| |
For a man who might have lost his house and all earthly possessions, Keane was incredibly calm. He did not interrupt me once during my story, save to run his delicate fingers over the creased hem of his shirt. I had at last reached the reappearance of the mysterious boy when Keane’s body abruptly went rigid and his eyes snapped down to mine.
“You didn’t turn him in, did you?” The sigh that racked my lungs had become all too familiar during the past week, though the bitter taste of smoke was still new.
“I considered it. It would have meant your freedom.”
“No, it would be his damnation.” Keane retorted. “Any child of that age would not fare well in this.” His arm came up to wave at his bleak surroundings in one general movement, then fell back to his side; curling slightly at his middle.
“I may need your help, though. Now more than ever. The boy seems to speak only some form of Gaelic.”
“Does he?”
“I think so.” I amended. “It sounds like Gaelic. Perhaps not exactly the one you know, but—”
“Ah, Gàidhlig.” Good lord.
“It’s what?”
“Gàidhlig. The Scottish variation. It was once outlawed by the crown several centuries ago. Didn’t you learn this in your American schools?” One look at my blank features was all he dared need. “Evidently not. To the eye, Gàidhlig is similar to the Irish Gaelic, Gaeilge; however, the pronunciations are unique from each other, and therefore difficult to discern in most cases.” My brain was spinning; grasping at any fact I might possibly be able to comprehend.
“But you could understand it, right? And speak it?” Keane’s eyes found mine beneath the shadow of confusion and dragged me upwards into the broken shards of reality.
“Not from here, Lawrence. I am no more able to reach him from behind that door than Moses the promised land.”
“But later, when you are free—”
“Jo.” One word and the world shattered. One name uttered so gently and without malice caused my ribs to stab through my heart. My head panicked, and with it, my tongue.
“For God’s sake, Keane, don’t say it. Don’t even consider it.”
“Jo—”
“No!” I flung myself off of the bench; towering over his haggard, grey form. “The jury will find you innocent and we can take a holiday. Anywhere you want. Hell, we could go to that bloody Palermo you talk so fondly of. But you are not going to die. Not like this.” A hand swam out and pulled me back onto the bench. For a few seconds, I became a child again; head tucked against his shoulder as I inhaled the scent of the greatest thing I had ever known.
A gentle tenor, more horse than I recalled, vibrated through my short, messed hair.
“Where are you staying?”
“The cottage is still safe to live in. The study will need a few major renovations, though: wallpaper, furniture, books.”
The study.
The haven of life itself.
Keane cleared his throat, wincing as he did so.
“And the boy?”
“He is staying too.”
“Good.” He loosened his grasp on my hand and began deftly mapping out each line and scar with his trained fingertips. There was nothing overtly sensual about the action. Quite the opposite, in fact.
It tickled.
The roughness of his dry, worked skin brushed tentatively at my own; first tracing, then painting a portrait of life across my ink-stained palm. When he was content with his actions, he turned my hand over and began running his thumb along the peeling edge of a sticking plaster I had used to conceal an inconsequential cut caused by the bits of window glass. It was here his stunning, blue eyes furrowed slightly.
“I had hoped Fingal would return sooner.” Keane muttered as his fingers brushed at the white wrappings. I tried desperately not to curl my fingers at his experienced touch.
“He was needed a few days longer than expected, but he will be there for the trial.”
“Yes, the trial.” The hand stopped moving against my wrist and came to rest at its centre. It was meant to be comforting; however, it only served as a point for beaded sweat to form between our flesh. “I believe it would be prudent if you would not be present in court.”
“What? So I only see you in this dingy cell? Granted, it is a miracle they allowed us to meet in here again, but to not come to the trial? Never.”
“My dear, Lawrence.” I moved his hand from on top of mine and instead began to repeat the exact process he began a few minutes before. His hands were larger than mine, though not of an abnormal or ludicrous size, and the fragility of his thin fingers added a grace to an already dignified man. The lines had been carved deeper with age, but they were relatively the same. He flinched once during the endeavour—wrapping inward at his torso—before settling back again against the cold stone. I said nothing, but instead dug my fingers more accurately into his hand, gradually moving up his arm and massaging the hot flesh. We remained pressed, shoulder to shoulder, until the guard returned.
