No Mercy Page 15

  7

  ‘George, wake up. Here’s Ellie come to see you.’ Rosie’s voice was unusually tender as she leaned over the bed, her ungainly body stiff and hampered by the crutches wedged tight into her armpits. From beneath the sheets a small, unintelligible sound issued; pitiful, like the mewl of a creature in pain. Lanuginous fingers crept out; short, twisted hands that resembled claws, curling over the sheet’s edge, clutching until the knuckles bled white. The movements were tortuous and hesitant. Inch by inch the talons drew the sheet down. The head emerged; thin, unkempt hair like wisps of cloud-white candyfloss. Grey, soft skin, criss-crossed with myriads of deeply etched lines, not unlike the pattern of trodden leaves. Bushy eyebrows, low and frowning, hid the eyes within a tangled mess. Deep inside, the soul was still afraid. Steeped in terror. Only the familiar, soothing voice could persuade it to trust. ‘Don’t be frightened, sweetheart… it’s only Rosie. Look… Ellie’s come to see you.’ The crippled woman smiled down. Only she knew the horror that haunted this poor creature. In the dead of night when the devils came to torment him, she was there. Always there, with him. ‘It’s all right… all right now,’ she murmured. The pale eyes peeped upwards. They saw a friend, and the wounded heart grew quiet.

  Ellie remained silent. When the eyes flicked sideways to look directly into her face, she was shocked to the core. Deep, haunted eyes, incredibly pale… translucent, they betrayed something of the darkness in the soul. Such pain! Such indescribable solitude and sorrow. Ellie’s heart was wrenched inside her when, with tears brimming in those wretched eyes, the old man pleaded, ‘Don’t… let… them… hurt… me… again. Please, oh, please. Don’t let them hurt me… no more… no more.’ Plump tears slid over the red rims, tracing the meandering crevices in his crumpled face. ‘Please… oh, please.’ He was sobbing now; a soft broken sound that tore through Ellie with savage pain. Devastated, she turned away.

  ‘Ssh now… no one’s going to hurt you.’ Rosie soothed the fear with gentle words. ‘We won’t let them hurt you… never again. I promise.’ The eyes swivelled to gaze on her – curious, unsure. They saw the truth there, and the love. A contented sigh. A childish smile. Then sleep. Softly the two women stole away, each with a heavy heart. Each feeling hopelessly inadequate in the face of such despair.

  ‘The bastards who did this to him should rot in hell!’ Rosie put the small china plate onto the table, while balancing herself on one crutch and eyeing Ellie indignantly. ‘They wanted me to leave him there… did you know that?’

  ‘In the hospital, you mean?’

  Rosie nodded. ‘I couldn’t do that! What!… abandon the poor soul to strangers.’ She shook her head so vigorously that the loose coil of peroxide hair tumbled awry. ‘He would have pined d’you see? Oh no! I could never have that. Soon as ever they’d tended his wounds… I had to fetch him home, to the cottage. The police upset him… asking all those questions, but, well… they couldn’t get no sense from him. I’m not surprised, though.’ She glanced surreptitiously towards the senile’s bedroom. ‘This last business has driven him right over the edge. I don’t expect we shall ever know what happened out there… what unspeakable things took place, in the dark.’ She shuddered, her narrowed eyes gazing at the bedroom door.

  Ellie was astonished by the dark vindictiveness in the older woman’s considered gaze. She never felt more strongly that Rosie knew something! Knew something. But what? ‘Did he say anything to you, Rosie? Is there… something you know, that the police don’t?’ Ellie was compelled to ask.

