Mayhem (19 page)

‘Wait,’ he said, ‘Elizabeth, please wait – I only want to talk to you for a moment. I
have
to talk to you. It’s important.’

It was the sadness in his voice that made her turn. This was her James who was speaking, not the stranger who had returned from his great adventure.

‘What?’ She kept a few feet between them. Whatever her heart might still feel for him, her gut knew what he had done in that house and it horrified her. ‘I have to get to work.’

‘I’m leaving,’ he said. ‘I can’t stay here. I shall rent the house and take rooms elsewhere.’

Elizabeth wasn’t sure what she felt most: relief or heartache. ‘Why are you telling me?’

‘I love you,’ he said, simply. His eyes darkened slightly. ‘But I can’t be around you. I don’t … I don’t
trust
myself. Something is—’ His face twisted a little as if some internal torment gripped him. ‘Something is different.’ He reached forward and held her arms.

‘I need you to promise me something.’

‘James, you’re hurting me.’ For a man who had so recently been ill, his hands were strong, and Elizabeth just wanted them off her. ‘You’re scaring me.’

‘Good,’ he said, ‘
good
. You should be scared of me –
I’m
scared of me.’ He leaned forward and looked deep
into her eyes. ‘Promise me that if you ever see me back here, you’ll leave – just get your things and go, anywhere – but nowhere I can find you.’

‘But why—?’ she started. His breath on her face smelled rancid and sickly, as if he were still battling this disease, as if it were still determined to claim him.

His eyes hardened, and his next words almost stopped her heart. ‘You know why, Elizabeth,’ he hissed at her. ‘
You know why
.’

He released her with such energy that she stumbled backwards, her mouth agape.

‘Promise me,’ he repeated. His face was flushed, blotches of sickly purple stark against the pale of his cheeks. ‘Promise me you’ll run.’

‘I promise,’ she whispered.

He turned and strode away from her without another word. He didn’t look back. She waited where she was for a long five minutes before finally continuing her journey to work on shaking legs.

He left with his suitcases at lunchtime, and this time Elizabeth felt no sadness at all, only an overwhelming sense of relief. It was over. He was gone.

23

London. November, 1888

Dr Bond

We made a strange pair, the little hairdresser and I, on our nightly rendezvous searching the streets of London, him with his filthy skin, and I with my stiff back which gave me away, no matter what I chose to wear. Kosminski’s sister, although obviously wary of me, not knowing what interest I might have in her brother’s well-being, had gone some way to smartening him up, forcing him into clean clothes and insisting that he at least washed his most intimate parts and his armpits. I too made these a condition of his assisting me in my search – I did not wish to draw any more attention to us than was absolutely necessary. I could only imagine what Inspector Moore would make of my association with one of his suspects, should it be discovered.

It was four days before we found the priest – I could not remember the route to his rooms, much to my dismay, and instead I had taken the little Polish hairdresser to the various opium dens, hoping that my visit hadn’t scared the priest away from them. I doubted that, though: the priest was not afraid of
anything
I
could do to him. Kosminski did not speak much, perhaps because his English was poor, or maybe because he was clearly uncomfortable in the company of others, and I found that suited me. Curious as I was about how he and the priest could have spoken such similar words, I could not help but feel I was allowing myself to be dragged into a whirlpool of madness. I had been convinced the priest was insane, and everything in Kosminski’s behaviour implied the same about him – so what of me, I wondered? Here I was, wanting answers from them; what did that say about my own sanity?

On the fourth night, while we were loitering outside the opium dens of Bluegate Fields, my cravings overtook me, and I led Kosminski inside. I told myself I would have just the smallest of pipes – not enough to make me sleep. As soon as the sweet smell of the poppy hit me my mouth started watering – but I was also repulsed, perhaps fear of the lost time I had suffered previously. Since meeting the priest, I had broken my own rule on self-medicating, taking laudanum when the urges became too strong, but it was not the same as the bliss of drifting on one of the cots. Chi-Chi was serving another customer, so we sat on a low bed and waited.

