HF - 04 - Black Dawn (23 page)

'Well, he does be living down Union Street. Is that second corner.'

'Over there,' Dick said, and kicked his horse. People parted in front of him, reluctantly.

'Maybe I should stay here,' Judith suggested.

'Rubbish. Rubbish,' he shouted. 'You go where I go. That's an order. From me.' He turned his horse down a quiet tree-lined avenue, away from the bustle of the town centre. 'Laidlaw,' he bellowed at a white couple obviously on their way back from the celebrations. 'Laidlaw.'

'Why, 'tis Mr Hilton,' said the man. 'Melissa, 'tis Mr Hilton. Good day to you, sir.' He raised his hat, and his wife gave a nervous smile.

'Oh, good day to you, sir. Madam. I seek La
i
dlaw.'

'Why, Mr Hilton, sir, his house is straight across the street.'

'I thank you.' Dick dismounted, strode up the stairs. Judith leaned from her own saddle to take his bridle.

The house was small, and had verandahs on both floors, inevitably. Laidlaw had taken a post in the government, as agricultural adviser. The front door was shut, but in response to his banging was opened by a black butler. 'Sir?'

'You have a Miss Taggart staying here, I believe,' Dick said. 'I wish to see her.'

'Miss Taggart only just come in, sir,' the man said. 'She is weary, Mr Hilton, sir, and lying down.'

'I'll see her, by God,' Dick shouted. 'I'll see her.'

'You'll do no such thing, sir-' Charles Laidlaw said, corning into the hallway behind his sen-ant. 'We saw you, sir, coming down the street, reeling in the saddle. What, did you stop to drink with that disgusting mob? Miss Taggart says if you do not leave on the instant, she will not speak with you again. And I am empowered to have you ejected, sir.'

'To have me . . .' Dick stared at him. But Laidlaw was at least his size, and the servant even bigger. 'By God,' he shouted 'Had I a pistol. . .'

'You'd attempt murder?' Laidlaw inquired.

Dick turned and stamped down the steps. He should have broken their heads. He should have taken the precaution of bringing Josh and Absolom with him. Then they'd have sung a different song. He had never been so angry in his life. Why .
..

'She'd not receive you?' Judith asked.

'Silly bitch,' he grumbled. 'Maybe it was seeing you. We'll to your mother first. Aye, I should have done that. Then I'll seek out Tony, by God. And then we'll see.'

Judith said nothing, but released his bridle and turned her horse.

'Drunk, am I?' Dick grumbled, following her. 'By God, I'll show her, drunk. I'll. . .' He discovered himself in front of the hotel, just round the corner from Harbour Street. The noise crashed and boomed in his ears. 'Come on,' he said, and dismounted. God, how his head hurt. He stamped into the reception hall, peered at the clerk. 'I am looking for Mistress Gale.'

The clerk looked from him to Judith. 'Ah
...
if you'd wait, sir, perhaps I could acquaint Mistress Gale with your arrival.'

'Acquaint?' Dick shouted. 'Give me her room number, dolt. I am Richard Hilton. I'll see myself up.'

'I know who you are, Mr Hilton.' The clerk looked at Judith again. 'The number is seven hundred and four. But really, sir . . .'

'Seven hundred and four?' Dick gaped at
him
. 'You have seven hundred rooms in this dump?'

'No, sir, we have seven. But Mr Mortlake decided to start the numbering at seven hundred and one. Gives the place a bit of class, you see.'

'Seven hundred and four. Good God Almighty.' Dick climbed the stairs, looked over his shoulder. 'Aren't you coming?'

Judith crammed her hat on her head, ran behind him. Dick was already in the uncarpeted corridor. By now it was growing dark, and the candles had not yet been lit. He peered at a door, found it was open; the room beyond was empty. The number read seven hundred and two.

'This one,' he decided, and tried the next handle. It was bolted. 'Open up,' he bawled, banging on the door. 'Open up, Harriet. It's me.'

'She's probably out celebrating,' Judith whispered.