  Rosie’s smile was disarming. The curious, secretive manner was no more. ‘Not a thing,’ she said, deliberately suppressing the dark thoughts that had swamped her mood. She was not altogether surprised by the question; only protective of the knowledge which she kept close. Yes, she did ‘know something’. But, it was not what Ellie suspected. Oh no, it was not all as it might seem! But, she must be careful. Ellie was a shrewd and intelligent young woman. Already, she had sensed the atmosphere of Thornton Place. It would be dangerous for her to learn anything. She must not know. Not yet. And maybe never. ‘He couldn’t tell the police anything,’ she assured Ellie now, ‘and he hasn’t told me anything either. It’s hopeless. Still, happen the police will leave him be now, eh? Oh, they’ll search out there a while longer no doubt… but they’ll not find the truth of it.’ Like before, she thought, just like the other times. She saw that Ellie was not altogether convinced. ‘Hey! Are you deliberately ignoring my plum pie?’ she chided good-humouredly and gesturing towards the china plate. ‘Nobody makes plum pie like old Rosie,’ she chuckled, ‘though I do say so meself!’ She saw Ellie’s lovely face melt into a smile and the relief washed over her. There had been a moment there when she feared that Ellie intended questioning her further, but the moment had gone, leaving only her own determination to guard her words and glances more carefully in the future. She had been careless and that was unforgivable!

  When Ellie had given her honest opinion of Rosie’s plum pie, remarking, ‘It’s everything you say, Rosie,’ the older woman beamed from ear to ear, afterwards hobbling away into the scullery. Soon she returned, pushing an oak trolley which had barley-twist legs and four large iron wheels. On the trolley was a teapot and tea-set together with more plum pie on a cake-stand, which, like the teapot and tea-service, was all in pretty matching blue chinaware. There was also a bone-handled knife with a sharp, serrated blade, loosely wrapped in two royal blue serviettes; one of which was promptly given to Ellie, while the other was taken by Rosie to be securely tucked into the neck of her dark brown jumper. Belying the trauma of these past days and succumbing to the deep pleasure she always felt in Ellie’s company, she smiled broadly, saying, ‘I may be a country bumpkin, but I do like to do things properly. Now, you can wait on me, young lady!’ She laid her crutches against the back of the old leather armchair and hopped about on the one good leg, until in a moment she was satisfied that she could drop herself comfortably into the soft, squashy seat.

  As always, Ellie’s offer to help was firmly refused. ‘Just get on and pour the tea, sweetheart,’ she urged; by now Rosie was seated and looking on Ellie in a grand, authoritative manner. She had very few visitors to the cottage, and this was something of an occasion to be celebrated. She said as much to Ellie now, gratefully accepting the cup of tea being handed to her. ‘Nobody ever comes here… with the exception of Alec Harman of course.’ Suddenly, she was obliged to recount the night when George was found – was it only three days ago? Dear God, it seemed like a whole lifetime. And still, the questions were not answered! What could have persuaded George to leave the open field and go so deep into the woods? What hellish fiend had caused him so much suffering… punctured and torn his poor body all over… left him helpless as a babe, and terrified with the knowledge that one false move would tighten the rope round his neck to choke the life out of him? Not for the first time, the boy sprang into her thoughts. She did not quite know why, but there was something about his account that didn’t ring true. She recalled his explanation now: ‘I never saw the old man wander off… I was too busy building my bonfire. The first I knew he was missing was when I came into the house and Rosie went mad. It’s not my fault if she can’t look after him!’ He was adamant, and really, there was no reason to disbelieve him. All the same, Rosie was not altogether satisfied. More and more she had come to see the truly nasty streak in the boy’s character. She chided herself for her suspicions towards him; reminding herself of the fact that he had lost his mother and was no doubt still struggling to come to terms with that terrible trauma. And besides, he could not be held responsible for what had happened out there in the woods. What had been done to George was a bad, evil thing! There had been other bad things. Evil visitations, and things of the night that bided here in this lonely place, long before the boy.

  Ellie had grown quiet on hearing the name ‘Alec Harman’. Her thoughts were sent reeling back. ‘Strange, don’t you think… how quickly he was on the scene?’ she asked, her a
mber eyes regarding the older woman with a measure of suspicion. ‘Within minutes of us finding George… Alec appeared out of nowhere.’ She would have gone on to remark how he had not seemed too shocked or surprised to see what cruelties George had endured, but she knew how fond Rosie was of the darkeye, so she resisted the urge to speak out. Besides, there was a degree of peevishness in her thoughts just now, because of the deliberate way in which he had ignored her on that night. Her relief on seeing him had been quashed by the deep hurt he had caused when addressing himself entirely to Rosie; almost as though she herself was not there at all. He had asked, in a curiously intimate voice, whether Rosie had ‘seen anything? Or anyone?’ When, obviously forgetful in her great distress at discovering George so wounded, Rosie had replied that ‘no… there was no one to be seen,’ Ellie gently reminded her of the sounds that had frightened them just before the torchlight picked out the trembling, fearful sight that was George.

