The Unseen(136)

Cat raced up the stairs and back to the corridor where she and Tess were kept, the exertion making her stumble, and spots dance in front of her eyes. ‘What’s going on?’ another prisoner asked, lips grey in an ashen face. ‘The Crow had the cosh in her hand!’ The door to Tess’s cell was shut, and though she knew there was no point, Cat hammered on it all the same, shouting to be let in until two other wardresses came and took her to her own cell, slamming the door behind her. They cast a look at one another as they did it, in disapproval at the sounds coming from Tess’s cell, but they did nothing more. Pressed their lips together and moved away. Numb with horror, stunned by guilt, Cat sat with her back against the wall, listening to the blows, hearing the screams and the sobbing. She thought she might explode into flame, with shame, with rage. But she did not. Shadows closed around her, filled the room, suffocated her, and she knew it would be with her for ever: the feeling of killing an innocent thing; of impotence; of the irrevocability of harm done.

When Tess’s door was next opened, Tess did not walk out through it. She was huddled in a far corner with her clothes all torn, blood drying around brand new wounds and a hundred new bruises swelling on her skin. And some essence of her gone; fled from the room. The little sparkle that lit her laugh, the avid look in her eye. Cat stood for a long time at the threshold, staring full face at what had been done, letting herself suffer the consequences of her actions. She told herself then she could never suffer enough.


But perhaps, she thinks, as she turns her back on The Rectory, perhaps now she has. She has relived it in countless nightmares, and shouldered the crushing weight of blame. She has barely slept, barely eaten. She has scoured her body and her soul. She will see Tess again, in a few weeks, a few months. She will find out if – in spite of her broken promises and the tide of misfortune she let close over their heads – if in spite of it all Tess still loves her, and is still her friend. Somehow in her heart, Cat feels that forgiveness is coming. She sees a figure waiting up ahead. Robin nods, giving her a tight smile as she joins him by the stile.

‘Good morning. Are you ready to dance, willow spirit?’ he says.

‘Have you got my money?’ she asks blandly. She will not let him see her joy, her excitement; will keep it all for herself. Robin makes a rueful face, fishes in his pocket for a few folded notes, and a handful of coins. Cat puts them away quickly, safely into her bag.

‘Here you go. You’d better dance beautifully, for that wage. I have your disguise here with me.’ He pats his leather satchel, and can’t keep the excitement from his own voice; nerves wound tight.

‘One more time then. Let’s get on with it,’ Cat says. They cross into the meadow, and make for the spot where the willow tree waits.

And as Cat slips on the floating white dress and the long, trailing platinum hair, she feels watched. Not just by the theosophist, not just by the waiting day as dawn begins. Watched by something else, by someone else. She straightens up, the skin at the back of her neck prickling. She casts her eyes to the horizon and sweeps them along, turning a slow circle. Nobody is in sight. But the grass and plants are long, waist high in some places. Cat stares at it, all around, but can see nothing. No telltale place where the long green stems are broken, the dew knocked from flower heads, apart from where she and Robin just walked. No movement, no twitching of a hidden watcher. But still she feels it, and strains her eyes and ears; a rabbit with the scent of fox on the air. A barn owl ghosts across the meadow, making for the trees to the north on silent white wings.

‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ Robin asks, looking up from his camera as he fiddles with the lenses, checks the range of the shot.

Cat shrugs one shoulder. ‘Nothing,’ she lies. She folds her dress into a bundle, and stashes it with her bag.

‘Ready?’ he asks, and she nods.

Cat walks at first along the edge of the stream, stares at the rocks and pebbles and weeds at the bottom of it, just visible beneath the reflected sky. She does not feel like dancing, not like she did before. All the rage that fired her before has gone, and inside she is happier now, has less to fight. She spreads her arms, like a bird’s wings, tips her head to the promise of sunrise, and closes her eyes. When she opens them again, she sees him: the unmistakable fair hair and pink face of the vicar; his skinny shoulders, the black cleric’s coat with its high, tight collar; soft features framed by whiskers. He is a long way off, and frozen at the sight of her; half crouching as if to hide. Cat’s heart leaps into her mouth, her stomach twists. They are discovered, for certain. She wonders if Robin knows anything about him being there – of the vicar being let in on the game. But no, she knows he’s not supposed to see this. The vicar is Robin’s believer, his advocate. For nobody else could it be more important to maintain the charade. Her throat dry with nerves, Cat draws breath, is about to announce Albert’s presence to Robin Durrant. The theosophist is crouching low to the ground, is quite absorbed in his work with no idea of the approaching visitor. Cat can feel Albert’s eyes on her, even though he is still too far away for her to make out his features. His stare is tangible, like a touch, like a strong grip that seeks to hold her, possess her.