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“That hurts.” I winced as my companion’s fingers tugged at the end of my moustache and rather crudely peeled it away from my upper lip. Keane’s brow furrowed slightly in concentration.
“Whining is beneath you, Lawrence. I believe I did warn you against the infinite pains of facial hair.”
“Yes, yes. I know where this is going. You’re right, the wig would have been much more forgiving to my face. The possibility of high heels on the other hand—ouch!” My hand swung up to my stinging upper lip, but the damage had already been done. The brown, fuzzy piece of my misery lay like a dead mouse in my companion’s palm, while my face was left excruciatingly raw. Keane stowed the forged facial hair in his coat pocket.
“I would have thought the theatre would have taught you to do that more gently.” I muttered.
“And I believed you could have survived a little discomfort with a bit more decorum. Now, hurry and change. Our next train departs in an hour.” I begrudgingly burrowed further into the station’s public lavatory—the gent’s side, no less—with my only relief being the tactful ‘out of order’ sign Keane had carefully taped over the outside door. I hastily exchanged my cheap, altered business suit for a rather startling, unattractive patterned shirt with semi-matching trousers. It was all very bohemian. Too much so for any sane person’s tastes. The shoes alone were slick at the heels and left me teetering forward as I emerged once more toward the more spacious area where Keane was slicking back Alessandro’s recently trimmed hair with water from the sink. My companion glanced at me in the mirror with genuine amusement. An emotion I could not reciprocate.
“Don’t you look smart.” He said in mock wonder. “The epitome of English fashion.”
“Keane, another outburst like that and you will be the ‘epitome’ of an English mugging victim.” He didn’t give me a chance to gloat over a magnificent retort before sweeping my old suit from the filthy, tile floor and dropping it unceremoniously into the bin. Not long after, the three of us were again on the train platform, dragging our tired, aching bodies onto our assigned train. It was a strange thing to find that, in those damnable shoes, my megre stature was lengthened until my head brushed just below Keane’s ear, rather than his shoulder. On the other hand, it was only by divine intervention I did not slip to the ground as I struggled up the carriage steps and down the rows of benches. My companion prodded us forward until we reached the very end of the train car. At last, we were permitted to sit.
Alessandro fell asleep almost at once; small head bumping against the window glass as the engine dutifully began to tug its heavy load down the tracks. Many of the other passengers had the same plans, and those who did not at least feigned to do so. There was only silence between Keane and I, as well as several rows of empty seating to buffer our conversation from unwanted ears. At last I was able to do what I had been diplomatically restraining since unnaturally early that morning.
I laughed.
I should make it a point here to state it is never wise to laugh at a man, and most certainly not when said man has ties to half the mental institutes in Europe. Then again, it really was not so much of a laugh as it was a hearty chuckle just a wee bit out of control. Keane’s brow immediately creased in its customary furrow of canyons and hills, but I found I could not stop so easily as that.
How could I?
He looked ridiculous.
Bits of hair dye had been washed through his hair until only the temples and facial hair remained their light grey. A bit of powder had been added to his face to conceal a few lines that ran a bit too deep to be strictly youthful. These were acceptable—even expected—when it came to a practical disguise. What was not quite so natural was the layers of theatrical padding systematically building over his lean torso. His chest remained rather unchanged, with the slight excess bunching up at his stomach. While it certainly appeared uncomfortable, the addition was not so great as to make him appear portly. It only distracted from the hollows of his cheeks, as well as the dark circles lingering under his eyes. The only real comfort had come a day or so before when the black, spidery stitches were removed and left only a string of pink, tender flesh.
I glanced at the tailored cut of Keane’s own costume.
“You didn’t have one of your nice suits let out for this, did you?”
“No, those are packed away.” He amended; running a hand over the odd lumps on his torso. “This one is on permanent loan. From Fingal.”
“Surely you jest.” The tilt of his scruffy head and arch of an eyebrow said otherwise. “But he’s twice your size, and that padding couldn’t have added more than a suggested two stone.”