  ‘You remember, don’t you, Rosie?’ Ellie had prompted, ‘the sound… like someone shuffling… then the soft whisper of laughter.’ She had been astonished when Rosie denied ever having heard such noises. So adamant was she, that even Ellie began to doubt what her own ears had told her!

  Alec had spoken to her then, explaining, ‘It could have been anything. Imagination plays strange tricks, and at night these woods come alive… foraging creatures… breezes through the tree tops… a poacher’s stealthy footsteps. It all plays on the senses.’ In the garish moonlight, his dark eyes were magically translucent. His penetrating gaze disturbed and excited her. There was an arrogance in those black, beautiful eyes, and condemnation. Yet she felt other, deeper emotions, like tenderness. And love. In that moment when he brought his dark gaze to bear on her, she had responded in kind – the love she felt towards him, and her deep need of him shone quietly from her face. In that all-too-brief moment the truth rose between them like a glorious revelation. As though afraid of what he had seen in Ellie’s lovely features, Alec had swiftly turned away, skilfully attending to George, and afterwards plying all his attentions to what Rosie had to say.

  Rosie had plenty to say now, as she dismissed Ellie’s remarks. ‘It ain’t “strange” at all! You heard what he told us… how he was in the vicinity, keeping watch for poachers. He explained that, didn’t he? Didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  ‘But what?’

  Ellie shook her head. What was it that troubled her so? At the time, she had accepted Alec’s explanation without a second thought. Wasn’t it only natural that he should be stalking the woods, lying in wait for the poachers? Of course it was! That was his job. ‘You’re right… I’m just a bit jittery,’ she said, surprisingly relieved at having discussed her nagging suspicions with Rosie. Of course there was nothing sinister in Alec suddenly appearing like that and, as always, Rosie was quick to spring to his defence.

  ‘Poachers are his enemy, don’t you know?’ Rosie declared indignantly. ‘He’s paid to see them off… and that means first he has to catch them at it. The thieving buggers creep about in the dark hours, when ordinary folks are usually abed. If he’s to get the better of them… then Alec must also walk the night. It’s the only way.’ She eyed Ellie thoughtfully. ‘Besides, my girl… Alec weren’t the only one in the vicinity, were he, eh?’ Her aged features relaxed into a smile of satisfaction. ‘You might as well ask where the others came from an’ all!’

  ‘You mean… my father, and the man from the shop?’

  ‘Too bloody true!’ Rosie leaned forward, dropping her voice to a whisper as she told Ellie, ‘Your father were “out for a breath of air” like he said… and I’m not surprised after hours of sucking that awful paint smell into his poor lungs.’ She paused, regarding Ellie closely. ‘He’s been working far too hard. I’m glad he’s taking today off. Where did you say he’d gone?’

  ‘I’m not really sure. All he said when he left earlier was that he had “business to see to”.’ She shrugged her shoulders. Ellie was also glad that her father had taken a rest from the relentless workload. ‘I expect he’s shopping around… looking for materials and so on, at the best prices. He said the other day that there were plenty of bargains about, and he had a duty to shop about as it wasn’t his money he was spending. He’ll be back before supper, though, I’m sure.’

  ‘No doubt,’ Rosie agreed. ‘Now, like I was saying, your father had every right to be taking the air, after a hard day’s work. But, that Fred Gregory! Now, he’s a different kettle of fish altogether!’

  ‘What are you saying, Rosie?’ Ellie had been so relieved when all three men had turned up within only minutes of each other. What with poor George in a state of hysteria and lashing out like a thing possessed at anyone who went near him, it would have been nigh impossible to get him back to the cottage without another pair of strong arms to assist. When her father came onto the scene, he and Alec were able to bodily lift the struggling George. It was Alec who spied the bulky frame of Fred Gregory, who was watching from a distance. He answered Alec’s call for help – albeit reluctantly. Afterwards, when Alec commented on the fact to Mr Gregory that he was ‘straying through the woods at such a late hour’, the big man remained silent, later departing in a sour and sullen mood.

