Rain blankets the glass, forcing me to lean out of the window to see where I’m going. The headlamps shine on a dirt track littered with leaves and fallen branches, water cascading across its surface. Despite the danger, I keep the accelerator pedal pinned to the floor, elation replacing my unease. After everything that’s happened, I’m finally escaping Blackheath, each mile of this bumpy track taking me further from its madness.
Morning arrives in a smudge, a grey half-light that taints rather than illuminates, though it at least brings an end to the rain. As promised the road continues straight, the forest unending. Somewhere among those trees, a girl is being murdered and Bell is coming awake to see it. A killer will spare his life with a silver compass that points to a place that doesn’t make sense and like a fool he’ll think himself saved. But how can I be in that forest and in this car – and a butler in between? My hands tighten around the wheel. If I was able to talk to the butler when I was Sebastian Bell, then presumably, whoever I’ll be tomorrow is already walking around Blackheath. I might even have met him. And not just tomorrow, but the man I’ll be the day after that and the day after that. If that’s the case, what does that make me? Or them? Are we shards of the same soul, responsible for each other’s sins, or entirely different people, pale copies of some long forgotten original?
The fuel gauge nudges red as fog comes rolling out of the trees, thick upon the ground. My earlier sense of triumph has waned. I should have arrived at the village long ago, but there’s no chimney smoke in the distance and no end to the forest.
Finally, the car shudders and stills, its dying breath a screech of grinding parts as it comes to a stop mere feet from the Plague Doctor, whose black greatcoat is in stark contrast to the white fog he’s emerging from. My legs are stiff and my back sore, but anger propels me out of the car.
‘Have you got this foolishness out of your system yet?’ asks the Plague Doctor, both hands resting on his cane. ‘You could have done so much with this host; instead you waste him on this road, accomplishing nothing. Blackheath won’t let you go, and while you’re tugging on your lead, your rivals are pressing ahead with their investigations.’
‘And now I have rivals,’ I say contemptuously. ‘It’s one trick after another with you, isn’t it? First you tell me I’m trapped here, and now it’s a competition to escape.’
I’m marching towards him, fully intending to beat an exit out of him.
‘Don’t you understand, yet?’ I say. ‘I don’t care about your rules, because I’m not going to play. Either you let me leave, or I’ll make you sorry I stayed.’
I’m two steps away when he points his cane at me. Though it hovers an inch from my chest, no cannon was ever so threatening. The silver lettering along the side is pulsing, a faint shimmer rising from the wood, burning away the fog. I can feel the heat of it through my clothes. If he desired, I’m certain this benign-looking stick could rip a hole straight through me.
‘Donald Davies is always the most childish of your hosts,’ he tuts, watching me take a nervous step backwards. ‘But, you don’t have time to indulge him. There are two other people trapped in this house, wearing the bodies of guests and servants, just like you. Only one of you can leave, and it will be whoever brings me the answer first. Now, do you see? Escape isn’t to be found at the end of this dirt road, it’s through me. So run if you must. Run until you can’t stand, and when you wake up in Blackheath again and again, do so in the knowledge that nothing here is arbitrary, nothing overlooked. You’ll stay here until I decide otherwise.’
Lowering the cane, he tugs loose his pocket watch.
‘We’ll speak again soon, when you’ve calmed down a little,’ he says, putting the watch away again. ‘Try to use your hosts more wisely from now on. Your rivals are more cunning than you can imagine, and I guarantee they won’t be so frivolous with their time.’
I want to charge him, fists flying, but now the red mist has passed, I can see it’s a preposterous idea. Even taking away the bulk of his costume, he’s a large man, more than capable of weathering my assault. Instead, I veer around him, the Plague Doctor heading back to Blackheath, as I press into the fog ahead. There may be no end to this road, no village to be found, but I can’t give up until I know for sure.
I won’t return willingly to a madman’s game.
11
Day Four
I awake wheezing, crushed beneath the tremendous monument of my new host’s stomach. The last thing I remember is collapsing exhausted on the road after walking for hours, howling in desperation at a village I couldn’t reach. The Plague Doctor was telling the truth. There’s no escape from Blackheath.
A carriage clock by the bed tells me it’s 10:30 a.m., and I’m about to rise when a tall man enters through a connecting room carrying a silver tray, which he lays on the sideboard. He’s in his mid-thirties, I’d guess, dark-haired and clean-shaven, blandly attractive without being memorable in any way. A pair of glasses have slipped down his small nose, his eyes fixed on the curtains he’s walking towards. Without saying a word, he draws them and pushes open the windows, revealing views of the garden and forest.
I watch him in fascination.
There’s something oddly precise about this man. His actions are small and quick, without any wasted effort. It’s as though he’s saving his energy for some great labour ahead.
For a minute or so, he stands at the window with his back to me, letting the room breathe cold air. I feel as though something is expected of me; that this pause has been manufactured for my benefit, but for the life of me I can’t guess what I should be doing. No doubt sensing my indecision, he abandons his vigil, slipping his hands under my armpits and tugging me into a sitting position.
I pay for his assistance in shame.
My silk pyjamas are soaked through with sweat and the odour rising from my body is so pungent it brings tears to my eyes. Oblivious to my embarrassment, my companion retrieves the silver tray from the sideboard and places it on my lap, lifting the dome cover. The platter beneath is piled high with eggs and bacon, a side helping of pork chops, a pot of tea and a jug of milk. Such a meal should be daunting, but I’m ravenous and tear into it like an animal, while the tall man – who I can only assume is my valet – disappears behind an Oriental screen, the sound of pouring water issuing forth.
Pausing for breath, I take this opportunity to examine my surroundings. In contrast to the frugal comforts of Bell’s bedroom, this place is awash in wealth. Red velvet drapes flow down the windows, piling up on a thick blue carpet. Art spots the walls, the lacquered mahogany furniture polished to a shine. Whoever I am, he’s held in high esteem by the Hardcastle family.
The valet returns to find me mopping grease from my lips with a napkin, panting with the effort of eating. He must be disgusted. I am disgusted. I feel like a pig in a trough. Even so, no flicker of emotion shows on his face as he removes the tray and slides my arm across his shoulders to better help me out of bed. God only knows how many times he’s been through this ritual, or what he’s paid to do it, but once is enough for me. Like a wounded soldier, he half-walks, half-drags me behind the screen where a steaming hot bath has been prepared.
That’s when he begins to undress me.
I have no doubt this is all part of the routine, but the shame’s too much to bear. Though this isn’t my body, I’m humiliated by it, appalled by the waves of flesh lapping against my hips, the way my legs rub together as I walk.
I shoo my companion away, but it’s pointless.
‘My lord, you can’t...’ He pauses, collecting his words together carefully, ‘you’re not going to be able to get in and out of the bath alone.’
I want to tell him to go hang, to leave me in peace, but he is, of course, correct.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I nod my submission.