way through the follow-up article entitled <i>How to Learn to Love your Baby</i>, when the receptionist called my name in her clear-cut, horsy tones. I folded the magazine deliberately carefully and slowly, knowing that she was watching. I wanted to say something cutting as I passed her, but my mind was a blank after all that petty Baby-talk. At least I would never have to sit in this awful paddock again and watch her grazing vacantly. The thought gave me all the power I needed. I contented myself with a slight snigger when she had turned her back.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=""> </span>“Ah, Alison! So sorry to have kept you waiting!” Dr. Lloyd-Jones turned happily from his casual pose by the window as I came in. His hands were in his pockets, the customary barley-sugar in his mouth. “I hope I won’t keep you too long.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=""> </span>“I hope so too,” I muttered, throwing myself into my familiar comfy chair.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=""> </span>The Doctor ignored me, reaching instead for his usual white paper bag on the desk-top.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=""> </span>“Barley-sugar?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=""> </span>I shook my head vehemently.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=""> </span>“Well, let’s get straight to the point, shall we?” The Doctor settled himself in his swivel chair, crossing his legs gracefully. The movement reminded me of my mother folding her deck chair up on the beach at Skegness. Every gesture of the Doctor’s, however whimsical and abstract, was careful, planned, precise. One of his beautiful, pale hands lay across his knee as if it had been carved in that position, while the other stroked his tiny, immaculate moustache pensively. That dancing light never left his eyes, the permanent grin forever lurking around the corners of his mouth. There was silence for several moments and I eyed the Gothic painting on the wall, wondering whether to leave or not. I had begun to fidget nervously when Dr. Lloyd-Jones spoke again. “You see, Alison, I feel we are getting near the truth. The basis for your problem… all your problems.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=""> </span>“I don’t have any problems now,” I said, aggressively.</p> <p class="MsoBodyText"><span style=""> </span>The Doctor laughed merrily, his eyes jumping with his laughter.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=""> </span>“Oh now… I think you know that that, my dear, is not true. And I think you also know what… or who… is responsible for these… <i>imaginings</i>. I say <i>imaginings</i> but you know as well as I do that what you have seen is as real as you or I.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=""> </span>I stared miserably at my Doc Martin’s. I was stupid to have agreed to come back, even for only <i>one more time</i>. I was in a corner again. It was just as I expected.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=""> </span>“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, sharply, trying to sound contemptuous. But I knew that my guilt was seeping through like water under the bathroom floor.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=""> </span>Dr. Lloyd-Jones could obviously see it all showing through, for he laughed all the more and swung wildly in his leather chair.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=""> </span>“I think you do, my dear! I think you do! I’m talking about your friend… the vampire”. He leaned across the desk, grinning, and I grew suddenly alarmed. Surely the Doctor hadn’t seen Thomas… surely he had no real proof? Yet he sounded so confident and sure…<span style=""> </span>“Ah yes, I do believe all you have said,” he continued happily, “I believed every word of it. I know, I know, you haven’t really said anything to me, directly, but… ” He tapped my notes which lay spread out on the desk in front of him. “It’s all here, in black and white. Just because you’ve changed your mind and are doing your best to dismiss all your previous claims as hallucinations… ” He leant back in his chair, staring at the ceiling in delight. “Oh, I can see right through you, Alison. After all, I am a psychiatrist. And I’d like to meet this vampire of yours very much. In fact I insist.”</p> <p class="MsoBodyText"><span style=""> </span>I sat, rigid, in my chair, gripping the arms for dear life. Of course, he could just be humouring me. Perhaps that was the usual psychiatric strategy with hallucinating patients – to insist that what they are seeing is real. But there was something about the Doctor’s manner which aroused my suspicion… I didn’t trust him at all. And I would never, ever allow him to meet Thomas. I stood up, and found my knees shaking like jelly. As I clutched at the edge of the desk for support, I caught sight of the words ‘the reality of the vampire in Western Europe’ scribbled across a piece of paper in the Doctor’s wild, flamboyant writing. I shut my eyes involuntarily. Now I was sure. Dr. Lloyd-Jones really did believe in vampires… and I was suddenly gripped by Thomas’s vision of himself in a cage, on a platform, with Dr. Lloyd-Jones below, grinning and pointing at Thomas with a long stick. Around him were many distinguished faces, every eminent doctor in the country would flock to see Dr. Lloyd-Jones’s indisputable evidence of the reality of the vampire in Western Europe. I let a little moan escape from between my lips. As I opened my eyes I saw the Doctor, poised in his swivel chair, his legs crossed, a horribly satisfied grin on his face. That did it. I was definitely getting out of here. I had heard, and seen, quite enough.