The Lunatic's Curse

  ‘Let us not dwell on such things,’ said Ambrose quietly. It seemed all his energy was being put into the simple act of placing one foot in front of the other.

  ‘They wouldn’t let me visit.’

  ‘Chapelizod allows no visitors,’ said Ambrose. ‘It suits him that way.’

  Rex was unable to hold back any longer. ‘Are you going back?’

  ‘Never,’ said Ambrose.

  Rex’s heart lifted immediately and then plummeted. There was something in his father’s tone that told him to read between the lines. ‘Never’ could mean many things.

  ‘Rex, I came to see because you are my son and I love you,’ said Ambrose matter-of-factly. ‘And to give you something for when I am gone.’

  ‘You’re going?’ Rex phrased it as a question but he knew that it was a statement of fact. ‘But you said—’

  ‘I cannot come home. Too many things have changed. I have changed, more than you know. Now it is your future that matters.’

  Rex took a moment to consider this answer. ‘Well, let us both go somewhere together,’ he said determinedly.

  Ambrose took a deep breath. ‘I cannot go with you,’ he said, and there was a profound sadness in his eyes. ‘It is dangerous for me to even spend time with you.’

  Rex wrinkled his brow. ‘I don’t understand. Surely as soon as you can prove that you aren’t mad then you can come back to Opum Oppidulum, take the house back and Acantha will have no more claim on you.’

  ‘You want me to prove that I am not mad?’ Ambrose laughed harshly. He held up his hook. ‘How can I when the evidence is right before me?’ Instinctively, Rex shrank from the rusty hook. Ambrose saw his reaction and was immediately remorseful. ‘I’m not the man I was,’ he said softly. ‘I trusted Acantha and I was duped. Now I cannot trust myself.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ asked Rex. ‘You were not mad – you were sick; you must have been. It’s the only explanation. It’s not a crime to be tricked. Acantha is a monster. If you don’t come back I’ll . . . I’ll kill her!’

  Ambrose grabbed him by the shoulder and hissed. ‘Monster? What do you mean? What has she done to you?’

  Suddenly Rex was frightened. ‘She hasn’t done anything to me, exactly,’ he said nervously. ‘But she is going to send me to the Reform School.’ Then he couldn’t control himself any longer and he broke down in tears. ‘Oh, why can’t you come home and we’ll be the way we used to be, before Acantha?’

  Ambrose hugged Rex tightly. Rex buried his face in his rags and could feel that there was almost nothing left of his father’s once sturdy frame. He felt his warm breath on his hair and his nose digging into his scalp. He heard him sniff deeply and then he was pushed away again.

  ‘I can’t go back, Rex, it’s too dangerous, for both of us. Acantha will just have me arrested. I am officially insane. I have lost all my rights. How does a madman prove his sanity?’

  Separated, they began to walk again, in silence. Rex could see that his father had changed in body, yes – but surely his mind was still intact? Could his illness not be cured? What was this danger he talked about? More confused than ever, he was beginning to understand that his life was far more complicated than he had thought possible. But he didn’t have much time to contemplate this realization before Ambrose came to an abrupt halt.

  ‘I hope you’ve been keeping up with your Classical studies,’ he said suddenly.

  ‘As well as I can without Robert.’

  ‘Very important,’ he said, ‘to know your Latin and Greek.’

  Rex shook his head. His father was behaving very oddly.

  They stood on Cuttlesack Lane outside what appeared to be an old shop. Rex noted that there were no goods in the window and the frosted glass was fly-spotted on the inside. Thick cobwebs stretched from one corner to the other. Above his head a sign swung gently to and fro. Some of the letters were missing and all he could read was:

  Rex flinched as Ambrose knocked sharply and deliberately on the door with his raw-boned knuckles. A panel in the door slid across and a pair of eyes appeared in the slit.

  ‘Ambrose Grammaticus,’ said his father softly. ‘I wish to see Mr Sarpalius.’

  The panel closed and the door opened. Ambrose pulled Rex through into a tiny low-lit room. There was a counter in front of them behind which was a heavy black curtain that hung from ceiling to floor. A cheap tallow candle burned smokily in a holder and a strange odour, not wholly unpleasant, thought Rex, hung on the air.

