Other People's Garages

Regan Clear picked her way across the worn, slippery cobbles. It had rained and lent them an uncertain membrane of grit, rotten food and horse manure. Her calfskin boots, though only possessing heels of an inch or so, felt precarious. Her nut-brown crinoline Princess Dress brushed at the ground and was singed by the filthy patina of town.

The summer sun had broken through and began to suck up the puddles in misty whirls, so that they appeared as sprites as they evaporated into the ether. Feet and hooves were shrouded by the low-lying steam and made their owners appear to glide spectrally.

Around her, the broken bones of aged carts rattled across the stones, while Hansom cabs jolted haughtily between them. People, bent blindly upon their destination, walked haphazardly and absent-mindedly into their path, then skipped away at the last minute as they realised that they were not about to stop.

All the time, through the jounce of progress, came the bay of humanity; shopkeepers and street-sellers, rag and bone men and casual shoppers. All fought to be heard one above the other and each drowned in the high tide of noise that washed in at dawn and withdrew with the dark.

Regan pulled a piece of paper from beneath her sleeve and read it. She looked around uncertainly, picked out something that she recognised from the description she had been given and, with a small point of her finger, carried on.

She opened her parasol and raised it. Her bonnet, now little more than a steam oven upon her head, gave barely any protection. She wished she hadn't worn it, but she came to town so rarely that she wanted to look the part, to be as one with the occasion.

She could easily have taken a Hansom cab from the station, but the half-mile between there and her destination presented an opportunity rather than a stumbling block. As it turned out, the half mile had elongated into a mile or more, but she was unperturbed; she was a young lady in a modern world and was determined to catch the essence of the whispered, liberated future that lay so tantalisingly close as the years groaned by. In her short time away from the Berkshire countryside, she would wallow in the foolhardiness of dreams.

Ahead she saw ‘Baker’s’, the shop for which she had been told to look. Opposite this, slightly recessed, was the entrance to the Arcade.

She had never been to the Arcade, but such were the descriptions that she had heard that she thought it to be some exotic, Arabian, dusky alleyway perfused by the perfume of spices and the sweat of hard work. She had read The Arabian Nights: One Thousand and One Nights, furtively stolen from her father’s library, and revelled in the romance of the sands and the white horses and, yes, secretly yearned for abduction.

After a hundred yards, swept along amid the confusion of people going from nowhere to somewhere in double-quick time, she reached the Arcade. She removed herself from the stream and stood at the entrance. It was indeed dusky and seemed very quiet. She could not smell anything exotic, but there was the reek of dampness, of things that had lived too long in a moist, tropical climate and teetered upon that thin line between decomposition and a desperate bid to hold onto practical substance.

Within a few feet, the noise of the town had been entirely removed. Upon looking back, she saw no more than hazy impressions as people passed quickly through the mist. The sunlight filtered through the eddying vapour and dipped the world in ochroleucous brilliance. Everyone had been distorted by the light. People appeared stick-thin and impossibly tall. The town through which she had passed no longer had substance but had dissolved into a dim nether world and with each step further into the Arcade, the more diminished it became.

She looked once more at the piece of paper then folded it and secreted it in her sleeve.

She found the shop in a small recess of its own. Its frontage faced the same way as all the other businesses, but it was set back fifteen feet or so from the main path.

It was a warming, welcoming sight. The main window was made up of thirty glass panels. Between each panel ran richly green wood that bordered the window from floor to ceiling. To the left of this window was a rectangular green door with a lozenge of frosted glass at the top.

Through each window came a warm yellow light that fell upon the cobbled ground like a field of corn.

Above the window, in gold lettering, was the name of the shop, with the same green as the door and windows running pencil-thin through each letter – WINTERGREEN.

It was, thought Regan, an enticing display. She understood why it was hidden where it was because it would never have belonged to the mess beyond the mist. It required the silence and the isolation. It needed the darkness to thrive.

She went to the door and laid her hand upon the plain black wooden doorknob.

If she was going to change her mind, then now was the time to do it. In this age of science, of steel, of x-rays, of electricity and engines, of advanced communication and empire, was there any place for superstition? Was there any place for magic and dreams? In this dawn of liberation, was there any place for such girlish need?

She could not see a time when such needs would be extinguished. This was the Age of Love. It always had been and always would be. No matter if men flew or touched the moon, built castles in the sky or placed their hand upon the very centre of the earth, it was always the Age of Love.

Omnia vincit amor. Love conquers all.

She would not change her mind.

Regan opened the door and stepped into the shop. She heard her heels tap dully against a wooden floor. The door closed gently behind her. She turned and saw that the view through the windows was all black, that the Arcade had been subsumed by its own darkness. She moved to the window and looked through. Even the square of yellow light upon the street was gone.

‘It’s special glass,’ said a voice.

She turned, startled, although the voice had been soft. ‘I’m sorry?’

A short, grey haired man stood behind a long wooden counter. Behind him, shelving covered the walls. It was not confined to behind the counter, but wrapped itself around the room, layer upon layer of rich brown wooden shelving that embraced anyone who came through the door. Upon the shelves sat hundreds, perhaps thousands, of bottles of varying size. Each bottle was labelled, though undecipherable from where Regan stood. Those bottles that were clear had coloured liquid or grains inside. Other bottles were coloured, through every shade of the rainbow. The light played with them and each bottle glowed, cocooned in its own halo that subtly blended with the tiny corona next to it.

‘It’s special glass,’ repeated the man.

Regan pulled her eyes away from the lysergic, hypnotic bottles. ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘Why do you have special glass in the windows?’

She walked towards the counter. The man had a full head of steel grey hair and a kindly, furrowed, oval face. He didn’t smile, but the corners of his mouth were naturally curved into a dolphin’s smile and from the smile pillow creases that flowed up to his eyes and sent the smile off in a never-ending circle around his face. He had half-moon spectacles upon the end of his nose. He peered over them, his head bent very slightly forward. Behind these lay the bluest, sharpest, most living eyes Regan had ever seen. They were owl round and the pupils, those pupils that were sapphire blue one moment and sea blue the next, peered out with unfathomable depth, with trust and wisdom and all the seven ages of man.

‘They allow me,’ he said without a change in his voice, ‘to keep important what is important.’

Regan frowned at the interruption to her thoughts. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘The windows.’

‘Of course,’ she said absently. ‘The windows.’ She returned abruptly from the intensity of his face. ‘I see,’ she said. ‘And what is important, sir?’

‘You, my dear,’ he said. ‘You.’

Regan shifted nervously. ‘Thank you.’

He said nothing, but imperceptibly tipped his head and continued to regard her unblinkingly.

‘How am I important?’ asked Regan.

The curves of his mouth rose minutely. ‘You stepped through the door,’ said the man, as if it was obvious. ‘That makes you important.’

‘I suppose,’ agreed Regan. ‘From a business point of view.’

The man placed his fingers, though not his palms, upon the edge of the counter. They were manicured and clean and had no discernible age. They were the fingers of a violinist or a manual labourer or a piano player or a teacher or a chemist. They were the fingers of Everyman. They were perfect and yet had been broken and burned. They could turn to calligraphy and coal dust, from art to brutality.

Regan looked past them, the pink skin of the backs of his hands, to the white sleeves of his shirt, past the plain black sleeve garters and to the dark blue apron, the dark blue tie and back into his lustrous eyes.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘From a business point of view.’

