Darren Craske - The equivoque principle

He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and after what seemed an age; he finally heard a snort echo back at him. His luck was holding out-for the time being, at any rate. That's the problem with luck, it usually has a habit of running out just when you least expect it to. Like any half-decent rag and bone shop, this particular store hopefully contained something that Quaint could make good use of.

'Hello, you old nag,' Quaint whispered into the darkness. 'I do hope you're up for some exercise…I'm in an awful hurry.'

As if in answer to his words, a huge shire horse sauntered out into the yard. Quaint tugged at the rope around his neck, and gently led it to the moonlight to get a better look. It was a magnificent, muscular beast, exhibiting its age with misted eyes and a beard of wayward white hairs protruding from its chin like an old man's whiskers. The animal was in its latter years, and it was in no particular hurry to go anywhere other than its warm and cosy stable. It would need some coaxing to do Quaint's bidding, and he spied the depressed look in the animal's eyes.

'You look just like I feel,' Quaint muttered.

Meanwhile, at Quaint's destination in Hyde Park, the elusive Antoine Renard had arrived. He stood and stared at the huge yellow-and-red-striped circus tent, blowing into his dirty hands for warmth. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and caressed the small, velvet pouch beneath his fingertips. He looked around at the deserted circus tents covered with flags, banners and posters decorating the plot. Renard strolled silently into the area, his eyes flicking left and right searching for his quarry. He knew she'd be here, but he didn't know how prepared she would be for his arrival. As sensitive to feelings as his mother was, surely his hatred would announce his presence louder than a foghorn. After walking around the many tents, booths, stalls and cages he saw the tent that called to him: Madame Destine's tent. It stood out to him like a sore thumb amongst the others, his mother's scent all over it.

He was about three feet from the canvas door when it suddenly burst open, and standing there waiting for him was Destine-a grim, determined look upon her face. The rain clouds above suddenly broke, as a metaphor underlining the bitterness between these two people. Sheets of water fell straight down from the sky, pelting the grass and bouncing off the nearby canvas tents rat-a-tat-tat.

'We should have picked nicer weather for our reunion, Mother. Typical England, ne convenez-vous pas?' said Renard. A twisted grin seeped onto his face, drifting across its surface like oil upon water.

'I see that you did not meet Cornelius on your way here,' Destine said.

'What makes you say that?' her son asked.

'Because you are still alive,' Destine lifted her black lace veil, and stared at him with penetrating eyes. 'What are you doing here, Antoine? Have you not done enough damage; you seek to cause yet more?'

'Oh, you know me, Mother,' Renard said, placing his hand upon his chest in a mock heartfelt gesture. 'I just couldn't leave without saying au revoir.'

'Do not call me "Mother"…you are no son of mine. You are the spawn of a demon, Antoine; you have tainted my life with your poisonous mind. I told you once, all those years past, and I shall tell you now…you are rotten to the core…just like Phillipe.'

Renard took a sudden step forward, causing Destine to flinch, but she bravely held her ground. 'You aren't fit to even speak my father's name,' he spat, his scarred face contorting into a violent sneer. 'His dying wish was only to see you…one last time, to make amends…and you couldn't even do that for him, could you?'

'Did he seriously expect me to drop everything to go running back to the monster that I was running from?' Destine demanded.

'So…not only did Cornelius Quaint take you from me, he took you from Father as well. Quaint has a lot to answer for. I have had such fun with him over the past week…it's such a shame that it has to end.'

'Cornelius knew nothing of Phillipe's death…I did not tell him,' Destine said. 'But why should I have? Phillipe was dead to me years ago.'

'You lie! It was Quaint twisting your mind. Why do you always protect him?' Renard's eyes flared at the thought of Quaint. 'You see him as a replacement for your abysmal failure of a son, non? A chance to rectify your past mistakes?'

'No, Antoine-it was not I who made the mistakes. You are so infected with hate that it taints every word that spills from your mouth-just like your damn father,' Destine shouted through the curtains of pouring rain. 'He was nothing but a coward and a monster, Antoine, who subjugated the fears of others for his own desires.'

The tears flowed from her eyes, distorting her voice as she spoke, in fluent French now, in disjointed bursts-trying to ensure each word counted, for it might be her last. Even if she were to scream at the top of her voice no one else would hear her-for the rain spattered like rapid gunfire around them. She was praying silently in her head that Cornelius would turn up like a white knight and rescue her, but she knew he was miles away in Crawditch, far across the river-and heroes were few and far between in the real world. She was on her own, with her son walking a knife's edge between sanity and insanity, and her life hanging in the balance.

Renard's lips quivered in the rain as he tried to master his rage. He was like a steaming pot, boiling to the point where it reached critical overload. 'No wonder Father hated you…why he was glad to see you go. He saw through you, you know…saw through you for what you truly are.'

'Antoine…if you think your father was anything other than a lying, cheating bastard who put me-and you-through hell, then you are severely mistaken. Or do you not remember the nights you used to cry yourself to sleep after he beat you? Or when you walked in on him beating me? Do you know how many times I tried to get away, to get you away?' Each word was spoken through gritted teeth, the emotion barely held in check, but tangible in every syllable. 'I used to just hold you and weep-hating myself for bringing you into a world of such despicable cruelty. If only my premonitions could have given me warning of what was to become your fate…of the pain that you would eventually cause others.'

Renard glanced up from the ground with seething, vehement eyes. A grumble of distant thunder broke many miles away, symbolising the tumultuous emotions of hate bubbling over inside of his cold, dark heart. 'Your gifts are dulled on your own flesh and blood, Mother, I know that. For you see, I am something of a seer myself, although not yet in your league, I admit. You have been blinded by your own hatred.'

'Hate may be a powerful emotion, Antoine…more powerful even than love. They both have the power to blind a sensitive. But you are wrong, it is not hatred that I feel for you, it is sorrow. I was not as blind to you as you think.'

'If you knew that I would come, then why are you alone?' Renard tested.

'For all your crimes…as much as I may deny it, you are still born of my flesh. You have to let me help you, Antoine,' Destine pleaded. 'You have to let me cleanse your father's anger from your heart once and for all.'

'Cleanse me? Have you any idea how pathetic you sound? Cleanse me, like I am some filthy wound that cuts the surface of the skin? By now you must realise that I am who I am, what I am, through and through. Each sinew of every muscle and fibre of my being loathes you, Mother, I need no cleansing,' mocked Renard. 'I didn't come here to make happy families…I came here to watch you die.' His hand came from nowhere, striking Destine across the cheekbone, and she fell to the ground.

'You even hit like your father,' said Destine, as she wiped a thin crease of blood from the corner of her mouth 'You may speak these words to me…but it is with your father's voice. He has poisoned you.'