“I was hoping for a stone and a half.”
“Either way, you would have had to take the suit in quite a lot.” My companion shrugged. Good lord, had he padded his shoulders as well?
“Easier to take clothes in than to take them out. Besides, Mrs. McCarthy didn’t seem to mind.”
“Of course not. She adores you. Though I suspect she has grown tired of taking inches out of your own clothes and would rather be adding them.” Keane chuckles slightly before shifting around his feigned bulk to reach his pockets. Out came both cigarettes and lighter, as well as a thin, metallic canister. This he passed unceremoniously to me.
I scoffed.
“Lipstick? Really, Keane—”
“Open it.” I carefully pulled the top off of the canister to find it empty. Almost. I slipped a finger into the tube and carefully pulled out a necklace crafted from faux gold and clumsily cut glass.
“Christ, it’s... ”
“Splendid?”
“Gaudy. What possessed you to buy such a thing?”
“I thought women were quite fond of shiny objects. Besides, I firmly believe it is better to spend a few extra pounds on an honest forgery than an equal amount for something you can’t consciously throw away. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“If it was anyone but you, and anyone but me, I would say yes.” Keane held my gaze in silence until the next split in the track before holding out a single, unaltered hand.
“Shall I put it on for you?” I tentatively placed the exquisite necklace in his palm before turning around. My hair was still short enough that neither of us was forced to hold it back while he fought against the tiny clasp. “Remember, Lawrence, you are supposed to be high society now; wine, dancing, jewellery, clothing—”
“All the things I can’t stand.” I didn’t hear the chuckle, but I felt it as it shook the cigarette held in his lips.
“We haven’t even discussed the parties yet.”
“Is that so? Well then, if I am supposed to be the elegant, if unusual, Lady Chiltern, who are you? Not Arthur Goring, surely.” Another breath rattled against my neck.
“What must you think of me, Lawrence. No, I believe myself better suited to the role of DaVinci: philosopher, legend, and...artist.” Keane’s skillful fingers finished closing the clasp and moved away from the slight bit of flesh exposed at my nape. It was then, as the weight of an object’s wealth fell upon my collarbone, that the slight flecks of colour beneath his cuticles sparked a conclusion in my exhausted and overworked brain.
“A painter? You are going to be a painter?”
“I was unaware you disliked the arts.”
“Not at all.” I flailed desperately. “I rather enjoy them. Very much so. I just didn’t know you could paint.”
“Anyone can paint, Lawrence. Seth Philips back in Devon does a fine job of it.”
“But he paints houses.”
“And I shall paint on canvases. I wouldn’t have thought that so difficult to comprehend.” I opened my mouth to very rightly explain the vast difference between slathering dull tones across a building's exterior and the soft, delicate touches of portraiture when, all at once, his role seemed no longer to matter so much as before. Rather, we had reached a different dilemma.
“You never explained why we are doing this.”
“‘This?’”
“Running off to Aberdeen. The ludicrous clothes. Changing professions off the cuff. Hardly your typical day in the country.”
“My dear Lawrence, when have we ever been typical?” Fair point. “I believe it was for the best to leave Devon for a time. The cottage was hardly a remaining safe haven, all things considering. As for the choice of Aberdeen, it was the only realistic choice we had. One step off the island and we would both be shackled in Cornhill.”
“And the costumes?”
“A pitiful attempt to lure attention away from Alessandro’s presence.”
I ripped my gaze away from Keane’s infuriating logic and out toward the orange and yellow landscape flying past the window. Now there was a painting; colours swirled together until it was everything and nothing at the same time. Dimensions unimaginable and real churned just beyond the tracks.
Life.
That is the best, and dare I say only, way to describe it.
Art.
A reflection of life.
Life.
The true inspiration for art.
Keane tucked another cigarette between his lips, opened a newspaper he had conveniently bought at the station, and settled himself into several hours of reading.