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=""> </span>I lunged towards the door handle and wrenched the door open. Glancing over my shoulder as I made my hasty exit, I saw Doctor Lloyd-Jones behind his desk, the smile still on his face, his eyes on <i>The Nightmare</i>. He looked directly at me as I hesitated, and winked. I slammed the door cutting his image from my range of vision. As I rushed by her desk, the receptionist looked up, astonished, tossing her head nervously and glancing back at the Doctor’s door. I broke into a run. I could hear her thin calls of “Miss Smith! Miss Smith!” following me as I raced out into the car park behind the clinic.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=""> </span>It took me a moment to realise that in my haste I had run out through the wrong door; I felt quite lost at first, standing there amongst the Audi’s and the BMW’s. I stumbled around for a moment, trying to find the way round to the front of the clinic. The sound of a car starting and the crunch of its tyres on the gravel seemed extraordinarily loud to me in my intense state of panic. Then I saw the road leading round the side of the clinic and ran thankfully towards it.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=""> </span>I was just rounding the corner when I heard a roar and screech behind me. I swung round and felt the whole of my body turn white with light from the glare of the head-lights, which were turned full on. I didn’t see the car. But I felt it. The metal grazed my elbow and leg as it swerved wildly. I didn’t feel any pain, just shock. I collapsed onto my knees by the roadside, staring ahead, stunned. I wondered how the car had managed to miss me – and had it really missed me? I couldn’t tell. Perhaps I was on my way up to heaven right now. Reason and proportion were absolutely lost on me. I was only aware of sensations – the dazzling glare of the headlights, the screech of the tyres, the wetness of the ground beneath me. And then, the excruciating harshness of the laugh which echoed around me, thin and piercing though it was.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=""> </span>“Alison, my dear! So sorry!” Dr. Lloyd-Jones exploded into another torrent of bubbling, hysterical laughter which I allowed to spill over me like the waters of life. I blinked at the thin, gawky figure kneeling beside me stupidly. It was nearly dark and I could just be imagining him. I could have imagined the whole incident… just like I had imagined Thomas right from the start. I stared at Dr. Lloyd-Jones’s grinning, quivering face, and knew that I was not imagining this. I could feel the cold water seeping through the bum of my jeans, and the viciousness of the drops smashing against my face. I wanted desperately to get up and run away, away from the nauseating Doctor, home to Thomas, but I could not trust my legs to bear my weight as they usually did. I shivered.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=""> </span>“My dear Alison, it was my fault entirely. Are you hurt?” I shook my head numbly as the Doctor put his arm firmly around me and led me to his car. I didn’t see the car but I could smell the leather of it’s seats; I was also aware that it had no roof for the rain continued to fall around me. “let me take you home. It’s the least I can do,” the Doctor chortled, climbing into the car himself. “Now, don’t worry. We’ll be home in no time. No time at all.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=""> </span>The car set off with such a jerk that I had to cling to the black leather seat to stop myself from rolling right over the back and being deposited on the roadway. We turned out of the clinic onto Washway Road; then I was only aware of the air roaring in my ears and attempting to tug the hair from my head as we picked up speed. I squeezed my eyes shut, wondering how Dr. Lloyd-Jones could possibly see adequately – surely the rushing wind would cause his eyes to water profusely? There was darkness all around, except for the bright lights of passing cars, and a blurring of sound and sensation until it all mixed into one confusing state of being. Perhaps this was what Keats had meant by ‘negative capability’. I clung to the seat and allowed the speed to clear my brain.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=""> </span>I opened my eyes quickly as the car stopped. I could see only blackness and vague shadowy forms, and I could hear nothing. I had distant recollections of roaring wind in my head and bright light but now the absence of any sensations gave me only a feeling of falling. I was in a void, passing through time and space without a sound. Dr. Lloyd-Jones turned the engine off, and immediately the intense silence began to scream at me. I was compressed by it and preserved by it. I was metamorphosed by the total lack of anything on which to feed my senses. Something touched my face and I cried out. That tinkling, annoying laugh followed, sounding out of place and almost blasphemous towards the silence.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=""> </span>“Don’t be frightened, Alison.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">The voice seemed disembodied, floating out of the blackness and then being swallowed up by it.