‘Look,’ said Hooper.
Ambrose turned his head to where Hooper pointed. It was a second or two before his dulled brain could take in what he was seeing. The cell door was open. He sat up quickly, a little too quickly, and his head spun.
‘How did you do that?’ he asked in amazement, suspecting a trick or, even worse, merely a dream.
‘I didn’t. Someone came along and opened it a while back.’
‘Why didn’t you wake me?’
‘You looked like you needed the rest,’ said Hooper simply. ‘I’ve been up there – it’s mayhem I tell you. Fires and everything. I found this, though. I thought it might be interesting. You like to read.’ He handed Ambrose a book.
Ambrose took it and tucked it into his trousers. He would have a look at it later. Then he staggered up awkwardly from the straw on stiff legs, regretting that he hadn’t eaten more. If they really were to escape, and now it looked a distinct possibility, then he would need all his strength. In fact, if it wasn’t for Hooper, he would probably be dead already. Hooper had forced him to eat even though the thought of food made him feel ill.
‘Come on,’ said Hooper, ‘we’ve got work to do.’ Waving the ragged diagram he hobbled out of the cell.
Ambrose peered cautiously out into the rocky underground corridor. He too had been taken down it on more than one occasion for his ‘cure’, and always in the presence of Cadmus Chapelizod. ‘My special patient’, he had called him.
Hooper was already some distance ahead. ‘Wait,’ called Ambrose, limping after him.
And off they went, a shambolic pair hardly alive, down the dark tunnel. All around echoed the sounds of shouting and whooping, high-pitched laughter, some cheering even, and running footsteps from above. As they went towards the stairs up into the asylum proper, they met a tall thin man going against the tide.
‘Come with me,’ said the man, ‘if you wish to stay alive.’
‘Why? What’s going on?’ asked Hooper.
‘It’s simple,’ replied the pale stranger. ‘The lunatics have taken over the asylum.’
7
A Not So Great Escape
‘Spare a cripple some coins,’ cried Simon, brandishing the worn board whereupon were scrawled his mendacious claims. ‘Spare us a penny, a shilling. Whatever yer have, I’ll take it.’
He sat not in a doorway but right in the middle of the pavement so people couldn’t help but see him. Despite the most inconvenient nature of his position, it was a constant surprise to him how many people did not see him. They must be walking along with their head in the clouds, he thought. What was it they said – none so blind as those who can see? He didn’t quite understand it but he sort of knew what it meant. These fellows could see all right but they just couldn’t see him.
Simon might not always have been a beggar but he had always been a lazy good-for-nothing. He had no family and could honestly say that he was truly alone in the world. What he could not state with such veracity was that he was a cripple. The four-wheeled platform beneath his legs was a deceptive piece of work. Under the tatty blanket his legs dropped into a hollow. He had been scooting around on it for so long now that it was second nature to him to do so. When he reached the end of the day and went back to his lodgings he sometimes didn’t even get out of the trolley. His legs were happier in that position than any other and it actually hurt to try to straighten them out. To stand up was a near impossibility. His calves and thighs had withered from lack of use and the reality was that he could probably have exposed them to the passers-by and they would have been equally generous with their donations. It would not be hard to be equally generous; their donations on the whole were few and far between. Beggars were not looked upon kindly in Opum Oppidulum. He and his beggar friends had all heard there was a committee now to get rid of them. It was in the Hebdomadal (a few sheets of which lined the seat of his trousers).
Night fell and Simon was heading home. He was wheeling himself away down the dark cobbled streets (ooh, the dreadful bumping!) when he became aware that he was being followed. He trundled along a little faster. The footsteps quickened. He slowed, so too did they. Unnerved and alert to imminent danger he pushed down hard with his bandaged hands and travelled remarkably quickly along the littered streets. The debris of the day’s market was strewn on the ground, making his journey all the harder. Fruit skins and vegetable peelings caused him to career from side to side, but on he went rounding corners, whizzing between a strolling gentleman’s legs and skidding over a lady’s skirts. There was much screaming and abuse in his wake and at one stage he was struck a glancing blow by a rolled-up copy of the Hebdomadal.