  ‘What am I saying?’ repeated Rosie, screwing her face into a thousand deep wrinkles. ‘What am I saying?… I’m saying it’s very strange that Fred Gregory should have wandered such a considerable way from his own patch… skulking about here in the dark!… I’m saying that I’ve had my suspicions for a long time about that surly bugger! I’m saying he’s probably one o’ them bloody poachers that lead Alec Harman a merry dance! Fred Gregory ain’t the upstanding, respectable shopkeeper he likes to pretend. To my mind, he’s a devious devil. That’s what I’m saying, my girl!’ She rammed a chunk of plum pie into her wide-open mouth, before leaning back in the chair and quietly gauging Ellie’s reaction to her words. When, intrigued, Ellie questioned her further – not only with regard to Fred Gregory, but also about the other unfriendly inhabitants of Redborough – Rosie indulged in a long and colourful description of ‘them as pretend to be what they’re not… going to church of a Sunday and standing shoulder to shoulder with their neighbours… then giving each other a wide berth the rest of the time… ’cause they’re all afraid of their own shadows, and riddled with suspicion of each other!’ When Ellie pressed her further, Rosie feared she had said more than enough. Mumbling incoherently about ‘people going missing… never found again… talk of the supernatural and all that’, she cleverly directed Ellie’s interest towards other, more controversial issues. ‘It’s a pity folk won’t live and let live,’ she remarked, pulling a wry face, ‘look at our own Queen Elizabeth… forbidding her own sister, the Princess Margaret, from marrying Captain Peter Townsend. Lord above! Whatever next?’

  ‘I suppose it’s inevitable that there will always be “stories” and “superstitions” around a grand old house like Thornton Place,’ Ellie said, determined to pursue the matter of Thornton Place. She saw Rosie as being a bit of a ‘romancer’. It wouldn’t have surprised her to know that it was Rosie herself who had started certain rumours, in order to keep nosy parkers away from here. ‘Besides… such stories will keep people from prying… allow you to live here in peace,’ she suggested with a deliberate wry smile.

  Rosie laughed out loud. ‘True! Very true!’ she chuckled, taking a great gulp of tea and very nearly choking on it. After that, the conversation changed direction yet again. This time, Ellie showed great interest in the cottage itself. She told Rosie how it was the most picturesque little place she had ever seen. Enthused, Rosie took her on a quick tour; from the parlour through to the tiny scullery, and up the narrow staircase to the two small bedrooms above. All the rooms were cosy; little open firegrates, diminutive windows and low, heavy oak-beamed ceilings. The furniture also was of oak, small chests and wooden-framed chairs with plump, floral cushions. The beds were unattractive iron monsters, with angled legs and black wrough
t-metal features top and bottom. Upstairs, the floors were uncovered, except for an odd rush mat here and there. Downstairs, the floors were more comfortable, having large rugs which almost covered the cold stone underneath. There was a small wooden square set into the concrete floor beneath the window. Rosie answered Ellie’s curiosity about it with a short, curt reply. ‘It’s a trap door… locked… been locked since I can recall. It’s nothing of importance… just a cellar of sorts I expect.’ She left out the other, more disturbing rumours. Rumours which told of underground excavations that ran from Thornton Place to the cottage, then from there out to the woods and beyond. The secret passageway was said to have been created some hundreds of years ago by an evil and powerful man whose followers practised witchcraft and sorcery. Children and innocents would disappear without trace and, as a result, suspecting locals would rise, incensed and baying for blood, launching attacks on Thornton Place and dragging out anyone found there. These ‘devils’ were hanged, drawn and quartered without mercy. Unspeakable atrocities had been committed, evil deeds on which legends were built to this very day. Superstition and fear bred in its own evil and, over the years, the rumours had been stilled by a communal silence which was even more harrowing. Rosie chose to say nothing of all this. Instead, like so many others, she deliberately suppressed such unsettling thoughts. After all, there was no evidence, there never had been. There were only frantic whispers, fuelled by certain real tragedies. Now, the whispers were themselves too fearful to acknowledge, and so there remained only the awful silence, and the deep-rooted suspicions that continued to grow and fester in the darker recesses of the mind.