treated in life. Even if she had to create the circumstances for herself sometimes.
We are all complicit in our own persecution.
‘I thought I had explained the rules of the house to you, Jessie Nairn,’ said Jean with a sniff because the cold air was beginning to get to her as well. ‘If a customer is too puggled to know what he’s done with his money, humour him, sit a girl on his knee, coddle him like a wee baby.’
‘
‘It was too late then!’ Jean snapped grouchily, aware she was losing the exchange. ‘He was beyond redemption.’
‘That’s whit I thought,’ said Jessie.
Another reasonable remark.
This time, unanswered.
The Paisley girl shivered once more.
‘Ye better get inside,’ said Jean.
Jessie shrugged, a mannerism that could easily get on the nerves, and walked slowly back towards the house.
The windows began to empty of magpies as they caught the power of Jean’s cold gaze. Annie Drummond, who filled a frame all by herself, looked shamefaced and bowed her head but two figures who remained in view were French.
Simone cut a frail portrait at the high window of the nursery room with Francine just behind, a proprietorial hand on the other’s shoulder.
Jean shook her head. She could smell trouble a mile off in that configuration, and where was Lily Baxter?
Come to think of it, where were all the clients?
‘Are there no gentlemen callers this evening?’ she enquired of Jessie who had finally got to the door and was on the point of disappearing out of sight.
‘Some early birds, but they pecked and ran,’ Jessie called back. ‘A quiet night. Except for the rammy.’
The door closed. Jean looked up again at the two figures. The French. Trouble and strife.
Down in the cellar of the Just Land, Lily Baxter sat astride the Berkley Horse. Dotted around the walls of the room were various implements for inflicting sought-after suffering to any given area.
Lily did not desire agony but she had it just the same.
She had deliberated long and hard before revealing that she had witnessed the man who had attacked Simone.
Finally she had passed the paper with the drawing to Hannah Semple because she could not bear to approach her lover Francine.
Lily rocked back and forwards on the horse. Eyes closed. Lost in another world.
16
’Tis witching night, the criminal’s ally;
it comes accomplice-like, wolf-soft; the sky
slowly is closing every giant door,
and man the rebel turns a beast once more.
CHARLES BAUDELAIRE,
The hunched, bear-like figure moved silently across the damp slates of the rooftop with animal certainty. A black cloak billowed out behind it, with a scarlet lining that suggested some flayed internal organ.
The cloak had a hood, which obscured the head of the creature, but oddly the feet were bare, toes fastening onto the slimy, angled surface with prehensile skill.
For a moment the figure paused and sniffed the air as if picking up the scent of prey but it was the acrid smell of smoke coming from a nearby chimney-stack had attracted its attention.
This marked the spot. A sign. The stack was crooked as if it had been struck by lightning, unlike the adjoining roofs where the chimneypots and surrounds pointed straight at the sky.
The middle house of the terrace. The beast knew this was the mark.
But the smoke meant someone was awake. Still alive. Care must be taken. There was much to be done.
A low, coughing grunt emitted from its throat. A series of words burnt into the mind.
It was only right. The good man lay dead. Like a dog. Nothing left. Bits of flesh. Not even a face.
Only right. Pay for the sin. Hell is hungry.
The beast moved sideways, lurching at speed, knuckles close to the slates as it moved with silent precision to a window set into the roof.
A skylight. Fast locked. Bolted at the inside. The hinges of heavy metal. Hasped. Strong.
To keep death out.
But the betrayed call for vengeance.
Nothing is stronger than that.
The frame of the window had a slight overlap. The creature hunched over, gloved fingers splayed, gripping round the wood and slowly levering upwards.
At first nothing happened, then with a muffled creak the whole top half of the frame began to lift up as the bolts inside were wrenched slowly out of their sockets by the immense power generating from the rigid arms and squatting form above. A metallic screech signalled the hinges parting from the wood, the screw nails ripped from their safe haven, and with a sudden jolt, the whole structure was lifted off its moorings like the sliced top of a boiled egg.
For a moment the beast froze with its prize clasped between the paws, the heavy black gauntlets anchoring the timber and glass in place against its thick torso though some small splinters of metal and wood fell onto the slates to skitter down and lodge in the guttering.
Had anyone heard that sound?
Had the sinner within been warned?
The beast waited for a voice to call and break the silence of the night.
Somewhere far off in the distance a cat yowled, a low menacing growl, but nothing answered.
And nothing sounded below in the house.
The buckled frame was laid carefully upon the sloping roof and wedged into the chimneystack to keep it in fast position.
Somewhere in the dark sky, a seagull let loose a doleful screech like a mourner at a funeral.
The figure then moved to the gaping hole it had created and swiftly dropped out of sight into the darkness below.
Meantime, in the safety of his house with solid walls and locked doors, Gilbert Morrison gazed into the dying flames of the fire and reflected with muted satisfaction upon his life.
Heat was his one indulgence; he had thin blood and felt the cold most bitterly, unlike his brother Walter who could be enclosed in an iceberg and not remark the situation.
Gilbert jabbed at the fire with a heavy poker and wondered to add some more coal but decided contra.
Coal cost money.
Not that he couldn’t afford such but he had stayed up well beyond his usual bedtime and enough was enough.
And, to be strictly exact, he had one other indulgence which had been relished this night.