'Celebrating? She'd have seen us.' He resumed banging on the door. 'Open up. Open up.'

The door swung in, and he found himself looking at a very large white man.

'Who the devil are you?' he demanded, peered past him into the candlelit room. 'Harriet?'

'Well, well,' she said, and got off the bed. 'Come to your senses?'

'Harriet?' She was naked. 'Good God. You only left Hilltop at eleven.'

She tossed her head. 'I have friends,' she said. 'I decided to look one up.'

Dick tried to enter the room, and found the large man's hand on his chest. 'What'll I do?' the man asked.

'Oh, throw him out,' Harriet said. 'And come back to bed.'

'You heard the lady,' said the large man.

'Now look here,' Dick declared. 'I am Richard Hilton. I intend to enter that room. Stand aside.' He once again tried to push in, and gained the sensation that a mule had kicked him under the chin.

Dick found himself lying against the wall opposite the door marked 704, which had again closed. He did not remember it closing, so presumably he had been unconscious. But only for seconds; he watched Judith Gale coming towards him, apparently, from the flutter of her skirt and her hair, moving quickly, but seeming to take an eternity actually to kneel beside him.

You shouldn't be here, he wanted to say. You should be inside with your mother. But when he attempted to move his chin nothing happened.

'Oh, God,' she said. She was kneeling now, and stretching out her hand to touch the corner of his mouth, then take it away again and look at the blood. 'Oh, God.'

He pushed himself up. The corridor appeared to be rising and falling, like a ship in a rough sea, and the wall against which he lay was also moving, back and forth.

There were noises from the stairs. Judith heard them as well. 'They mustn't see you like this, Uncle Dick,' she said, and grasped his arm. What a strong child she was. With only the minimum of help from him she dragged and pushed and propped him, first to his knees, and then to his feet, and then through the still opened door of seven hundred and two. Here, she released him, and he staggered across the room and fell over the bed.

Behind him the door closed, and the bolt was slipped. Dimly he heard feet in the corridor, and voices, but it was impossible to decide what they were saying, The entire hotel seemed shrouded in the racket from the next street. A board creaked, and then the mattress—the bed was not made up-depressed beside him. 'Shall I light a candle?' she whispered. 'There must be one.'

He rolled on his back. 'No,' he said. There. He could speak again. 'They might see it.'

She nodded; in the gloom he could see her head move, although he could not make out her face. Although perhaps he could make out the glow of her eyes.

'He took you unawares,' she said. 'Next time you'll kill him.'

He watched the glow. He felt sick, in his belly and in his heart, and in his mind. His last remembered thought before the fist had exploded against his chin had been shame, a certain knowledge that he was in a situation about which he could do nothing, and winch would leave him even more bereft of self-respect than before.

But mingled with the shame, incessantly and increasingly, was the memory of this girl's wrists in his as she had knelt across the bed, and the tears issuing from her eyes. The very eyes which now gloomed at him. And of the pale-skinned buttocks, so contrasted with the suntan of her face and arms and feet, quivering and reddening beneath the blows.

The eyes came closer; and she was lying beside him, propped on her elbow. 'Uncle Dick,' she said, softly. 'Do you think Miss Taggart would object if I stayed on Hilltop? I could be her maid. You could tell her you employed me as a surprise, to be her maid. I can be a maid, Uncle Dick. I've brushed Mummy's hair, oh, often. And if you make me stay in town Mummy will beat me again, I know she will, Uncle Dick.' She seemed struck by an afterthought, and came closer yet; he could feel her breath on his face. 'I'd call you Mr Hilton, Uncle Dick.'

Oh, Christ, he thought. Oh, Christ. Because he had touched her before he had realized what he was doing. His hand seemed to leave his side as if impelled with some other force than his mind, and lay for a moment on her shoulder, before slipping down her back.

Foolishly, he thought he must make conversation. It was the only way. 'Are you sore?'

