Wickedness (15 page)

Claire looked down at the Emerald Casket tucked tight under her arm. She closed her eyes, tried to imagine what would happen if she could open it, but there was only a feeling of an immense power just out of reach.

She could feel Zacharie’s hot breath against her neck as he leaned over her shoulder to look at the scroll again.

“Interesting. So the box
can
be opened. Maybe it’s
my
ring…”

And before Claire could stop him, he’d slipped the casket from under her arm and had pressed his ring into the oval of the cartouche. She held her breath. But there was nothing… and if he heard
any words whispering in
his
head… then he wasn’t saying. But he looked thoughtful. “Maybe you need knowledge and power from the other scrolls first, before you can open the box.”

“What?” she said sharply, snatching the casket back from him and holding it close.

Zacharie looked as though he was weighing things up. Making a calculation. She’d been going to say, “I don’t think you do. It just has to be the right time.” Instead she made a joke of it. “Thank God I don’t have that knowledge and power then!”

“But
he
does. He has it.”

“Yes, but the police have got him. They won’t let him go. You saw what he was like. Insane. Dangerous.”

Claire felt a momentary surge of confidence that quickly ebbed away as she saw Zacharie’s expression. Saw the shrug and heard him say, “Oh,
cela arrive tout le temps
. It happens all the time. Murderers, rapists – released because of some technicality. Or because some ‘psychologist’ believes that they’ve changed. And besides, he has power. Power we can only guess at. Do you think the police will be able to hold him? Do you? Really? No, the only way you will be safe is if he is dead.”

“But he’s not dead is he?”

“No, but he
will
be. We can make sure of that.”

“Tea! Toast!” Emma was standing at the bottom of the stairs, holding up a tray. “I’ve been looking for you. Oh, and Claire, I’ve had a message from your dad. He’s on his way. He’ll be here very soon.”

Claire looked round at Zacharie, hesitated for a split-second, but she could feel his hand in the small of her back giving her a little push. She hitched her backpack up on her shoulder, feeling the sharp edge of the casket inside it, poking through.

“Just think what he was shouting when they took him away, Claire. That he
dies
if he doesn’t have the spells. Maybe it is not enough to remember them. Maybe he has to have them in his hands. No spells. He dies. If you believe him, that is.”

Claire did. “You take them,” she’d whispered, thrusting Robert’s bag into Zacharie’s hands. “Hide them. Don’t tell me where. That way I can’t tell anyone else.”

“Let me take the box, too. Then
you
will
be safe.” Zacharie held out his hand coaxingly.

Why not give it to him? He WAS the guardian, wasn’t he? And she knew HE couldn’t open it. But there were the words whispering inside her head…
not yet, not yet, not yet.
So, even though Zacharie clearly thought this meant she didn’t trust him, she said, “No. The box has to stay with me.”

Claire’s dad was looking dishevelled and unshaven and when he wrapped his arms around her to give her a hug, she could smell sleep still on him and a faint but insistent, perfume. Sharp and citrussy.

“Ugh. You’re all scratchy,” she said pulling back. “Come on. I want to go home now.” Before her dad had a chance to say more than ‘hello’ and ‘thanks’ to Zacharie. Before he found out Zacharie was with the circus, found out how old he was and came over all heavy and moral. As if he had any right to do that. Not that it would stop him.

“Okay. Okay. Little Miss Bossy, let’s go.” Claire’s dad looked at Zacharie and said, sounding gruff and awkward, “Thanks for saving her life. God knows…”

Zacharie held up both his hands, palms outward, “
Pah! C’est rien
. It is nothing.” Smiled.

As Claire left, she turned to look at him. He made a phone sign and mouthed, “Ring you later.”

By the time they left, it was rush hour. Crawling along Chelsea Bridge Road and onto Chelsea Bridge, the car was almost at a standstill. They were on their way to Grandma’s house, so Claire could wash and change. Then they were going to the hospital to see her mum and Micky. There would be plenty of time to talk later, but just now she didn’t feel like it. She had her arms wrapped tightly around her backpack and her head turned away from her dad. She was looking out of the window, trying to get a glimpse of the river between the stream of people hurrying past.

“This Zacharie seems a bit different.” Her dad was trying to sound all jolly and upbeat. Ugh!

“What, you mean because he’s
foreign
,” Claire snapped.

“Well… no! Just that he seems,” Claire flinched,
because she knew exactly what her dad was going to say, “older than your other friends.”

