Poor Jacky, page 10
He put the book aside, gently as though not to wake it. He shambled out of yesterday’s clothes and padded his way into the en suite.
Ahh... The shower! Surely, it was the pinnacle of human endeavour!
The hot water pounded at every pore, soothing and invigorating at the same time. He soaped up. He sluiced it off. He may have even sung a little.
He pulled back the curtain and reached for a towel.
The little room was foggy with steam.
There on the mirror, a thick finger had scrawled in the condensation, “PUT IT BACK”.
Paul recoiled and almost slipped over on the wet shower tiles. He bundled the towel in his hand and wiped the words from the mirror. He shivered, even though his skin was still pink from the hot water.
He hurried from the en suite and fumbled his way into clean clothes. He didn’t dare go back in to brush his teeth. A couple of mints from his jacket pocket would have to do. He could buy a new toothbrush easily enough.
He snatched up his things and got out of there. Clothes sprang from his suitcase like the stuffing from a busted sofa. Paul didn’t care. He hurtled down to Reception to check out.
The girl at the desk had a smile like an advertisement for dental veneers. She swiped his credit card and printed out his receipt, false fingernails clicketty-clacking on the keyboard.
Paul remembered to ask for directions to the bookshop. The girl frowned. He may as well have asked the way to Atlantis. He tried again: the shopping centre, or precinct, or whatever. This was familiar territory to the receptionist. She told him he wouldn’t need a taxi. It was right over the road.
Feeling foolish, Paul grunted his thanks and hurried out of there. The brisk air smacked him in the face. It brought him to his senses. He had a job to do. He would fucking well do it.
He crossed at the pelican and, without any difficulty at all, located the bookshop. It was adjacent to a manicurist’s parlour - well, no wonder the receptionist had never seen it!
The bookshop manager was there to greet him. He ushered Paul through to the staff room, with the wide eyes and astonished expression of the true fan. The man gushed and fussed. Could he get Paul anything? Nothing was too much trouble. Coffee? Pastries? Something stronger?
Paul frowned, wondering what was considered stronger than a pastry. Haggis, perhaps. He asked to be left alone to collect his thoughts and go over his notes.
Of course, of course, the manager backed out of the room, as though leaving the presence of a sultan.
Paul consulted his watch. He had the best part of an hour. The temptation to dip back into Miss Beamish’s book was almost insurmountable. But he managed it. He pulled out his own notes, reminding himself of the key points. He never used notes when he did one of his talks but it didn’t hurt to remind himself what he was supposed to be banging on about.
The manager and an acolyte returned with a tea tray and a box of doughnuts. Paul signed the assistant’s copy of Shield and Stone, the first volume of his trilogy. The girl giggled and marvelled at his signature and practically floated out of the room.
Buoyed by this response - and who wouldn’t be? - Paul found he was beginning to look forward to meeting his readers. His ego needed the boost. His nerves needed soothing. He needed to be reminded of the better aspects of his life.
People loved his work; he was always astonished by this. And, by extension, they loved him. Sort of. They thought he was some kind of big deal.
He steeled himself, enjoying the butterflies tickling his innards.
He would give his public what they wanted.
***
The bookshop was crowded - if it had had rafters, it would have packed to them. Paul received a rapturous welcome and his talk went down better than ever. People loved the insights into his creative process. How the ogress in the second volume had been based on his primary school headmistress. How the arrogant princess was inspired by his own sister...
They laughed at his jokes. They applauded his commentary on the state of the nation. They appreciated his satirical allegory of key political figures of the day, dressed up as mythological beasts and fantastical creatures.
There followed a question-and-answer session. Some of the questions were of the geeky, obsessive kind - while Paul appreciated the attention to detail, he wasn’t always the best person to ask. Luckily, there was usually someone present who could provide the necessary clarification. Other questions were about the future. What was next?
“I can give you an exclusive,” he announced with an appropriate amount of fanfare. “I can reveal to you, this morning here in Aberdeen, that my next book will be something of a departure for me. I’m giving the old sword-and-sorcery genre a bit of a break for the time being and trying my hand at something different.”
This was greeted with gasps of varying degrees of enthusiasm.
Hands were thrust into the air, vying for his attention. The people were eager to learn more.
Paul became coy. He didn’t want to go into detail - the project was still very much in the embryonic stage, but it would be something contemporary and with elements of horror and the supernatural to it.
A smattering of applause underscored the gasps that greeted this declaration. They certainly do a lot of gasping, the people of Aberdeen, Paul thought. Was it the air or the amount of cigarettes they smoked?
The manager bustled forwards to bring the session to a close. He was keen to get the signing underway. Signings meant book sales. The crowd didn’t need much inviting to give their favourite author a rousing round of applause. There were even some whistles and some American-style whooping.
He steered the waving, beaming author away and instructed the crowd to form a more orderly line over at the table where his staff had roped off an area that directed the punters past stacks of Paul Beecroft novels.
Paul took his seat behind the table and greeted the first, rather nervous fan, with a genuine smile. It took him a few customers before his ear attuned to the accent, further mutilated by nerves and shyness in the face of the great writer. As usual, he soon got into the swing of things, signing title pages with a flourish, answering questions with wit and posing for photographs with tireless enthusiasm.