Eventually he allowed himself to slow, hopeful that he had shaken off the follower, doubtless a fellow after his takings. Catching his breath he turned down the alley that led to his lodging house and saw that he had not evaded his pursuer at all. At the end of the alley stood the shadowy figure of a man. He had one hand on his hip and the other behind his back. He was not especially tall but he was sturdy.
‘What do you want?’ asked Simon. ‘I have nothing to give.’
But the man didn’t speak. He stepped forward and brought round his arm from behind his back. Simon thought it seemed abnormally long and it was only when he felt the stunning blow that he realized the man was holding a club.
8
A Delivery
Dear Robert,
I hope my letter finds you in better spirits than I. It’s barely sunrise but once again I am awake. I am greatly worried. I have not seen a light in the asylum for days.
After what I overheard in the library I know that I am my father’s last hope. As far as Acantha is concerned, he will never get out. I cannot help but wonder about this fellow she mentioned, Andrew Faye. What part might he have played in this sorry affair?
Rex lifted his pen and shivered. Time was not on his side. In the absence of Robert he felt very alone. A sound from the street caught his attention and he went to the window. He saw a horse and cart drawing up outside the house. A rotund man jumped down from the driver’s seat. He was carrying a parcel under his arm wrapped in paper and tied with string; a length of it was trailing behind him. The man had the gait and bearing of a tradesman and, instead of going to the front door, he opened the gate in the railings and descended the steps to the basement kitchen.
Shortly afterwards the man returned to his cart without the package. ‘Ho, Blackbird,’ he called to his horse, cracked his whip and they were away.
Perhaps that is the mysterious Andrew Faye, mused Rex as the cart disappeared down the street. But, regardless of the man’s identity, if he was any sort of friend of his stepmother’s then he was no friend of Rex’s. With a sigh he returned to his letter.
Since you left I spend most of my days in my room, keeping out of Acantha’s way. The front door is locked, as is the kitchen door, and the ground-floor windows. I am not unduly worried, I can get out if I really want to, but right now I am undecided on the best course of action. I have considered going to the constables to tell them of my suspicious, but what exactly do I suspect? That Acantha somehow drove my father mad? It sounds ridiculous. And with Chapelizod and Stradigund on Acantha’s side, how can I possibly persuade anyone that a crime has been committed. In truth, Robert, I don’t know if one actually has! I could try to get over to the island. But, even then, what can I do? I have no money and certainly Chapelizod will not allow me to see my father.
All I know for certain is that time is running out. To help Father and straighten out this terrible mess I need proof that Acantha is behind it all. But where would that proof be? I can think of only two places: here in the house or on Droprock Island.
Rex laid down his pen and rested his head in his hands. He was utterly exhausted.
He woke when the housekeeper rattled at the bedroom door a couple of hours later. ‘Yes, yes,’ he called out, then waited until she had gone away before going out to the landing. He could hear her below complaining to Acantha
.
‘Don’t mind him,’ said Acantha. ‘He will be going away soon enough. I plan to enrol him in a boarding school where he will be with boys his own age.’
‘An excellent idea,’ said the housekeeper. ‘He has been nothing but miserable since all that business with his father. I don’t suppose there is any hope for poor Mr Grammaticus?’
‘None at all. He is utterly beyond help. I doubt he will ever be allowed out.’
‘Such a shame,’ said the housekeeper. ‘But, I must say, I still have nightmares about it. I can’t bring myself to look at that sword.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Acantha briskly. ‘Now, tell me, was there a delivery this morning?’
‘Yes, madam. Cook took it in. She was wondering what you would like her to do with it.’
‘Tell Cook not to worry. I will prepare the meal tonight.’
‘Dinner for Mr Stradigund and Mr Chapelizod again?’
‘Indeed,’ said Acantha. ‘As before, you and the rest of the staff may take the evening off.’