“He’s not a friend. He’s just someone I know. At least
he
had his phone turned on. You ought to be grateful. He saved me.”

“How do you know him then?”

Claire ignored the question. Carried on looking out of the window.

“Want to tell me what happened?” Her dad’s hand rested briefly on her knee.

She shook her head. “No!”

Silence.

“I feel so guilty,” her dad was saying. “If I’d been around…”

If you’d had your phone switched on ever. If you hadn’t been too busy. If you hadn’t been cheating on Mum?
She knew he wanted her to say, “It’s okay, Dad. It’s not your fault.” But she didn’t feel like doing that. She let him ramble on. She registered the rise and fall of his voice. The tone breathy and sincere and a little bit earnest. As if he was an actor playing the part of a contrite father. She would still love him. He was her dad. But she would never believe in him quite as much, ever again. She didn’t ask what he had been doing all the time she’d been trying to
call him. She knew, but didn’t want to have him say it. Besides, there were other bigger and more important things to worry about than the small everyday tragedy of a parent’s infidelity, and as if he had read her mind, he said, “They won’t let him out, you know. The DI said they’d got the duty psychiatrist out of bed. He’ll be sectioned. No question. He’s clearly a nutter. What on earth your mum thought she was doing…”

She did turn her head towards him then. Dropped the bombshell. “Yeah. Well people do strange things when they’re pregnant.”

Claire turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open. Her footsteps echoed in the hall. There was no other noise anywhere. No background buzz from a television or radio. No taps dripping. Even the clocks had run down and stopped. There was just chill, empty silence. Her dad was still outside. He’d said he wanted to get something out of the boot, but when she looked back he was still in the driver’s seat and on the phone, dropping a bombshell now himself; saying
to
her
… the sharp-faced smiling woman… “Sorry, I am SO sorry. Jill’s pregnant…”

Shouldering her backpack, she went upstairs. On the landing she hesitated. She didn’t want to go in to Grandma’s bedroom, but the door was ajar. She pushed it further open with her foot. She felt so incredibly tired. She wanted someone to help her and there was no one. Only Zacharie would understand and he was miles away. Then like a little miracle, her phone rang.

“Yes?”

“
C’est moi
. Are you okay?”

“Yep. I’m okay now… but so tired Zac.”

“Sleep.
Dors bien
. Speak tomorrow.”

She crawled onto the bed. She’d shower and change in a minute, but first she just wanted to rest. She pulled the covers around her and, holding the backpack tight, fell deeply asleep.

I bide my time. I wait patiently through all the baking heat of summer, until one Sunday at the very beginning of September, Nicholas comes to tell me that a fire has started in the city. In Pudding Lane. Since everywhere is tinder dry, the fire takes hold quickly. By Monday it blazes well. It does not threaten us at first, but Nicholas is watchful.

As the fire spreads, people run about the streets distractedly. They cry out. Soon the rumour spreads that the fire has not come about by chance. Dutchmen have been seen throwing fireballs into houses. A Dutch baker is arrested and taken to Gatehouse Prison. Foreigners are dragged out into the street and beaten.

That night I take Nicholas to my bed early, while it is still light. I say that I have seen the error of my ways. That the sight of people suffering from the plague has made me question God’s beneficence.
The casket must be opened. The 21st spell set free.

“Feel,” I say, placing his hand on my belly. “I carry the baby higher this time, which signifies that it is a girl.”

In sleep, curled against me and with his head resting so he can feel the baby stir inside me, he looks untroubled and at peace. So when, later, we are woken by a knocking at the door and a messenger from the king says that he is needed urgently at the palace, he is not afraid to leave me alone. He sends the messenger back to the king, saying he will come at once. Then he gets dressed and, taking his leather bag with him as he always does, leaves the house, saying I must not worry. He will be back as soon as he can.

Through my bedchamber window, I watch him stride away, his bag slung across his shoulder. His cane tapping on the cobbles. Then from around the corner, a crowd appears, roistering and roiling like boiling oil. They are baying for blood, looking for someone to blame for the fire. This is my chance. I break the glass in the window with a fire iron. At the sound, the mob stops and looks up. I point a finger at the figure of Nicholas, nearly out of sight in the gathering darkness. I scream “Dutch. He is Dutch. He has fired a house nearby and heads towards St Paul’s!”

