Blackened (18 page)

He leaves without another word. Reverend Pettigrew hurries after him. Mrs Sprig dashes to my side, gently presses a cold towel to my forehead.

“You poor dear,” she murmurs.

Jojo, looking furious, marches out of the room.

Diphtheria.

Fatal.

The words reverberate in my mind, green and menacing, until they finally lose their meaning and become nothing more than strange, empty sounds.

Only time will tell.

“Try to sleep Lisbeth,” whispers Mrs Sprig.

Jojo walks back into the room and stares down at me. There are tears in his dark brown eyes. He kneels on the floor beside the bed and takes hold of my hand. His skin is so soft, so young. A tear rolls out of the corner of his left eye and drops onto my hand.

I am vaguely aware of the good Reverend entering the room, of hushed, anxious voices.

No longer am I able to stay awake. Hoping that I will wake to see another day, I close my eyes.

*

Dear Diary,

We are in Little Mersham and luck is at last on our side.

Upon arriving in the village, I jumped down from the carriage and bumped into a stout, short-tempered gentleman. On the off chance that he could perhaps point us in the right direction, I introduced myself and my reason for coming to Little Mersham. To my great surprise and delight, this gentleman introduced himself as a doctor and immediately told me that he had just visited a woman called Lisbeth, a woman with long black hair and porcelain skin and a terrible case of Diphtheria. He was a rather unpleasant fellow and refused to show me where she was, claiming that he had better things to do with his time.

Of course, I am alarmed to hear that she is infected with such a horrible disease. However, I must not focus upon that harsh reality; I must focus on searching this village. Whilst Lisbeth is so ill, she is easier to capture and capture her we must.

Presently, Jean-Bernard searches the smallest house in this lane. A very grand house that presumably belongs to a Duke lies a little way beyond the village houses so we shall get to that last, but I doubt a rich personage would have anything to do with a sickly stranger.

I go.

C.C

*

The Reaper has come. He has come and he is not alone.

By his side stand two figures. Faces masked by shadows.

I know them. They are Loss and Grief. Always are they here; gripping, ripping, crushing. Feeding on Hope.

And now Hope is but a withered white lily struggling to remain afloat upon a black, mirthless lake in which fire daemons bathe; fire daemons whose wicked endeavours shall ne'er desist.

And now fire daemons drag not one, but two lilies into a house, and they begin their heinous dance. With violent haste, they race along the floor, up the walls, across the ceiling. Spitting their venomous heat. Consuming all.

I stand and watch. Powerless. Unable to move. Screaming. Watching and screaming. Screaming until my lungs bleed.

I am screaming as I watch the house burn...

I wake up screaming.

A coarse, dry hand clamps down over my mouth. Breathing becomes a struggle and hot, tingling terror shocks my brain and body.

I see a large man with masses of grey hair. He is familiar. His eyes are dark grey, pinched with concentration, utterly soulless.

Shivers render me incapable of rational thought. I scream as he shoves a filthy rag against my lips and ties it around my head. I can no longer scream, but continue to anyway. My throat wrenches with agony. My head feels as though it is splitting in two.

With hard, merciless hands he seizes hold of my shoulders, yanks me up, slings my diseased body over his shoulder. I must be a dead weight yet he moves with incredible speed and agility.

Upside down, I see only the back of his black trousers. My head swings from side to side and there is pain, so much pain, too much pain. Tears blur my vision. I hit his thighs with my fists, hard as I can, but he seems not to notice as he weaves in and out of furniture, heaves open a door, darts out into the black, ice-fractured night.

The cold knifes my skin and I can feel my toes and fingers turning blue. My stomach is bruised, my limbs sore and weak. Still, I thump my hands against his legs hoping to inflict some kind of pain. He grunts and hoists me higher on his shoulder, tutting at me as if I am a naughty child. I kick my legs and manage to catch his groin. He cries out, stumbles, curses, nearly drops me. He slows for a moment then ups his pace.