––––––––
THE BOY DUG INTO THE stew with great acclaim, while I only scraped a mound of cut potato from one side of the bowl to the other. I had not managed to gain much knowledge of the strange visitor, beyond a raging starvation for most anything edible. Soon his dish fell empty again and was tentatively slid across the table. He flinched visibly as I rose, but settled when another steaming portion was put before him.
“Do you have a name?” The small eyes squinted as his head cocked to one side. “Name? Uh...ainm?” The Irish must have struck some cord, though not, I thought, the one I intended, and the child immediately nodded and began piling the contents of his pockets on the table. They were very much as you might expect—string, rocks, a thimble, two marbles, a scrap of paper—but it was only the colour printed on the latter of these that seized my attention. Green was not quite the apt description, but neither was a pale blue. It was merely there, existing, with half of a thin word scratched across the middle.
“Deen?” I fingered the paper lightly. “Your name is deen?” The boy’s face lit up as he nodded profusely. That was something, anyway. “I’m Jo.” When he did nothing but stare at my offered hand, I dropped it back into my pocket. It was only then, as I glanced down at the child’s fist still clenched beneath the table, that I noticed the round, silver canister peeking out between his grimy fingers.
And then it was gone again; jerked out of sight by a youth’s quick reflexes.
I sighed and scrubbed my eyelids with the back of my hands. To create a rift now would only be a waste of energy, and, frankly, I didn’t give a damn anyway.
The trial, however—
“Doesn’t the poor lad look better with a good wash and proper meal?” Mrs. McCarthy asked as she collected the dishes from the table. “The professor could learn a thing or two from that, being the whippet that he is. You’ll look the same soon, so you will.” I peeled my head from my hands with an assembly-line retort when I glanced down at my own bowl, which remained scarcely touched. I might have felt ashamed, had I not lost my appetite the moment I entered Keane’s cell that morning.
His face looked grey.
Not pale, but quite literally a distinct shade of slate grey. And then every detail—every wrong detail—swept over me. His stomach was obviously still causing problems, and his rake-thin frame had dwindled considerably toward gaunt. Appetite loss. He had been sweating too, despite the chill of the room. Of course, Keane was not a man to take illness lightly. He did not brood over physical weakness, but he would at least recognize the symptoms to be of some importance. A cold may not hinder an adventure, but certainly an abundance of hot tea and clean handkerchieves would be most welcome. He would not shy away from pneumonia, nor eat at established mealtimes when his mind was otherwise employed.
I shook my head and studied the young boy—Deen—who had disrupted every aspect of our lives in one, livid blow. Now that he was standing in a single place, I was again able to take a full inventory of his features. Deen still struck me as more a Romanian parentage, rather than that of the mighty Scots. Even so, one could not always be the stereotypical representation of one’s motherland. I certainly hoped I did not look quite so American as my childhood schoolmates had insisted.
Then again, they always said I looked like a boy.
Quite irritating, Americans.
There was even a time, before I had left the marred land of my birth, when one of the lads snuck into the girl’s room under the suspicion I harboured an extra part beneath my skirt—
“Saints preserve us!” I was suddenly smacked by a wave of dishwater as Mrs. McCarthy spun wildly around from the kitchen window. “It’s the police pulling up again, so it is. Shall we hide the child, or...”
Or what?
Turn him in?
It would be his damnation.
My hand flew to the back of the young boy’s collar, and I quickly propelled him toward the cellar door. It was the perfect place; secluded and out of the way. Or perhaps—
I hurried the young child back into the kitchen and up into the master bedroom. The blinds flew shut at my command as the boy—Deen—quickly curled under the covers with the duvet pulled well above his head. Mrs. McCarthy overshadowed our escapade with a voice unnaturally high and pinched with worry.
“Shall I be saying you were called out for the evening?”
Should they believe I would run so quickly out of cowardice?
I flung myself fully dressed beneath the bedclothes; careful not to startle the child to whom I strategically kept my distance.
