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Authors: Jonathan Barnes

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Cannonbridge (8 page)

BOOK: Cannonbridge
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Yet, there is something also, amidst the scene to suggest that the violence of the place is hidden only barely, that the carapace of civilisation is thin and prone to cracking. The first sign of it is this: a young woman, moving swiftly down the street, glancing repeatedly behind her, her face set in an expression of barely-stifled terror.

A pale creature—oh, so very pale; pale like china; pale like marble—her hair long and black, streaked prematurely with grey. Her clothes are ragged and too tight, her figure slim and attractive. There is a certain exoticism to her—there are tattoos beneath the fabric of her dress, inked sigils and signs of the most curious kind—and she possesses a savage sort of beauty, fraying at the edges. All but the most witless observer would surely be able, at the sight of her frantic, half-tripping gait, her drawn face, the look of anguish in her eyes, to discern that here is a lady who has indeed been most imperfectly used.

She looks behind her once more, this hunted girl, and one would, if one were of a mind to follow the direction of her gaze, discern her pursuers: two men, both stout and perspiring, both dressed in matching suits of bottle green. They might, in other circumstances, seem slightly comical but somehow here, in this place and at this time, they do not. There is something in the set of their jaws, you understand, something in the way in which they carry their bulk, with a lascivious sort of pride, which would make the smile drop at once from the face of even the most committed humorist.

Towards the end of the street there is a building, tall and wide and made of grey stone, which has many windows and many entrances and exits. The name of the place may be read above the largest of its numerous doors, at which a man in a damson-coloured uniform stands laconic guard and from which an elderly couple can be seen emerging, with brittle uncertainty, into the open air: THE KITTIWAKE HOTEL.

At the sight of this, the young woman seems to surge forwards. It seems probable that she dare not risk breaking into a run, into anything more, in fact, than the briskest of strides, but she is moving faster now than she has so far today, in all her long and perilous flight through the city.

Later she will ask herself why she felt so drawn to the Kittiwake, why it seemed to her to represent a refuge, and she will discover that she does not possess a satisfactory answer. Of course, the elements in her which remain superstitious, that still believe in destiny and fate and in the influence of the planets upon the human soul, will wonder whether the intersection between her own life and one of the residents of that celebrated lodge house might not represent a page in her history that had long been written and ordained. Another, perhaps more rational, even cynical, side to her will simply take it to be a rare stroke of good fortune in a life which has hitherto been ruled by malign coincidence.

At the time, however, she simply does not question the sudden urge to be inside that hotel. The front entrance is not for her, being altogether too public and too grand. The likelihood of being turned away there as an itinerant and waif is high so she skirts adroitly along the left-hand side of the building, down an alleyway along which the illusion that the façade creates—of affluence and discretion—is replaced by the facts of its underpinning: grime, hard work and altogether different classes of person than those who are, at polite intervals, disgorged by the great front door.

The girl looks behind her, half-hoping, although, in truth, she knows that she cannot, to have shaken off her rotund pursuers. But no. There they are: a pair of bulky shadows at the start of the path.

She sees ahead of her a well-lit entrance, a glow of warmth and labour, and so she presses on. Reaching the open door, she steps inside, the cold of the autumn evening at her back.

All at once she is confronted by the furnace industry of a busy kitchen, by flames and smells of cooking and the clatter of plates and cutlery, by two (three? four?) dozen people bent upon the task of satiating the hungers of all those who reside within the Kittiwake and who pay handsomely for that privilege. The room is filled with men but there are women here also—maids and scullery girls—and our heroine, when no-one seems to give her the slightest bit of notice or challenge her or ask her to explain her presence upon the premises, simply assumes that she has been mistaken for one of them. She pushes through the crowd, slips through the bustle of the kitchen and makes her way to the corridor beyond. She doubts that the large gentlemen in green will fare so well as her in that place—anonymity, ironically, perhaps, having never been their strongest suit—and wonders if she might not have bought herself some time.

