The Equivoque Principle (15 page)

A
N HOUR LATER
, after weaving their way through the labyrinthine backstreets of Lambeth, Quaint and Prometheus had made it to the near end of the Vauxhall Bridge, and they were close to their destination, crouched behind a large outbuilding.

‘So, what’s next?’ asked Prometheus, trying his best to squat down into the shadows. ‘Or are
you
on the…run from the…law now, same as me?’

‘We need Destine’s advice as to which direction we need to take,’ Quaint said.

‘A
plan?
That’s not like ye, Cornelius,’ said Prometheus, with a knowing wink. ‘Surely, the plan is…I go t’Crawditch and speak t’the Police. I need t’hand meself in, Cornelius! Clear up this…mis…understandin’, do ye not understand?’

Quaint bit at his bottom lip, and stared at his Irish friend. It was confusing hearing Prometheus talk, and how tentatively each word was delivered, in such a contrast to his physical bulk. On more than one occasion the Irishman had begun a sentence, only to clamp his mouth shut and keep silent. But he was slowly getting his confidence back, and renewing his acquaintance with his voice. Quaint was biding his time, waiting for Prometheus to explain how it had miraculously reappeared. He had never heard his
friend utter so much as a single syllable in all the time he had known him, and yet somehow the deep Irish twang was how he’d imagined Prometheus to speak. He was transfixed, watching the strongman’s big beard and moustache twitching from one side to the other like a ventriloquist’s dummy as Prometheus spoke.

‘I need t’hand meself in, clear up this mis…Er…misunder…misunderstandin’!’

‘Commissioner Dray has the weight of Scotland Yard bearing down on him at the moment,’ Quaint said. ‘He may decide to make a scapegoat out of you, and he’s certainly made it clear that
my
past friendship with him won’t sway the balance in your favour. If anything, it’d work against you.’

‘But, Cornelius…I can speak up for meself now…just about.’

‘Yes, I’d noticed that…and I have been waiting…’

‘Ye’re probably…wonderin’ how that…came about, right?’

‘Amongst other vexing questions swimming around my head, yes,’ said Quaint. ‘Such as: how on earth did you get out of prison? I thought
I
was supposed to be the magician, and here you are performing not one, but
two
miracles in one day.’

Prometheus had known this conversation was coming. There was little point in trying to sidestep it. Like a wart on the end of his nose, there was no avoiding the attention. A seven-foot-plus mute giant who could now miraculously speak was sure to be a conversation starter.

‘Which…which one d’ye want t’hear first, eh?’ he asked Quaint.

‘The police station,’ replied his friend. ‘Forget just
why
you were stupid enough to escape when I had specifically told you to let
me
handle things…I want to know how you managed it. I inspected the bars on the window grate myself…they had been eaten away by acid. Now…how the hell did you get hold of acid in a bloody police station?’

Prometheus rubbed a thick hand over his bald head. ‘Well, the
…um…the answer to
why
I was so stupid…and
how
I escaped…is the same.’ He tensed as he heard a rustle in the building behind them, and Quaint’s hand darted out and grabbed his arm. The two hunched men relaxed as a ginger cat came scurrying out from the shadows, and they exchanged relieved glances. ‘Cornelius…I don’t don’t know…if this is the right place for this. It’s not easy…hearin’ me own voice, for a start!’

‘I’m in no rush, and it’s a long walk to Hyde Park,’ Quaint said, with a grin. ‘Did you suddenly get a visit from angels bestowing the gift of voice upon you, or something?’

‘There was…nothing
angelic…
about it, man,’ Prometheus answered. ‘Cornelius…m’not sure…how much sense I’ll make,’ he said, slumping his backside down onto the stony ground. ‘The truth is…it ain’t some miracle how I got…got me voice back…’cos it never really went away.’

‘What are you talking about, man?’ asked Quaint. ‘No pun intended.’

Prometheus’s defences relaxed as he saw the glint of friendship in Quaint’s black eyes. He exhaled noisily, his beard fluttering in the breeze, and he sighed a mournful sigh, as if he were unburdening a lifelong secret—which of course, was exactly what he was about to do.

‘Well, the thing is…I…I
chose
not to speak.’

‘I think you’re getting your words confused,’ said Quaint. ‘What do you mean, you
“chose”
not to speak?’

‘I thought…it was…for the best…at th’time, anyways. Started out…like somethin’ to protect meself…next thing I knew…it was a dec…decade later. Think…I almost…convinced meself I was a mute.’

Quaint’s brow furrowed. ‘You mean…all this time, all these years, you could have spoken…and yet you
didn’t?
But…why?’