Despite his overwhelmingly sincere approach, Regan began to feel a little uneasy. He was like no shopkeeper she had ever known. There was no urgency, no self-promotion, none of the pressure to sell or buy that she found applied by so many salesmen.

‘We,’ he said, ‘are the two most important people in this world at this moment in time. And you are the most important of all.’

He paused, as if he expected her now to take her turn.

‘I am?’

‘Of course,’ he said quickly. ‘Who else is here but you? At this moment? At this very second of time? A second that can never be returned now that it has gone. That makes you the sum of my universe and I the sum of yours. You have a need that cannot be met by any other but me and I have a need that cannot be met by any other but you. We are the perfect symbiosis.’

‘But…’

Regan suddenly felt overwhelmed by the urge to flee. The shop was hot and seemed to shrink further with every breath she took. The shopkeeper’s head began to expand and his blue eyes filled his face until they sat upon it like porcelain blue saucers that saw through everything, that could read every thought she had.

‘I think…’

He tilted his head.

‘…that I may have made a mistake,’ said Regan. ‘I shouldn’t have come here.’

He said nothing.

‘I must go,’ she said.

Regan turned light-headedly for the door and reached out. It seemed to be a mile away. Her arm stretched elastically away from her body. She forced her hand to close around the black knob and twisted. It felt heavy and pulling the door towards her seemed beyond her strength.

A rush of clean air hit her. She ran towards it, towards the blackness, unable to feel her body, unable to know even if her feet were upon the ground.

She took a chance and leapt.

When she awoke, she found herself upon the cold hard floor of the Arcade. There were no passers-by, no light from any other shop. She had no idea how long she had lay there.

She sat up until she was on her knees. She felt unbruised and the light-headedness she had felt in Wintergreen had gone.

With an effort, made worse by the constraints of her clothing, she stood and made immediately for the exit to the Arcade.

It had been a mistake, a silly, childish mistake, the mistake of a besotted girl who should have known better in this modern world. How were women ever to find the liberation they so desperately desired if they were to be a prisoner of whim and desire? How would they ever break the chains of their slavery if they continued to yearn for those chains to be placed upon them?

At the exit, she saw the familiar indistinct long shadows of those who marched through the antagonistic summer, through the wisps of drying rain.

She paused.

The outside world passed in silence, remote, detached. Each insignificant soul that went by meant nothing to her, would never do so and she was as much a part of it now as she was at home, wrapped in the safe disconnection of the red brick house that lay in the long-grassed fields of Berkshire.

If she left now, if she stepped out of the Arcade and returned to that land of unfulfilled dreams, she would despise herself more than she had before stepping onto that train in the morning. She had left the flower-strewn, soot-tinged platform with the intention of changing her life, of being the someone she wanted to be, not some shadow lost in the choking mist of time, which would evaporate with the dying of her day.

She dropped her head. Somehow, her dress had remained clean. She looked at the floor of the Arcade and for the first time noticed that the cobbles were almost as new, untouched and unworn, unscarred, clean.

She turned around and went back to Wintergreen.

She was sure the shopkeeper would censure her, would have a mocking tone that condemned her return and said ‘I told you so’. Those blue eyes would be the eyes of a judge and her sentence would be shame and indignity and he would throw her out to face the hopeless world that she had wanted so desperately to leave.

She opened the door.

He had remained behind the counter, his fingers still perched like bird's feet. His expression had not changed, nor the lilt of his mouth nor the wideness of his eyes.

'Welcome, Miss,' he said.

Regan nodded her head. She felt embarrassed.

'It's the aromas,' he said. 'They sneak up on you, catch you unaware.'

'I hadn't noticed any aromas,' said Regan truthfully.

'They're subtle,' he said. 'But they are there.'

Regan took in a deep, slow breath and sniffed at the air as covertly as she could. He was right. There was, beneath the smell of the shop itself, the abundance of wood and her perfume, an underlying odour. It was impossible to place. It shifted between the petrichor of a forest, the animal smell of the zoo, the dewy vigour of a late spring garden or the salty mustiness of a retreating tide. Sometimes the smell became too strong and she wanted to gag, but a slight shift of her nose brought her back to the scent of a newborn or Christmas spice.

The smells in their turn filled her head with fleeting images, wrenched from her past, that brought her to the edge of tears or to the point of laughter, that filled her with longing or the urge to run. She smelled her father's thick woollen jumper in which he would wrap her on cold winter nights. She smelled syrup of figs and the soft chemical underbelly of the doctor's house. Some smells fell heavily into her tongue and brought to her association by taste, of cloves and nutmeg at Christmas, of citrus in summer or of the unsatisfactory servings foisted upon her by relatives or overambitious restaurateurs.

The shopkeeper patiently observed.

She held her breath for as long as she dared, then closed her eyes and allowed her breathing to return to normal.

'I am in love,' she said, quite suddenly. Her admission excited her.

'I understand,' said the shopkeeper.

'Oh, but you don't,' she countered abruptly.

'Oh, but I do,' said the shopkeeper with wide blue eyes.

'How can you?' asked Regan. 'How can you understand?'

'You came here,' he said simply. 'Then you left and you came back. It takes an awful lot for a person to come back here, not once, but twice. It shows conviction. It shows belief. It shows need. I understand need.'

'Do you understand love?'

'I understand need.'

'But love is more than simple need.'

'It is no more than a jam sandwich or a glass of water. The meeting of a need, a real need, sustains. We need food and drink for physical growth and to maintain that growth. We need love, companionship, friendship, to feed the soul. If the soul is diminished, the body will wither. If the body withers, the soul has nowhere to stay. All things in balance. Symbiosis.'

'Can you help me meet my needs?'

'For sure, Miss.'

'Just like that?'

'There is no need that cannot be met.'

For the first time, he blinked. His fingers left the counter and hovered for one second, then replaced themselves.

'Caveat emptor,' he said.

Regan frowned. 'I'm sorry?' she said.

'Buyer beware,' said the shopkeeper.

'I don't understand,' said Regan.

The shopkeeper remained still and silent.

Regan waited. She knew that he had more to say. She coughed politely and put her feet together, straightened her back.

'Do you eat between meals?' asked the shopkeeper. His voice remained soft and neutral.

'I confess, I do.'

'Do you need to? Would you starve without that surplus?'

She shook her head. 'No, of course not.'

'And yet, you do so. Even though you run the risk of running to early and repellent fat, of the constant battle to disguise your bloat with corsets and capacious materials, of the prospect of ridicule and the knowledge that each time you look in the mirror you will see more of yourself and that your shame will grow with each furtive glance, despite the blackening teeth and the tight, puffy, pitted skin, despite all these things, you continue to treat yourself to those sugary delicacies that bewitch you in those moments of boredom or meagrely justified self-reward.'

Regan stamped a foot furiously on the ground. ‘That’s enough! I think you have made your point, sir. There is no need to descend to such crudeness.’

She felt herself flush. A sweat of discomfort seized her.

The shopkeeper made no response to her anger. He continued as if no line had been crossed, as if no reaction had ever come from Regan. He may as well have been reciting the meaningless words of an absent other.

He was an automaton, she decided, one of those elaborate, sophisticated, European mechanisms that appeared almost real, but were betrayed by fixed smiles and unblinking eyes, by waxy skin and abrupt, jerky movements. She was tempted almost to lean across the counter and listen for the chattering whirr of cogs or the uneasy stretch of dry springs.