I, to my own satisfaction, fell asleep.
––––––––
“ABERDEEN. NEXT STOP, Aberdeen.” I swam gradually to the surface of wakefulness at the monotonous call; yawning mightily and wanting nothing more than to tumble back into the tender arms of sleep. Keane was up first—incredible, considering the additions surrounding his torso and the lingering soreness at his middle—though the considerable brunt of the luggage was shared between Alessandro, myself, and an overeager porter. I transferred the smallest bits to the young boy, the largest to the porter, and a few manageable bags to myself. As a peace offering, and that he might not feel made entirely useless by his recent indisposition, I passed Keane the tiny daybag with little more than his own change of shirt and some bandages, lest the padding at his waist begin to leak from beneath his clothing.
Every pretence had been planned. A motorcar waited patiently at the station—owned by some acquaintance of Keane, no doubt—and immediately whisked us away into the streets of Aberdeen.
I had not realised the lateness of the hour until the trip between the station and hotel was over; cut short by the darkness coating the sky. We all struggled out, I paid the driver—better I reach my pockets than Keane—and our faltering crusade hurried into our hotel room. It was here, in the privacy of four enclosed walls, that it began. Alessandro’s nightly preparations were surprisingly quick; a hasty washed behind the ears and he fell asleep on one of the two offered beds. So short. Simple.
Pleasant.
Keane’s was not.
“Lawrence, I had not thought you to be the vengeful sort.” He jested, carefully slipping out of his large jacket before turning his fingers to the waistcoat.
“I’m not.” I protested as he set the second piece over the lavatory door handle. “Now, take the shirt off.” He did so, gradually and meticulously, to reveal the soft, pillow-like slabs bound to his waist by thick strips of bandages and sticking plasters. I stared for a few seconds at his misshapen torso before hiding my mouth in the corner of my sleeve as I reached down for my leather jacket bunched in one of the bags.
Keane folded his arms.
“I do hope you will quell your amusement before brandishing a knife near my organs. I believe I have already suffered enough this past month.” I smiled again, cautiously unfolding my penknife blade from its silver sheath.
“Come now, Keane. I thought you trusted me.”
“Indefinitely.” He grumbled. “But that is beside the point. I can recall no less than fifty occasions in which you threatened to dismember some part of my anatomy—in, might I say, an incredibly unladylike fashion—and at least twice you very nearly held true to your word.” I smirked.
“Fifty threats, you say? And here I thought it was only forty-nine.” Another phrase, a great deal more colourful than my own supposed indignities, brushed over Keane’s lips before he begrudgingly moved his arms aside and gave me full access to the strapping bands.
The task began an over-conscious, clumsy effort to avoid my companion’s flesh. Within the first five minutes, he muttered twice; the first being that he believed I was drawing too close with the blade and the second accusing my cuts of being too slow. Eventually, a system developed. I wrapped my fingers under the bandages, pulled them as far as I could from Keane’s torso, and quickly snapped through them with my knife. Within the hour, my companion’s hollowed torso appeared beneath a sheen of sweat, and the floor was littered with white clouds.
I packed the padding into a nearby carpet bag, which was then slipped neatly under the second bed. The shoes were first to go for me; followed immediately by nearly every other audacious relec. Stockings were thrown over the bedpost, and the blouse and skirt were immediately replaced with a cotton shirt and trousers. Slipping my arms into my jacket for warmth, I glanced once at the trail of feminine clothing stretching across and onto the mattress. It was rather like a baptism; peeling away the expectations of others to edge further into the comfort of familiarity. When Keane reappeared from the washroom; however, a somewhat more exotic assumption was jokingly made, sending me scrambling for each abandoned article and stuffing them wildly into my bag. The worst of it cleared away, I stalked back to the bed and immediately burrowed beneath the bedclothes. Squeaking, metal coils announced my companion as he settled himself on the other side. I was burning between the leather swaddling my arms and the sheets thrown carelessly atop. It would have been better—wiser—to rise above the idiocracy of pride and remove my jacket completely.
