The Room Beyond Page 12

The squirming seemed to awaken Tristan. He raised his head for a moment and groaned.

  ‘Damn blasted thing,’ he slurred drunkenly. He drew his booted foot back a little and then fired it at the bag, sending it hurtling across the tiled floor. Riiaaw riiaaw riiaaw. The scream was coming from inside the bag, less piercing now, more of a whimper.

  ‘Stop now!’ she screamed.

  ‘The blasted creature’s good for nothing! Doesn’t catch a thing,’ and he scrambled across the floor towards the bag, his fist poised for attack, a clump of sinew quivering in the air.

  The blow was short; over so quickly that it was hard to say whether it had actually happened at all. But Minerva was smiling up at her from the ground and one of her slender hands was slightly bent. Tristan’s eyes were shut firmly; she could already see a surly looking mound of blue rising up at the side of his forehead and scarlet where the skin had broken.

  She picked the knotted bag open with shaking fingers. ‘Don’t worry little thing, it’s over now.’

  Her hand landed on soft fur. A ginger cat, no longer a kitten but still young with green marble-like eyes.

  ‘It’s alright.’

  Its silky fur was warm against her lips.

  ‘Would you like some milk? You’re too thin little thing. Where did he find you? Here, let me take you to the kitchen.’

  The cat clung to her as if it instantly recognized a friend and once down on the kitchen floor it squirmed ravenously towards the saucer of milk she gave it, one of its back paws dragging along behind it like a spare part.

  ‘Ah I see you still want to live. That’s very good.’

  But that leg looked bad. She rifled round for something to set it: there were some bandages in the cupboard by the door and a small wooden spatula that would work as a temporary splint for the night.

  When the animal had licked the saucer clean she lay it carefully on the kitchen table and eased the shattered bone back into place. It watched her with listless but unblinking eyes, too exhausted to object.

  ‘I thought you might fight me on this little thing but you’re being very good. I used to have a cat like you when I was a girl. It was a very naughty cat though, always getting into trouble and it broke its leg too. I watched them fix it, just like this. All better again. Now, I’ll take you upstairs with me, but I need to get my statue back first.’

  Tristan was still lying exactly where she’d left him in the hallway. She crept past him back upstairs, the cat clutched under one arm and the statue under the other.

  ‘You can sleep here on this cushion. Look, this is my bed, I’m not far away. Good night Minerva. It’s a rather good name for you, don’t you think? You’re a strong little thing, aren’t you?’

  By the morning the cat was curled in a tight ball at the end of Miranda’s bed. She ruffled its fur gently with her fingers and caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her skin was pale but she looked quite calm, not shaking at all now.

  ‘Breakfast time little cat, come on.’

  Downstairs, Tristan had gone. The hallway echoed with emptiness and she felt as if she was standing on its cold tiles for the first time again, a stranger in her own home. An ugly looking stain caught the corner of her eye. It was comma shaped: a flaky, bloodstain on the wall at the bottom of the stairs. A little further up there was another similar mark, and then another. She shrank back and hurried on to the kitchen, Minerva purring softly against her chest.

  ‘Now what are you bringing into my kitchen?’ groaned Mrs Hubbard.

  ‘A perfectly civilized young cat. I’ve called her Minerva, isn’t she lovely?’

  ‘What’s wrong with its leg?’

  ‘I think she must have been attacked. I found her on the street last night making the most awful din.’

  ‘I don’t like creatures in the kitchen.’

  ‘Think of her as a friend then. Would you mind feeding her? I need to see to something upstairs.’

  The comma shaped mark laughed at her in the hallway again. She chipped at it with her thumb nail and it fell away leaving a dirty tea coloured scar on the wall behind. She pictured him crumpled and staggering up the stairs, half blind with pain, touching his head, brushing his bloodied fingers against the wall.

  Was this really the same lithe energetic man she’d married? The man who’d once, only once, held her close to him. On that glorious day she’d pressed her ear against his heart, listened to all that young blood surging through him, full of promise and her absolute belief.