There was a fear inside her now though, that if she moved too close, too quickly, he would lunge forward and seize her in a vice-like grip from which she would be incapable of release. She had had her chance to escape. That moment was gone.

‘Did you bring the object that you were advised to bring?’ he asked.

Regan jumped a little as he broke into her thoughts. She opened her purse. ‘I did.’

She brought out a handkerchief, plain white, of silk, embroidered with hares leaping around the edges.

She held it out to the shopkeeper. He did not take it. It hovered between them awkwardly, then she placed neatly it upon the counter.

At this gesture, the shopkeeper became animated. He picked up the handkerchief, opened it by the corners and held it up before him. His wide eyes took in every inch of it.

Regan watched with fascination. ‘What are you looking for?’

‘Remnants,’ said the shopkeeper.

‘It is unused,’ said Regan with undisguised disgust.

The shopkeeper’s wide eyes peered at her over the top of the handkerchief. ‘I would hope not,’ he said lightly.

‘Then what are you looking for?’ persisted Regan.

‘Essence,’ said the shopkeeper.

He saw her confusion.

He laid the handkerchief upon the counter and opened it fully, then went into one of many drawers behind him. For a moment, he fished through the contents and then brought out a large magnifying glass. It was as big as his head with a worn wooden handle and held in place by a ring of yellow metal, which may have been gold.

He reached beneath the counter and pulled out what Regan could only describe as a contraption.

It was a manipulatable arm that could be held in almost any position by the use of a carefully manufactured ball upon which the two parts of the arm could pivot. At the top of the arm was a funnel, into which he inserted the handle of the glass. It was held in place by means of a simple screw.

‘You see,’ he said. ‘People think of us as no more than what we see upon the butcher’s slab. We are seen as a collection of meat and fluids that, at some time, must cease to function. Then we die.’

Regan narrowed her eyes at his discomfiting explanation of life.

He manipulated the arm and glass until they hovered only half an inch above the silk, then leaned forward and, from the top left of the square of handkerchief, moved slowly across, his head hovering above the glass like a hawk following a mouse in the grass below.

‘But this is not so,’ he said. ‘We are all essential.’ He reached the end of the handkerchief, lowered the glass an inch and prepared to plough another imaginary furrow. ‘By that,’ he said as his head moved along above the glass, ‘I mean we have not just a corporeal existence, but we each exude an essence.’ His eyes flicked for half a second towards her, then returned to the handkerchief. ‘It comes from the oils that seep from our skin and from the flakes of skin that we discard simply by a minute movement of the hand. Do you know, we shed about one and a half pounds of our skin over a year?’

Regan shook her head. It was a repulsive thought.

‘Anyway,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘Those are one type of our essence that we leave carelessly behind every second of our life. Aha.’ He stopped and peered closely at a section of the handkerchief. He held out a hand. ‘Would you be good enough to pass me one of those pencils?’ he asked.

Regan followed his finger and saw the pencils, all sharpened, at the end of the counter, nestled against the wall. She picked one up and placed it in his hand.

‘Thank you,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘They’re a wonderful thing, pencils. When you think of all the uses to which they can be put – something to write with, for example. One simple word written with this one simple object can stop or start the world. It could be a weapon in the right hands. It could be used to scratch that unreachable place on your back or as a pointer.’

He stopped talking as he drew a light circle upon the silk. ‘It’ll wash out, don’t worry.’ That done, he laid the pencil down within reached and continued to scan the handkerchief. ‘Yes,’ he said, as if to himself. ‘It’s always good to have a pencil to hand.’

‘And what other type is there?’ asked Regan.

‘Other type?’

‘Yes,’ said Regan. ‘You said that skin and oils were one type of essence. What other type is there?’

The shopkeeper picked up the pencil again and drew another circle.

‘Oh, yes,’ he said. He put the pencil down and continued. ‘Do you believe in God, Miss?’

‘Of course.’

‘Why?’

‘That’s a strange, intimate question, sir.’

‘I find Wintergreen to be a strange and intimate place,’ said the shopkeeper. He lifted his head and shone his wide eyes upon her. ‘Tell me why you believe in God.’

‘Well…’ started Regan, but she was unable to continue. She had never considered the question. She had never been asked the question. Religion had never been a matter for serious thought.

‘It’s not a question intended to trick you, Miss,’ reassured the shopkeeper. ‘It’s merely a point of philosophy.’

‘I don’t know,’ admitted Regan. ‘I have always accepted the existence of God. I have always gone to church with my parents, attended at christenings and upon the saints’ days, taken communion. I have always taken it on…’ She searched for the right word. ‘I have always taken it on faith, I suppose.’

‘Well, that’s very interesting,’ said the shopkeeper with genuine enthusiasm. The shopkeeper's eyes peered keenly from beneath his thick, grey eyebrows. ‘And what about the Devil?'

Regan shivered. 'What do you mean?'

‘Black and white.’ The shopkeeper opened his palms and weighed each word as he spoke. ‘Light and dark. Man and woman. Life and death. Good and evil.’ He put his hands onto the counter. ‘One cannot exist without the other. For one to exist, it must be defined by the other. What is light without dark? Light itself would have no definition. As such, it would not exist. Good and evil. Can you have good without evil? How can you say that a man is a good man if you have no bad man with which you may compare him?’

He picked up the pencil and pointed it at one of the circles he had drawn on the handkerchief. ‘In the same way that we shed our skin and those oils that stop us turning to dust, so we shed our souls...’

Regan took an involuntary step back. ‘Don’t be so…’

The shopkeeper straightened up again, the pencil still held between his fingers like a baton that waited to inject life into a silent orchestra. ‘So what, Miss? You believe in God. You believe in the holy spirit.’ He spoke quickly, mechanically, so that Regan could not interrupt. ‘In fact, you believe in it so easily that you take it on faith. You take the word of an unknown being that that same unknown being exists. There is no science to your belief. You base your faith on the same old stories told through the generations and jotted down occasionally in clouded hindsight when humanity remembered to do so. Do you know how many times the bible has been rewritten? Do you know how many times it has been translated? Some things get lost in translation, Miss. Things such as the political ends of the translator, the people in power who permit that particular translation to permeate society, the needs of society at that time, so that the words of God may be bent to the will of man. And yet, despite all that, despite the animal instincts of humanity, you take it on faith that the Bible is the word of God, that there is a golden vein of truth that runs through it.’

‘I don’t have to listen to this,’ said Regan.

She turned to the door once more, determined that this time she would leave for good, that she would walk headlong into the mist at the top of the Arcade and never look back.

‘Oh, but you do,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘You must listen. If you want what you came here for, you must listen. If you leave now, we both know that you will never come back and that every day of your life you will regret your petulance. You will look at all that you have and you will grow to hate it. You will hate the man that you settle for; his smell, his voice, his presence. You will despise the children that you spawn because they will not have the faces that you imagined last evening as you waited in excited anticipation of your visit here. You will hate your home and the view from your windows, to the point where you hate your own eyes because they remind you constantly of all that you detest and all that you could have had. Eventually, you will have nothing left to hate but yourself and that loathing will gnaw at you from the inside until you lie upon your deathbed with nothing but bitterness and waste in your rotten, wooden heart.’

Regan felt a cold tear fall from an eyelash onto her cheek. She turned to the shopkeeper, at once overwhelmed with fear at the accuracy of his portrayal and by the anger that she felt at his precociousness. ‘I did not come here to be bullied, sir. I did not come here so that you could raise yourself above the peddler that you are.’