Kosminski was fascinated by the den – perhaps because those around us were in such a relaxed state. I thought it had been a long time since he had experienced that sort of relaxation.

‘And the priest – he does this?’ he asked quietly.

‘Not like this. He takes something stronger. This makes you dream, but that …’ I remembered the sensation. The clarity. ‘It gives you visions.’

‘Visions?’ Kosminksi leaned in, alert. ‘I have visions – my grandmother’s visions.’ He paused. ‘My grandmother’s curse.’

‘What kind of visions?’ I asked. He had alluded to these before, but only in passing, and I had never been exactly sure what he meant. For once, he sounded entirely focused.

‘Things that are true but that I cannot possibly know: my father’s death, events far away that I do not understand. And then there are … there are the
others
– the river. The
Upir
. All so dark. So awful.’ He shivered, and I knew I had to stop him from drifting away from me.

‘Perhaps you should try it,’ I said.

‘I don’t want to see more clearly.’ He flinched at the very suggestion, drawing away from me.

‘It will make you more confident.’

I did not know why I suddenly wanted Kosminski to take the drug I was nervous of taking myself – perhaps because on some level I already thought him mad, so I had no worry for his sanity, but I also was curious to see its effect on someone else.

Chi-Chi scurried over to us and I placed our order with him. He returned with the pipe and the opium and as he carefully prepared it, I smiled at Kosminski,
who looked afraid – but that had been his natural expression since we’d met.

‘Breathe it in, just like a pipe.’

He looked at me like an infant does a parent, nervous and yet trusting, and did as he was told. As he took several puffs I, for my part, found my curiosity had quashed my own desire for the drug. Instead, I sat and watched him, waiting for the effects to take hold. Would they be the same as they were for me?

For ten minutes or so, he simply sat there, looking around, nonplussed. He did not speak, but neither did he gasp or proclaim any strangeness in what he saw. I felt a vague disappointment. The room was warm and my collar itched. It was strange to be here in the den and entirely in control of my senses. Normally, my arrival would be all about the need and my departure would be in the echo of the haze. I had never had time or inclination to notice how rundown the building was, although in that regard it suited its clientele, myself included. It did not judge.

*

Suddenly I felt maudlin, exhaustion overwhelming me. This was pointless. It was madness. It was—

‘The priest,’ Kosminski said urgently, ‘we must find the priest.’ He reached forward and grabbed my arm, dragging me to my feet, then rocked backwards on his heels, his balance gone. He gasped as I fought to keep him steady.

‘Are you all right?’

No one around us so much as glanced our way as I led him to the door, for they were all lost in their own versions of the dreams. This reality had faded into insignificance for an hour or two.

‘You followed him,’ Kosminski said as we stepped back out into the bitter night. His eyes darted this way and that in the gloom, but they were looking at something beyond my capability to see. His hands no longer twitched, but he kept one gripping my arm even though he was stable once again.

‘Yes, yes, that’s right.’

‘Through the fog,’ he continued, pulling me forward, almost dragging me through the dangerous alleyways. ‘He was ahead of you – he knew you were there. He was leading you.’

I said nothing as I followed him. This was like no vision I had ever had with the drug. Was he truly seeing my experience – my past? Was this because he held my arm? How could that be? His English was improved and his accent had faded – was this because he had somehow accessed my memories? Was he partly inside my own mind? The thought was enough to drive me to the brink of madness myself. Promising myself laudanum when we reached wherever Kosminski was leading me, I went with him.

He said very little more, just muttered now and again as we grew closer to the river. The priest’s rooms had been near the wharves, of that I was certain, but
nothing looked familiar. It was a wild goose chase – it had to be. There was no possibility that Kosminski could be ‘seeing’ my journey from the past; this was just the drug’s dream, and as the fool who had made him try it, I felt I had no choice but to see him through it, even though my hands and feet were now freezing.

But then there it was, right in front of me: the building with the door hanging loose on its hinges. The squalid tenement looked ready to give up and crumple in on itself, should the wind rise.