<span style=""> </span>For the first time I began to feel definitely uneasy. I didn’t really want to be stuck here, with the obscene Dr. Lloyd-Jones, apparently nowhere near home. I moved my leg but the ache reminded me how close I had come to being run over by the malicious Doctor in his phantom roofless car. A movement high above caught my eye; I could just make out the gentle swinging of the tops of tall fir trees against the sky. Panic clutched my stomach. This seemed to be a forest!</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=""> </span>“Where is this?” </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">I gasped, finding my voice.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=""> </span>There came an irritating giggle in reply, and a sudden flood of silvery light as the gibbous moon was revealed through scudding clouds for a moment. In that moment, I made out the dark giants of pine trees all around, watching; and I saw Dr. Lloyd-Jones sitting in the seat in front of me. He had twisted right round so that he was leaning over the back of the seat. His white hand gleamed dully yet beautifully, laid casually upon my knee. I couldn’t see his other hand; but I could feel it, stroking my face like a cobweb. The sensation made me shiver uncontrollably. And I could see his white teeth flashing like the <i>Cheshire Cat’s</i> perpetual grin. Then the moon disappeared abruptly, plunging us both into darkness once more.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=""> </span>“Dr. Lloyd-Jones,” I hissed fiercely, “take me home at once!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=""> </span>“But Alison, I can’t do that. At least not yet.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">The Doctor’s smooth voice coiled itself around me like a Boa-Constrictor. His hand was on my shoulder, gentle and caressing. “I need you to tell me something first. I think you know what it is.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=""> </span>For a moment fear floored me. He could kill me if I didn’t tell him what he wanted to know! And, of course, he wanted to know about Thomas. He wanted to know all about him. But I couldn’t betray my friendly vampire, not possibly!</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=""> </span>“I don’t know what you mean,” I said feebly.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=""> </span>“Oh, now, I think you do. You’re going to tell me all about this vampire you know.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">The Doctor giggled again. “And don’t deny it I know that it’s true.”</p> <p class="MsoBodyText" style=""><span style=""> </span>I didn’t deny it. I knew it would be absolutely pointless. I felt drained, numb. My leg and elbow ached and I just wanted to get home and run into those dark folds of Thomas’s nocturnal cloak. I felt completely exhausted.</p> <p class="MsoBodyText" style=""><span style=""> </span>The silence stretched out and I closed my eyes. I hoped that maybe Dr. Lloyd-Jones had forgotten his demand and I could stay like this forever. I felt his delicate hand flicker around my throat and then suddenly dive inside my jumper. I sat up and tried to remove his hand from my breast by force but his fragile frame concealed a vicious strength which fought against me. Anger overwhelmed me, banishing my fear.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Take your fucking hands off me,” I screamed.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=""> </span>Dr. Lloyd-Jones’s merry tones seemed unaffected by his physical exertions.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=""> </span>“Perhaps you could tell me about your vampire?” he suggested cheerfully.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>I wondered frantically just how much he wanted to know. Anything, anything, just to get him away from me. Forgive me, Thomas, I thought desperately.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=""> </span>“Alright, yes, I know a vampire,” </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">I said, still struggling. Dr. Lloyd-Jones sighed happily and I knew that he was waiting for me to go on. “I know a vampire… called Thomas. He’s six hundred and thirty seven years old. And he comes from Romania. I finally managed to remove the Doctor’s creeping pale hand from my person. “Satisfied now?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">That horrible laugh again. I suppose that the Doctor must have clapped his hands together, for a small smacking sound permeated the darkness.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Not quite, my dear, not quite,” he crowed joyfully. “I would like a little more information.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“What for?” I demanded.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">“Just interest, my dear,” he sang, “just interest.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">Of course I didn’t believe him. I could see his intentions as clear as daylight, and they were just what Thomas had always feared. He wanted to capture Thomas and show him off as <i>The Doctor’s Discovery</i>. He would keep my beloved vampire in a cage and force him to change into a bat before his audience’s eyes… And of course, he would never allow Thomas to be hurt or killed; he knew that Thomas longed for some freak accident to happen one day, or the murderous hand of some heaven-sent assassin to rob him of his unwanted eternal life. However unlikely these incidents may seem, Thomas clung to them, knowing that, by the laws of probability, one of them was bound to happen eventually.