“Tell them I am ill.” I stated quickly.
Ill.
So startlingly simple. The fewer lies spread about the police force, the easier. And it was actually becoming true. My ears rang every time I heard their monotonous laws ripping away the seams of an otherwise comfortable existence. The faithful housekeeper disappeared. Single footsteps retreated. Voices arose and hushed. Footsteps shuffled against the mat. Then approached.
And then I saw the pinnacle of my downfall.
Not four feet from the bed lay a silver film canister, no longer than my forefinger, but an article willing to ruin my life for all the successes and failures I had received.
“Miss Lawrence?” There was a door between us. Only a door. They could come, and I could go. Any answer I gave could be heard.
But they could not see me.
I dove from the bed; however, rather than retrieving the cylinder, I only managed to knock it further still; beneath the wardrobe and deep into the curses of my life. The door hinges screamed warning as the barrier between the cottage and prison bars was forced open a crack. Just a crack. An inch or two at most. I was already resettled beneath the duvet when his voice came once more through the breach.
“Joanna?” Christ, must even the devil find pleasure in my accursed name?
“Please go away.” Success. My voice had the same dirty rasp as the doomed and accursed. “I have a headache.” Headache? Women were always feigning a headache. To think I had fallen so low. Into such darkness.
Like the canister.
“This is Sergeant Crowley and Constable Miles. We have come to ask a few questions regarding your husband’s case.” I sighed.
“Might as well come in then.” It took everything in me not to let out a squeak of discomfort as a small, but incredibly sharp, elbow jabbed between my ribs as I settled further beneath the covers. The sergeant entered alone; however, rather than a list of questions dangling from his clumsy fingers I recognised a document I had grown to loath.
“Is that a warrant for my arrest? Or has Keane escaped?” The latter was meant as a jest, but that did not by any means suggest that a frisson of pleasure did not pass through my bones as the officer gave a panicked jerk.
Nor did I apologise.
“On the contrary,” He stuttered. “He was taking a kip when I left; quiet as a babe. No, we are here with permission to search this estate for the young boy.”
“Which boy? I haven’t seen him.” The paper warrant was folded and creased between his fidgeting fingers.
“We have witnesses that claim he returned yesterday around the time of the fire.” I scoffed.
“If he had tried to destroy the place, I doubt he would stay long. Besides, I thought your men said the jars of burning gasoline were thrown through the window from the outside, not carefully ignited from within the study.” Another fold. Another crease.
“That’s true enough, but I’m afraid we still have to do our job.” Damn. “We’ll begin here and finish in the study. Or what’s left of it, anyhow.” If the frantic lurch of my heart was not enough pain, the fingernails in my leg were more than sufficient.
“Is it necessary to search here first? My head—” The shades were ripped open.
“We promise not to dawdle.” It was not the speed of the search I feared, but the accuracy. I was quickly aware there were a great many more uniforms than Crowly could possibly fill. Step by step the line of fire grew nearer to the canister. My ribs threatened to crack beneath my heaving lungs. If I could only get their attention for a moment. A small distraction would do as long as they didn’t—
“What is this?” I rolled over in the bed to glare at the young officer holding my leather jacket up to the light with a smirk. “Did you get this from the salvage, or is your husband just too old to keep up with a young woman’s pace?”
“It was my cousin’s before he died. If you would just toss it here—” The officer did indeed toss my jacket, but with a great deal more vigour than was strictly required. I watched helplessly as it sailed over my aching head and slammed against the wooden floorboards with a resounding slap.
Right in front of the wardrobe.
My breathing—already rough and pounding—caught dangerously in the back of my throat. Somewhere in my consciousness, Sergeant Crowly rebuked the offending officer and began to retrieve the mutilated corpse of crumpled leather. One step. Two. A headache—a real one—surged forward as a roaring avalanche of fear. Certainly he would find the film canister then. There was no possibility of ignoring it. I watched paralysed as he reached the wardrobe, bent down, and—
He stopped.
At first, I thought he had seen it.
Of course he had.