But I would never surrender.
I drifted in and out of sleep; fully aware rivers of perspiration had charted their course along my spine. No, it was sweat—hot, boiling sweat—well earned and foolishly created. By midnight, my shirt was soaked through in a feverish churn. My body ached with the consequence of pride.
And yet, it was not my hands that tugged the leather from my limbs and pushed it onto the floor, whipping away all sweat and discomfort. I settled further against the pillow as the sheets settled and cooled my flesh. As I rapidly drifted toward sleep, I felt—or dreamt—the feather-weight of breath upon my neck. Perhaps they were nothing, but I thought—just for a moment—syllables were forming in the air; curling around my ears as an ancient call of rest. And so, as my night’s vigil drew to a close, I was bothered by only one, final thought.
He was quoting Shakespeare.
––––––––
HANDS AWOKE ME. COLD, thin hands that had already felt the crisp chill of the outside world. I stirred; flinging both legs and limb in every direction. It wasn’t desperate. I wasn’t fighting. I didn’t want pain, only—
“By God, Lawrence, heaven help the man who tries to bring you breakfast in the morning. Shall I go out and pour coffee down my shirt, or—do stop snoring. If you can swing your fists, you can open your eyes. Or at least improve your acting skills.” I begrudgingly prised one eye and squinted up at my companion.
“My acting skills are quite proficient, thank you. Yours might need a bit of critiquing though.” I threw an arm over my burning eyes. “You didn’t bring breakfast.”
“No, I rather thought it was best to begin our roles immediately...” Keane hesitated briefly before finishing with a flourish. “...Mrs. Harrison.”
“Christ, that is an awful name. Completely unartistic.”
“Windhelm?”
“Too German.”
“Laurent?”
“French.”
“Ingredeer?” My head shot up from the pillow.
“If you want a divorce, Keane, just ask. No need for torture.”
“How utterly modern of you; immediately considering the divorce. Go and dress. Aliases can be discussed later.” I peeled myself from the mattress and staggered blindly to the washroom. After a quick bath, complete with a fresh change of clothes, I was ready to answer the knock when it first came; tentatively against a man who knew little of the word’s definition. His head swung around the lavatory door.
Had his hair been dishevelled an hour ago?
“Are you quite finished, or should I send an army of fusiliers in after you?”
“Ha bloody ha. How extraordinarily hysterical. Are you certain you shouldn’t be a court jester instead of an artist? Besides, I believe you mentioned something about going to breakfast.”
“Ah. Yes. About that...” Keane slipped forward into the porcelain decorated room as though he had forgotten something rather too embarrassing to admit. The dressing gown wrapped and tied around his shoulders was infinitely more loose than it had been on our trip to the Riviera. I suspected it was another change that would be amended in the next few months; however, the further and further we drifted from the tightly knitted past, the less certain I became. Two, nimble hands dropped forward to the silk belt tied casually around his waist, tugged at the two ends, and allowed the cloth to fall open at the front before tumbling the rest of the way to the floor. The trousers he wore, though most certainly prior inhabitants of Fingal’s wardrobe, were cinched tight against Keane’s flesh with a belt before trickling downwards in great folds of surplus fabric. Anything above the strip of leather keeping the tweed material above his hips, rather than a crumpled pile on the floor, was bare. For a moment, as I stared at that rail-thin form so painful to behold, I wondered how the flesh stretched tight around his body hadn’t torn down the centre. What I had seen last night had hidden behind the safety of a tired mind’s lingering shadows, as well as strips of sticking plaster still spotting places.
There was none of that now.
Grimy, gooey residue had been carefully scraped from his body, just as a few hours' sleep dusted the cobwebs from within my aching brain. In this new light, I could count most every rib on his chest, note the fine distinction of each tiny vertebrae building his long, masterful spine, and indeed, tracing the lines of veins snaking beneath his skin would have been no real task, as they were all distinct and clear.