After that: more good fortune. Had she not long since given up the practice of prayer she would certainly have murmured a catechism of gratitude to her neglectful deity. Instead, she simply acknowledges her own quick thinking and hurries on. Along the corridor she goes, bowing her head and adopting an air of subservience which was once, with considerable cruelty, instilled into her. She passes easily as a servant of some description, out of uniform or newly arrived and overwhelmed; the place is so big and the staff so numerous that few who are employed there are likely to know the face of every one of their peers. Besides, the young woman is lucky: she does not cross the paths of many of the staff and it is not long before, taking a steep flight of stairs which rise up at the end of the little labyrinth of corridors, she finds herself out of the servants’ quarters altogether and into the realm of the guests.

Up she climbs, floor after floor, passing bell-boys and men carrying food and flagons of wine, past women with laundry and uniformed children clutching messages and telegrams. Often, she looks behind her but she sees and hears nothing to suggest the continuance of the chase. Nevertheless, she climbs, like an animal in a forest fire seeking the sanctuary of the tree-tops.

She stops only when there are no more stairs to ascend, on the very highest floor of this monstrous old hotel, stepping out of a concealed door at the end of another long corridor, though one far more sumptuously furnished and laid out than that which she had navigated below. Here there is the unmistakable scent of money: thick, port-coloured carpet, walls hung with seascapes and hunting scenes, the musical tinkle of chandeliers overhead. Stealthily, she moves along the hallway, passing closed door after closed door, hoping, perhaps, to find some obscure berth in which she might lie low for an hour or so.

Then, from behind her, she hears the thunderous approach of men upon the stairs. Two of them by their tread—heavy, implacable. For the first time in that long day, she hesitates. The sound of them is unmistakable—dogs closing in upon the kill.

Others might have screamed at the sound or have begun to weep but our girl gives only one sign of her true emotions; the blood drains from her face and she seems still paler than before, the most delicate of blooms in this place of wealth and pleasure.

The sound of boots upon the stairs grows louder still. Still, she hesitates. Is she exhausted? Defeated? Might she be ready, at long last, to submit?

Then, without warning, the door that is nearest to her opens (she catches a glimpse of the words that are stencilled upon it: THE CHRYSALIS SUITE) and a man steps abruptly into the light. He is a tall man, expensively dressed and impeccable in his demeanour, although there exists a certain harried aspect in his eyes.

He takes her arm. “You must come inside.” His voice is like coffee, like chocolate, like cream.

She does not resist but only allows herself to be drawn into the room. Once they are within, he pulls shut the door.

“Who are you?” she begins to ask but he enjoins her to silence by placing a finger to his lips.

From outside, she hears the frustrated tramp of boots upon the carpet, the hungry, bitter conversation of the men in green. For a long minute, they wait as the sound of her pursuers disappears once more. She thinks that she hears them begin to speed up again, doubtless believing themselves to have temporarily lost their spoor.

Only once the noise has disappeared entirely does the man who saved her speak.

“You asked me my name, madam. I am Matthew Cannonbridge. And you?”

Our heroine seems to hesitate, as if uncertain quite which name to give. “You can call me Maria. Maria Monk.”

“Come in,” Cannonbridge says, motioning her to walk further into the room—a place of rare, almost continental luxury with its carpet even thicker than that which had lain outside, its drawing room atmosphere, armchairs and reading tables and, at the far corner of Maria’s vision, a hint of a bedroom beyond.

“I should thank you.”

“You are most welcome. I...” Cannonbridge hesitates, as if suspecting that the admission may not cast him in the best possible light. “I saw you. Outside. On the street. I saw you from my window here. And I saw that you were... pursued.”

Maria gazes up at the older man. “You were watching me?”

“Only because I was concerned. Yet somehow I knew that you would find me. You were being followed, were you not?”

“I was. Those men... they will not lightly be deterred.”

“There is murder in their eyes, I think.”

“If I do not give them what they wish of me, then... yes.”

For a moment the couple merely look at one another. Outside, the corridor is still. Nevertheless, Miss Monk remains anxious. “You do not mean to ask me why they were in pursuit of me?”

“I do not see that it is any of my business, madam. I perceive merely that you are in distress. It is my duty, if I can, to alleviate that.”

“You’re... you’re very kind. Yet you want nothing from me?”

