Blackened (15 page)

It distresses me still that she cannot understand that everything I do is for her own happiness. If I could offer her what she needs I would, but I cannot. As I have confessed before, I am nothing if not pathetic. I cannot trust myself around her; any moment this anger that simmers in my veins may erupt and scorch her. I can offer nothing but the hopelessness of a hideously altered soul. A soul beyond redemption.

This Richard Cordwell looks at me strangely. I do not wish him to see this. I must go.

Next time I write we will have her, mark my words.

C.C

*

“Reverend! Reverend?”

I stop at the carriage. Reverend Pettigrew is nowhere to be seen. Jojo ducks his head out and points at the church.

“In there?” I ask.

Jojo nods. A flash of irritation heats my cheeks – why will he not talk to me? He disappears back inside the carriage.

People are beginning to leave their houses for the good Reverend's sermon. All are dressed in their Sunday best even though it is Monday. The street buzzes with excitement; it is as if Reverend Pettigrew's visits are as special as Christmas. Women are corseted up so tightly they can scarcely draw breath. Men are dressed in well-pressed topcoats, little girls in full petticoats and little boys in snug waistcoats all buttoned up.

I hesitate, unsure what to do. My instinct is to rush off to London, but I can hardly push Jojo out of the carriage and steal off with the Reverend's beloved horses. No, I must wait out the afternoon and leave when the good Reverend is ready. Perhaps he will be ready to leave mid-afternoon, which will not be too bad.

Then again, we are meant to dine with Todd and Mary. I do not wish to be impolite and urge Reverend Pettigrew and Jojo away before they are ready to go. But I cannot waste too much time here – what if Father and Jean-Bernard are on their way to London now to find Eddie and hide him away before I can get there?

My mind swarms with scenarios but will provide no firm conclusions or solutions. I pace back and forth.

Mary Hopkins waddles over, pulling her husband by the hand, and links her plump arm under mine, “Come luvvy, else you are going to miss the show!”

I try to protest, to pull away, but she has a lynch-like grip and drags me over to the church as though I am a disobedient child.

*

Since I cannot confess at this point, I am putting lead to parchment in order to record my sins and have them ready for my next confession.

Thus, without further ado, for we shall arrive at the village in a matter of minutes, I begin:

Bless me father, for I have sinned. It has been one day since my last confession.

I have lied profusely to two honest men. I have deceived them regarding my identity and my intentions.

You see, Father, I do not intend to visit a sick friend and my name is not Richard Cordwell. My name is in fact Mortimer Godfrey and my intention is not nearly so admirable as I made it out.

Indeed, I plan to find her and bring her home with me, even if it is against her will, which I expect it will be. And when I have her where I want her, I shall be forced to act upon my darkest desires.

Again, I am guilty of following my own interests before those of God and I know what I seek to do is wrong, but that has never stopped me in the past and I fear that it shall not stop me now.

Although I shall try to resist these sinful desires, I am afraid the devil shall prevail.

I am sorry for this and all the sins of my past life, especially for all my sins against honesty.

*

The church is almost full. Reverend Pettigrew stands behind the altar, smiling calmly.

“I forgot to visit the water closet,” I whisper to Mary Hopkins sliding my arm out from under hers. It is the only excuse I can think of.

She rolls her eyes good-naturedly, “Hurry along luvvy. You do not want to miss the Reverend's introduction. Use our facilities of course! The front door is not locked. No need in a village like ours! Walk right through to the back garden and you shall find everything you need.”

I squeeze out of the pew and rush outside. My head is hot, heart racing.

The street is deserted save Jojo and the carriage. I do not know what to do. Sitting around listening to Reverend Pettigrew is a luxury I cannot afford. I need to reach London before Father and Jean-Bernard. I hurry over to Jojo. Hesitate, unsure how to proceed. Jojo looks up from his drawing. We hear the sound of horse hooves at the same time: heading toward us. I freeze. Jojo looks at me, eyes wide. We must be entertained the same thought – they have found us! Jumping down from the carriage he grabs my wrist and pulls me towards Hopkins Bakery.