The housekeeper was happy to oblige and said as much. At least once a fortnight since Ambrose had been incarcerated, her mistress had relieved the servants of their duties to entertain the solicitor and the asylum superintendent and sometimes a third party. No questions were asked. The servants were always happy to have some free time.
At midday Rex emerged from his room to fetch some food from the kitchen. Acantha had gone out – he had seen her leave – and Cook was busy at the table preparing vegetables and making pastry for the evening’s meal. She looked up when he came in and gave him a sympathetic smile. She felt sorry for him. Before Mr Grammaticus went mad he and Rex had spent hours together building those funny little toys, some of them even moved! Such clever fellows!
‘Another letter for Robert?’ she asked, taking it from Rex’s hand. ‘I’ll see it’s sent, and I won’t tell Acantha, don’t you worry.’
Rex smiled gratefully.
Poor boy, thought Cook. She knew Rex hadn’t been happy about his father remarrying. But no man is an island, she thought philosophically (if not ironically). And who was she to comment on it anyway? Cook knew her place, below stairs in the kitchen.
‘Take what you want,’ she said, nodding to the larder, and Rex helped himself to bread and cold meats and a big bottle of ginger beer. Cook watched as he examined the tied package on the counter, delivered that morning by Acantha’s preferred butcher, some fellow she used when she cooked for her friends.
‘Don’t you touch that, young man,’ she warned. ‘It’s for tonight. Special cut. The mistress is to prepare it herself. Some sort of fancy beef dish, I believe.’
‘I’m sure I won’t be invited to supper,’ said Rex.
‘I hear you’re off to school soon,’ said Cook. ‘Shame that. There’s a travelling show on the way with a two-headed man and a set of whip-cracking quadruplets. Maybe you’ll still be here to see it.’
‘Who knows,’ said Rex. ‘Who knows!’
The afternoon passed, night fell and Rex finally went to bed. He was well-fed but no nearer a solution to his problems. Again it was a long time before he fell asleep. He could hear the sounds of laughter and singing and the clatter of knives and forks from below where Acantha was entertaining her cronies. Therewas no sign of the mysterious Andrew Faye, but they weren’t letting his absence curb their celebrations and as the night wore on they became louder and more raucous.
They carouse at my father’s expense, thought Rex resentfully.
When he did sleep he dreamed that he was sitting in the kitchen with Acantha and Chapelizod and Stradigund feasting on a huge pig. He didn’t want any but Acantha kept waving a forkful of meat in front of his nose. It smelt the way she smelt in the library. They were all laughing, with blood dripping from their mouths and running down their chins. ‘Here’s to Mr Faye,’ they kept saying, and every time they toasted him they raised their glasses with such abandon that they showered each other with viscous scarlet wine. Finally a faceless figure appeared in the doorway. ‘I am Andrew Faye,’ he said mournfully, and then he turned to Rex and said his name.
‘Rex.’
Rex turned over in bed and continued to dream.
‘Rex. Wake up.’
Rex opened his eyes. A skeleton in rags stood over him with wild eyes and no teeth and in place of a left hand there was a rusty hook. He opened his mouth to scream but a dirt-encrusted, odoriferous and very real hand clamped down over his mouth. He could feel that the hand was trembling.
‘Rex, please,’ pleaded the voice. ‘Don’t scream.’
Rex, trying to breathe through the hand, twisted wildly. Who was this intruder? Was he here at Acantha’s instruction? Then a terrible thought struck him. He stopped struggling and peered into the dark, but still he could not see properly this shadowy, crooked figure bending over him. He felt the hand move away from his mouth and heard the rasp of a match. Then the candle beside his bed flared up.
‘Do you know me now?’ asked the man, holding the light up to his tangle-bearded face.
‘Yes,’ mumbled Rex in shock. ‘But, Father, how did you get here?
9
A Nocturnal Adventure
The ragged man sat down on the bed breathing heavily. He smelt very bad, like rotting meat, and in the light of the candle Rex thought he had aged decades.