  The door closed behind them and the man who let them in pulled aside the curtain. ‘Room at the end,’ he said with a nod.

  The corridor beyond the curtain was narrow, only wide enough for one person to pass through at a time, and there were more curtains at intervals along its sides. Rex jumped as he felt a spatter of hot wax on his cheek from a guttering candle on the wall. The smell from the shop was even stronger back here. One of the drapes was not fully drawn and in the brief second Rex had to look behind it, he saw a man lying face down on a table. Another man was leaning over him and in his hand he had some sort of tool. It was sharp, and the tip was covered in a red liquid.

  Blood? thought Rex in horror. What else could it be? Was this man a surgeon? He caught the fellow’s eye and he raised his head from his work and smiled, displaying a mouthful of large black teeth. Then he leaned over again and Rex saw that his patient clenched a stick between his teeth.

  And its purpose was to prevent his crying out.

  ‘Father, what are we doing in this place?’ whispered Rex. But Ambrose didn’t answer. For the first time ever Rex’s faith wavered. He wondered if he was wrong; could everyone else be right? Was his father really insane?

  They reached the final curtain. Ambrose held it back and pushed Rex forward into darkness. Rex stood there shivering. Fear overwhelmed his senses. There was someone else in the room. He could hear steady breathing, neither his nor his father’s. Then there was the sound of a flint being struck against steel and the room lit up. Rex screamed. Out of the yellow light emerged the face of a grinning monster with black eyes surrounded by scales, and from his mouth there emerged the forked tongue of a serpent.

  10

  The Painted Man

  Rex’s scream was stifled as for the second time that night a hand clamped firmly over his mouth to silence him. He felt the sharpness and weight of iron on his shoulder and he was spun round.

  ‘Nothing to fear, son,’ said Ambrose. ‘It’s pictures, merely pictures.’

  Rex steadied his breathing and steeled himself, and opened his eyes, for he had screwed them tightly shut. The monster was still there, grinning, but he could see now that his father was right. This was no beast, just a man with pictures on his face and down his neck and up his forearms and across the backs of his hands. He seemed to be painted with colourful scales, like some sort of reptile, and glinting in the candlelight Rex could see huge golden hoops in his ears. But he was not imagining the man’s tongue; it really was forked and he seemed to enjoy Rex’s discomfort as he repeatedly flicked it in and out of his mouth.

  ‘Arrh!’ growled the man suddenly, his head darting forward like the snake he resembled.

  Rex jumped back and the man laughed.

  ‘Anton Sarpalius?’ asked Ambrose.

  The painted man nodded.

  ‘Walter Freakley gave me your name. I’m pleased to meet you.’

  He held out his hand and Rex recoiled at the thought of touching the scaly skin; he anticipated it would be as slimy as he imagined a snake might be. The man smelt strongly of sweat and tobacco, but Rex noticed that he had long fingers, artist’s fingers.

  ‘I haven’t much time,’ said Ambrose.

  ‘I can work fast,’ replied the reptilian fellow. ‘What is it you wish me to do?’

  Ambrose directed Rex to sit while he and Anton engaged in a whispered conversation. Rex took the opportunity to look around the room. Windowless and bare, apart from a couple of chairs and a low table, it was small and hardly
welcoming. There was a cupboard in the corner, the doors of which were half open, and Rex could see within an array of brown glass bottles, further convincing him that this unlikely-looking man was a surgeon. Perhaps he was going to cure his father. He certainly looked ill. A noise caused him to glance over at Anton and he was shocked to see that he had taken out a cut-throat and was sharpening it on a leather strap. Ambrose seemed to think that it was unnecessary and Rex was pleased to see Anton lay it down again.

  Finally they shook hands and Rex knew that a deal had been made. Anton pulled the servant’s bell at the wall and a few minutes later the fellow from the front of the shop arrived with a tray of drinks, one for each of them. While Rex enjoyed his sweet-tasting liquid, Ambrose and Anton watched him closely and sipped from their own wooden mugs in silence. The clock struck one and he began to feel sleepy. Presently his eyes were so heavy he felt as if he needed pitchforks to lift them. He put down his tumbler. His head was swimming.