'I'm burning, Uncle Dick. Oh, Uncle Dick.' But it wasn't a protest. Her bottom gave a little wriggle under his hand, and she licked his face. Like a cat, he thought. Like a cat. He wanted to look at her, but not her face. He sat up to raise her skirts, and found he could see the slender slivers of white which were her legs, just as he could inhale the utter freshness of her youth. But not that young. When he buried his head in her groin, he found hair. And now she was sitting up as well, hugging his face between belly and thighs as she brought up her knees. 'Oh, Uncle Dick,' she said again.

How long, he wondered. How many nights, how many dreams, have you lurked there at the back of my mind? How many hours in bed with your mother have been dominated by the thought of you?

He was lying again, on his face, and she was reaching down his back to release his belt, and then drive her hands inside his breeches. So then, had
she
dreamed? Or had she just been awakened by Tony's assault, this morning? But had that been an assault, or had she not just been seeking, from any man? Her own mother called her a whore.
Was
she a whore? He had discovered her and Tony because this day he had returned to the house early, to celebrate the news of Bonaparte's abdication. He had supposed it had been a coincidence. But there was no such thing as coincidence. Suppose Tony and Judith had been frolicking together every day? The servants would have known. How they must have grinned and winked, behind his back. Why, even Harriet must have known. By God, Harriet. She had known, and done nothing about it until she could act the mother to her best advantage.

Only Dick Hilton had not known, would never have known, save for Bonaparte. Just as Ellen would not have discovered his guilt, but for Bonaparte. God damn Bonaparte. But
was
she a whore?

He pushed himself up, and her arm went round his neck. She had learned, from her mother, no doubt, and drew him to her, fingers busy. He had a wild, irrelevant thought that she might scream, as her mother did, when he entered. But instead she gave the longest sigh he had ever heard, seeming to expel all the air from her lungs and then go on exhaling even after that, so that her body appeared to deflate, and she lay absolutely still, her arms tight on his neck, her cheek next to his, causing the most exquisite agony as his face surged against hers.

Then he lay as still as she, lips together, bodies together, feet together, his hair mingling with hers as it flopped from his forehead, passion disappeared in a gnawing, a growing despair. The sickness was back, eating at his belly, eating at his brain, eating at his heart. This girl was fourteen years old. She called him uncle. She had stayed with him after he had been beaten, rather than taking refuge with her mother. She had not fought him, because she trusted him. And his reply had been to rape her.

For merely attempting to molest her, he had quarrelled with Tony, and sent him from the plantation.

He wanted to vomit. He wanted to choke. He wished he could choke. He pushed himself away from her, pulled up his breeches, threaded his belt.

'We could stay the night. It is too late to ride back to Hilltop now.'

Too late, he thought. And she, in her innocence, would compound the crime, again and again. He went to the door.

'Uncle Dick?' She raised herself on her elbow.

'Your mother,' he mumbled. 'You must go to your mother.' He stepped into the corridor, was for a moment dazzled by the flickering candles. The door closed behind him. He went down the stairs, and the clerk gazed at him in amazement. No doubt he remained untidy, his hair scattered.

He stood on the porch, inhaled the night air. It was quite dark, and the windows of the houses were dotted with light. It was also quieter; the revellers had returned home to eat. And talk. And laugh. They would have Richard Hilton to discuss, this night. Harriet Gale, laughing with her friend at the way he had been dismissed. Tony Hilton, laughing with his gambling friends over his brother's absurd attitudes. Ellen Taggart, laughing with the Laidlaws over the way they had brought him to heel. And Judith Gale, sobbing to herself, as the enormity of what had happened slowly overtook her.

He felt in his coat pocket, discovered a bottle of rum. Had he finished the other one? He pulled out the cork, took a long drink, and lost some of the sick feeling. But the street kept rising and falling.

His horse gave a faint whinny, but he ignored it, walked down the street, staggering a little, brain buzzing, head opening and shutting with gigantic bangs, stomach rolling. And came to a full stop at the beginnings of the dock. Before him the harbour was quiet, the water lapping at the piles, the ships riding to their anchors. He took another drink.