The Courage Consort (19 page)

Siân closed her eyes, praying for guidance as to how to respond. Slapping his face would be so frightfully old-fashioned, and besides, she was afraid of him, and also, it might spoil her only chance of happiness before the cancer decided that her time was up.

'Hadrian will be getting lonely,' she said. 'You'd better go and rescue him.'

***

That afternoon, Sián left the dig early, telling Nina she thought she might be coming down with flu.

Nina scrutinised her face and said, 'Yes, you don't look well at all,' which was rather discouraging, since the flu story was a lie. In reality, the lump in Sián's thigh was so painful she could barely work, and she was hoping that if she stopped kneeling at her appointed excavation and putting so much pressure on her stump hour after hour, the pain might ease off.

'I'm getting a sore throat myself,' said Nina. 'Let's hope it's not the Black Death, eh?'

Sián walked stiffly back into town. Her whole pelvis was aching: a subtle network of pain radiating, it seemed, from the lump inwards. A kernel of malignancy haloed with roots and tendrils, like a potato left too long in a cupboard, silently mutating in the dark. Fibrosis. Metastasis. Dissemination. Words only a doctor should be intimately familiar with.

On her way to the White Horse and Griffin, she bought a bottle of brandy, a box of painkillers and, as an afterthought, a king-size block of chocolate. In the privacy of her hotel room, she consumed some of each, at regular intervals, while working on the next page of Thomas Peirson's secret testament.

'OK,' said Mack the following day, leaning forward expectantly. 'Carry on where we left off, yes?'

'Yes.' She took a long deep breath, filling her lungs with sea air.

She'd arranged to meet him halfway up the hundred and ninety-nine steps, on the same bench where they'd first sat together. It was more convenient than a café or a restaurant; she wouldn't have so far to walk back to the dig, and she was quite content to eat the apple she'd pocketed that morning in the hotel's breakfast room. Fruit was probably quite a sensible thing to lunch on after a hangover, and she'd already promised herself that chocolate would never again pass her lips—in
either
direction.

Also, it was brilliant sunny weather today, and being out in the fresh air meant that Hadrian could be here with them, and she'd missed Hadrian so badly yesterday.

Also, Mack was less likely, she imagined, to kiss her on a public thoroughfare. Thus postponing the inevitable.

'
I did but pause to cover her with a blanket, then hurried to fetch my knife,
recited Siân from her little notebook. Hadrian promptly laid a mendicant paw on her knee—the right knee, the one that was flesh and blood—to alert her to the fact she'd stopped stroking him. 'Oh, Hadrian, I'm sorry,' she crooned, ruffling his mane. 'What a
bad
mother I am…'

'Come on, come on,' growled Mack impatiently. 'He'll survive.
Read.
'

She raised the notebook, savouring her modicum of power over him—the only power she had left, before she surrendered completely.

I did but pause to cover her with a blanket, then hurried to fetch my knife—that same knife I have used for a thousand innocent purposes—cutting rope, gipping fish, paring fruit, carving blubber. Believing myself to be alone in the house, I came down the stairs without caution, and was surpriz'd by our Anne in the parlour, crying, Father, what is the matter? Go catch your Mother up at market, I says. We are not needing a ham after all, for I mind now that Butcher Finch said he would give us one in lieu of payment for his oil. So she runs off, God bless her.

I found my knife, and returned to the room upstairs—the same room where I now write these words. It seemed to me that Mary had moved away from where I put her down—crawled towards the door—but when I spoke her name, she lay still. Once more I gathered her close to my breast, cradling her like a bairn. How I yearned to spare her the knife! Had I the nerve to beat her black and blew instead, to stave in her soft skull with my fists, and splinter her ribs like kindling? I owned I had not. So, without pausing any more, I lowered her into the wash-copper, and hewed the blade deep into her neck, cleaving her flesh to the bone. Her blood flowed out like a wave, like a wave of shining crimson, clothing her nakedness.

Siân looked up. Mack's eyes were bright with excitement, his great hands clasped white-knuckled against his chin. In her eagerness to bring him the latest instalment, she must surely have known he'd respond like this, but now that she saw that look in his eyes, she felt ashamed.

'That's all,' she said, with an awkward smile. 'That's all I could get done. If you knew what it took…'

He leaned back, letting it all sink in. 'Wow,' he sighed. 'This guy was a genuine, authentic eighteenth-century psycho. Hannibal Lecter in a frilly shirt.'

'Who's Hannibal Lecter?'

'Come on! The world's favourite serial killer! You mean you've never seen
The Silence of the Lambs?