All at once there is an angry roar and the mob breaks into a run. Now I seize my chance. Taking a fire iron and using all my strength, I go to his study and force open the door. The wood splinters around the lock and the door springs open wide. The Emerald Casket is there on the desk, still wrapped in its cloth. I tuck it safe under my arm. Then, from its hiding place behind the wainscot in my bedchamber, I take my manuscript. In it I have written down everything that has happened since I first met Nicholas at the Frost Fair. I slip off the red linen braid that secures it. I take off my silver necklace and place it on the oak table by the window. Then I thread the ring on its old red braid and tie it around my neck. I will scrawl a note, saying I have gone from him now and will place the ring and the casket where he will
never
find it. Which I truly mean to do.

If by some trick of fate he escapes the mob, he will find the necklace and the note and know that I have gone from him for ever and he will never have the key and the Emerald Casket now.

Along with the three half crowns from my mother, I will leave the house. The streets are thronged with people streaming out from the city. Carts are loaded down with their goods and chattels. All is chaos and
disorder. Black smoke hangs like a pall over the city. The heat is so great in places, even the stone cracks and breaks. I pray that I will find someone passing who will be willing to take me safe out of the city. And only God knows what the future will hold, for
‘qua redit nescitis horam.’
Ye know not the hour of his coming again.

Her mum was sitting up in the hospital bed, looking very tired. Her hair was lank and she’d pushed it roughly back behind her ears. Her eyes looked red and puffy, as if she’d been crying. Claire went straight to give her a hug and then sat on the side of the bed and held her hand. Claire and her dad had agreed that they wouldn’t tell her what had happened. Not yet. Not until she was better and out of hospital.

Her mum gave her a half smile, said “What HAVE you got in that backpack?” but she was already looking past Claire, to where her dad stood awkwardly at the foot of the bed. “Claire, pop down and see Micky for a bit will you? There’s some things I need to talk to your dad about.”

“Not now, Jill, please….”

Claire looked from one to the other. She
squeezed her mum’s hand even tighter. “It’s okay,” she said, “I know what this is about. The baby.”

“What?” Her mum looked startled and then, silently, she started to cry.

Her dad’s head was bent down and he was rubbing his forehead hard with his right hand. When he glanced up Claire thought she had never seen anyone look so miserable in the whole of her life.

“You’re pregnant right?” Claire said.

Claire’s mum started to sob now and she reached out with her free hand to Claire’s dad. Then, when he came close, she clung onto him and he held her, resting his cheek on the side of her head. Looking as if the door to the prison cell had just closed behind him and there was no hope now that he would ever be free. Then, just as it looked as if they would be locked into this terrible freezing misery for ever, a nurse appeared holding Micky by the hand.

“There you are,” she said. “I told you your mum was okay. And your dad and sister are here too. Isn’t that nice?”

Micky could see something was up and she was going to nag away at them until she was told what it was. So Claire told her. “Mum’s pregnant.”

Micky looked puzzled at first and then her face broke into a great big grin. “Brilliant. Does that mean we’re going back home to live now?” Even Mum and Dad had to smile at the sheer innocent simplicity of that. “And I hope it’s a boy this time, because I’d really like a brother. I think that would be much better than another
sister
.” She made a face at Claire and Claire made one back.

“Well, at least
you’ll
be happy, Micky,” said Mum, sounding unnaturally bright, “They’ve done a scan and it is a boy.” Then she reached over to the bedside cabinet and picked up a print. A blurry black-and-white image. “A miracle to be able to see him.” she said. “Your grandma lost three baby boys, one after the other. They were all stillborn. Imagine the pain of that. Maybe that’s why she was always so hard and difficult…”

Claire felt cold to the bone. She took the print out of her mum’s hand and looked down at it. If she believed what Robert had said… and she did, her brother would die and there was nothing she could do to stop it happening.

Claire and her dad and Micky drove back from the hospital in silence. Mum would be in hospital for a few days yet, so he was taking them back to their old house. Micky had been chattering on about the baby the whole way and didn’t seem to mind that no one else was saying anything. When they got home she ran straight upstairs and went into her old room, just as if nothing had happened. Soon Claire could hear her pulling out toy-boxes from under her bed. Toys her mum had said were baby toys and wouldn’t take to Grandma’s. Baby. Would there be a baby? Claire felt a tight pain in her chest as if her heart had shrunk very small.