The shopkeeper brought his hand down firmly against the counter. It cracked like a gunshot though the shop. ‘Then why are you here?’

‘To find love!’ cried Regan. ‘To get what I want!’

‘At any cost?’

She put her hands over her face. ‘At any cost, damn you. At any cost.’

‘Because,’ pressed the shopkeeper, ‘it isn’t just your hundred guineas that you hand to me today, it’s your future, your history yet to be made and you must know, you must know, that this is not about childish faith and Sunday school tomfoolery, this is about the reality of the soul, the possession of the essence of a man. Do you see?’ Regan didn’t respond. ‘Do you see?’

‘I do. I do see,’ she pleaded.

He beckoned her over. ‘Then come here, child.’

Regan stepped forward. The shopkeeper turned the magnifying glass towards her and held it over one of the areas that he had circled.

‘Look though the glass, Miss,’ he said as gently as when he had first greeted her. He handed her a handkerchief and she dabbed her eyes.

She leaned forward and looked through the glass. She could see nothing in the circle of pencil. ‘What am I looking for?’ she asked.

‘Nothing that you can see,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘Within that circle lies the essence of a man. This is why you must rise above simple faith. Each time we touch something, a piece of clothing, a pipe, a vase, a cup,’ he looked down, ‘a handkerchief, we leave behind a small part of our soul. There is an interconnectedness to all things and we don’t just judge things with our eyes or our mind; we judge with our souls. This is not a conscious thing; it is something we learn to do the older we become. A babe in arms will leave little trace of itself to start with, but as it learns what it likes or dislikes, he gradually begins to leave little traces of itself behind.’

‘Then why do we not run out of soul?’ asked Regan. She straightened herself. Leaning over made her back ache and crushed her ribs beneath her clothes.

‘That’s a very reasonable question, Miss. We do. We do run out of soul and when we die, we are almost depleted. What remains is what the good Lord gets.’ His dolphin smile twitched. ‘Or the Devil.’

Regan picked at the corner of the handkerchief. ‘And this? What of this?’

‘What we spill, those bits of ourselves that we leave behind, are tainted in some way.’

‘Tainted?’

‘By the thoughts that come with them.’ He spoke as if it was obvious. ‘The oil of the soul that is left behind is no longer pure. It has been polluted,’ he held up a finger, ‘for good or bad, with the thought that came with it and with the essential personality of the person which has built up over the years, many years in some cases. If you use that oil for the purposes which we intend…’

He held his hands out, palms up, as if any further explanation was redundant.

‘Do I risk harm?’

‘Are you to marry a murderer? A madman? A man who drinks to excess or may be infected with the French disease?’

‘Not to my knowledge.’

‘If you can confidently say that you know this man, then the only risk is a happy life. Do wish me to proceed?’

Regan looked at the white silk handkerchief, at the bottles, big and small, that sat upon the old wooden shelves and lined the walls. There was hope to be found in their rainbow. She recalled the thrill in her chest that had kept her awake through the night, the optimism with which she had greeted the day, the absolute certainty with which she had travelled to this pinpoint on the map of an overwhelming world.

She was not married yet and saw no prospect beyond her own desires. Her father was happy for her to replace the mother that had succumbed to typhoid, to know that she would be there to dote upon him in his old age. He had never so much as looked at another woman. He would never marry again. Fate had trapped her. She had to tempt fate, deceive it into giving her one more chance.

‘I’ll do it,’ she said.

She put her hand in her purse and pulled out one hundred guineas. She laid it on the counter.

The shopkeeper stretched out an ageless hand and, like a spider reaching out from the safety of its hole in the wall, drew it into his palm.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘We shall begin.’

He turned, picked up a stepladder and walked to a far shelf.

For the first time, previously hidden behind his frame, Regan noticed the sign – CAVEAT EMPTOR.

 

Regan watched enthralled as the shopkeeper climbed the ladder in double-quick time, reached out a hand, collected the required substance, then descended, deposited the bottle on the counter and shot off for more.

After five minutes, during which time he did not cease to return to the counter upon every descent of the steps, he had fifteen bottles stretched out in a row before him on the counter top. Next to them, he had measured glass beakers for mixing, glass pipettes, glass rods for stirring and one small, brown bottle. Next to that one small, brown bottle lay a new bulb and atomiser for the distribution of the concoction. The bulb was rose coloured, the atomiser seemingly of gold.

With a practiced, precise eye, he measured out drops from each bottle and transferred them to the small brown bottle.

Finally, when he was satisfied with the measurements, he returned to the silk handkerchief with the leaping hares embroidered around the edge.

He spread it out again as he had done before and placed the magnifying glass over it.

He found the first area of the silk that he had circled. He picked it up in the centre of that spot with a pair of tweezers and, with a pair of petite, fine, filigreed scissors, cut out the piece of silk that lay within the circle of pencil. The handkerchief fell back onto the counter in precisely the position it had been before he had picked it up.

With the tiny piece of silk between the prongs of the tweezers, it can’t have been more than one tenth of an inch round, he lowered his hand to the small, brown bottle and dropped the tiny piece of material into the mixture.

He did the same thing again with the second area of the handkerchief that he had circled then, with a glass pipette, dropped one more bead of crystal clear fluid from a red bottle into the mixture and carefully place the atomiser and bulb on the small, brown bottle.

This complete, he tidied up, almost as quickly as he had gathered his ingredients together. When he had finished, apart from the small brown bottle with the atomiser and bulb centred upon the counter, it was as if nothing had occurred.

He returned to his positon, his fingers upon the edge of the counter, the placid, dolphin smile upon his face, his half-moon glasses perched on the end of his nose, his extraordinary, large blue eyes focussed upon Regan.

‘Is that it?’ asked Regan.

‘It is,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘Within that small, brown bottle lies peace and joy and contentment. It contains Clary Sage and Jasmine. Neroli, Frankincense and Orange. Cedarwood, cloves and Ylang-Ylang, to name but a few. It has the four corners of the world in one small, brown bottle, all brought together at this one dying moment in time so that you may live out your destiny.’

Regan smiled nervously and reached out for the small, brown bottle.

His hand darted forward and grabbed her wrist. Regan let out a small scream. Instinctively, she tried to pull away, but the shopkeeper’s grip was frighteningly strong.

‘Remember, Miss,’ said the shopkeeper. His dolphin smile had gone and he spoke harshly through gritted teeth. ‘You have the soul of a man in that bottle. You have everything he has ever been; every thought, every wish, every success, every failure. You have the spiritual string of his mother and father, their fathers and their mothers, running through him, passed down through the family as surely as a crooked nose or a fractured mind. You have the most powerful substance on God’s weeping earth in that small, brown bottle. Princes and Kings would have died for it. Empires would have fallen beneath its sway.’ He leaned forward until their faces were barely apart. ‘And you want to control a mere man.’

He released Regan’s wrist. She fell back a step, then recovered. She was breathless and hot and very afraid.

‘Caveat emptor, Miss. Use it sparingly because once your soul is mixed with his you are bound forever.’

He straightened and put his hands back on the edge of the counter, the automaton returned.

Regan reached out slowly, picked up the small, brown bottle and placed it carefully in her purse. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘Thank you, Miss. Have a good day.’

Regan went to the door.

‘Have a good life,’ added the shopkeeper as she closed the door behind her.