'Lovely title,' she said, responding to Hadrian's urgent pleas for stroking at last. 'Sounds like a pre-Raphaelite painting by William Holman Hunt or someone like that.'

'Who's William Holman Hunt?'

They sat in silence for a few seconds, while Siân petted Hadrian and Mack watched the dog go demented in her hands.

'Anyway, our man Thomas Peirson,' he declared, when finally, to his bemusement, Siân's face disappeared in Hadrian's flank. 'He's a star, can't you see? He could really put Whitby on the map—the
modern
map.'

Siân surfaced, blinking.

'Don't you ever get tired,' she challenged him, 'of this ever-so-
modern
fascination with psychopaths and sick deeds? It can't be good for us—as a culture, I mean. Filling ourselves up with madness and cruelty.'

'Face it, Siân, when was it ever different? Madness and cruelty have always been the staple diet of history.' And he smiled, secure in the knowledge that he had, among many other things, Hitler and de Sade on his side.

Siân looked away from him, towards the headland, for inspiration. 'Think of Saint Hilda founding the original monastery here,' she said, 'long before Whitby was even called Whitby. Think of the devotion, the sheer strength of spirit invested in this place. A little powerhouse of prayer, perched on a clifftop next to a wild sea. I find that thrilling—much more thrilling than serial killers.'

'Jolly good, jolly good,' he said, in a fruity mockery of an upper-class relic. 'But honestly, Siân, I'm sure your Saint Hilda was as twisted as they come.'

Violently, she jerked to face him, startling Hadrian with the sudden movement.

'What would
you
know?' she snapped, as the poor dog cowered between them.

'Oh, I've read plenty,' Magnus shot back. 'Did you know that in the middle of the night, friendly elves drop history books through my letterbox? It's like the Open University, it's amazing what you learn. The complete rundown on religious fanatics in England, with colour illustrations. Step-by-step instructions for flagellating yourself.'

'You're making no effort to understand these people! Just because they weren't driving around in cars, talking into mobile phones…'

He threw his hands up, just like Patrick used to do, and exclaimed, 'Christ almighty: the arrogance! You're assuming that if I were only a bit more educated, I'd realise what total
darlings
these lunatics really were. Well, I
have
read my history books and my glossy brochures, thank you very much. And these monks and friars and abbesses,
some
of them may've believed in what they were doing, but their philosophy
stinks.
Hatred of the human body, that's what it boils down to. Hatred of natural desires, hatred of pleasure. Think of their routine, Siân: knocked out of bed at midnight, walk to a horrible gloomy hall, kneel down on a hard floor, start praying in the freezing cold, pray and chant all night and all day. Wear rough clothes specially designed to stop you feeling too comfortable. Nice food forbidden, just in case you're tempted to gluttony. Conversation forbidden, in case it distracts you from being a zombie. And if you dare to break the rules, you get flogged publicly. It's
sick
!'

He pointed up towards the abbey, his thumb and forefinger as rigid as a gun.

'
That's
why those ruins are ruins, can't you see that? It's got nothing to do with hurricanes, or Henry VIII, or German warships taking potshots at the abbey in 1914. It's got to do with society growing up—evolving to the point where we realise we don't
need
a bunch of sad old perverts telling us we'll go to hell if we enjoy life too much. It's the twenty-first century, Siân, wake up!'

'You're yelling at me,' she said, miserable with déjà vu. Screaming rows with Patrick, heads turning in crowded places, furious tussles finally won and lost under rumpled bedsheets.

Magnus folded his arms across his chest and glowered.

'For Christ's sake.' He was making a strenuous effort to keep his voice down. 'The Dark Ages are over, haven't you noticed? People enjoy taking a peek at the ruins, they'll buy a postcard of Saint Hilda at the kiosk, but that's as far as it goes. Sooner or later, the last few walls will fall down, and it'll be
adios,
ta-ta, good
night.
'

'Those walls,' said Siân frostily, 'will still be standing when people like you are long gone. None of your … huffing and puffing can change that.'

He glared at her, thrusting his massive shoulders forward as if bracing himself to punch her. Instead, with a groan of frustration, he suddenly threw his arms around her and pulled her close to him, crushing her against his chest.

'You drive me crazy,' he murmured, his breath hot in her ear, his heartbeat pervading her bosom. 'I want you.' And he kissed her full on the mouth.

Siân squirmed, embarrassed for him, loath to reject him so publicly, in front of anyone who might be passing by—and besides, she was aroused, intensely aroused. She pulled her mouth away, but wrapped her arms around his waist, clinging hard, her cheek pressed against his jaw. If they could only hold each other like this, breast to breast, for the rest of her life, it would be enough. Nothing else would need to happen.