The manager was very pleased. Some people were already trying to pre-order the new book even though it appeared not a word of it had yet been written.
After an hour and a half, Paul was beginning to flag. He did his best to keep his energy up, accepting coffee from the eager shop staff, and, truth be told he was enjoying himself. These things were always more of a boost than a chore. You never met with negative people. Critics tended not to show up. It was all a love-in and he was the guest of honour.
An open book was slid in front of him. He recognised it as the first edition of his first ever novel. This punter must be a long-term fan. He looked up.
“Who shall I sign it to?” he asked and then his public relations smile faltered.
Standing before him was Pong.
The spectre somehow seemed more present than anyone else, than the room surrounding them, even. He seemed denser than a normal person, a living person, that is.
Pong’s eyes stared blankly at him, into him.
Paul fumbled. He dropped his pen. He ducked under the table to retrieve it.
It couldn’t be happening! It wasn’t happening! It wasn’t Pong; it was some unfortunate bugger who looked a bit - a lot - like him. That was it.
“Is something the matter?” The voice of the shop manager brought Paul up from under the table.
Standing patiently before him, it wasn’t Pong. It was a young girl aged about thirteen, smiling sweetly, with nothing more threatening about her than the braces on her teeth.
“Dropped my pen,” Paul said weakly. He wiped sweat from above his top lip and took the book the girl was holding out. “Who shall I sign it to?” he asked, his voice thick.
“Helen,” said the girl. “Thanks.”
Paul fumbled again, botching the dedication. The girl went away happy just the same.
For the remainder of the queue, Paul became more mechanical, signing, smiling, posing. The apparition or hallucination or whatever the fuck it was had taken the wind out of his sails.
Eventually, the last happy shopper was dealt with and the manager approached, rubbing his hands with glee.
“Well done, well done! Best one ever!” he purred.
Paul nodded. He packed his things away, dizzy and nauseous.
“Are you quite well there?” the manager put a steadying hand on the writer.
“Yes, yes,” Paul flapped him away. “I just need some air. Thank you.”
He hurried from the bookshop as quickly as he could.
The temperament of writers! The manager shook his head. He clapped his hands again. Most of the Beecroft titles had sold out. It didn’t matter that he had neglected to get the author to sign extra copies they could display (and sell).
Then he noticed something had been left behind. He picked it up and thrust it at an assistant, urging her to run after the writer and restore it to him.
The girl did as she was told. She hurried out into the precinct but the writer was nowhere to be seen. She looked at the battered book in her hands. It was too grubby for them to sell in the shop. You wouldn’t look twice at it at a car boot sale.
“Destiny’s Fires,” she read the title. She opened the cover; perhaps there would be an address or something.
There was only a scrawled message, a dedication. No signature but three words as though written by a child. The words dug deep into the paper, indenting several pages beneath.
PUT IT BACK.
The shop assistant shrugged. She took the book back to the manager. Perhaps he could send it on. Was Beecroft appearing at another of their branches, perhaps?
The manager took the book to his office. Perhaps it would be worth something on the internet.
***
Paul wandered around, more than a little stupefied. He couldn’t get out of the shopping centre fast enough and out into the bracing breeze on the seafront. It felt good to shiver from natural causes.
He cast his eyes around, looking for a taxi rank. Sorry, Aberdeen, but I’m getting out of here as fast as a train can take me.
At the station, he booked a ticket but was dismayed to find he had over an hour to kill before the train departed. Inevitably, it seemed he wound up in the station’s bar. He could have gone to the branch of Queequeg’s, he supposed, but his stomach was already sloshing with bitter coffee.
He ordered a brandy and a pint of Guinness.
They would sort him out.
He found an empty table. Damn it. This hour was going to drag.
Then he remembered Miss Beamish’s notebook and cheered up. The hour would fly by.
It never occurred to him that he had forgotten to take his medication.
***
Edmond bitterly regretted bringing the child into his home. Oh, he didn’t think he was wrong to save its life but surely he could have delivered it to the safekeeping of a local orphanage or workhouse or some kind of charitable institution. He would even have paid a handsome stipend to vouchsafe the child’s wellbeing. But bringing it into his house had been a step too far. It was unfair on the child, for one thing, to expect it to bind his marriage together and heal the rift caused by Nature’s cruelty.
My kindness has backfired, the Earl would mutter to himself, inseparable now from his decanter of port. The child has become a barrier that keeps me from my own wife. It has alienated her affections and monopolises her time. And she dotes upon it, the puny, sickly thing. Why, the child has been with us for six years and has barely grown since it was three! The doctor - fat-headed fool! - can find nothing amiss but the child will eat nothing but bread dipped in warm milk. No wonder it is an ailing, grizzling thing - a milksop indeed!
He laughed disdainfully.
Perhaps he was taking the wrong approach. Perhaps he was wrong to steer clear of the child. Perhaps if he spent more time, took more of an interest...
Encouraged by this idea, the Earl vowed the very next day, he would engage the child in some kind of activity. He would take it for a tour of the grounds, for example. They could feed the ducks on the lake. They could take a ball and a dog...