Regan did not look back, but hurried through the Arcade, back into summer.

 

 

II

 

The ball at Highfield Manor was the highlight of the summer season. It was the one occasion where those that mattered swept clean their diaries and those that mattered less desired to do so.

The Clear family were one of those that mattered less. They were on the verge of mattering, but had somehow never quite tipped matters in their favour.

Their eldest daughter, Adrianne, had married into the periphery of the Highfield clan, to Matthew, the son of Albert and Genevieve Garside. The Garsides were second cousins of Lord Highfield. Reginald Clear had manoeuvred the match with ingenious dexterity, by claiming not to know who Matthew was when he bumped into him in the Taster’s Club.

Reginald was a successful businessman, if rather cynical and unethical. He was a merchant who belonged to the right guilds and had managed, partly by brute force and partly by guile, to corner the new market in medical cocaine. It had been a meteoric rise. Prior to that, he had done quite well importing spices, which spread his spidery fingers into many parts of the world. A chance meeting with the US manufacturer of the drug led to distribution rights in England, which was enforced, occasionally dubiously, by his partners. The proliferation of those claiming to be dentists and medical practitioners rose dramatically in a very short time.

As a masterful piece of social choreography, he brought Matthew, who was a feckless, lazy and naïve man-child into the business.

Matthew’s contacts and those of his father ensured the expansion of the trade and the marriage of Matthew and Adrianne had cemented the union. Not long after there arrived on their doormat an invitation to the Highfield Ball.

Now that he had the taste and apparently the deft touch required for such dealings, it was his intention to use the ball to push the hand of his last daughter, Regan, in marriage. He did not wish to. Since the death of his wife and his reluctance to pursue another spouse, Regan had, after his business, become the most important thing in his life, but she was an asset above being a daughter and if he was to achieve the status that he so longed for, he would have to sacrifice her.

Unbeknown to him, Regan had already put her head on the block and was about to offer it to the handsome but neurotic Myles Keogh, the son of Joseph Keogh, an Irish importer of bananas and other exotic fruits from the West Indies.

Joseph Keogh was very rich. He could match the bank balance of almost anyone at the ball, but he had the stigma of being a man with no history and a Catholic to boot. He was accepted for his money and rejected for his beliefs. It didn’t stop people doing business with him, but socially, he teetered uneasily between pariah and messiah.

If he could match his son with the daughter of a big-wig, then he would manage to get his ill-shod feet on the slippery social ladder.

In his sights, which he dared not set too high for fear of rejection, was the daughter of one Reginald Clear.

She had shown herself to be amiable and socially adept and she had also, it seemed to him, developed a badly disguised fixation with his son.

His son though, had shown no reciprocation. He had been polite, had indulged in conversation and smiled the smile of one who had to smile when the smile was required, but had kept his distance, both literally and metaphorically. He preferred the company of men and spent many hours out with his friends, all of whom seemed to be equally standoffish with the young ladies in their circle.

Keogh had put it down to the changing face of fashion, to the fickle ways of the young.

Tonight though, at the Highfield Ball, he would try to engineer a union and gain one inch of status, whether his son liked it or not.

 

Regan put the small, brown bottle into her purse. She was desperate to make use of it but had determined not to until just before she stepped down from the carriage.

The journey to Highfield Manor was pleasant. The sun had begun to slip towards the horizon and the sky was slightly bruised. Groups of gnats flirted above the long grass at the roadside. Starlings gathered in the distant trees, took off and filled the sky like a dark bat’s wing, swooped low over the ground, dived between the trees, then climbed in unison and settled again, unseen among the leaves. Swallows kept shy of company and pirouetted among the grasses in search of the knots of gnats and skimmed across the fields as insects leapt hopefully towards the dying sun. 

The coach rattled across the rutted road. It was barely a road, just a well-worn way across the countryside that had become common passage through use. The great towns, with their asphalted roads, were a delight when travelling but, in balance, the bustle of business was nothing compared to the serenity of the countryside. She would happily take the shaken bones on an evening such as this.

She felt her purse and found the reassuring lump of the small, brown bottle. She was tense with anticipation. If she didn’t get there soon, if she didn’t get the chance to lay her own smooth road to the future, she thought she might explode.

Her father, with his grey mutton chops and spider-veined, ruddy face, smiled at her. She was like her mother, both in looks and temperament. Sometimes, in his darkest moments, he would feel the prick of shame for his dubious attitudes to business but, as soon as he saw his daughter, he was absolved of all guilt. There was nothing he would not do for her. All that he did was done in order to leave behind a legacy upon which she and her sister could sustain themselves and those that came after them.

Part of that legacy was an advantageous marriage. She would have the protection of a man and the comfort of her father’s wealth.

In the process, he would line his own nest and live the remainder of his life in comfort and, when the time came, go to his end with a clear conscience, a full heart and a fat wallet for an epitaph.

‘We are almost there, my dear,’ he said unevenly with a blend of excitement and tension. ‘Fix yourself. Fix yourself.’

‘I am fixed, Father. Don’t fuss so.’

She opened her purse and ran her fingers over the small, brown bottle. Now? Was now the moment? Was it too early? Would it have been dispatched upon the warm evening breeze that ghosted around the carriage before it had a chance to fulfil its purpose?

She took the small, brown bottle out of her purse and gazed at it.

‘What’s that?’ asked her father.

‘Scent,’ she said.

Reginald Clear grunted. ‘Scent? What’s the matter? Didn’t you bathe? All those concoctions you put in the bath not enough for you? Nearly broke my neck slipping on a rose petal the other day. A rose petal! In the bathroom! Might as well keep chickens in there for when you become peckish.’

‘Oh, don’t be absurd, Father. Every well-dressed lady wears scent nowadays.’

‘Used to use it to cover up the stench of the river and the drains. What’s it for now?’

Regan sighed impatiently. ‘You pretend not to know these things, Father. You know as well as I do what it’s for.’

‘Stops old men breathing is what is does. Clogs the chest. Like standing among the honeysuckle.’

Regan looked at him with coy eyes. ‘And honeysuckle attracts bees, Father.’

Reginald looked out of the window and ran his hands uncomfortably up and down his trousers.

‘Bees indeed,’ he mumbled.

Regan put the atomiser to her neck and gently squeezed the bulb. Her nostrils widened as she tried to catch the smell. It was faint, musky with a hint of fruit.

Her father leaned forward and sniffed the air. ‘Can’t smell a thing. Where’d you get it? Some front door peddler?’

‘I had it made especially,’ said Regan.

‘At the same cost as a fine horse, no doubt.’ He leaned forward. ‘Can’t smell a bloody thing! Put some more on. No point pretending to be a flower if the bloody bees can’t smell you.’

‘The gentleman told me to use it sparingly…’

‘Tosh.’ Reginald leaned forward and grabbed the small, brown bottle. Before Regan could stop him, he had squeezed the bulb and sprayed her liberally with the scent.

‘Father!’

Reginald leaned forward and took a deep breath. ‘That’s better. Got a whiff.’ He pursed his lips as he tested the bouquet like a wine. ‘It’s a little…animalistic,’ he said. ‘There’s a bit of orange in there somewhere too. It’s a bit lightweight, but it’ll do.’ He handed the small, brown bottle back to Regan. ‘Put it away now, dear.’ He waved an agitated hand at her. ‘Plump your hair. Give your cheeks a pinch. You’re a flower, not a corpse.’ He laughed. ‘You look wonderful.’