C
HAPTER 16
H
IDE AND
S
EEK

“Do you think they saw us?” I murmur.

Crouched down behind the bakery counter, I can see Jojo's dark hands trembling. I am surprised that he is so afraid; perhaps he has picked up on my fear more than I realised.

He says nothing.

I pull him round to face me.

“Do you think they saw us?” I repeat shrilly.

He shrugs.

I sigh angrily, pulling myself up to peek over the plates of sandwiches and scones.

A carriage with two brown horses stands behind the Reverend's carriage. A thin middle-aged man feeds apples to the horses. Adam and Eve, smelling the apples, whip their heads from side to side. I cannot see the carriage's passengers, but I know they are here, Father and Jean-Bernard, their tempers near breaking point, searching Old Firsden for me.

I consider their actions. Either they would start at the bottom house of the village and work their way up, or head straight for the church to question the Reverend. Unless they saw us, in which case they would be heading straight here.

“What shall we do? Shall we stay here or shall we make a break for it? If we jump in the carriage, we might get a good enough head start before they realise we have gone. Jojo? What do think?”

Again, Jojo stares at me blankly.

I begin to demand he answer me when the bakery door creaks open.

Jojo tenses. I hold my breath, relieved I do not have a cold so that I can breathe quietly through my nose.

Soft, light footsteps hurry across the floor. They seem too light to belong to a full grown man, but it is impossible to be sure.

I crouch down lower and Jojo follows suit. Has Father found me already? My pulse drums. My armpits begin to sweat.

But it is only the black cat from earlier, who slinks behind the counter and rubs itself against Jojo's back. We both exhale, only to inhale sharply as the door bangs open with such force that a kitten painting falls off the wall and onto the table, shattering into little shards. Terrified, the cat dashes out from behind the counter and disappears into the back of the house. 

We listen. One heavy footstep. Another. Silence. Someone, definitely a person this time, has entered the bakery.

From this vantage point, I dare not lift my head to see who it is in case the person spies me.

My hands begin to tremble even worse than Jojo's. My breathing grows faster and faster and I can feel myself becoming light-headed. Suddenly there is pressure on my hand. I glance down; Jojo's hand rests on top of mine. His no longer shakes. He looks at me and nods calmly. He is saying that we will be fine. As long as we do not panic, we will not be discovered.

Another step. And another. Each step brings the intruder closer to the counter. Soon he will be able to look over the top and see us. I brace myself for the sight of Father's burning eyes or Jean-Bernard's lustful smirk. Jojo's grip on my hand tightens. I look at him. He smiles slightly then lets go of my hand and leaps over the counter, making a long guttural sound deep in his throat.

This is my cue to run.

I hear the two men wrestling as I dash through the door into the rest of the house. I pause; to the left: a flight of stairs, to the right: a door which presumably leads down to the basement. Decisions. My mind freezes and I stand there for so long, too long, trying to decide whether to go right or left, up or down. What would Father expect me to choose? Which choice would offer the greatest chance of escape? Another question pops into my mind: should I go back for Jojo? What if they hurt him? What if he needs my help?

I hear a loud groan like that of a speared bull then heavy, pounding, quick footsteps coming my way.

I choose right; wrench open the basement door and plunge down the frail steps two at a time. It is almost pitch black. A little light comes from the doorway above which I failed to shut.

I dive under the stairway, feeling cobwebs and dust on my hands and face. A spider crawls across my head and I flick it away, choking down a scream.

The basement door edges open with one long screeeeeeeeeeeak. Footsteps descend the steps slowly, heavily. Each one creaking underfoot, sending huge balls of dust dropping onto my hair, dust whirling around me, clogging my throat, tickling my nose. The urge to sneeze comes on, strong, tantalising, inevitable. I snap my fingers down on my nose, try to stop myself, but I cannot. There is too much dust. I sneeze. Once, twice. Small squeaks but it is enough to tell Father or Jean-Bernard my whereabouts. The footsteps gain speed, running down, running to grab me but there is a sound of breaking wood, a strangled yell, a body falling through and landing in a dark writhing heap at my feet.

