A Tailor's Son (Valadfar) (13 page)

If Harold had hoped for a return to normality the following
day, he was to be disappointed. The morning papers were filled with
the news of the dead. The inside pages covered the missing sewer
workers. The front page showed the picture of one Mildred Köln, left
brutally murdered during the early hours. A young match girl had
found her mutilated body outside the butcher’s shop where she had
been visiting to collect scraps. The inside pages described the story.
Mildred was not the only prostitute found dead. Two other working
girls were killed in the city by the time the brass font of the printing
press had been set. By Duwek night, the Times was getting a new story
of more bodies found, ready to hit the streets the following morning,
but it was the Midwek papers that horrified Harold. A whole brothel,
clients included, was added to the list of those found dead. The
broadsheet described how someone had managed to subdue all the
occupants and feed on them in a cannibalistic way. The reports
included the information that the vicious murders had all taken place
after an attack on a guard transit transporting a known arsonist who
had subsequently escaped. The guard were asking any witnesses to
come forward and Harold knew then that the whole city thought that it
was him who was responsible for these horrible and most heinous of
crimes. Except, that is, for Muriel and his father.

Harold did not know what really happened to the poor
victims William took, but if he had known what William was becoming,
then he could have hazarded a guess. William was losing who he was.
Hearing Paul talk of his family had sent him into a rage and he had
wanted to rip that little balding man limb from limb, but he knew that
Paul was his only hope of finding a cure. After the incident with the
guard wagon William had skulked around the city streets in his search
for somewhere to hide and fight the hunger. Somewhere before he
made it back to his hide away, Mildred Köln must have crossed his path
and made the mistake of trying to arouse him, hoping to make a last bit
of money before heading home to bed. Instead, she ended up satisfying
his hunger. William had waited with her cooling body, distraught at
what he had done. He was not pure evil, not yet anyway, and he wept
for the young girl, knowing he had taken his youngest victim yet. The
youthful girl’s body lay in the gutter, with what little blood William had
not fed on, trickling away. William had been there when the girl had
found her and heard her scream. He prowled towards the girl, wanting
to feed again. He moved slowly so as not to startle his prey and could
hear the girl’s heart beating. The sensation excited the beast within his
chest but, before William managed to grab his new victim, a crowd had
started to gather on the empty streets, the girl’s scream obviously
rousing those from the houses close by.

William waited while he watched the sketch artist from the
Times setting up for the moment to be captured. The child, promising
such a sweet feast, was worth waiting for, but William was left
disappointed. The girl was taken inside the butcher’s by the guard who
wanted to talk to her and William could not wait any longer.
Escaping the scene before the hunger drove him to make a mistake in
front of so many people, William ran into the other prostitutes to be
killed on their way home. As daylight approached his strength was
weakening and he seduced them into the side alleys with the promise of
money. They died easily, and there was something satisfying about
feeding on the blood of these young women. Unlike the sewer workers
or the damnable rodents William felt passion inside, a sexual
excitement at their weakening murmurs. It was this drive, combined
with the thrill and peak of energy inside, that had led William to the
brothel.

After crawling out of whatever sewer grate he had been
hiding in during the day, William waited in the streets opposite the
brothel, his back resting against the wall. He remembered it from his
old life, having visited once before he married. He waited in the
growing shadows, patiently biding his time until the last rays of the sun
fell out of view. He knew he had to be fast, strong too. There would be
men inside who would try to fight back, and William was sure the
women would not give in to his hunger willingly. He had learned
already that the beast inside was so much stronger once the light had
faded, and the time outside had given him a chance to think about what
Paul had said. He even spared a fleeting thought for those he’d killed,
but mainly he thought of his family. Why was it that he could not even
picture what they looked like anymore? It seemed to him that they were
shadows, or hidden behind water, their images distorted. Every time
his mind tried to focus on them the image warped and flickered away.
William had forgotten how long it had been since he had last seen
them. Giving up on his trail of thought the darkness swept over him
like a drug and William made for the door. The longer the Rakta
Ishvara lived inside him the more like a wild beast William became. He
shared more traits with a lion Harold’s father’s ivory pipe represented,
than the man he once did.

While staying home and in between reading the horrors retold
in the newspapers Harold received a crumpled letter from an
unexpected woman. William’s widow. Harold so wanted to throw it
into the fire, but he did not have the heart. Their hardships only added
to his heartache. Harold had no idea how they found his address and
his only guess was that they somehow had access to the guard reports.
Perhaps they read about his testimony claiming that William had set the
fire. Either way, the letter arrived at a time that would prove crucial for
him. Harold planned to wait for his father to approach the guard, but
during the night, he took a turn for the worse. By Midwek the stress of
it all weighted down like the weight of so many full kegs and Harold
barely spoke, apart from to read his father the news. His mother was
too worried for his father’s health to even notice Harold’s return. Only
exchanged glances letting him know she was glad he had come home.

Harold tried to convince his father to go to the doctor, but
he was a strong and proud man, which also meant that he was as
stubborn as a mule. When Brunwek morning came his father remained
in bed and Harold had to read the news to him yet again. He was far too
weak to manage the stairs or the cold of the dawn, so Harold sat at the
end of the bed with the curtains pulled closed and read to him.
Afterwards Harold left him to sleep and alone in the lounge Harold
started to stoke a fresh fire from within the ashes of the previous night.