Suddenly, he halts. I dangle from his shoulder, heart racing, waiting for his next move. Gunfire pierces the air. One shot – so loud, so close, so startling that nearby horses neigh frantically. Hooves kick at the air, thunder onto the ground. My kidnapper curses under his breath, throws me off his shoulder. I hit the stone hard, cry out, curl up into a trembling ball. I peer out from between my arms and see two men fighting, rolling around on the floor. One is the man with grey hair – the other, I cannot make out in the darkness, but he is far smaller.

Clambering up awkwardly, I tear the rag out of my mouth so that it becomes a dirty grey necklace around my neck. My dress is torn, revealing one naked shoulder.

Turning my back on the sprawling men, I begin to limp-run towards the nearest cottage. A hand grabs my shoulder, whirls me around. I scream, but it is only Jojo. He takes hold of my hand and leads me towards a different cottage a little further away.

I glance over my shoulder. My captor is fleeing into the night. His attacker lies huddled up on the floor. He is not moving. I am tempted to make Jojo take me back to see if my saviour is okay, but he pulls me so fast that I have no option other than to run with him.

We dive into the cottage, slam the door shut and run through the front room into the kitchen, then out into a small back yard where Jojo makes me crouch down behind some bushes.

We wait, hearts thumping, for what seems an eternity.

At long last, Jojo peers over the bushes then leaps over the fence and lifts me over as if I weigh no more than a three year old. Gently placing me on the ground, he holds up his palm in a signal to wait.

I watch, shivering, teeth chattering, as he rifles through his pockets and finally withdraws a match.

The moon is but a scrap of silver, the air without motion, bitterly cold, as bitter cold as a fire is blister hot.

Crouching down in the darkness, Jojo brushes the ground with his hand searching for something. At last, he stands and holds up a stone which he strikes the match against. A delicate yellow flame flares immediately and I flinch away.

Seeing my reaction, Jojo steps backwards, rips a plank of wood from the fence and lights it with the match. Now we have light, but we also have a blazing piece of wood that, if dropped, could set the land and us, on fire.

He extends his free hand towards mine, but I shake my head. I am still trembling, trembling with residual fear and never-ending pain. Pain from the cold and pain from disease.

Nodding, he takes a wide berth around me, gestures for me to follow him across a field.

My body is as frail as a petal being driven by a turbulent wind, yet I push one foot after the next, making slow progress, but progress nonetheless. I have no idea where Jojo is taking me, but I trust him. More than once has he saved my life. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I am beginning to believe that this young, black man is somewhat of a silent guardian angel. My silent guardian angel.

My breath is a white fog. Even though I cannot see them, I know my extremities are blue. Pulling up the ripped sleeve of my dress, I plod through glutinous mud, head bowed, mind focussed on one thing: Eddie. I begin my chant: Eddie, Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.

But, unlike previously when Eddie's face grew stronger in my mind, his face dims with every breath. Almost as if he does not exist. I try again. Try to picture him. Strain to remember teaching him on one of those long, dark, dreary days in Blackened Cottage, but I cannot visualise the two of us together. All I see is my tiny, plain room. The little window in the corner. I see Eddie's larger room – the bed bare, the walls naked. It looks un-lived in. But that cannot be right. Eddie was there. He was there before Father sent him away. I know he was.

Jojo's hand is on my chest. I look up. He smiles, his dark eyes glittering beneath the torch's bright, warm glow. I flinch away from the flame, but allow him to lead me into an out-building.

The building is a barn. A large barn filled with bale upon bale of dusty straw. Straw and dry droppings carpet the ground. I look up into the wooden rafters. The ceiling is a fine network of beams and planks, well-crafted, sturdy and true. To my right stand two stables filled with straw. To my left, a wooden ladder which leans against the floor of a high platform. Jojo leads me to the ladder and helps me up.

