Darren Craske - The equivoque principle

The man noticed her.

He turned his head and looked directly at her.

Somehow, he knew she was there. He was definitely aware of her. A fact that was confirmed as a thin smile crawled onto his face. That wasn't supposed to happen. This was a vision from the future. Destine was supposed to be a disconnected viewer, observing events yet to pass-it was impossible for her to be drawn into some moment of the present. She brushed the feelings away, but as he began slowly walking towards her, the man's face drove into sharp focus amongst the wisps of the mist and moonlight. It burned its image into Destine's brain; so much so, that it was the only, overriding thought that existed there, and it was like being frozen to death from the inside out. An overwhelming wave of fear crawled across Destine's body. The man was now mere feet from Destine's position. Close enough for her to smell his breath. A twisted, malevolent sneer washed across his face as he walked into the shafts of blue moonlight. Destine slapped her hands to her face in sheer horror, as the image of the man flooded her senses.

'C'est impossible!' she gasped, 'It cannot be…You're supposed to be dead!'

QUAINT SQUINTED AT Prometheus, in a state of total awe. 'Hawkspear?' he said. 'Lily's brother…is Tommy Hawkspear? He's the fiend that I've been trying to tell the bloody police about! This is madness! I can't believe that Dray was so blind!'

'Tommy's escaped from Blackstaff prison, Cornelius. Somehow…he found out I was in London…sent me a note just before he killed Twinkle. A note swearing he would hurt her…and he made good on his threat, didn't he, eh?'

'I've seen the note,' said Quaint. 'And so have the Police. They found it near Twinkle's…body.' Quaint said the word 'body' as if he were swearing in front of a priest. 'I knew there had to be a connection between you and this killer, but not even Madame Destine foresaw this! We've been following this jigsaw one piece of the puzzle at a time and now finally I think I'm getting my first glimpse of the picture. My God, Prometheus, if only you hadn't bloody escaped we could have been way ahead of ourselves by now. Dray would've had no choice but to believe us!'

'Look…m'really sorry, Cornelius…Seein' that devil again clouded me mind, an' me anger just…took control over me, I suppose.'

'So…Hawkspear drugged you at the tavern that night. He followed you…and then he killed Twinkle right in front of your eyes. Now, more than ever, we need to see Destine to make sense of this! Him just sporadically escaping Blackstaff and coming after you, just as we arrive in Crawditch to watch all hell break loose…the coincidence is staggering!'

Minutes later, fuelled by these revelations, the two men had resumed their course for Hyde Park. Quaint and Prometheus strolled down the centre of a moon-soaked street near Eaton Square, towards Kensington. Dark, foreboding clouds gathered in flocks above, as if spying down upon them. A metal fence cordoned off the centre of the square and sycamore trees decorated a small green area, like a tiny engraving of parkland, shrunk down in scale. Quaint and Prometheus crouched behind a bush next to the railings, and drew a long, restful breath after their long journey. Heavy hands of a thick sycamore branches hung over the railings like a giant eagle's wing, under which the men were cowering in the darkness. The road they needed to travel down was directly ahead, but it was intersected at crossroads, and they could be seen very clearly in the lamp-lit streets. Quaint could tell they were nearing Kensington. Only the idle rich were gifted with street-lamps.

'We're too much out in the open here,' muttered Quaint. 'And we've got another half-hour's trek through Kensington. We're going to have to keep on our toes if we want to get as far as the park unseen. You're not exactly pocket-sized. We'll need to use those terraced buildings up ahead as cover. With the docks far behind us we've run out of warehouses,' said Quaint, eying the mass of a man next to him. 'It's past midnight, so we should find the roads pretty empty, especially considering the weather.'

'Aye, Cornelius,' agreed Prometheus. 'There's a storm coming.'

'In more ways than one, my friend,' nodded Cornelius.

'Shh,' Prometheus held up his hand. 'D'ye hear that? It's coming this way!'

A minute or two later, a horse and carriage steered swiftly past them in the darkness, the rattling cackle of the wooden wheels against the cobbled streets announcing its presence long before it was seen with the naked eye. Quaint stared at the sumptuous horse-drawn carriage, a spacious cart with a fine, muscular black horse pulling it. Two gas lanterns hung either side of the coach, and the driver was perched atop it, whipping the reins into frenzy, eager to be off the streets as quickly as the horse would take him.

'Fate, it seems, has seen fit to offer us a gift, my Irish friend,' Quaint said.

'I hope you've got money to hire it, 'cos I sure don't,' replied the giant.

'That's no cabbie, Prom,' said Quaint. 'Take a look at those markings. Hansom's are painted standard black, always have been. No, that's official Church transport, and I'm not thinking of hiring it…I'm thinking of stealing it.'

With that, Prometheus and Quaint both leapt from the concealment of the shadows, and tore down the street at full pelt after the carriage. Despite his size, Prometheus streaked ahead of Quaint, reaching his arm out at full stretch to try and grab hold of the side of the carriage. His fingers found the groove of the coach door. But as his slapping footsteps resounded against the cobbles in the enclosed street, the mole of a driver glanced over his shoulder.

'What the bloody hell-?' squawked the man, as he whipped at the reins furiously, urging the horse to run faster. 'Get out of it! Go on, gerrof!'

'Prometheus!' called Quaint from behind, 'Get on top of it!'

Prometheus gave a lunge, and threw himself towards the carriage roof. He gripped onto the luggage rack and used his momentum to swing himself up towards the driver. The hunched man tried desperately to bat the giant away with his horsewhip.

'We ain't about t'hurt ye, man!' said Prometheus, hanging onto the carriage's roof for dear life as his thunderous feet tried to keep pace with the vehicle. 'We only need a lift-it's an emergency.'

'You're a bloody loon, you are-but you're a huge loon, and I want no quarrel wiv' you,' said the man, slowing his carriage to a crawl. 'Strictly speakin', I'm not supposed to do this, y'know -'specially at this time o' night. Me boss'll 'ave me guts fer garters.'

'I'm sorry,' said Prometheus, climbing inside the transport. 'We didn't mean to scare ye, honest. Y'see, me an' me friend need t'reach Hyde Park quick-smart! It's a matter of life and death, so it is.'

Quaint eventually caught up with the carriage. He was bent over double, clasping his kneecaps, and panting like he'd just been forced to run a long-distance race at knifepoint.

'Thank you…for…stopping,' he gasped to the driver.

'Di'nt 'ave much choice, did I? Yer bleedin' mate saw to that.'

'Where are you off to?'

'Westminster Abbey…an' as it goes, I'm goin' right past the park on me way,' the driver motioned the exhausted Quaint inside. 'So get in now, or get left behind, mate.'

'You are doing a great service,' said Quaint, clambering into the carriage. 'You have our thanks, Mister…?'

'Melchin,' said the driver, 'Stanley Melchin.' And with a crack of his whip, the coach driver rattled off along the street like a rocket.

'Bloody hellfire,' said the giant, fingering a silk curtain, admiring the interior. His voice had now returned to full effect, and his heavy Irish accent coated every word with a comical, undulating twang. 'Whose carriage is this then-Prince Albert's himself? Christ!'