  ‘We’re getting married. Tristan’s proposed!’ she’d proclaimed in their tatty old parlour and her father’s chest had puffed up with pride. For the first time in her memory he had tears of happiness, for her, in his eyes.

  ‘He’s a fine man, your Tristan Whitestone,’ he’d said. ‘A man of business, a man of the future! You’ve done well.’

  ‘Am I forgiven then Daddy?’

  And he’d smiled warmly and moved his head in a way that was neither a nod nor a shake but felt comforting nonetheless.

  The blood stains went up and up through the house. Gradually they got fainter until they were barely apparent at all, but she could still spot them; even the merest fleck glared out at her like a beacon. And then when they’d disappeared altogether she kept on going, up to the little servant’s door at the top.

  The unlocked door swung open to an empty room. It was a bleak and chilly cell of a place with bare walls and no furniture at all apart from Tristan’s desk. A jacket of his had been tossed over the back of the chair. She buried her face in it, breathing in the scent of his cigars. A neat pile of papers sat on the otherwise empty desk. The one on the top was untouched, entirely blank. She turned it over and then the next and the next, but they were all also quite bare.

  Her mouth went dry. She hugged her arms around herself and then her fingers edged back to the papers. Over and over, one empty page after another. No work, nothing to show for all that time he spent up here, until the final page shone up at her. And in the centre of that page a single sentence floated in the desert of white.

  I have warned you before. Keep your snout out of my affairs. TW.

  Her body swayed from side to side like a pendulum. She lurched away from the desk, her shoulder slamming against the balcony door. It didn’t jam like it used to and she flew out against the railings, gulping like a stranded fish at the cold air.

  It was starting to rain and yet she couldn’t bear to go back in. It was only when the drops grew heavier, drenching her clothes and her hair, that she finally turned. But something, a glimmer of white languishing in a puddle on Mrs Eden’s adjoining balcony, suddenly made her stop. She crouched down and eased her hand through the iron railings to pick it up: the remains of one of Tristan’s cigarettes.

  The crumpled cigarette floated in a puddle in her palm. It was a brand she would have recognized anywhere, Tristan’s favourite, with a brown scalloped pattern across the edge that even the grimy puddle had failed to eradicate. She crushed the soaking remains of the tobacco between her fingers and let it drizzle back down to the ground.

  Her skirts were so sodden with water that she had to heave them up to her hips to climb over. The railings felt slimy and she didn’t dare look down but she was over in seconds, a trespasser suddenly, hovering at the edge of Mrs Eden’s balcony. Just a mere soggy step more and she’d be able to look in through the window.

  ‘Wake up. Lucinda, wake up! Look, look at my head! Have you got anything for it? You must have something in this filthy fleapit.’

  She twisted her neck slowly and tried to focus on the jumble of blue and red at the side of Tristan’s face.

  ‘What happened?’

  Her tongue felt like a large piece of raw meat in her mouth, not part of her at all.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  Outside the sky was grey and billowing. It was raining heavily.

  ‘I’ve just had the strangest dream,’ she said. ‘A woman was standing on our balcony looking at us. I think she rose up out of a
lake, dripping wet. I know her face, but I can’t remember, she looked in pain...’

  ‘Shut up! Do you really think I want to hear this? I’m the one in pain... go... do something.’

  ‘Alright, alright. Stop shouting at me you blasted man. Look, I can barely walk.’

  Her legs felt like soft butter when she raised herself. Something dark and slithery shot out from under the bed and into a heap of dirty linen in the corner of the room.

  ‘You know, I think that could quite possibly have been a rat. Where’s our cat gone?’

  ‘I got rid of the thing, it was useless. Didn’t catch a single mouse.’

  ‘No, probably because the rats got there first. We have to do something, hire a new maid to sort all this mess out.’

  ‘Interfering busybodies. Get on with it Lucy, you’re leaving me to die!’