  ‘Father,’ he began to say, but Ambrose only looked at him and smiled sadly. After that everything seemed confused. Rex remembered being taken to the table to lie down and the last thing he saw was the face of the monster looming over him. And the last thing he felt was fingers running through his tangled hair.

  The next sensation Rex had was the coldness of the night air on his cheeks. He was still lying on his back but now something was digging into him. Where has the ceiling gone? he wondered, for he could see the incomplete moon and the stars. He felt sick and his head was throbbing. He was vaguely aware that someone was nearby. He began to think that he was in the middle of a nightmare, that his father had not come back at all, but then he caught a strong whiff of decay and he knew that it was all very real.

  Then his father was standing over him. His eyes were shining in the light of his lantern.

  ‘Where are we? Where’s Mr Sarpalius?’

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Ambrose softly. ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘My head hurts,’ said Rex. He touched his scalp and when he took his fingers away they were sticky with blood.

  ‘You fell on the shingle,’ said Ambrose, staring hard at Rex’s bloody hand. His voice was strangely muted. ‘It will heal.’

  Rex tried to focus on his surroundings. He sat up slowly, his head spinning and his ears ringing, and he could hear an odd crunching sound. He realized with a shock that he was on the stony shore of the lake. ‘What are we doing here?’

  Ambrose sighed and knelt down with difficulty. He put his hand on Rex’s shoulder and it felt very heavy. ‘Rex, there’s so much you don’t know, and I don’t want to tell you, but believe this: I love you and I want the very best for you. You must promise me that you will not go back to Acantha. You were right about her – she is not to be trusted. I found that out too late. I can only pray that she has shown a little humanity towards you and not . . .’ He didn’t finish his sentence, but coughed long and hard.

  ‘Humanity?’ said Rex sarcastically. ‘Oh, there’s plenty of that, if you consider humanity treating me as if I don’t exist! I won’t go back. I’m going to stay with you.’

  Ambrose shook his head slowly. ‘You cannot.’

  ‘Then what is to become of me?’ Rex was tired, his head ached badly and he was frightened. He didn’t want puzzles, he wanted answers. ‘Just what is going on?’

  ‘Listen, Rex,’ said his father. He paused for a long time, searching for the right words. ‘I have a . . . disease. It’s like a curse. I cannot trust myself to do what’s right. It’s too late for me; I’m not strong enough any more. But Acantha must be stopped. I found information on the island, all the proof you need to expose her, but I couldn’t bring it with me – it was too dangerous. Maybe it is the disease that makes me so untrusting, but I was afraid, afraid that it might fall into the wrong hands. Oh, Rex, if you can face it, you must go to Droprock Island, find the proof and take it to someone you trust . . . my friend on the Hebdomadal, Cecil, he will know what to do with it.’

  ‘But how will I find it?’ asked Rex in exasperation.

  ‘Just use your head.’

  Suddenly there were shouts and the sound of running feet on the stones. Ambrose spoke quickly. ‘Rex, I wish I could tell you more but the less I tell you, the less you can tell others. It’s safer this way. If Acantha gets her hands on you I know she will try to find out what I have told you.’

  ‘But you haven’t told me anything!’ protested Rex.

  ‘Take this,’ he said, and he pressed something into Rex’s hand and closed his fingers around it. ‘You must get to the island. The asylum is safe now; Chapelizod is gone. The answers you’re looking for are there.’ His voice was no more than a hoarse whisper. ‘And remember: don’t fly too close to the sun.’

  ‘What?’ Now his father really was talking nonsense.

  ‘Just do as I say, Rex,’ he urged desperately. ‘On your head be it.’

  Ambrose started to walk away, still facing Rex. Rex struggled to his feet, but he was woozy and having trouble standing. ‘Just take me with you,’ he pleaded, reaching out to his retreating father, but he fell to his knees, his legs unable to carry him.

  ‘I can’t.’ Rex knew in his heart that this was the final goodbye. He didn’t understand why and he didn’t think he could bear it.