‘Thank you, father,’ said Regan.

The coach turned into a wide, long driveway. The wheels cut through gravel and made the sound of corn being ground.

Regan looked out of the coach at the grand house. Golden light shone from its windows. A queue of carriages dropped off their occupants as butlers removed the overnight cases from their roofs.

‘Are you ready, my dear?’ asked Reginald.

The weight of the occasion lay heavily upon each of them in their own way. Each in some part dreaded what they saw, what was to come, yet welcomed it as one would welcome the end of the rainbow.

‘I’m ready, Father.’

The carriage stopped. The door opened.

Regan, with the bowed help of a servant, descended onto the gravel, quickly followed by her father.

The servant, job done, immediately stepped back, but he stepped back so quickly that he caught the back of his leg against the footplate and sliced open his calf. He yelled and fell to the ground, his hands wrapped around his lower leg.

Instinctively, Regan went down to him. He recoiled and attempted to push himself beneath the carriage. As he did so, his disregard for his own safety caused the wound to open further and, between his stockings, Regan caught a glimpse of what must have been bone.

At that moment, her father pulled her away. As he did so, other servants, who had simply been staring at the incident without any effort to go to the aid of their colleague, dived towards him, pulled him from beneath the carriage and ran with him cradled between them towards the back of the house.

‘Are you alright?’ asked her father.

Regan stared at the empty space where the servant had been, at the gouged gravel with the black blood upon it. ‘He seemed so afraid.’

‘Probably a bit shocked,’ sniffed Reginald. ‘Bloody careless if you ask me. He’s opened enough doors I should think. Should know where the footplate is by now.’

Regan bent and examined the plate. Her father grabbed her arm to stop her, but she shrugged him off. She ran a finger across it. There was one small area of perhaps half and inch that had somehow become jagged and razor sharp.

‘You must see to this, father,’ she said firmly.

Reginald looked over his shoulder and saw a throng of people trying to look as if they weren’t staring at what was going on.

‘It’s alright,’ he said in his most reassuring voice. ‘Just an accident.’ He put a hand out for Regan. ‘Come, child.’ He set his ruddy face resolutely. ‘Let’s gather ourselves for a second thrust at this bloodbath.’

Regan took his hand and together they climbed the flight of steps to the house.

After the initial upset, Regan was relieved when she was greeted by a cluck of fine women and introduced to a new set.

Her father disappeared, taken in hand by the host and immediately lost among the deal-makers who happened to be at the gathering.

Regan looked around the hall for Myles Keogh. She saw him fleetingly as he weaved between friends and then lost him again. On impulse, she put her hand in her bag and brought out the spray. She squeezed the bulb and felt the fresh spray kiss at her exposed neck. It was cooling.

‘Whatever is that?’ asked a rather shrill voice behind her.

Regan quickly put the spray back into her bag. ‘It’s just a scent,’ she said. ‘It’s quite cooling.’

The woman, who Regan had been introduced to as Tilly Masters and who was no older than Regan, sniffed the scent. ‘It’s very subtle. Can I smell oranges?’

‘You can,’ said Regan as she tried to distance herself from the woman’s nose.

‘It’s quite…earthy, isn’t it. May I try some?’

‘I’m afraid not. It’s rather expensive.’

‘I see,’ said Tilly with affected injury. Before Regan could stop her, Tilly had swiped a finger across Regan’s neck and dabbed herself with the damp residue of the perfume.

‘There,’ she said with haughty satisfaction. ‘That must be a guinea’s worth right there.’

Regan wanted to slap her. She could see her open hand as it sliced through the air and made contact with Miss Master’s soft jowls.

Instead, she smiled primly. ‘Indeed. Why don’t we mingle? Perhaps you could introduce me to some of the gentlemen here.’

Surprised by Regan’s apparent willingness to turn a blind eye to her impulsive behaviour, Tilly grabbed her wrist and dragged her towards the far side of the room.

They weaved through people intent upon close conversation, who spoke so loudly that even their own voice was lost in the din, but as the two girls approached, the men parted, as if they knew by some sixth sense that they were coming. As they went past the men looked at them with a kind of curious dread. They retreated fully three feet and, once the girls had passed, came together again, their eyes locked upon each other as if nothing had occurred.

‘There they are,’ beamed Tilly. ‘The Keogh Gang. Never in your life did you see such cutthroats and break-hearts as the Keogh gang. They come in the dead of night and steal the hearts of poor, unsuspecting virgins who, after such wicked love, find the rest of their lives dull beyond repair, so much so that they often take to a warm bath and open their wrists and die in the imaginary arms of the one who stole their virtuous heart.’

Regan saw Myles Keogh. He was tall and exquisitely tailored in tails, his black wavy hair recklessly long, his almond eyes set like jewels beside his perfect nose and plump, kissable lips.

‘Myles!’ called Tilly. As she did so, she faltered. ‘Myl...’ she called again, but the words faltered as clutched at her throat.

Regan stopped and grabbed Tilly by the shoulder. Tilly clawed frantically at her own neck, to the point where her smooth white gloves behaved like pumice and began to shred the delicate skin beneath.

‘Tilly,’ stuttered Regan. ‘Tilly. What is it? What’s the matter?’

Tilly’s agonised, wet eyes rolled as her fingers bit into her skin. ‘It burns,’ she whimpered. ‘It burns.’

Tilly fell to the floor and began to jerk spasmodically as if her body was fighting off some unseen spirit. Then, from between her fingers, a spray of red erupted into the air.

Regan knelt down and put her hand across Tilly’s neck. She pressed hard as she had once had to do when one of the dogs had snagged its neck on wire.

Tilly pushed Regan’s hand away and continued to gouge at the skin as blood flowed ceaselessly, pulsed from the open would and covered Regan in thin red stripes.

Then, as quickly as her distress had started, it stopped and Tilly Masters became still.

Her hands fell to her side. The pulses of blood from her neck wound became more and more shallow until, finally, they stopped altogether.

Regan felt hands on her shoulder.

‘Miss Clear.’ It was the voice of Myles Keogh. ‘Miss Clear. Please, come away.’

She refused. Her hands hovered over Tilly’s inert body as they struggled to find a way to reverse the horrific events. In the end he put his hands under her arms and lifted her away.

As they moved away from the scene, so others moved in as if triggered at last into some sort of action.

Tilly’s mother fell upon her daughter and pulled her limp, pale body to her chest. Tilly’s name boiled from her as the storm inside her raged at the loss of her child.

Myles Keogh pulled Regan through a set of doors and into another empty room where he guided her to a chair.

He lingered as he released her, his face close as it followed the contours of her neck. She could hear his breath as he inhaled and felt his lips skim the hot surface of her skin.

She lifted her hands between them and prised him away. ‘Mr Keogh,’ she sighed. ‘Please, would you get me a drink?’

Keogh stopped. ‘Of course,’ he said. He lingered a moment more then stood, went to a drinks cabinet and poured Regan a brandy. He gave it to her and sat down next to her.

‘Are you alright?’ he asked.

‘I am not,’ said Regan.

She looked at her blood soaked gloves and tore them from her hands. She threw them to the floor. Keogh picked them up and laid them across his lap.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Keogh. ‘That was a stupid question. What can I do to help you?’

Regan sipped at the brandy. She saw Tilly’s fear-filled eyes and the glaze of poppy red blood that shone upon her pale skin.

