Lynda Plante - The Talisman

Edward woke with a start, sat bolt upright, then flopped back when he saw by his bedside clock that it was only four in the morning. He rubbed his head, he was freezing cold and got up to put a jumper on, then heard footsteps below in the courtyard.

Harriet was huddled by the stable wall, her shoulders shaking. Fred was standing a short distance from her. He tried to put a blanket around her shoulders and pointed towards the house, but she refused. Then Edward saw her march towards the kitchen.

Edward dragged on his trousers, threw on his coat and went down to the kitchen. He made her jump, he entered so quietly. He saw she was loading a shotgun.

‘What on earth are you doing?’

She told him curtly to mind his own business and walked out. He followed her across the yard and into the stable, then stopped when he heard Fred’s voice. ‘Let me do it, miss, I’ll do it. You’ve no need to put yerself through this. Go back to the house now, there’s a good lass.’

Her voice was not harsh or childish, it was quiet and firm. ‘No, Fred, go on, leave me, make sure you shut the doors behind you — I don’t want to wake the whole household... I mean it, I want to be on my own. He’s mine — it was my fault and I have to see it through, that’s the way it should be. Please, Fred, I know what I’m doing.’

Edward slipped into the shadows and watched as Fred walked away, glum-faced. He stopped to say he would get the cart ordered for first thing in the morning, she wouldn’t have to see him taken away. He’d not let her go through that.

The heavy door was dragged shut behind Fred, and Edward walked towards the stall. He couldn’t see her, but he could see the hind quarters of her horse, lying wrapped in a blanket. He was shuddering and making strange panting noises. Harriet was sitting with his head resting in her lap, stroking his nose to comfort him. ‘You’ll be out of pain, boy, not long now, shhh, not long, no more pain, there’s a good boy.’

About to speak, Edward was stunned into silence. He saw her carefully place a blanket over her beloved horse’s head to deaden the sound of gunfire, stand up, aim the shotgun right at his head and pull the trigger. The horse jerked, kicked his legs out in a frantic spasm, then lay still.

She lowered the gun and slid down the side of the stall to end up squatting by the horse’s head. She didn’t remove the blanket, but expertly placed her hand on the pulse points.

‘Harry... you all right, sweetheart?’

She gave a sad, soft sigh, nodded her head, got to her feet and said she hoped the shot hadn’t woken anyone. ‘He was in agony, I couldn’t stand to see him go through more. We did what we could, but his leg was broken, and it was all my fault. I shouldn’t have taken the jump.’

Edward was astonished at her strength, her calmness. He took his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders. They walked slowly back to the house and she told him they would come for the carcass in the morning.

She stared up at the stars and told him she wouldn’t go back into the house — she was going for a walk. He watched the straightbacked little figure in his big overcoat striding across the fields. It was hard to believe she was only a child, she constantly threw him off-balance, the child-woman. He didn’t follow because he wouldn’t have been able to trust himself; at least he had some decent qualities. The further away from her the better. He decided he would pull some strings to join Lady Summercorn’s house party as quickly as he could.

Alex Stubbs was transferred to Durham Jail, known for its hardened criminal inmates. He was over eighteen years old now, and eligible for an adult prison. With his record of violence, he was placed in a top security wing, with two men to a cell. Stubbs, Prisoner 49861, wearing his grey uniform and carrying his few belongings, was led along the corridors to a cell at the end of E Block. The wardens opened the door and Alex walked in. The door closed behind him. There were two bunks, one already occupied. He put his things down.

‘You a friggin’ fairy, Stubbs?’

‘No.’

‘Get this clear from day one, Stubbs, I don’t wanna know anythin’ about you, I don’t want you yakkin’ on about your family, your kids, your fuckin’ wife, nothin’... I don’t wanna know you, I don’t want you askin’ me any questions about my life. I’m in here for eight years, armed robbery, I got three to go an’ I intend gettin’ out without any aggro. That clear? You stay on one side of the cell an’ I’m on the other. I don’t drink, I don’t smoke, an’ I don’t want any fuckin’ trouble from the barons. You start anything, anything, an’ I’ll tie your balls so tight you’ll wish you never met me.’

George Windsor glared at Alex. He looked almost scalped, his crew-cut red hair was so short. His thick neck sloped down to massive, muscular shoulders. Windsor was about five foot eight but built like a bull, even his hands were broad and stubby.

Alex turned and looked at him, and for a second Windsor was nonplussed. The lad was younger than he had at first thought, and he was a hell of a size. His blue eyes glared fearlessly, and he moved to Windsor’s bunk, rested his hands on the side. ‘I don’t wanna know you either — know anyfing about you. I’m just gonna serve me sentence, I don’t even want to talk to you. I want out as badly as you do. I don’t smoke and I don’t drink, I work out, an’ you screw anyfing up fer me and it’ll be your balls wrapped around your neck.’

Windsor shook Alex’s hand and lay back on his bunk. He watched out of the corner of his eye as his new cell-mate carefully placed four books on his small corner table. No photographs, no knick-knacks, nothing.

On Windsor’s table was a neat stack of comic books and nothing else. Around them could be heard the catcalls and ribaldry of the other prisoners, but the two remained silent. Cell doors clanged, and there was the all-pervasive stench of urine. Alex lay back on his bunk and closed his eyes. The years ahead loomed like a nightmare. He knew he would have been out, a free man, but for his foolishness. He tossed and turned, angry with himself, angry at little Eric. Desperate for sleep to envelop him, he counted the years, and memories of Edward reared up. This was his fault, Edward was to blame for everything. He’d put Alex in prison to begin with, it was all his brother’s fault.

Alex tried to picture Edward’s face, but that too had become blurred by time. At last he fell into a fitful sleep, calmed by his assurances to himself that when he did get out, he would find Edward and make him pay for what he had done. ‘I’ll kill him... I’ll kill him.’

Windsor looked up. The lad was talking in his sleep. That was all he needed — a friggin’ nutter in with him. Well, if he was, he’d straighten him out fast enough. He stared at the sleeping figure. The boy’s face was a mess, and it looked as though he had a cracked cheek that should have been attended to. There were fading yellow bruises all over his face and shoulders. Windsor lay back, thinking that whoever this kid wanted to kill had better watch out — he, for one, wouldn’t like to bump into him on a dark night.

Edward left Haverley Hall to spend the rest of his vacation with Lady Summercorn and her guests. The Simpsons felt rebuffed, especially as they encountered him on a number of social occasions. He was very much in demand, for reasons they were totally unaware of. Edward was being passed around as the ‘stud’ of the season, screwing anyone who would pay him for it. Lady Summercorn was desperate to keep him, so she upped the ante until Edward was ‘bought’ for her sole use. He loathed and detested the lot of them, with their high-pitched voices and artificial manners. They all wanted the same thing — his body in bed.