Cannonbridge, perplexed: “Nothing, madam.”

“Then... then may I stay here awhile? I have no wish to bring trouble down upon you.”

Cannonbridge gives her a wintry smile. “Trouble, madam, has a habit of finding me.”

The young woman smiles, amused by his swagger. Then she seems to stumble slightly, taking two steps backwards, her balance suddenly unsteady.

“Forgive me, Miss Monk. You must be tired. Hungry.”

“I do... feel a little faint.”

All at once, as the trials of the past few days seem to crowd around her, as her body finally allows itself to accept all of the exertions that she has placed upon it, Maria finds herself beset by dizziness. “Sir?” she murmurs.

“Yes?”

“Your name... is half-familiar to me. You are... yes, you are a writer, are you not?”

Cannonbridge is about to reply, in as modest a set of terms as he can muster, when he sees that the young lady is about to fall into a swoon. Heedless of convention, he steps closer and, four seconds later, when she faints, he is able to catch her in his arms.

 

 

W
HEN
M
ARIA AWAKES
it is full dark. It must be the small hours of the morning as the gas lamps have been extinguished on the street outside. Indeed, the darkness is so total that it seems to her to be almost the darkness of the countryside. Her first thought is that, by some miracle, she has been returned home, that she has woken in St John’s once more and that all is well.

Gradually, she remembers and becomes aware of her surroundings. Boston. The Kittiwake. She must be in his room, she realises. He must have placed her in his own bed. But if she is in the bed, then where...?

A voice in the darkness: “You’re awake.”

“Yes.” The word is whispered. She scarcely dares to move. “Have you been... watching over me?” The concept ought to be a disquieting one and yet, somehow, for all her grave experiences, in this place, with this man and at this time, it does not seem so. Rather, she feels, unexpectedly, a certain comfort in his proximity.

“Is there anything that I can fetch for you? Food? Water?”

“No. No, thank you.”

“I want you to understand that, so long as you remain here, you are quite safe. You are under my protection now.”

“Thank you. But I need... to get to New York.”

“I see. Then, perhaps, you’ll let me help?”

“Why ever would you want to, sir? I can offer you nothing.”

“I try to help people. Where I can.”

“You must be a man of god.” For the first time since she has awoken, the woman seems a little afraid.

“No.” Her saviour sounds uncertain. “At least, I do not think so. Rather what I do... I think it is as a kind of penance, I think, for deeds yet to be committed.”

“How is that possible, sir?”

“I do not know. I do not know.”

Only silence between them. Then, very softly, the man speaks again.

“Will you tell me now, if you wish, why those men are pursuing you? I sense that they possess... considerable determination. A certain ruthlessness also.”

The woman does not reply.

“I promise that whatever you say shall make not the slightest difference. I have promised to protect you and that pledge shall stand. I make no judgement of any man or woman.”

“I think...”

“Yes?”

“That you should tell me first.”

“Me? Of what?”

“I am... curious. Your words are strange. You are not, I think, quite as other men are.”

“Madam, I am far from certain what manner of man I am. Indeed, I have travelled widely and sought much wisdom upon the subject yet still I have no firm conclusion. Merely suspicions, you see. Merely bad dreams.”

“Yet you try to do good?”

“As much as I can. Fortune seems to strew such opportunities in my path. Yet there remain... moments when I seem to have no life of my own at all. I simply fade from the world.”

“Perhaps you are unwell, sir. It might behove you to consult a reputable physician.”

“I have visited many such men yet they have found no physical cause for my... uncertainties.”

“Then a doctor of a different kind, perhaps? Though, not, sir, for the sake of your own soul, I beg you, a priest.”

“Now there you speak from experience, I think?”

“I do, sir.” And she shudders, Maria Monk, she shudders in the night.

“You spoke of the soul. I have of late begun to fear for the sanctity of my own. I believe, you understand, that it is in some manner encircled and in the gravest peril. I fancy myself like some winter traveller alone in the forest who, strayed too far from the path, discovers, in a hideous moment of realisation, that he is quite surrounded, by wild wolves, that they have tracked him in the snow and that they are now but a leap from his throat.”

BOOK: Cannonbridge
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