‘He went up first,’ Kosminski said. ‘You waited a few minutes and then followed.’

Just as I had before, I now stood on the street and looked up to where a grainy light shone through the filthy glass. When a few minutes had passed, Kosminski pulled me forward, and I did not resist – how could I? This was beyond my comprehension. The solid foundation of my beliefs was shaking. This was no colour, no fish darting around a man’s head; this was no flight of fancy.

When Kosminski finally released my arm as we reached the priest’s door, it was my hand that was shaking, not his. I knocked gently, with none of my previous arrogance. Beside me, the hairdresser slumped against the wall.

‘What happened?’ he said. One hand rose to his mouth and he picked at his lips. ‘I don’t understand.’

He had returned to his normal nervous state, worry settling back into his tired eyes.

I didn’t have time to answer. The door opened, and there he was.

24

Poland. June, 1886

James Harrington’s Diary

15th June, 1886

This is the first day I have been well enough to write in what feels like years, although my guide reassures me that it has been only just over two weeks. Two weeks lost to delirium, when time passed in a vague haze of images and dreams I cannot quite remember. It is very strange to have part of your life lost to you. If it were not for my body being so weak and emaciated – having been kept alive through being force-fed vegetable broth and water, and in my more lucid moments, some strong-tasting potato-based stews – I would not have believed it.

I am somewhat regretting my bold adventure into the Polish countryside. I am not Edward, I have realised, admittedly a little late. I do not think that my nature and adventures go hand in hand as his must do. I doubt very much that Edward would have fallen so ill as I have. All I want now is to recover enough to return home as soon as possible.

I am not sure what sickness it is that I have contracted, but I am concerned that it has left me with symptoms of consumption. Although my entire body feels wretched, my lungs are the worst. My breathing is laboured and I have had two coughing fits since waking, both lasting some time and both strong enough to make me think I was choking. Not only does my upper body ache awfully from the strain, I noticed after the second that there was blood on my hand. I asked my guide to fetch the mirror from my small trunk, and after the shock of seeing myself so much thinner, looking as if I had aged ten years in these two weeks, I studied my complexion. Spots of blotchy purple sat high on my pale cheeks. The water in my eyes was tinged pink. My heart sank, and has stayed there, for I know that consumption carries these signs too. However, I am glad to be finally free of the fever that had claimed me.

I long for London. Happy as I am that I am recovering, and as grateful for the kindness the villagers have shown me, when they are all clearly living a very basic existence, I just want to be well enough to go home. I have done with adventures.

16th June, 1886

I slept well, despite the heat and the buzz of flies and biting insects which found their way through the gaps in the shuttered windows. I had always imagined Poland cold, which of course it is when in the grip of winter, but I had not expected this damp summer heat. It started in May, just when I had decided I had seen enough of the grim cities and wanted to explore the countryside. I had announced my decision with hearty vigour, as if I wanted
more
adventure than the cities with their universal problems could show me, but in honesty I felt I was done with the grey harshness of life that surrounded me. I wanted to see something more beautiful, and if that could not be found in humanity, then I would hope to find it in nature, and those who chose to work with it. The young men whose acquaintances I had met on the train into Poland heartily approved, and although they did not join me (I fear they were far more political in their stances than I, and I must confess that their intense conversations often both confused and bored me) they helped me find a guide who would take me to see some of the villages. This was to have been my last sojourn before making the trek back to England.

The heatwave had hit, and I was glad to be
leaving the stinking city. Now I wish I had stayed. I am feeling quite unsettled.

This afternoon, two old men from the village visited me, in the company of my guide. Until then, the only human contact I had had was with an old woman who brought me soup and a hunk of bread. While I ate it, she brought a bucket in the corner of the room and put a chipped ceramic jug of water on the wooden drawers next to the window. I tried to engage her in conversation, but she barely looked up and in the end I could only nod and smile my appreciation as she took my empty dish away. She did not return the expression. In fact, she did not even look me in the eye.