I cannot believe my luck and I am not going to waste it. I scramble up in the darkness, and, taking a wide berth of the moaning figure, I grab the banister and haul myself up, trying to step lightly, jumping three steps in one to avoid my assailant's fate. I reach the basement door and push it open slowly, poke my head out, check the way is clear. No-one appears to be around, but I know that either Father or Jean-Bernard still roams around Old Firsden hunting me. Another decision is needed: stay and hide or make a run for the carriage?

I hear movement behind me. The man in the basement has already recovered and is running up the stairs! Now there is but one choice: stay and hide, but where? I can either go upwards to the bedrooms or right, to the back garden. Thinking the back garden will be more exposed in the daylight, I opt for upstairs, taking the steps two at a time.

As I reach the landing, the basement door slams.

There is no time – I dash into the first room I see, which happens to be the main bedroom, containing more kitten paintings, a double mattress with red woollen blankets and a huge wardrobe. I quickly assess my hiding options. There is no bed frame so I cannot hide under the bed. The only place is the wardrobe. Or...footsteps on the landing. I dash behind the bedroom door. Hold my breath.

Someone stands right outside the door. I hear their frantic breathing.

I tense my fists; my only weapon. If I have to, I will fight. If I have to, I will hit and hurt Father or Jean-Bernard, and then I will run.

The door begins to move inwards. The white wood is frayed and peeling. It moves closer like a gloved hand edging towards the eyelids of the deceased. The door is silent, well-oiled. The only thing audible is his heavy breathing.

I wait until the door is a hand's width from my face, then I slam my body against it. An anguished, pained cry. He stumbles backwards. I dart out from behind the door, prepared to kick and punch but I freeze. Lying on his back I see, not Father, not Jean-Bernard, but Jojo!

“Jojo! My goodness! I am so sorry! What happened? Where are they?” I kneel down beside him, help him up.

He smiles. A smile from him is the last thing I expect. I grab his shoulders, shake him, “Where are they Jojo? Are they here?”

He shakes his head, but will not speak.

Crying out with frustration, I shake him some more, “Please Jojo, speak to me. Tell me who you jumped back there. Was it Father?”

He shakes his head again.

Realising that he only answers to yes or no questions, I snap, “So, it was Jean-Bernard then?”

Jojo shakes his head.

“Well then, who on earth was it?”

Jojo smiles and gestures for me to follow him downstairs. I hesitate, utterly confused, fearful that Father or Jean-Bernard will appear at any second.

Reluctantly I allow him to guide me down the stairs and back into the bakery. There, sitting at the round table smelling the yellow crocuses, is the old man with the three-legged collie that I saw this morning.

“Hello,” he grunts, “what has a man gotta do to get a good cuppa tea around here then?”

“I, I do not understand. Please, Sir,” I say urgently, “do you know to whom that carriage out there belongs? The one with the brown horses?”

He swivels around stiffly to look through the window, “I do know, as a matter of fact. That there carriage belongs to the priest of this fine village, Father Hugh Blackburn the Second. Good man he is. Good and traditional. He has probably been off on one of his shooting jaunts.

“Now, do not mention this to a single soul Miss, but I do not care much for that Reverend Pettigrew with his new-fangled ways. That is why I comes here for a cuppa and what does I get? Pounced on by this here young scallywag! Just as well I have my Bessie to protect me.”

I stare at Jojo open-mouthed. Look down at his hand, which is bleeding. The collie must have bitten him. But Jojo smiles back at me. He does not appear to be in too much pain.

My muscles begin to relax. So Father and Jean-Bernard are not here after all? In somewhat of a daze, I slump into a chair and begin to laugh.

Jojo and the old man look at me as if I am insane, but I care not. I am free. Father and Jean-Bernard have not found me and that is all that matters.