He dozed off in his armchair and soon his snoring filled the den.
Upstairs in the nursery, little Jacky was wide awake. His eyes stared into the darkness above his cot.
He smiled.
***
Lady Alice was astounded to hear of her husband’s plans. He burst into the nursery and barked orders to the servants, sending them into a flurry of activity.
“What mean you, Edmond?” Lady Alice clutched at his arm. “You cannot take poor Jacky outdoors! His constitution will not withstand it.”
“It’ll do him good,” the Earl shook her off. “Put some colour in his cheeks. What mean you, I could say, to stand in the way of your husband? It is high time I spent some time with my son John.”
He pronounced the name deliberately. He didn’t hold with the vulgar diminutive form.
“Fresh air and the sun on his face will rally the mite soon enough,” he continued. “And you, my dear, look as though you would benefit from a few hours’ respite.”
It was true. Lady Alice was almost as wan as the child. Dark stains beneath her eyes indicated a prolonged lack of sleep. Indeed, she was too weak and listless to argue with him.
The boy was dressed in a suit he had been given for his fourth birthday (rather the anniversary of his arrival, for the true date of his birth was unknown) and was as yet unworn. It fitted him, although the breeches were a little loose around the waist - the child was little more than waxy skin stretched over bones. A shapeless beret was thrust over his head and a woollen muffler was swathed around his throat.
He looked down at himself in this strange attire, accustomed only to the cotton shifts he wore to bed. He tried a few experimental steps in his new buckled shoes. Lady Alice held her breath, certain some disaster would ensue. But - wondrous! - the child gurgled with delight and held up his hand to the Earl’s. Lady Alice clapped in delight.
“Come, John.” The Earl left the nursery with the pale little boy holding onto his finger trotting hurriedly behind him.
Lady Alice and the maids exchanged glances. We are surprised, those glances said; we wonder what will happen - and we have not forsaken all our misgivings just yet.
***
Edmond had to pick the child up and carry him down the grand staircase and out through the front door. The child weighed practically nothing, it seemed; it was like carrying a paper doll.
The child blinked and whimpered when daylight fell across him. He turned his face away and pressed it into the Earl’s coat, his tiny fingers holding on, twisting around the buttons.
“It shan’t hurt you,” the Earl found himself whispering to the top of that hideous beret. “We are going to have fun, you and I. You have to become a man, John. For one day...”
Edmond had not thought this through before. One day this entire estate, his entire fortune, would pass to this sickly child! And what would happen to it then? The child would need to have more about him than was currently evident.
Then again, there was every chance the child would not survive to maturity... and the Earl would be left without an heir again.
These considerations stiffened Edmond’s resolve to make something of the boy. He would not admit it to himself but there was part of him, deep inside his mind, that suggested another motive: treat the boy well and the wife will soften. Lady Alice would become more accommodating and then Edmond would be able to resume what was necessary to propagate a true heir, one who carried the bloodline in his veins.
He carried the boy through the more formal gardens near the house and across the paddocks where the horses grazed. The mare whinnied and showed signs of rising up onto her hind legs but the Earl gave her a wide berth. If the fall of sunlight was enough to unsettle the boy, a skittish horse would put him into paroxysms of fright!
When they reached the edge of the lake, Edmond set the boy down on the grass. The toes of his new shoes were suddenly wet with lingering dew.
“Ducks, John - ah, Johnny,” Edmond pointed at the birds bobbing on the surface. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a parcel wrapped in muslin. He unwrapped this in front of the boy’s blank face and revealed torn up pieces of stale bread. “Would you like to feed them, Johnny? Would you like to feed the ducks?”
The child remained impassive, staring with empty eyes across the water. Edmond pinched a piece of bread between his fingers and tossed it towards the birds. One of the drakes fell on it hungrily. Some of the others let out quacks of interest and surprise. Edmond threw another chunk and then another. The ducks began to make a commotion. They came out of the water and padded about, strutting and pecking at the ground, shouldering each other out of the way.
Edmond tried to get the boy to take some bread from the paper and throw it. He took the boy’s hand and folded it around a piece of bread. “Go on, Johnny; throw it!” he urged. He was rapidly losing patience with the child. What was it, a complete and utter ninny?
The boy’s hand opened. The bread dropped to the ground. A duck was swiftly upon it, honking appreciatively.
“There, Johnny! Do you see?”
The duck poked its beak towards the boy, prompting him to yield more titbits. Boldly, it drew closer.
Suddenly, the boy’s hand shot out, like a cobra, and seized the bird by the neck. The bird flapped in alarm, its wingspan almost larger than the child. The boy had it in both hands now.
“John! Johnny! No!”
But the Earl may as well not have been present.
The boy wrung the duck’s neck and it fell still. That was not enough. He continued to squeeze and to twist until he had pulled the bird’s head clean off.
Edmond was horrified. He grabbed the boy’s arm and shook it until he dropped the duck’s head. He turned the boy towards him and stooped so they could see eye to eye.
“That is not how we behave!” Edmond bellowed. “That is not the way we do things.”
