“Thank you—I am in your debt.”
He scooped up his cloak, hurrying out into the night, leaving his puzzled companion with two half-full pints of amber ale.
Ian was both relieved and disappointed to find the flat empty and dark, save for a very hungry and vocal Bacchus, who proclaimed his displeasure at Ian’s absence loudly, weaving in and out between his feet. Picking his way carefully around the cat to the kitchen, Ian tore into what remained of the joint his brother had cooked. He ate standing at the counter, tossing bits of meat to Bacchus, who gobbled them up greedily.
When Ian crawled into bed, the cat snuggled up against him, purring loudly, one paw thrown over his arm. The cat’s eyes were half-closed, the expression on its face as close to pure contentment as Ian had ever seen. Why was it so easy for a dumb animal to find peace and happiness in this world, while human beings created wars so they could hack at one another, spending untold hours thinking up new ways to inflict harm?
Why were families, which should offer solace and comfort, such sources of anguish? The story of his family had ended too abruptly, leaving too many unanswered questions. It was like a badly constructed plot, loose narrative threads dangling without closure. He stroked the cat’s head absently, and the animal reached a paw up to his face, running it lightly over his cheek. Ian burned with shame and regret. Why was it so much easier to befriend a stray cat than to be kind to his own brother? Was there a missing component in his personality that compelled him to push people away? Self-pity began to flower in his breast; through force of habit, he immediately converted it into anger, a far more acceptable emotion.
The thin sliver of moon stared down from the eastern sky as he pulled the covers up to his chin, but thoughts continued to race through his brain. What had happened to his family was no worse than a hundred tragedies that befell others every day—why linger on the agony? The pain and rage had made a home in his heart, burrowing in like the cat nesting next to him in bed, and he felt powerless to budge it.
Finally he rose and lit the bedside lamp. Rifling through the rolltop desk in the corner, he fished out a few pieces of paper. He scribbled out some lines, without thought as to whether they were good or bad, just to make himself feel better.
The Hand of God
is dull, diffident—or worse, indifferent
How can he demand from us
what he refuses to provide
mocking us with notions of love
he continues to hide
while we stew in shame
like an unwilling bride
He didn’t really believe in a Christian God, but he needed a target for his anger. The lines did provide some relief, and when he returned to bed, Ian smiled at the sight of Bacchus stretching a paw out to him, as if welcoming him back to bed.
But when he finally drifted off, sleep was not an amiable companion. He was visited by nightmares of pursuing a killer down dark and crowded streets, through closes and wynds, until a blank brick wall stopped both pursuer and pursued. When the man turned to face him, red and panting, the shock of recognition turned Ian’s limbs to stone. There, in the dank and festering alley, was his brother.
“Shocked, are you?” Donald taunted. “Stupid git—the clues were there all along, but you were too dim to see them!”
Ian tried to speak, but no words came—his tongue was as thick and useless as his legs. He watched helplessly as Donald turned into the same hideous skeleton found on the playing cards left by the murderer. His brother danced a jaunty gig, bones rattling, grinning an eyeless grin as Ian looked on, horrified. The scream that finally wrung itself from Ian’s throat was drowned out by his brother’s mocking laughter.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Lucy Davenport, her head swathed in layers of flannel, staggered down the Canongate, trying unsuccessfully to wring the voices from her head. She hoped that if she wrapped her ears with enough fabric, she could silence the tormenting whispers that followed her everywhere.
Sadly, she was wrong. At the moment, she was engaged in a dialogue with one she called Evil Seth. He was a particularly nasty character who liked to berate her, reminding her of her own worthlessness.
“Small wonder your mother abandoned you,” Seth snarled as she lurched past the window of McClennon’s Dry Goods. The well-dressed shop ladies inside shook their heads and clucked their tongues at the sight of her—poor Daft Lucy, out there all alone in this wretched weather. But Lucy took no notice of the weather—when the voices were upon her, it was all she could do to put one foot in front of the other.
“You’re a worthless bampot,” her tormentor declared, using the slang word for “idiot.” Seth often used vulgar language—yesterday he had called her a “fanny,” a double insult meaning both “vagina” and “stupid.”
“I am not,” she muttered, clutching her ears as she stumbled past an organ-grinder and his monkey. He was hardly a more popular figure on the street than she was; though children loved to see his strange little creature perform its tricks, most people in Edinburgh, when they gave him money, did so in hopes he would move on to another neighborhood. Still, he tipped his hat to her like a gentleman, and she attempted to smile back, even though she couldn’t help shrinking away from the ugly little beast with its tiny head, sharp teeth, and sunken eyes. Its shriveled face reminded her of shrunken heads she had seen in London shops as a girl.
Those days seemed a long way off—Daft Lucy, as she was known, had lived in Edinburgh most of her life. The voices had begun around her eighteenth birthday, causing her parents to turn her unceremoniously out of the house. She was now in her midtwenties, though she wasn’t sure exactly how old she was. Her parents had died in the last cholera epidemic, along with many of Edinburgh’s citizens, and she truly was alone in the world.
But Edinburgh was a city that embraced its oddities, and Lucy was seldom without an offer of a hot meal or a discarded dress to wear. She spent her more lucid days reading in the library, devouring books on everything from history to botany to popular literature. She was well-known to all the local pastors, always welcome in church; sometimes, on the good days, she even helped give lessons to the children in Sunday school.
This was one of the bad days. When the voices came, she could not bear to be still, so she wandered the streets, shaking her head and talking to her invisible companions. Families on their way to church gave her a wide berth, mothers tucking their children’s heads close to their skirts to shield them from her.