To my surprise, a small mattress, a pillow and several blankets lie upon the platform. I glance at Jojo, who smiles, nods and signals for me to lie upon the bed. I do so with immense relief. My head melts into the feather-down pillow, and I cannot help but smile.

Jojo kneels down beside the bed. Holding the burning torch as far away from me as possible, he leans down and kisses my cheek. I am not alarmed. Rather, I am warmed by the gesture.      

Using what strength remains, I whisper, “I shall be well. You have got me to a place of safety where I can rest and recuperate. Thank you.”

He smiles then descends the ladder, taking the light with him.

I am too tired to fear the darkness. I lie still, exploring the musty smell of the barn; the stale excrement, the sour sweetness of sweating straw, the dry emptiness of dust. The taste of disease is on my tongue; yellow, vapid, sickly.

Moments later, I hear Jojo mount the ladder. Tenderly, he squeezes my shoulder and lies down beside me.

I rearrange the blankets to cover him as much as possible. Together, we huddle against one another for warmth, trying to ignore the scampering feet of the rats whose home we have invaded.

C
HAPTER 19
T
HE
R
EAPER

Dear Diary,

Damn the night! Blackness is come so we must call off the search until the morn.

We sleep tonight in an old woman’s house, which is smothered with cat hair, but warm enough.

So many houses and the mansion remain to be searched. Every second that passes reduces our chances of finding her before she is moved or leaves for London.

Indeed, I am furious that I did not grab the doctor by the neck and force Lisbeth’s location out of him! So much time and effort and worry could have been avoided. I cannot help thinking that she may not even be in Little Mersham tomorrow. However, we must not leave until we have searched every building in and around the village.

I must try to get some rest. I go.

C.C

*

Dear Mama,

I am sorry but I have some terrible news. I am infected with diphtheria and this may be the last letter I write.

I am being cared for by Jojo. He bathes me, feeds me, helps me in every which way he can. If I were in a proper house, perhaps my recovery would be more likely, but because Father and Jean-Bernard hunt me in this very village, I am confined to a barn where they cannot find me. My bed is not too uncomfortable, but the dusty air cannot be good for my lungs and even though Jojo has piled blankets upon me, I am still cold.

I waver in and out of consciousness. The pain is often so dreadful that I find myself wishing I will go to sleep and never wake. I cannot speak, but Jojo is able to read my needs with the littlest gesture on my part. He is a dear, special young man, a true friend. If I live beyond today, I shall never forget the kindness that he has shown me.

I know not where the Reverend is, but suspect he is keeping watch for Father in the village. I long to see Reverend Pettigrew. Indeed, I hope he manages to visit me before the Reaper comes. I have such little energy that I do not even care if Father finds me. He cannot be much more terrifying than this disease that feasts upon my flesh with evident relish.

I wish you were. To see you, smell you, touch your hand and hear your voice is all I want before I die. Perhaps if you receive this letter in time, you may come to see me? No - please erase that suggestion from your mind – of course you cannot visit me because Father is in close proximity.

I am sorry Mama.  As you can probably tell, I am not in my right mind. But there is one thing I would ask of you. If I die, please can you find a way to St Peter’s Boarding School, London and save Eddie from a loveless, unhappy life? He is the most important thing in the world to me; I have risked all to go to him and if I fail, I shall never forgive myself. When Bethan came into my life, I became so distracted that I nearly forgot all about my poor, sweet brother and in the next moment he was gone, sent away to some dreary boarding school with not a friend in the world.

I know this is a lot to ask and I am sorry to have to ask it. I shall leave your address with the good Reverend so that he may inform you of my passing.

My love will always be with you.

Lisbeth

*

Day two of living in a barn begins. I am still alive, but barely.

I scrunch my eyes as a cockerel breaks into his irksome song so loudly that the sound travels through Little Mersham, over people’s back gardens, across the field, through the walls of the barn and into my aching head.