‘You look terrible. What has happened to you? What have they done to you?’
Ambrose shook his head slowly. ‘Rex, don’t worry about me. I am here now and our time is short.’
‘I have seen the lights in the windows of the asylum, on the island.’ Rex was babbling, with excitement and fear and relief. Was this not his dream come true? To see his father again? ‘Was one of them yours? I was sure it was.’
Ambrose looked a little confused. ‘The light?’ Then he smiled. ‘Yes, it has been a great comfort to me to know that you could see me.’
‘How did you get here? Did Mr Chapelizod let you out? Surely not! So you must have escaped!’
‘I may be mad,’ said Ambrose drily, ‘but I’m not stupid. There’s always a way. My er . . . room-mate, Hooper, he helped me, and a chap called Walter Freakley.’
‘You’re not mad,’ began Rex, but Ambrose shook his head.
‘No time for that debate,’ he said. ‘Get up. Dress yourself; we’re going out.’
‘But how did you get in?’
Ambrose held up a piece of bent wire. ‘A lock is hardly an obstacle for a Grammaticus,’ he said with a knowing smile.
Rex sneaked a look at his father as he pulled on his clothes and boots. He felt slightly revolted. He was so thin and his exposed skin was covered in scabs. The wound to his head had not healed properly. When he coughed it was a long wet cough. And the smell . . . it was overpowering.
Ambrose noticed his staring. ‘I’m not so well,’ he explained, ‘but I had to see you.’ He stopped talking and took a deep breath, as if trying to inhale all the air around him.
‘You’re exhausted,’ said Rex. ‘Lie down, on the bed.’
‘Maybe I will,’ he murmured, ‘just for a moment.’ Rex noticed that his frail body hardly made a depression in the covers he was so light.
‘Acantha has taken control of everything – the house, your money, the company,’ said Rex quickly. ‘And she plans to send me away. Robert has been dismissed. She has declared you legally insane. Stradigund discovered a law, the law of a hundred days—’
‘Stradigund?’ repeated Ambrose, and he shook his head. ‘I knew that Chapelizod was involved but I had hoped I was wrong about Stradigund.’ A note of bitterness had crept into his voice.
‘They’ve been downstairs for hours,’ said Rex excitedly. ‘You could confront them.’
Ambrose sat up. ‘They’re in the house? The three of them?’
‘Well, certainly Stradigund,’ said Rex. ‘I saw his carriage. It’s one of Acantha’s supper nights. I know Chapelizod was invited too and possibly Andrew Faye. Do you know him?’
/> ‘Andrew Faye?’ spat Ambrose with surprising venom. ‘Then we must go. Hurry up,’ he said, suddenly impatient. ‘We have to leave. They must not find me here.’ He looked closely at his son and Rex thought he saw something in his father’s red-rimmed eyes, a searching look. ‘What do you know of Andrew Faye?’ he asked.
‘Never even seen him,’ said Rex. ‘Why?’
Ambrose shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you are safe.’
‘Safe? From what?’ But his father’s face didn’t invite further query.
‘Ready?’ asked Ambrose. ‘Then let’s go.’
Shortly after, in the creamy light of the waxing moon, Rex and his father made painful progress through the shadowy streets of Opum Oppidulum. Rex held on tightly to his father’s hand, his right hand. He couldn’t bear to look at the hook on the left. He was in the grip of an uncontrollable torrent of emotions: fear, excitement, hope, dismay, sadness. He wanted to ask so many questions but he didn’t want to know the answers.
Over one hundred days looking out across the lake every night at the dreary asylum. Watching for a shadow across the lighted window, always hoping for this very moment. And now that the moment was here it was tainted with dread and uncertaintly. It was not how Rex imagined it would be. It was supposed to feel very different.
They walked for a half-hour or so, leaving the broad familiar streets near their house and heading east through the marketplace to the poorer side of town where the streets narrowed and the gas-lights were spaced further and further apart.
‘Was . . . is it very bad?’ asked Rex finally.