Sarah Rayne - What Lies Beneath

Crispian thought: this is the man whose brain, according to old Martlet, is being slowly eroded by disease. How sad it is that my father should talk so lucidly and with such concern about a run on Cadences, when I have brought him out of England to avoid that very possibility.

Suddenly Julius said, ‘I do know what’s ahead, Crispian.’

‘You mean if there’s a war?’

‘I don’t mean the war. I mean me. I’m ill, aren’t I? No pretence, now.’ For a moment the familiar imperious impatience showed.

Crispian said carefully, ‘You were working too hard. That’s why we’ve come on this sea trip. Dr Martlet thought it would do you good.’

‘Ah. Ah, yes, sea trip. But you can’t always trust the sea.’ He looked uneasily about the small dining room, and an expression came into his eyes Crispian had never seen before. He felt a lurch of apprehension.

‘I don’t like travelling,’ said Julius suddenly, and hunched over, wrapping his arms around his body as if hugging a pain. ‘I don’t feel safe.’

Crispian searched for something soothing and ordinary to say, but before he could speak Julius straightened up. The sunlight fell more strongly across his face and with a deep stirring horror, Crispian understood properly what Martlet had meant about his father turning into a stranger. I don’t know you, he thought. Someone else is waking behind your eyes.

Julius stood up, pushing the chair away and the silk scarf round his neck fell slightly open. For the first time Crispian saw the lesions in full, livid on the skin of his father’s throat. Like open sores, he thought, and although he tried not to flinch, his father saw the revulsion.

But he said, ‘So now you’ve seen what I am. Dear God, if you knew how I scheme and struggle to stop everyone from knowing and seeing—’

‘It doesn’t matter—’ began Crispian, reaching out a hand, but Julius was already pushing his chair back. ‘I can’t bear you to see it,’ he said, and with a gesture that was infinitely pitiable, he scrabbled at the scarf to cover his throat again. ‘I can’t bear anyone to see it. I know what it is, even though that old fool Martlet tried to pretend. But you see, Crispian, it might be better not to give it a name.’ The sly darting look showed again. ‘Once you give something a name,’ said Julius, ‘it makes it real. Did you know that? The priests will tell you that to exorcize a demon you first have to name it… But I’ve never named my demon, Crispian, I’ve never dared…’

He tailed off and Crispian, moving slowly, got up and began to edge his way to the door, intending to call Gil or Jamie, or the ship’s doctor. He had reached the door when the sly look vanished and wild glaring madness took its place. Julius was making flailing, uncoordinated gestures with his arms as if fighting off an invisible assailant. The cups and plates were swept to the floor, most of them smashing, and Julius sank into a tight huddle in the corner, wrapping his arms about him, his head hunched over. In a sobbing whisper, as if talking to himself, he said, ‘I never name it, that demon… I won’t call it by its name, no matter what it does to me, because if I do it will destroy me completely…’

Pity closed round Crispian’s throat, but he managed to get into the corridor and to shout for Dr Brank, who came almost at once, Gil at his heels.

They took in the situation at a glance, and Gil went straight to the corner where Julius crouched, and took his arm. ‘Let’s get you back to your cabin, sir,’ he said, and through the dizzy horror Crispian was aware of thinking it was a pity Gil seemed to have abandoned his medical training because there was a gentle kindness in his voice he had never heard before.

But when the three of them tried to move Julius he fought them savagely, emitting cries that were half sobs, half roars of rage. After a few moments, the doctor said, ‘Can you two hold him while I get something from my surgery?’

‘Yes, but what—’

‘Only one thing to do in this situation,’ he said tersely, and without waiting for them to answer, sped from the dining room.

Crispian assumed he would bring a bromide, but when he returned he was carrying an oddly shaped jacket made of canvas. Crispian did not immediately understand, and it was Gil who said, ‘Oh Jesus, you’re going to put him in a straitjacket!’

‘I’m afraid it’s the only course of action,’ said Dr Brank grimly. ‘And you’ll have to help me.’

In his corner, Julius gave a cry of rage, and tried to twist out of Gil’s hands.

‘He knows what it is,’ said the doctor. ‘Sir Julius, I think you’ve had this on before, haven’t you? But it’ll only be for a short time – just until you’re calmer.’

Julius was gripping the doctor’s hands, and Crispian saw the man wince. Julius said, ‘Don’t name it, will you? Don’t say aloud what I am.’

The doctor was busy with the straps, and it was Gil who said, ‘We won’t name it, sir. There’s no need to do so anyway.’ He looked at the doctor. ‘For pity’s sake, can’t you give him a shot of something? Laudanum, if you haven’t anything else.’

‘The condition prohibits laudanum,’ said the doctor in a low voice. ‘Now then, Sir Julius…’

The terrible garment was fashioned a little like a narrow jacket, but the sleeves were almost twice as long as normal sleeves. Crispian held his father while the doctor and Gil managed to pull the jacket over Julius Cadence’s head and forced his arms into the sleeves. He fought them for all he was worth, lashing out, and once his fingernails raked a scratch down Gil’s cheek. Gil swore, but held on, and between them they wound the lengthy sleeves round his body, and then – to Crispian, worst of all – looped a thick crotch strap under his legs and secured it at the back.

‘We’ll have to carry him,’ said Dr Brank. ‘You take his legs, Martlet. Cadence and I will carry his shoulders.’

‘His cabin?’ said Crispian.

‘No, bring him to my surgery. I can keep a better watch on him there.’

Julius was still fighting when they finally laid him on the narrow bunk in the doctor’s rather sparse surgery.

‘He’ll wear himself out quite soon,’ said the doctor. ‘Then we can take the straitjacket off. You two go and have something to eat. I’ll stay with him.’

‘That’s rubbish about laudanum,’ said Gil to Crispian as they went out. ‘I’ve seen it used on syphilis patients at Guy’s perfectly effectively and safely. Anyway, if it’ll calm that poor wretch down, I’ll pour vinegar down him. I tell you what, dear boy, the minute that drunken old sawbones comes out, I’m back in there with the laudanum.’

‘How will you get the laudanum?’ said Crispian suspiciously. He would not be surprised if Gil said he intended to steal it from the dispensary.

‘Private supply,’ said Gil. ‘And don’t put on your prudish look, Crispian. I suffer from insomnia at times. Laudanum allows me to sleep and get some rest.’

Entries From an Undated Journal

There was precious little rest for anyone on that ship as it began to crawl its way along the Turkish coast.

I had looked forward to that part of the expedition – I thought it would be interesting and rewarding to see a little of those exotic lands. The sultans and caliphs and viziers. The covered squares and onion domes, wreathed in their ancient legends. And the people of the old stories – Tamerlaine and Suleiman the Magnificent. There’s magic in the very words, isn’t there? You, who read this, must agree with me, even though you know, by now, that I’m a self-confessed murderer. But murderers can have souls and appreciate the finer things of life. We aren’t all Jack the Ripper characters, walking around with dripping knives in case a likely victim presents him or herself. I always thought him rather an exhibitionist, that man, whoever he was, although the popular press must take some of the (dis)credit, because they seized on the whole thing with the glee of ghouls and sensationalized the killings. ‘Subtle’ is not a word one could ever apply to those newspapers, not then and not now. Still, one can’t really blame them, because scandal was ever popular, and the ordinary people have always loved a juicy murder. Charles Dickens knew that when he gave his Fat Boy that marvellous line: ‘I wants to make your flesh creep.’