But no, his eyes were not drilling into the darkened dust on the floor, but my own face. It was then I heard the deep groan as it flowed from my open mouth. By instinct I began to lessen the painful noise; however, as he once more rose to his feet without a second glance at the jacket, I threw an arm dramatically over my eyes and allowed the whimper to surge forward into the wild moan of agony. The sergeant—a married man, no doubt—reacted immediately.
“Miles, shut the curtains. Deepest apologies, Miss Lawrence. We’ll go to the other rooms now.” And then they were gone; dissipating quickly as the tale end of a nightmare. After an hour or so, the front door opened, heavy footsteps retreated, and I was once more left to the silence. I dragged myself out of the bed—careful to avoid Deen, who had somehow drifted to sleep—and quickly strode to the wardrobe. The jacket, for once, did not matter. It was only pushed aside as I stretched a hand beneath the enormous, wooden monstrosity. My fingers instinctively closed around the cold metal case and I jerked it back eagerly.
Damn.
The lid had popped open and, in the mere seconds of light blazing through open curtains, all hope had been lost.
––––––––
THERE ARE PARTS OF our pasts we would rather endure, rather than hate. My childhood was, at best, an unhappy one, and certainly without the fairytale innocence pressed upon naivety of young minds. I had believed myself well past the threshold of regret; barreling forward into a world I could recognise as my own. And yet, the only thing I seemed to have learned from the past few weeks is that I knew nothing.
I spun the film canister between my hands. The day Keane converted an old wash closet into a dark room was well before our aquaintenship began; however, I held it in the same fascination as I might have upon its creation. Red bulbs illuminated the table and shimmered across the pools of chemicals. Deen had been settled in the kitchen under Mrs. McCarthy’s watchful eye, leaving me once again blissfully alone. I donned a pair of Keane’s gloves—a bit too large at the fingers—and began the tedious process of development. When I had first watched a roll of film become dripping copies, I revelled in the skill of my companion’s fingers as they hung photograph after photograph of chopping seas and sailing ships. Certainly there were enough murderers caught by his lens to collect an astonishing reward. Yes, Keane’s grace from every step of the photography process was to be envied.
Mine was clumsy, at best.
New staines upon my trousers were added to old, and it was perhaps a blessing nature had destroyed much of the film, rather than allow it to fall beneath my bumbling follies. Ruined photographs were pinned on the wire, dried, and tossed into the rubbish bin. After two hours, I had given up staring at the blank pages of hopelessness and once more allowed my eyes to befall a dry paper resting in the corner. I had seen the photograph before. I must have, for it was I who had taken it a few months before. It was Keane, climbing out of his automobile in front of the cottage. I had witnessed that monotonous moment a hundred times, at best; yet, in that particular instance, it had been captured on a varying scale of grey.
I set the stolen moment aside, only to find another peeking out of Keane’s heavy apron slung over a wall peg. This one I could not recognise quite so well. A single streetlamp stuck out over a park’s damp bridge; giving flecks of white to the darker shadows. Two strangers, though perhaps not entirely foreign to each other, strode along the winding path. The taller carried himself a little ahead of the other—posture high and commanding—while the second dawdled slightly behind; shoulders slumped, head bowed, and leather jacket pulled tightly about the neck. By my own pitiful stature, I rapidly understood this was not a photograph from a week, a month, or even a year before. No, this had been early in our acquaintanceship—less than a year, even—where I had not yet grown into the world, nor had the world quite grown upon me. Keane, on the other hand, was as he always was. Keane. Unchanging in the face of most every disaster.
And yet, he had changed.
Hadn’t he?
I tucked the photograph back into the apron pouch and turned back to the row of dripping papers. The pan beneath the wire line allowed the drops to splatter no further than the edge, though the sound became louder and more pressing with each passing failure.
It was the last batch.
The final breath of hope among a lake of drowned corpses.
One by one I removed the pins and examined the results. Nothing. Each was as blank or corrupted as the last. In one swoop of fury, I tore the last few pages from the metal wire and thrust each and every one of them into the dustbin as a seeping wound.
As I took one final, withering glance at the pile; however, my blindness was cured.
Hope was restored.
And instantly destroyed.