She went up to her room. She didn’t want to. It felt unsettling, stripped of nearly all her possessions. But it was better being out of her dad’s way. They had nothing to say to each other. And the rest of the house felt different. Her dad had made changes, moved things around. Then there were the small things, like a bottle of moisturiser in the bathroom; a make her mum could never afford to use. The house smelled strange too. Different
perfumes and soaps and deodorants. Another brand of washing powder scenting the towels and the sheets. And her dad was different too. He tried to act normally. So, when it was time for bed, he’d read Micky a story and he’d sat on Claire’s bed and held her hand. But she could tell, in his head and heart, he was really somewhere else. And later she heard him talking for a long time on the phone. His voice a low, soft murmur. She understood what that meant now. The need to be with someone so badly. The wanting to hear their voice.

He doesn’t really want us here,
she thought.
He’ll be relieved when Mum’s out of hospital and we can go back to the other house
. How shocking that was, but she knew in her heart of hearts that she didn’t belong here any more.

She lay awake, the backpack tucked safely under the covers, between her feet. She was trying to work out where she could hide the casket. Keep it safe until…

Then she must have fallen asleep, because at four o’clock in the morning, just as it was getting
light, she woke up, crying. She’d been dreaming. She was in Robert’s house again. But it wasn’t his house. Not really. And she wasn’t Claire. She was leaning out of a window and watching someone who was Robert and yet
not
him, walking away from her down the street. She could hear the tap, tap, tap of his black cane on the cobbles. He stopped and turned to look up at her. Then a crowd of people erupted into the street and gave chase and he turned and was swallowed up into blackness.

The dream clung to her and she couldn’t go back to sleep again. She got up, drew back the curtains and looked down the garden, absently twisting the silver chain she was still wearing round her fingers. She’d believed him when he said it was Margrat’s. She didn’t think he was mad. And she knew he would come to find her.

She padded over to the bed and, sitting on the edge of it, hauled up the backpack and took out the casket. She rubbed the edge of the ring with her thumb, turning it round and round on her finger. How cool it felt now. How heavy. Then she pressed the ring into the cartouche again. But it stayed closed. Enigmatic. She listened… but there
were no words this time, filling up her head. Maybe Zacharie was right after all. You did need the powers of the other spells, too.

Micky was up. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor in the living room, eyes glued to the TV, shovelling cereal into her mouth. She ignored Claire.

Her dad was in the kitchen, leaning back on the work surface, drinking coffee. “Sleep okay?” he asked.

“Bit rubbish…” she said, starting to open cupboard doors, looking for something to eat.

Then the phone went, three rings and her dad snatched it up. “Yes?” For a second he must have thought it was work, but then his face sort of screwed into a frown and he looked quickly across at Claire. “Oh for God’s sake,” he said to whoever was on the other end of the phone. “When? Now what do we do?” He put the phone down and then he came over and put his arms round Claire’s shoulders. “They let the bastard get away. Can you believe it? How the hell did he manage
that
? What
is he, some sort of magician? I tell you, if anything happens, I’ll…”

“Who? What are you talking about?” As if she had to ask.

“That man. Him. They were transferring him to a ‘secure’ psychiatric unit, and God knows how, he got away. Maybe he had outside help. But it only happened a bit ago, so it’s okay. The police are going to send some men to… you know… look after us. They’ll be here any minute. Then we’ll be safe. And they say it won’t be long before they catch him, so…”

“He knows where Grandma’s house is.” Claire was calculating… thinking things through in her head.

“Who?”

“Robert. He knows where Grandma’s house is. We should be there not here.”

“No way.” Her dad was shaking his head. “It wouldn’t be safe.”

“But as you said, the police will look after us. And it will be over quicker. He’ll come looking for me and then the police will get him. Simple. He won’t be able to hurt us, not with police all over the place.” Claire had to smile as she said that. She
didn’t believe it for one second. But at least this way there was a chance he’d be caught. The alternative was that he’d be on the loose and she would never know when he would resurface. When he would come for her. Her life wouldn’t be worth living.

“Come on Dad,” she said, “let’s do it. But Micky has to stay out of it. She has to stay here, in your house, with Lindsay.” Her mum would be furious at the thought of Micky with her dad’s girlfriend. But she didn’t have to know until afterwards, did she?

“Okay, if that’s what you want. I’ll ring the police and we’ll set it up.”

The minute she could, she went to her room and she rang Zacharie.

“He’s escaped.”

“
Merde
. That was quick. Powerful spells, huh? Are the police there now?”

“They’re coming to get us. I’m going to stay at Grandma’s house. My idea, because he’ll know how to find me there. Thank God you’ve got the spells safe.”