‘It goes back t’years ago…back home in Ireland…someone very…close t’me…she was killed. Her name was Lily, an’ me an’ her got on just grand…the problem was, her family weren’t as…keen on me, ‘specially her two brothers.’

Prometheus took a deep breath, as he laid out his past before Quaint. ‘They tried t’separate us time an’ again, ‘til one day…it all came to a head.’ He paused, catching the look of anguish on Quaint’s face. ‘Don’t you be lookin’ like that, mate,’ Prometheus said, almost tenderly. ‘I ain’t about…t’blub all over ye. I need to exorcise this demon…once and fer all. Y’see…Lily’s two brothers…they
trapped
her when I was out workin’. They…they locked her up in a barn…threatened t’set it on fire. I got home…only t’see ’em waving bloody torches aroun’ like some sort of witch-hunt. Lily’s youngest brother…Tommy…said somethin’ about me being a…a “freak against God” or somesuch nonsense…I punched him so hard, damn near took his head off…he threw his torch into the barn…said he would rather…watch his sister
burn
than be wi’ a monster like me. I’m too busy fightin’ t’hear Lily’s screams…’

‘She died in the fire?’ asked Quaint.

Prometheus nodded. ‘Aye, an’ her brother Sean with her. O’course…Tommy blamed me for it all.’ He sniffed back a tear that clung to the tip of his nose like a bead of early morning dew. ‘He was…a bad seed, that one. He ended up doin’ life…in Blackstaff prison…on account o’ the Irish refusin’ t’take ’im…somethin’ about his religious fixations…that sent a chill up their bones…I think. Don’t blame ’em…for what he’d done. Life wasn’t enough…if ye ask me. Should’ve hanged th’bastard.’

‘And what happened to you then?’ asked Quaint.

‘Me? I dried up like a prune, shut meself away,’ Prometheus said, a rueful smile on his broad face, as he relayed the darkest chapter of his life. Talking to Quaint was a sobering experience for
the man—for them both. Here he was chatting away, baring his soul, and it felt good. It felt right. He could have done so at any time in the past, but something held him back. Something held him cocooned within himself. But now, with Twinkle’s death so raw to him, it was as if he didn’t have the strength to keep up the barriers any more. He was crawling further from his cocoon with each new revelation. ‘I just…just shut it all off…in me brain,’ he continued. ‘Like…’cos then maybe that way…no one’d get hurt again. From that day…’til today…I ain’t spoken a damn word to any soul.’ Prometheus pinched at his moustache, and scrambled to his feet. He clenched his fists, and then they hung limply at his sides. ‘When I found out about Twinkle…I realised it didn’t matter whether I…was a mute or not…the people I loved still got hurt. But, it ain’t easy to deal with, Cornelius…knowin’ that…every woman I fall…in love with…is destined to die. Mebbe it ain’t me…but, what if it is? What if…I’m…t’blame? What if I’m causin’ it all somehow?’

‘Don’t be a fool,’ said Quaint, standing to join Prometheus. ‘You’ve been unlucky, but it happens to us all. You have suffered, more than anyone should ever have to, and you have my sympathy. But in life, everyone experiences their fair share of heartache and pain. It is unavoidable. It is not gravity that binds men’s feet to the earth, Prometheus—it is Fate—and she will not be bargained with. She is like the wind, the sea, the rain. Fate is ever-present—and we are all at her mercy.’ Quaint ruffled his thick mop of hair, trying to find the right words of consolation. ‘Just look at me if you want proof of that. Here I am in my mid-fifties, and I’m still crouching in shadows and hiding from the law. Fate has singled me out, and shaped my soul. What has changed in my life?’

‘Perhaps you’ve become better at hiding, Cornelius.’

‘Better at running away, don’t you mean? But I was
not
going to
run out on
you
, Prometheus—and I still won’t! So…with Lily’s brother incarcerated in Blackstaff prison, at least that’s an end to it all, then. You
can
move on.’

‘Maybe…except…I’m not sure it
has
ended, mate,’ said Prometheus. ‘Both the loves of me life’ve been…
taken
from me…by the same bloody man. Maybe it won’t
ever
end. Maybe you’re right, what you say about Fate. I’ll bet she’s ’aving a right good laugh at me…expense, so she is! I don’t know
how
he got out but I’ll find him—that’s for sure. Drivin’ me insane like this—it’s all part of his game.’

‘Prometheus, what are you talking about?’

‘He came to me cell…back at the police station…tauntin’ me, rilin’ me up through the bars from outside, he was.’

‘What? Who was? What do you mean?’