He began to stroke the back of her head, one palm smoothing her hair; his hand felt big enough to hold her skull inside it, and she was electrified with fear and desire.

'Give me time,' she whispered—and he let her go.

'All the time … in the world,' he reassured her, breathing harder than if he'd just run up and down the steps. 'Just say you'll see me again.'

She laughed shakily, delighted with the high drama of it all, despising it, too. Hadrian only made it worse, looking from her to Mack and back again, with that absurd wrinkle-browed
What next?
expression of his.

'Of course,' she said. 'Tomorrow, lunchtime. I'll have the rest of the confession for you.'

'Of course,' he said, perspiring with relief. A semblance of normality settled in the air around them; the world expanded to include passersby on the church stairs, seagulls, the harbour. The town and its environs had held its breath while they were kissing; now it was letting it out.

'Where shall we meet?' said Mack.

Siân thought for a moment.

'The Whitby Mission. They let dogs in there.'

He opened his mouth to argue, then grinned.

'The Whitby Mission.' His right hand, whose warm imprint still tingled on her back, reached down to Hadrian, grabbing the dog by the scruff of the neck. 'They'll let
you
in there, did you hear that?' he announced, pulling the handful of hair teasingly to and fro. 'And we'll find out what that bad man did with the body, eh? Won't that be exciting?'

Hadrian wasn't convinced, baring his teeth and twisting his head in frustrated pursuit of the badgering grip.

'Rough!' he complained.

The inner layers of the scroll were, contrary to Siân's expectations, the most damaged. Something had leaked into them at some stage in their two-hundred-year confinement, something more corrosive than simple moisture or the intrinsic hazards of the gelatine and the ink. Try as she might to peel the pages apart with no damage to the integrity of the fibres or the calligraphy, there were small mishaps along the way: an abrasion of the paper surface here, a comma or a flourish lost to impatience. She took a swig of brandy straight from the bottle, and worked on, sweat trickling into her eyes.

'Come on, you!' she muttered, as she laboured to unfasten, millimetre by millimetre, the page she already knew from the page she hadn't read yet. 'Explain yourself.' There must surely be a reason behind Thomas Peirson's actions, a better reason than mere evil. Decent, godfearing eighteenth-century men were not psychopaths, plotting their motiveless murders for the future delectation of Hollywood.

But with every word that came to light, Thomas Peirson's soul emerged darker and more disturbing. Sentence by sentence, he painted himself to be exactly the remorseless monster she'd seen reflected in Mack's excited eyes.

When the deed was done, I was in a frenzy of haste. Mary's body I swaddled in waxed sailcloth and hid in a chest; then I washed clean of blood my self, the copper, the knife, and the floor; whereupon I took my place at table downstairs, affecting to be busy with accounts.

The remainder of that day, and the next day after it, were a torture greater than any I expect to suffer in the Time-To-Come, even if it should please God to banish me from his mercy and cast me to the Devil. While Mary's carcase lay stiffening in my sea-chest, I joined my worried wife and daughter, all throughout the streets of Whitby, searching for our lost lamb. We questioned folk on the East side and the West side; we walked till we were weary.

She has run away with that William Agar, my wife says. He has taken her, the blackguard.

So, we visited William's mother & axed her what she knew, and she replied with such a skriking as set our ears ringing. My boy is gone up to London, she says, and you are deceived if you think he would dream of taking your daft daughter with him. My boy has been fair driven away, to get peace from all her fond stories & her lies—I have had the poor lad beating his brow, saying, Mother, are all girls so cack-brained, to see love where none was ever offered? Now he is free of her mischief at last, and if she means to follow him to London, I pray her wiles get her no farther than a whorehouse in York!

After this exchange, I took Catherine home in a terrible anger, and indeed this gave her a certain courage for a while, but then we fell again to waiting for Mary to come home. Hour upon hour, all three of us strained our ears for the footsteps I knew would not sound. She has come to harm! my dear wife wept, wringing her hands. She has come to harm, I know it! Nonsense, woman, I said, inventing a dozen comforting stories with happy embraces for endings.

On the third night, my family at last took to their beds and slept deep, and I carried my beloved Mary out into the night—being newly in the oil trade then, I had the strength of a whaler yet, & bore her in my arms as easy as a thief bears a sack of candlesticks. Under cover of darkness I ran down the ghaut to the riverside, and there I discharged her poor body into the restless waters.

Next morning, she is found, and fetched up on Fish Pier. The cry of MURDER! spreads throughout the town, from mouth to mouth, until it reaches my door. Still I dissembled—You are mistaken, It cannot be, &c. But then they brought her carcase to me, and the streets of Whitby did echo with the clamour of my weeping.