  Her leg brushed against something cold and wet: an overflowing chamber pot lapping at her shin. There was a bottle of gin on the dresser with just a little left swilling about at the bottom. She filled her mouth and pushed the bottle into Tristan’s hand.

  ‘Here, have the rest of this. Something to start with.’

  Beyond the room the house was so murky she could hardly see and she nearly went flying where the carpet had come loose. More scampering: little claws everywhere, scratching against wood. She felt like a small girl again, creeping through her parents’ house in her nightdress. Mummy I can’t sleep. Can I sleep with you? Down, down, so many stairs she no longer knew where she was. But then there were cold tiles beneath her feet and, yes, her own front door.

  The image of the lady on the balcony came back again. How agonized she’d looked, and with a face so wet you couldn’t tell if it was water or tears. She must have fallen in the lake, the one at home, just like when she was a little girl and her father had plunged his arm in and dragged her out.

  Lucinda dragged her eyelids apart. She was now lying on the hallway floor. The cold tiles stung her through her nightdress and she heaved forward, the gin from earlier reappearing across the floor in a honeycomb pattern of bubbles.

  She staggered up, tried to open the front door, but it was locked. And the door frame appeared to be gleaming in some way. Gradually the gleaming dispersed into a series of gold smears all around the door and then the smears began to take shape, transforming into... what was it? Padlocks. Thirty, forty of them maybe, although it made her eyes buzz to count.

  Quite the most curious thing she’d ever seen. She heard a faint giggle, her own, and then the joy drained out of her in an instant. It was Walter Balanchine, up to no good most probably; hatching some outlandish plan with her father. Or perhaps Alfonso seeking revenge for not taking him back. Tristan would be outraged.

  She limped into the drawing room, as dark as midnight with the curtains tightly closed. Behind the heavy fabric were yet more padlocks, and this time even thick nails in the frames to make sure the windows wouldn’t move an inch. Tristan must learn about this, immediately.

  Back on the stairs her knees groaned as she tried to lift her heavy feet. And then the memory of Tristan’s poor old head suddenly came back to her. She knocked her forehead with the palm of her hand. Too much gin. Too much gin and wine and that other thing that Tristan kept giving her that made her feel so lovely and sleepy.

  She scrambled towards the door with the stained glass panel. No gleaming Bacchanalian faces now, no light from within to soak through the coloured glass. This room was the blackest by far. There was frenzied rustling inside; something brushing against her nightdress.

  The shutters swung open easily enough but behind them were yet more padlocks and nails. The sudden glare of light made her blink. Dust motes hung uncertainly in the air and the room looked as tired as Alfonso’s face when she’d last seen him. She steadied herself against the back of a chair and peered around until her eyes landed on his old bureau. The small box was still inside it, under a pile of dog-eared newspapers. It was an old tea chest really, with rather pretty zigzag marquetry.

  The next flight of stairs felt as steep and perilous as the face of a mountain. Soon she was on her hands and knees, struggling to move an inch and a moment later Tristan was carrying her up into their room.

  ‘You’ve been gone for hours.’

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘What’s in the box?’

  ‘Oh, something you’ll like. It was Alfonso’s.’

  His face seemed pleased by its contents. He removed the bamboo pipe between two fingers, skillfully lighting and moulding the opium before lying back to smoke.

  ‘You’ve done this before.’

  His laugh made the joy rush into her again. But something urgent was tugging at her. ‘Ah! I’ve just remembered what I wanted to tell you. A terrible thing has happened downstairs my love.’

  ‘And what might that be?’

  ‘We’ve been made prisoners. There are padlocks and nails in all the doors and windows. Who could have done such a thing?’

  He inhaled deeply. There were hollow caves in his cheeks and his eyes were glazed and milky.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘I locked us in.’

  Her mouth opened but no words came out. She felt pain and saw that there was blood underneath her fingernails. Her palm was bleeding.

  ‘Why?’ she whispered.

  ‘It’s for your own good. Look what happened last time when you ventured out on your own. That servant of your father’s might have kidnapped you.’