‘What happened?’ she asked.

She looked at Keogh. His pupils were wide, his moist eyes round with pleading and despair.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘A reaction of some sort. Had she eaten anything? Had she had anything to drink?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Regan. She struggled to trace Tilly’s movements since she had first met her. She did not recall her eating or drinking. ‘I saw nothing.’

Then she saw again the swipe of Tilly’s finger upon her neck as she stole a drop of scent and rubbed it onto her own neck.

‘Oh, my God!’ gasped Regan.

‘What is it?’

‘My purse. Where is my purse?’

Keogh leaned past her and produced the purse. Regan grabbed it from him and opened it. She fumbled for the bottle and withdrew it, held it in her hands as if it was a vial of poison.

‘This,’ she said. She held the small, brown bottle up to Myles. ‘She used my scent.’

Myles took the bottle from her and sniffed it. He shuddered as the perfume embraced him. He put his fingers to the vaporiser and wiped them across it, then put his fingers to his nostrils and sniffed again.

‘That’s beautiful,’ he said. ‘Remarkable. I don’t see how something such as this could harm a soul.’

He moved closer to Regan and began to nuzzle at her neck. She found it difficult to resist and turned her head away so that she could present more of herself to him.

The doors opened and he pulled away.

Reginald Clear bumbled in, his face red enough to explode.

‘My good God, child! Are you alright?’ He came closer and saw the blood upon her. ‘Terrible,’ he said. ‘Just terrible.’

He noticed Keogh. ‘Mr Keogh. My thanks, sir. My thanks for leading my daughter away from such carnage.’ He looked back at the doors with undisguised horror. ‘That poor family,’ he said. ‘Her poor mother.’

Keogh moved closer to Regan and took her hand. ‘At least your daughter is safe,’ he said. ‘I will care for her.’

A puzzled look crossed Reginald’s face. ‘You have done your duty, Mr Keogh.’ He looked at the linked hands. ‘I will take my daughter home. Anything else would be inappropriate.’

Keogh stood. ‘Of course. Perhaps you would consider staying the night. It’s late. I’m sure Miss Clear would be better to spend the night here and leave in the morning.’

Reginald harrumphed. It was clear that Regan was in no state to travel. She needed the company of a maid to help her clean up and comfort her. Men were no good to her now.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘We shall stay. Thank you for your kindness.’ They stood and regarded each other for a long few seconds. ‘You may go now, Mr Keogh. Thank you, as I said, for your kindness.’

Keogh sat again next to Regan. He leaned unconsciously in towards her and again began to sniff the air, his eyes closed.

‘Mr Keogh!’ snapped Reginald. ‘You may go. Send in a maid to escort my daughter to her room.’ Keogh opened his eyes as if pulled from a trance. ‘And make sure the room has a lock on the door,’ added Reginald.

‘But I..’ began Keogh.

‘I cannot but ask again, sir!’ said Reginald curtly, keen to stem his temper in front of his daughter.

‘What’s going on?’

Behind Reginald stood Joseph Keogh.

‘Nothing, Joe,’ said Reginald, his eyes still on Myles. ‘Your son was about to find us a maid to escort my daughter to her room.’

Keogh looked at his son. ‘Well, get to it, boy! Can’t you see the girl is in shock?’ Young Keogh danced on the spot, unable pull himself away. ‘Now boy! Now!’

At the explosion from his father, Myles rushed out of the room.

‘The boy’s a fool,’ said Joseph.

‘He was helping,’ said Reginald kindly. ‘It was probably as shocking for him.’

‘The boy’s a pansy, Clear. He needs to stiffen up a little, take some responsibility.’ He smiled maliciously. ‘Maybe a stint in the marriage cells would do him some good, eh?’

‘I’m all for a bit of penal reform,’ snorted Reginald.

‘I say, steady on,’ laughed Joseph.

The maid came in and the two men abruptly ceased their joviality.

Reginald indicated Regan. ‘Take her to her room and ensure she is cleaned up. See if Lord Highfield can get hold of some sort of sleeping draft.’

The maid bowed and laid a friendly arm upon Regan. Regan responded and stood.

As she passed the men, Joseph lurched towards her.  He pulled her to him and buried his face in her neck. ‘If there’s anything I can do, my dear…’

Aghast at Joseph’s behaviour, Reginald prised him away. ‘What are you doing, Joe?’

‘Embracing her, Reginald. She is to be my daughter-in-law, after all.’

‘What are you talking about?’ blurted Reginald. ‘Daughter in law? I wouldn’t let her be your scullery maid! I have made a match with Sir William Wraysbury’s son.’ He grabbed Joseph by the scruff of the neck. ‘Release her.’

It was the maid who eventually disentangled them. She grabbed Regan’s wrist and pulled her through the doors and away to her allocated room.

‘Don’t forget to lock her door!’ shouted Reginald after her.

Joseph reeled away and fell into a chair.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ demanded Reginald.

Joseph gazed up at him as if he had been hit. ‘I don’t know. I’m sorry. I…’

‘Sorry does not excuse your bullish behaviour. I’m all for a joke, Joe, but that was too much.’ Reginald made his dramatic exit. ‘Keep that foppish son of yours away from my child or I will beat the imbecile.’

‘But Reginald…’ called Joe to Reginald’s departing back.

He looked longingly at the empty doorway.

 

 

III

 

There had been no sleeping draught. Regan had sat numbly while the maid, a young and gentle soul, had cleaned and soothed her.

Now she lay in the unfamiliar darkness of her room. It was musty; no amount of cleaning would remove the stench of disuse. They had tried to make it habitable. There were pictures upon the walls, but they were clearly pictures that they felt belonged in some disused room, that were still worth money, but attention.

One of them, of a rather thin-faced and sour man, had eyes that followed. In the dark, the whites, that completely surrounded the irises, and in this alone imparted deceit and distrust, glowed hotly upon Regan’s bed.

There was a dead fire at the far end of the room. She could occasionally hear sounds come from the chimney, tiny scurries that echoed the length of the flue and then fell into her room and convinced her that some animal had entered her room.

The mattress, upon which she now lay in abject misery, was lumpy. It was as she imagined it would be if one slept on cold porridge.

Her thoughts were unable to tear themselves away from the events of the evening. She thought of poor Tilly. Somewhere within the black heart of this pile of bricks and mortar, lay her body, cold and alone, with that look of fear and surprise still painted upon her eyes. What of her soul? Did it at this moment moan and wail at her side at the unnecessary pain of a life cut short?

It was my fault, thought Regan. If I had not been so vain as to go to Wintergreen (curse the name) and falsely claim a love that should not have been mine in the first place. If father had not sprayed more of the poison upon me. If I had not sprayed more upon myself. If only the silly, petulant, childish Tilly had not reached out that silken hand and placed the deathly dew upon her own neck.

If only…

And Joseph Keogh, the way he had lunched towards her like a drunk and run his filthy nose and his cold wet lips upon her neck. Use sparingly, the shopkeeper had said. You have the spiritual string of his mother and father running through him as surely as a crooked nose or a fractured mind.

Oh, what had she done? While other men were forced away by the visceral scent, the Keogh men were driven towards her like a madman towards the moon.

Her fantasy of a better life had torn apart the lives of others. She was no better than a whore.

She heard a tapping and assumed it had come from the chimney.

‘Oh, go away,’ she said under her breath. ‘Whatever you are. Just go away.’