“Jacalyn would be so
angry
if she knew I had them. That the prophecy she was so obsessed with is coming true! But I think I should have the casket too, Claire. It would be safe with me. And then you would be safe too. He could never hurt you.”

“Don’t tell Jacalyn about the spells or the casket. Promise you won’t! No one must know about them. Only us.”

“Hey! I’m not
stupide
. I know how dangerous he is. I’d never risk anything happening to you. Not now.”

There was what they called a ‘discreet police presence’ in and around the house. They hadn’t wanted her there at all… said he’d probably turn up anyway without her having to act as bait. But she knew he wouldn’t. She was sure he could feel when she was close… just as she felt his presence.

The house had been searched before Claire and her dad were let back in… just in case he was already in there. Post had been collected from the mat, scrutinised and then left in a pile on the hall table. It was junk mail mostly, but there was a big
brown envelope with Claire’s writing on it. Someone had opened it and looked inside.

“Hey,” said her dad, sounding unnaturally bright and cheerful. “Something for you. That manuscript, I think. That’ll cheer you up… Claire, are you okay?”

She must have gone a funny colour. She had to sit down quickly on the stairs. She put her head in between her knees, just like her mum always made her do when she felt sick.

“Look, you go up and lie down. It’s late. I’ll bring you some tea and something to eat then you can sleep. Your blood sugar’s low. And this weather doesn’t help.”

It didn’t. The air was heavy with static. And it was getting dark as if a storm was brewing. Claire could feel the pressure building up inside her head. And the ring was tight and hot on her finger.

“Go on. Take the envelope with you.” He was hunkered down in front of her and tilted her face up, landing a sloppy great kiss on the end of her nose.

“Dad!”

He grinned, “Go on. Hop it. I’ll be up in a bit.”

She drew back the lace curtains in Grandma’s
bedroom and sat on the bed, in the half light, propped against the pillows and with the envelope on her lap. She looked out at the darkening sky. It felt as if the air around her was cracking and fizzing. Then she watched as a flash of lightning ripped through the blanket of rolling black clouds. She counted.
One. Two. Three.
The thunder was overhead now and so loud it rattled the windows and made her teeth buzz. Another flash. The line of houses across the street were in stark relief, as if everything around them was on fire.
One. Two. Three.
The thunder was rolling away and now the rain was starting. Hailstones first, peppering the windows so hard Claire thought the glass would crack. Then great, fat raindrops, first a few and then so many they ran in great torrents down the window.

Poor policemen outside
, she thought. They would be soaked to the skin. She reached across and turned on the bedside light. Then she took out the translation from the envelope and started to read. Hardly noticed when her dad brought up a cup of tea and a sandwich. The tea grew cold and the sandwich was left uneaten on the bedside chair. And when she had finished Margrat’s story, Claire knew exactly what Grandma had been trying to
do, with her collection of newspaper cuttings, accounts of plagues and the family tree. It all made perfect sense now. She had been trying to work out the pattern. See if she could trace
him
, Nicholas Robert Benedict, alias Robert Benoit, her grandfather eight times removed (and Claire’s blood, too – how shocking was that?) down through the centuries. But she had never even come close. Could only ever pinpoint, by tracing the outbreaks of plague, a city or a country where he had been. As for the man himself, it had been like looking for a needle in a haystack.
But then I was born,
thought Claire,
with my red hair. And Grandma must have hoped that once I was old enough to wear the ring, somehow I’d act like a magnet and he’d come for me, believing that at last all the spells were within his reach. And who knows what she thought would happen then. But she must have believed that I, with her help, was destined to take the spells from him and give them back to their guardian, a rope-walker. Then he, Nicholas Robert, would be destroyed. And once he was dead, his power would be gone and no more baby boys would need to die. There would be no more wickedness. No more unnecessary grief.

Then she’d had her heart attack and there was only me, Claire
.

“I’ve found him, Grandma. He’s still alive!” she whispered in the darkness. “And I’ve found the rope-walker too and his name’s Zacharie and I’ve given him Robert’s scrolls now, so they are safe. But… the casket, I’ve kept it and I promise I’ll never let Robert have it. And I don’t know how I’ll do it, but I’ll save my brother. I won’t let him die. Cross my heart.”

Days passed and there had been no visible sign of him anywhere near the house. Though someone had been in to his house on the Strand. Drawers turned out and cupboards emptied. His study had been ransacked.