Keane dropped the bag of padding at my feet, unrolled a few, long strips of bandages, and we began. When he was once more transformed into a semi-plush, strangely built mummy, I stepped away.
“That should do. Need any help with the rest? No? Alright then, should we go to breakfast in...an hour perhaps?” I didn’t bother waiting for an answer to the last questions, for, between my own hunger and that of the boy awakening in the other room, Keane would not be alive were we to wait longer than that.
The restaurant Keane chose was practically invisible to the eyes of Aberdeen; concealed among the mayhem of the city streets. It was certainly a small pinprick against the great fabric of bustling businessmen, but their food was acceptable to both palate and pocketbook. While money was of little importance, I could not hold a sense of relief entirely at bay as Alessandro shovelled his way through plate after plate of fried eggs, not to mention the stodgy, hot porridge congealing against the sides of the bowl. The owner, or some employee directly below in rank, grinned impishly as we paid our bill and offered a warm invitation to return as we once more threaded ourselves into the great cloth of society. Keane burrowed through the crowd, while Alessandro and I simply followed in his wake. Dialects and brogues swam around my ears in thick turrets; every constant and changing. We turned down one street, then left down another, though the names were of so little consequence at the time, I fear I have forgotten them completely.
In honesty, my sense of direction was occasionally compromised by an acute sense of curiosity toward my surroundings.
Enormous blocks of dark mills were offset by the colourful language adopted through the street vendors pushing their carts up and down along the pavement. Fumes of petrol overpowered the air, just as the call for fish hid the young girls clutching wilted bouquets of flowers.
It was dirty, cold, and boisterous.
It was life.
I trailed Keane for another few minutes before I began to notice new additions I had not discovered on the way to breakfast.
They did not look new.
Indeed, they were sights well ingrained upon the history of Aberdeen; faces worn with stories old and babes awaiting adventures yet to come. I quickened my stride and wrapped my hand around my companion’s arm.
“Keane, this isn’t the way to the hotel.” A head dipped near mine.
“When the curtain rises, the players must act immediately.” Christ. Our American cousins had infected Keane with the sparkle of the stage, and it was I to be dragged upon the acclaimed wooden box without warning, reward, or thanks. The last two of these were of no matter, really; however, the first was often a luxury I rarely found. On the wave of my thoughts, my stride slowed slightly, only to be prompted rapidly onward by a hand at my back, while a second was suddenly grasped by the young boy who had started the entire escapade. It was a sight more stiff and necessary than strictly domestic, though I thought that was precisely what Keane intended.
We turned two more streets and landed at the feet of one of the few buildings that did not omit stenches of mechanical arms and overwrought sweat. Here the hands fell away and swept quickly into his pockets.
“Here we are. The McAteer Gallery.” Keane announced in a voice far too rough and bending to the native dialect to be his own. His face was so unlike the expected contours of my companion, and I immediately realised I too must become as unreadable to Keane as this stranger had become to me. He started to turn away, as though I had missed some line in the play we weaved deeply into our lives. My mind raced. I thought of the shoes I had abandoned on the hotel floor with the hope that the cleaning woman might see sense and throw them into the nearest rubbish bin. The auditions trousers and shirt met a similar fate, as did every other article the day before had thrust upon me.
Now I was me.
Truly me.
My leather boots appeared just below the fall of my trousers, and my jacket remained firmly set upon my shoulders. A colourful scarf spun round my neck helped to revive a bit of the carefree bits of a true society.
Beyond that, I remained virtually unchanged in the face of any situation; clinging to the one belief that would last me the rest of my days.
There is no better disguise than being yourself.
But Keane—the man known by some and revered by others—was not himself. He had leeway between the black and the white; a sort of grey area. A hand reached out, touched my arm lightly with a nod, and he began to ascend the stairs toward Aberdeen’s heaven.
Alone.