The tapping became stronger and she realised that it wasn’t from the chimney, but from her door.

She sat up and focussed all her attention on that one tiny space.

The knocking recommenced.

She pulled the covers from her, then hesitated and pulled them back, up to her neck. The knocks became persistent, not loud, but at a level that would seep into sleep and become part of dream whereupon that dream would force the sleeper into wakefulness.

She threw off the covers again. They folded across the bed like a sleeping ghost.

The eyes of the sour-faced descendent stared down at her.

Carefully, as gently as she could, she placed her feet to the floor and tip-toed towards the door. Once there, she rested her ear against it. The knocks persisted.

‘Who is it?’ she asked in a harsh whisper.

‘It's me, Myles,’ came the strained reply. ‘Please, Miss Clear, won’t you let me in? I need to talk to you.’

‘Go away, Mr Keogh,’ demanded Regan. ‘If you don’t, I will scream for help.’

There was a moment of silence. Regan pressed her ear hard against the door.

Then, at her hip, she heard a minute scrape and saw the doorknob turn.

The wood of the door groaned slightly as Keogh tried to put weight against it.

‘Go away!’ demanded Regan again.

A fist fell against the door with a thump. ‘Open the door, Miss Clear. I want to come in. I want to make love to you. I want to do so many things.’ His voice rose and trembled as his fist hammered at the door. ‘I want to. I want to. I want to take your skin and make it mine. I want to wear you, Miss Clear.’

Regan stepped away from the door.

Keogh continued to drum against the door. Both fists took up a rhythmical beat as if driving a slave galley across the sea.

‘Miss Clear,’ shouted Keogh. ‘Miss Clear.’

Regan screamed as loudly as she could. ‘Go away!’

She heard a door open a short way down the corridor.

‘What the bloody hell..?’

Her father.

Regan heard his feet stomp along the corridor. They mingled with the pounding of Keogh’s fists and seemed to fill her entire room.

The two men met.

‘Get away from that door, Keogh.’

The bangs continued.

‘Get away from the door!’

Then, the sound of a scuffle, muffled by the thick wooden door. She could imagine her father as he grabbed Keogh by the scruff of the neck and wrenched him to the floor. He may have been past his best, but he was a lion in defence of his daughter and, next to the thin, delicate Keogh, had a distinct weight advantage.

Someone fell.

Regan ran and unlocked the door.

Before her on the floor she found Keogh astride her father. Reginald had one hand around Keogh’s throat and his other hand wrapped around a wrist. Above the wrist was a knife which was descending inexorably towards her father’s neck.

She pushed Keogh at the shoulder with all the power that she could muster. He fell sideways and crashed into the wall.

Reginald still had a hold upon his wrist. Keogh turned his eyes to Regan. His eyes were lit by rage. He pulled away from Reginald, wrenched his wrist free and came towards her.

Regan retreated into the room. She attempted to close the door, but the possessed Keogh pushed the door aside and sent Regan sprawling to the floor.

Behind him, on the floor of the corridor, her father lay coughing, his hand hands held to his neck as he tried to get his breath.

Keogh loomed over her then lowered himself upon her. Regan fought. He forced her arms to the ground and pinned her down, then with his knees, prised apart her legs.

He released one of her hands in order to remove his trousers. She struggled, but he just forced himself closer to her until her arm was around his back and she was pinned to the floor at the shoulder.

She bit him upon the cheek. Her teeth pierced his peachy flesh. She felt his warm blood upon her lips and spat. The lump of flesh that she tore from his face smacked wetly against him. He screamed, but did not let go. If anything, it increased his strength, his desire, whatever madness lay within him.

Then his weight was lifted from her.

‘Get off her boy. Get off her!’

Joseph Keogh grabbed shoulders and swung him into the bedroom wall. The sour-faced eyes of the portrait looked down upon Myles as he crumpled against the skirting beneath him.

Joseph Keogh turned to Regan. She had blood around her mouth and in the half-light of the room appeared clownish.

His nostrils widened and his eyes closed as he caught the powerful scent that had eaten like a worm into his brain.

He fell upon her, his rank, cigar and brandy-ridden breath hot and sour upon her.

Regan fought again. She put her hands against his shoulders, grabbed his shirt in her hands and locked her elbows. He strained to break the rigid hold. A string of saliva hung from his mouth and mingled with the blood on her lips.

She knew that she would not be able to hold him off. Her strength, the strength that she thought she had in abundance, the strength with which she believed she could combat anything the world threw at her, was waning.

Joseph Keogh forced his knees between her legs and began to prise them apart.

Her elbows began to bend. His weight and strength were too much. His fat wet lips came closer to her. She cried with anger and frustration and summoned her last ounce of strength to force him away.

It was not enough. She buckled and his whole weight collapsed upon her. His hand went down to his trousers, as he pinned her down the same way his son had done.

Then suddenly he went limp. He stared at her with wide, surprised eyes. A long foetid belch rolled off his tongue into her face. Joseph Keogh fell forward. He was dead.

Behind him stood his son, the knife in his hand. It glistened in the silver moonlight that fell through the window.

Myles stood over them, his teeth bared, his hair wild, his face covered in the oily blood that oozed from the gouge in his cheek.

Regan tried to retreat. Her arms and legs scrabbled crab-like across the floor, her eyes locked upon the knife.

There was an explosion. Myles continued to stare, but as he did, incomprehension crossed his face.

Regan turned towards the noise. Her father stood, wrapped in a swirling blue plume of acrid smoke. His arm was outstretched and in his hand was a pistol.

Myles Keogh crumpled to his knees. There was a small, precise hole in his temple. His mouth juddered as if he had something to say, then his eyes rolled and he fell forward onto the body of his father.

 

IV

 

The summer sun fed the avenue. The still trees poked out green tongues and lapped at the life-giving warmth.

About her, Regan heard the sound of carriages as they jostled for place in the busyness of town.

She came to the Arcade and, without hesitation, turned into its quiet half-light.

Wintergreen stood peacefully within its recess. It windows shed its yellow light upon the cobbles, but it no longer seemed welcoming.

Regan stepped through the door. Her footsteps fell dully against the wooden floor.

Behind the counter stood the shopkeeper. His wide, blue eyes shone from behind his half-moon glasses.

‘Hello, Miss,’ he said.

He had the same dolphin smile upon his face, but it no longer held the kindness that she had previously perceived.

‘What do you need?’ he asked.

‘Do you have something that could prevent a man being hanged?’

‘Do you have something of his that I may use?’

Regan nodded. She opened her purse and took out a handkerchief. It was plain, with the initials ‘RC’ upon it in red.

She laid it upon the counter. ‘He didn’t do it,’ she said. ‘He didn’t murder anyone.’

The shopkeeper remained distant. ‘I think that Lord Highfield may disagree,' he said simply. 'I believe that he and Mr Keogh were quite close. He was Godfather to his son, who your father also killed, I believe.’

Regan was about to take him to task. How did he know? How could he presume?

Of course he knew. He did not have to presume. The shopkeeper knew everything, every fragile strand in your body and soul.

‘Can you save him?’

‘Of course,’ said the shopkeeper flatly.

He opened the handkerchief upon the counter and then took out the magnifying glass and stand.

He looked through the glass at the handkerchief.

‘Pass me a pencil would you please, Miss?’

Regan did so. He drew a small circle upon the material.

‘Caveat emptor,’ he said.

‘Caveat emptor,’ agreed Regan.