  ‘Remember the good times, Rex,’ called Ambrose, and his voice was breaking. ‘Before all of this. Remember me as someone who loved you. Not as . . . as a monster.’

  A monster? Rex felt as if he had sustained a crippling blow. This was all so terribly wrong. Then there was a shout and three burly cloaked figures came running down the shore.

  ‘There he is,’ shouted one of them. ‘The escaped madman. Catch him, boys! Catch him.’

  Ambrose tried to run but he was too weak, and the yielding shingle made it even more difficult get away. The constables were upon him in a matter of seconds. Rex watched as his father fell to the ground with a terrible crunch and lay there unmoving. And through blurred and swollen eyes, Rex saw them chain him and drag him away.

  He never saw him alive again.

  11

  Out of the Frying Pan . . .

  Cadmus Chapelizod stumbled out of the freezing shallows and fell heavily to the shingle. He was cold and wet and he knew that he smelt very bad indeed. ‘Oh Lord,’ he kept saying over and over. ‘I made it. I can’t believe I made it.’

  After the lunatics had escaped and gone on the rampage, he had wasted no time trying to contain them but had immediately hidden where they were least likely to look for him – in one of their own abandoned cells. After a couple of days under a pile of stinking straw he judged that the noise from above had quietened and dared to emerge. It seemed that everyone was gone, but, just in case, he disguised himself as one of his former charges and ran down to the jetty, hoping against all hope that the ferryman might still be there. His relief was immeasurable when he saw the cloaked figure in the boat. Without further ado he leaped in and barked at him to take him across the lake to the town. He spoke not another word during the crossing, merely stared straight ahead at the lights of Opum Oppidulum and prayed earnestly for his safe delivery.

  And now he was here. He could have wept with joy! He looked around him. They had landed quite far down the shore; in the fog the ferryman must have missed the jetty, and now the boat was nowhere to be seen. Cadmus didn’t care. He suspected that the ferryman was in cahoots with the escapees; after all, hadn’t he just rowed him to town even though he must have thought he was a lunatic? He would arrange for the man to be arrested along with anyone else who had escaped and could be found.

  Cadmus still couldn’t believe what had happened. And it was made all the worse by events from the past. For ten years he had been in charge of the asylum with no complaints from anyone. Well, no one who mattered. He had taken the job when the previous superintendent had gone soft and allowed a dangerous murderer to escape. Ten years without a hitch and now this! At least he had been spared his life; the other murdero
us escapee, apparently unreformed, had killed his foolhardy predecessor.

  Cadmus gritted his teeth. As for those treacherous cowards, the warders! If he ever got his hands on them they would pay, each and every one, for subjecting him to this humiliation. It was the head warder who was responsible for the whole mess! As far as he could work out, the escape was all his fault. Somehow one of the lunatics had got hold of his keys.

  Cadmus tried to gather his thoughts. He knew what to do: he would go to Acantha’s. She would help him. And she would have food. He needed to get his strength back. She must be wondering what had happened to him; he had missed the last meal and had been unable to send an explanation.

  Cadmus stood up and shuddered. He could still feel their hands on him, grabbing him, trying to kill him! He had shaken them off; after all they were half starved and hardly strong enough to stand up, let alone hold him down. But the smell and the feel of their scabious hands and the sight of their weeping sores and the look of their running eyes . . . Ugh! It was too much to bear.

  His clothes were torn and his face was scratched, and in this state of disarray he began to make his slow, painful way up the shingle until he reached the road. The lights of the town were beacons of hope and he began to feel as if he could actually be back to normal before too long. As he stumbled along he heard the sound of hoofs from behind.

  ‘Oh, thank the Lord,’ he rejoiced. His ordeal was almost over. He turned to see a small cart and horse approaching. The driver drew up beside him.

  ‘I need a ride into town, my good man,’ said Chapelizod in his usual authoritative tone. ‘I have had some bad luck.’

  The driver looked doubtful. ‘That’s what they all say. You look like a beggar to me. We don’t like beggars in Opum Oppidulum.’

  Cadmus sighed. ‘I will pay you as soon as we get back to my house.’

  ‘Where is your house?’