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">As I thought of this I realised that I couldn’t possibly let Dr. Lloyd-Jones get his greedy little hands on Thomas, no matter what he might threaten to do to me. I caught the dull gleam of the Doctor’s hand as he raised it to his moustache, and I took my chance. I leapt out of the car, over the edge of the door, not wishing to fumble needlessly with the handle, and I landed with a thump on the carpet of pine-needles which layered the soft ground. As I lay there, I heard a car door click open. The moon emerged briefly and I saw clearly the bulk of Dr. Lloyd-Jones’s beautiful car gleaming in the moonlight. It reminded me of Cruella DeVille’s car in <i>The 101 Dalmatians.</i> Just before the moon vanished again, I glimpsed the gawky form of Dr. Lloyd-Jones climbing gracefully out of the car. I wasted no more time. I set off at a sprint through the wood, in which direction I did not know. My leg ached as I put pressure on it, but that did not bother me now. It was frightening, running headlong through darkness and complete silence. The thumps of my feet upon the pine-needles sounded hollow, like my heart. I kept running into tree trunks, tripping over roots and being slashed and impaled by malevolent branches. I ran on and on. The darkness seemed to stretch forever. After a while I slowed to a hasty walk when I thought that Dr. Lloyd-Jones had ceased to be so very close a danger. I began to fell chilly so I broke into a jog again. I could have been anywhere in the world. This place reminded me of the Black Forest in Germany, which Cassandra and I had visited last year on our tour of Europe. And, my word, it certainly was black. I could run with my eyes closed and it would make no difference, I still continued to collide with trees and branches.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">After about an hour of stumbling through the undergrowth, the trees began to thin out and, as the moon briefly lit up the scene around me, I saw that I was on the edge of a dense pine forest which gave way eventually onto a bleak landscape of sloping ground, tufted here and there with brown grass which swayed in the wind. I recognised this desolate place vaguely but I couldn’t put a name to it. I memorised the landscape around me while I could still see it. Then, as darkness enveloped everything again, I set off down the slope towards a wall that I could just make out. I hoped that this wall would reveal, on its other side, some sort of civilization which I would be able to recognise for certain. As I wandered wearily through the darkness, it began to rain again. The ground turned to slippery mud beneath my feet.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">When I finally reached the wall, I leant against it and waited patiently for the moon to show its face again. I hoped that somewhere along the wall would be a gate, or a stile, but I was not prepared to walk up and down searching for a way out, groping in the darkness. I would go by sight. While I waited I wondered about Thomas. He must be quite worried about me by now. At least. I hoped that he was.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">After ten minutes my patience was rewarded by the moon throwing down its silvery light over everything for a few seconds. Quickly I scanned the stone wall and saw a wooden stile about ten feet to the left of me. I swore loudly and went to climb it. It was difficult, for it was high and, of course, completely dark. As I reached the top of the stile the moon came out and illuminated the landscape behind me. Immediately I recognised it. The bleak, barren hills… the muddy slopes… the stone walls… I glanced over my left shoulder and just glimpsed the dull shine of metal in the moonlight as its beams disappeared. I began to descend the stile carefully. This was Lyme Park - I had been here many times before, though not recently. But I still recognised it. And behind me was the Adventure Playground, which I had found so thrilling as a child. But Lyme Park was out near Disley, which was miles away from cosy little Timperley where Thomas would be waiting anxiously for me. I jumped off the stile and began to jog quickly across the car park. I prayed that Dr. Lloyd-Jones wasn’t lurking there in his beautiful but deadly car, waiting for me to emerge. But there appeared to be no-one there, so I began the long jog along the mile-long roadway through the park, the rain dripping down the inside of my neck and off the end of my nose.</p> <p class="MsoBodyText"><span style=""> </span>I don’t know how I managed to summon up the strength to clamber over the main gate at the entrance which was padlocked shut. The park must have been closed for hours. A wave of anger swept over me as I realised that Dr,. Lloyd-Jones must have made his own hasty exit while the gate was still open, ages ago, cosy in his car. I held my watch up to the streetlight and was somewhat disappointed to discover that it was only ten to ten. It felt much later than that. Still. That meant that I could hopefully thumb a lift home. I raised myself wearily from the pavement, on which I had collapsed, and began to walk along the main road, my thumb a weary beacon beside me.