Prometheus ground his teeth, and started pacing in circles. ‘I got so mad…I went for him. Grabbed hold of the bars…and they just snapped right out…taking half the bleedin’ wall with ’em! I know he’s responsible. I just
know
it!’

‘Prometheus, you aren’t making any sense. Who?
Who’s
responsible?’ he asked, rounding on Prometheus, standing right in front of him.

He placed his hands upon the giant’s chest to restrain him forcefully, and Prometheus stopped in his tracks. The unstoppable force had met the immovable object, and suddenly the rage that blazed in Prometheus’s eyes faded.

‘It’s Lily’s brother, o’course,’ answered the giant. ‘Th’same bastard who caused all this mess we’re in…Tommy Hawkspear!’

B
ACK ACROSS THE
Thames, at Grosvenor Park station aboard the circus train, Madame Destine was alone in Quaint’s office, sifting through the running order for the forthcoming show. The absence of both Twinkle and Prometheus was proving to be difficult to accommodate into the schedule. Destine’s veil was discarded on the back of her chair, and her head was buried in her fragile hands. The pallid light from the lantern on the desk served to exaggerate the woman’s pale complexion. Despite the spark that shone brightly in her misty-blue eyes, she looked drained. The long days of late had certainly taken their toll on her. But there was something else behind it all, like a tenuous memory that no matter how hard she tried to visualise it, she could never give it form.

Madame Destine had been a part of the circus long enough to know that it was pretty much a self-sustaining environment. All the crew and performers knew their roles, and everyone pulled together to make sure the show was a success. Even so, the days before the huge Big Top tent was fully erected, and the lesser exhibit tents were in place, were a strain on everyone. Even though the first show was not until the coming Friday afternoon, there was still a great deal of preparation to be done.

Destine sifted through reams of paper, sipping from a bone china teacup, idly staring out of the window of the train. Down at the platform below, several circus members moved about carrying boxes, tarpaulin and timber. It was now rapidly approaching eleven o’clock, and there was little left of the day. She yawned, suddenly yearning for the comfort of her bed.

Without warning, like a spear of electricity striking her, she sat bolt upright in the chair, her eyes wide, her mouth trembling. For the second time in as many days, Madame Destine was petrified. Her visions were becoming less and less clear, and more and more infrequent, and when they arrived, they came with such ferocity that it was like a million hot needles pricking her skin. This vision in particular, a fleeting slide-show of images lacking in coherence or substance, invaded Destine’s mind’s eye, flooding it with pulsating pictures, scents, sights and sounds.

The train’s office quickly melted away before her eyes, to be replaced with an out-of-focus image of a large, open-plan building. It was seemingly empty, and the French clairvoyant soaked up the vision in all its detail. Wisps of mist coated the floor up to ankle height, snapping and curling like coiled vipers. A silvery light flooded into the building from outside, casting an electric-blue glare across the barren floor.

In the doorway a fluctuating, undulating image of a man suddenly appeared, his face shrouded in darkness. Destine watched breathlessly as the man walked into the building. He was clenching his fists and cursing madly. Destine couldn’t make out the words, but she felt the emotion of the man all too clearly. It was hatred, pure and simple, coated with a frustrated lust for vengeance. The man approached closer, and with each footstep nearer to where Destine’s spirit form was standing, she felt an unfamiliar sensation. She was suddenly taken by the idea that she needed to run.

Destine slammed her eyes shut tight and attempted to sever the connection—but something was wrong. Something was stopping her. The ghostly spectre of a man continued striding through the ghost-light, and then suddenly stopped stock still on the spot with his back to Destine—and then something happened. Something puzzling, frightening and something utterly impossible…something that had never happened before in all seventy years of Des-tine’s life.

The man noticed her.

He turned his head and looked directly at her.

Somehow, he knew she was there. He was definitely aware of her. A fact that was confirmed as a thin smile crawled onto his face. That wasn’t supposed to happen. This was a vision from the future. Destine was supposed to be a disconnected viewer, observing events yet to pass—it was impossible for her to be drawn into some moment of the present. She brushed the feelings away, but as he began slowly walking towards her, the man’s face drove into sharp focus amongst the wisps of the mist and moonlight. It burned its image into Destine’s brain; so much so, that it was the only, overriding thought that existed there, and it was like being frozen to death from the inside out. An overwhelming wave of fear crawled across Destine’s body. The man was now mere feet from Destine’s position. Close enough for her to smell his breath. A twisted, malevolent sneer washed across his face as he walked into the shafts of blue moonlight. Destine slapped her hands to her face in sheer horror, as the image of the man flooded her senses.

‘C’est impossible
!’ she gasped, ‘It cannot be…You’re supposed to be dead!’