  ‘But he didn’t.’

  ‘I can’t have you wandering about by yourself. You’re in my protection now.’

  ‘I... I haven’t left the house for days.’

  ‘Months actually.’

  ‘Oh my God.’

  The room began to move around her in soft circles, like a carousel warming up. She gripped her stomach, it felt swollen. The room got faster and faster. Padlocks. Nails. And then the ceiling came crashing down towards her. She gripped the bedclothes, forcing her body down down into the mattress until she thought she might come out through the other side.

  ‘No! Help me! Help me please God!’

  The ceiling kept falling, fast then slow then fast again but never quite reaching her.

  ‘Help me please, please. Alfonso, why did you leave me?’

  Tristan’s face was leaning over her, a laughing blur. She lunged out at it, her knuckles ripping into flesh.

  A man’s sobs. Tristan was curled up in a tight little ball on the bed next to her. He was naked; his skin almost transparent where it stretched across his ribs.

  ‘Why are you crying?’

  ‘Because you hit me.’

  His sobbing was like a bubbling stream, as weak as a little boy.

  ‘Where? Where did I hit you?’

  But his face was locked in his arms. He flinched at her touch.

  ‘You needn’t worry. I won’t hit you again.’

  He peeked out at her, a child behind a parent’s legs.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. I am your prisoner after all, aren’t I?’

  And finally he unravelled his body, easing her softly into his arms, tucking her head into his neck.

  ‘Darling Lucy, you are not my prisoner. You are a beloved jewel in a vile stinking world. My darling, my beautiful Clementine. Let me keep you to myself.’

  ‘Who is Clementine? Why did you call me that?’

  ‘I didn’t my love. You’re hearing things; you must be tired after all your adventures.’

  ‘I am tired, but I doubt whether I’ll ever sleep again.’

  ‘Would you like some of your medicine?’

  ‘Yes... I think I would.’

  She parted her lips and two small droplets slithered down her throat like smooth pearls, magically cooing with the promise of dreamless sleep.

  The next time she woke it was night. Tristan was beside her, sitting bolt upright in the bed, the moonlight catching at the knotted rope of his spine. He seemed so vuln
erable, like a hunted fox.

  ‘What troubles you?’ she whispered.

  ‘Dark thoughts.’

  She moulded her body around him. It heaved beneath her, dreadful and lonely.

  ‘My poor man, you’ve been hurt.’

  He clutched at her wrist and the thrill of his touch sent a shock of light through her. She gripped her thighs tightly about him, smothered his shoulders with her hair and her kisses.

  ‘Don’t leave me,’ he groaned.

  ‘No. I’ll never leave you.’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you Clementine.’

  SERENA’S STORY

  ‘We prefer to keep Beth at home. She has the protection of her family here.’

  ‘But it’s only school. Surely that’s a safe enough environment.’

  Arabella smiled at me in the way that nurses smile at mental health patients.

  ‘Beth is an unusual little girl. Very sensitive and special as I’m sure you’ve gathered. She finds it hard to make friends with other children and they don’t particularly warm to her.’

  Beyond her shoulder the Bacchanalian revellers were bright with evening sunshine, the colours almost garish. And from through the open windows the scent of the climbing rose washed dreamily across my face.

  ‘I do understand but perhaps we should at least try.’

  Arabella threaded a bangle between her fingers, her eyes fixed on the floor as if in deep consideration.

  ‘Beth gets headaches,’ she murmured softly.

  ‘Yes I know.’

  ‘We find that they can be prevented if we keep her close and familiar.’

  ‘I see. Have you taken her to a doctor?’

  ‘I’ve... spoken to various experts.’

  Experts. The word came through shining teeth; the ‘p’ in the middle not quite spat but as precise as a rattlesnake’s tail. I shrugged lamely, ‘If there’s anything I can do to help.’

  She dissolved into big smiles.

  ‘How lovely of you to offer. We will be getting all the various school materials in due course. Simple reading books, and so on. Perhaps if you could assist her with these?’