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 22.7pt;">After ten minutes a <i>Cortina</i><span style=""> </span>car pulled up behind me. I ran over to it thankfully but, discovering that the driver was a man, hastily turned my back and ran down a side street and hid until the man had gone. I had had quite enough of men for one night. I was luckier with the next car. It was a Daimler driven by a wealthy-looking woman wearing a white fur coat. On the seat beside her were two little Labrador puppies, white like her coat. I wondered if there was any link. I still had Cruella DeVille in my mind. I sat on the edge of the luxurious seat, trying not to drip on the expensive upholstery. The woman dropped me at Wilmslow Road, where she lived, she explained. I watched the Daimler turn into the road which led up to Bruntwood park. The houses on that road were very exclusive, huge ranch-like mansions, with three or four cars parked on each forecourt, a Daimler or a Jaguar usually amongst them.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 18pt;">I was almost in Gatley when a man pulled up and offered me a lift. Although the driver was an old man, I figured that if I travelled in the back, I would be safe. So I sat amongst old carpets and tools (he was a carpet-layer) until I reached home. I tumbled out of the van, hardly able to believe that I was standing at the end of my road and there, just visible amongst the rooftops, was my house.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 18pt;">* * * * * </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 18pt;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 18pt;">“What the Hell happened to you?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 18pt;">Thomas stood outside the kitchen and stared at my dripping, mud-stained form. As I closed the front door behind me I found that I did not even have the energy to answer him. I went over to my friend and kissed him lightly on the cheek.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 18pt;">“I’ll tell you afterwards,” </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 18pt;">I said wearily. “Make us a cup of tea, will you? I’m going to have a bath.” I began to climb the stairs.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18pt; text-align: justify;"><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 18pt;">When I reappeared I felt more like talking. A hot cup of tea greeted me in the back room, and Thomas fetched his cloak from its place on the banisters and wrapped it around me. I closed my eyes and felt myself fall through space as the nocturnal folds encompassed me and I was the <i>Queen of the Night</i> again. I described these feelings to Thomas, who was totally unsurprised as if to feel anything else would have been bizarre. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 18pt;">“After all, it is a vampire’s cloak.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 18pt;">He told me reproachfully. I was comforted to hear that my feelings were natural, anyway.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 18pt;">“Are you going to tell me what you’ve been up to then?” </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 18pt;">Thomas asked, after a while.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 18pt;">I sighed as I thought of what a long story it was going to be.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 18pt;">“Certainly I am,” I replied, “if you’re prepared to listen” Then a thought struck me and, setting my cup down firmly, I turned to Thomas. “Listen, you’re going to have to leave. You could go… abroad. He wants to capture you, he knows about you, I’m afraid I - I told him.” Thomas looked down at the carpet. I could see his knuckles tensed snow-white as he squeezed his hands together. “It’s just like you said,” I continued miserably, “these psychiatrists… they have ways and means… ”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 18pt;">There was silence as Thomas and I avoided each other’s eyes. I wanted to tell him that it was not too late, I hadn’t told Dr. Lloyd-Jones that much, and I had put up a struggle, at least… but I didn’t want to make myself look a hero. I certainly didn’t feel like one now. Thomas’s silence pointed accusing fingers at me… he didn’t have to say or do anything. The only slightly redeeming path open to me now was to simply launch into the full story of that evening’s events… which I did without delay.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 18pt;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 18pt;">Throughout my detailed explanation Thomas kept his eyes fixed upon what must have been a particularly fascinating area of the carpet. He didn’t interrupt at all so that when I neared the end of my story I felt as if I were talking to myself, not someone else. The silence afterwards supported this sensation; but Thomas brought himself into life at last by asking if I wanted another cup of tea. A little bewildered, I said yes, wondering just what was going through my friendly vampire’s mind at this moment. But, on reflection, I should have expected this; it was the way Thomas (and all vampires?) digested news – slowly and in a state of solitude. Perhaps this stemmed from six hundred odd years of living with and trusting only oneself. I admired Thomas’s self-possession and confidence in his own judgement. I didn’t trust myself at all. I knew how frequently I let myself down.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 18pt;">When Thomas returned he smiled vaguely at me as he sat down, as if trying to remember who I was. He stared at his own cup vacantly as I sipped my tea. I was waiting for him to break the silence, not me. I felt I had done quite enough talking for that evening.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 18pt;">“Tell me, Alison,” said Thomas at last, sounding uncharacteristically uncomfortable, as if the long silence – or my story - had embarrassed him. He hesitated, cleared his throat, and tried again. “Tell me – did you get hurt? When the car knocked you down?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 18pt;">In reply I showed him the graze which ran down the outside of my right leg and the similar injury to my elbow. He looked briefly and turned away. I suddenly realised that he might feel a little responsible for Dr. Lloyd-Jones’s attack on me. I moved further up the sofa and grabbed his arm.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 18pt;">“Hey look, I hope I’m not making you feel guilty about any of this that’s happened.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 18pt;">Thomas sighed deeply and dropped hid head into his pale, slim hand. For the first time I noticed a beautiful ruby ring on one of his delicate fingers. I wondered if it was real and if it was at all significant.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 18pt;">“Of course I feel guilty, I am responsible for all this.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 18pt;">He stared at the carpet miserably. “I knew this would happen. You will be in danger now, because of me.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 18pt;">I giggled.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 18pt;">“I don’t regard Dr. Lloyd-Jones as a very real ‘danger’. He can’t hurt me. Anyway, I’ll never see him again now.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 18pt;">“Not a danger? He tried to run you over!” Thomas was full of indignation.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 18pt;">“OH, he didn’t. He didn’t want to hurt me. Why should he?” </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 18pt;">I settled back on the sofa, pulling Thomas’s cloak tighter around me. “No, he just wanted me to tell him about you. You’re the one who’s in danger. He’s going to tell everyone what you really are and expose you as: <i>The only living twentieth century vampire</i>. You’d better go away – go back to Romania.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 18pt;">“Oh, what’s the point?” </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 18pt;">Thomas stood up and began his usual pacing up and down the room. I watched him through half-closed eyes. “Runningaway – to what? Another six hundred years, isolated from everything and everyone… from you… hunted all the time, and never to die… I don’t want to flee to Romania, the land of the <i>Undead</i>… and let it all start all over again.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 18pt;">“But,” </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 18pt;">I objected, “you don’t want to become the first vampire showpiece either, do you? You don’t want to be captured?”<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 18pt;">“Of course I don’t.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 18pt;">“Well then, what’s the alternative? There is no alternative.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 18pt;">“But there is.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 18pt;">Thomas stopped and crossed the room quickly to me. He sat beside me, facing me, and his tortured eyes were full of such pleading that I almost began to consider what he was saying as a realistic option. “You can help me. You know you can. I can’t kill myself but if I could, you know I would. If you’ll do it… and you could… say you will, Alison, please.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 18pt;">Something inside me wanted to agree to this wild, morbid act… but it was a very small something and it was swamped instantly by my reasoning (how would I do it?), my emotions (how would I bring myself to do such a thing to my beloved Thomas?) and, surprisingly, by my morality, which I didn’t even think existed (how could I bring myself to kill anyone?) No, my reaction was instantaneous. I stood up, pushing Thomas away.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 18pt;">Christ Thomas, not that again. Don’t mention it again. Don’t even think about it again. I think it’s totally selfish and unreasonable of you to go on and on at me about… such a horrific idea.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 18pt;">I stroked his hair affectionately just to show that I was not really unforgivably outraged. If I considered it, which I did later, it was really a very reasonable request to make. But then my emotions would begin to scream, and I would have to banish every thought of murder from my mind. But while Thomas was present, I would have to refuse to even consider the idea. It was a tactic – a way of making up my mind alone… in true vampire style. I removed Thomas’s cloak from around me and draped it over the huddled, miserable figure. “Now, I’m going to bed,” I said firmly, walking wearily towards the door. Thomas looked even smaller and sadder from there. But I couldn’t allow his misery to affect me now, at least not too much. “It’s been a long day. I’m knackered.”</p> <span style=";font-family:";font-size:12pt;" ><span style=""> </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family: times new roman;">I began to climb the stairs again, weary once more – this time to my bed.</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">Now go to<a href="http://nicolabatty.blogspot.com/2012/01/reluctant-vampire-chapter-eleven.html"> Chapter Eleven...</a></span><br /></span></span>Nicola Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17066855901263569768noreply@blogger.com0