It was not as cold as it had been but Harold could not sit in
darkness. The ashes were barely smouldering when there was a knock
at the door. For a second Harold suspected it was the guard and
prepared to run but there was only one way in and out of the family
home and that was the front door. The knock came again and Harold
had no choice but to open it. Relief flooded over him like the ocean
over the beach on a stormy night when Harold saw the uniform of the
postal worker. He gave him just one letter, written in a hand Harold did
not recognise at the time, but has grown to know so well. It was a letter
from William’s wife, or rather his widow. As Harold closed the door,
he knew that he had to leave the house soon. Next time a knock came
rapping against the woodwork Harold might not be so lucky.

He had a few choices where to hide. The shop, the family
cottage in Port Lust, but it was Muriel that Harold wanted to go and
stay with. He had to see her again and anyway, Harold had promised
that he would go back to see her. His hands reached for the letter
opener and prized the wax seal off the browned paper. Alone and in
the slowly warming room, Harold started to read. It was a long letter
and Harold could see from the smudged ink that the paper had been
moistened, probably by tears as it was written. Harold read the letter
over and over, his tired eyes making sense of it, a little at a time. One
line stood out, saying that she had seen William and she knew that he
was alive. His widow had seen William in a newspaper drawing of the
crowd outside the butcher’s shop. Harold was relieved that someone
else believed him and could confirm what Harold already suspected.

Harold dropped the letter and scrambled for the paper, left
unread on his father’s armchair and flicked through the pages until he
found the picture. True enough William was there. His cold eyes
seemed to stare right through the page into Harold’s own. Harold
dropped the newspaper, feeling an uncomfortable dry uneasiness and
slumped into the chair. Harold closed his eyes. He had no real clue how
William’s wife found out his name, but she knew Harold had seen him
too. Her letter begged him to explain what was happening, she wanted
answers for her children. It was hard for Harold to remember William
as being human and having children, as he now seemed nothing but a
monster. Harold couldn’t imagine what could be going through his
children’s minds, but prayed his wife kept them protected from the
truth. Her words hurt him so much that Harold wanted to hurl the
letter into the fire there and then, but he could not. Instead, Harold
folded the letter and put it in his inside pocket, planning to reply one
day and explain as much as he could. The letter mentioned that
William’s body should have rested in the catacombs of Saint Anne’s
but it bypassed him at the time, as it did when the inspector had
mentioned it before. Harold already had too much on his mind and
although educated, he was far from detective bright; he was after all is
said and done, just a tailor’s son.

Harold knew the guard would be looking for him and the
letter from William’s wife made him realise people knew where to find
him. It surprised him that he had managed to spend a few days at home
without the guard battering down the door but it should not have
shocked him too much if he spared any thought on the matter, after
everything was said and done the city guards were little more than
rogues with a badge. Apart from a few rare and fame seeking heroes,
for a pound a week they would not risk their lives and as they blamed
Harold for so many bloody and brutal murders, it would be some time
before they darkened his doorstep. Harold took advantage of his
reprieve by thinking about his next move in the twisted game of chess
he had unwillingly been dragged into by William. The board was
stacked against him and all the pieces were black and Harold could feel
himself getting trapped in a corner. It fell on him to prove his
innocence and the only way Harold could think to do that was to find
William. If Harold could somehow get William to admit to his crimes
then he could go back to his normal life.

His first task was to get out of his father’s home, but it was
not easy saying his goodbyes with his father’s poor health. Harold may
seem cold and unsympathetic but he loved his family and he knew the
words he said could be his last chance to say goodbyes. Harold told his
mother where he was going and made her promise not to tell anyone.
She agreed without question. Harold looked into her face and he could
see the beauty she once had now masked behind cold eyes. Unmoving
and showing no real emotions her face reminded Harold of the
porcelain masks the theatre actors wore on stage. Harold heard a snivel
from her as she turned away from him and her shoulders sagged but
Harold knew she was a strong woman. Her mask was there for a
reason, for his mother would not let him or his father find out how
shattered the prospect of losing her loved ones had left her. Harold
thought about going to her and holding her but if he did, her resolve
might fail and she would fall into a sobbing mess in his arms. As much
as he wanted to comfort her Harold knew that he had to go now or he
may never be able to.

After leaving his father’s room Harold made the short
journey into his own room all the while fighting the tears trying to build
up in his own eyes. He tossed his travel bag onto the bed and suddenly
found himself filled with a renewed urgency and began gathering up
what few clothes he could carry. Harold placed in two pairs of tan
trousers, a couple of clean shirts, one white, one off-grey, his spare
tanned tunic and his top hat made from the softest of rabbit fur. It lay
uneasily on the top of the pile. Harold was almost ready to leave when
he remembered that he had less than a farthing in his coin purse.
Harold pulled the travel bag shut and dropped it to the floor with a
thud that shook the old floorboards and for a moment, Harold half
expected it to go crashing down into the lounge below. Once he
realised this was not going to happen he slid the mattress aside
revealing a small fluff covered satchel. Harold was relieved that his
savings were still there. For the last year and a half he had been putting
aside a little of money each week. Even throughout the hard times he
kept quiet about his nest-egg and had managed to set aside almost
thirty pounds. Harold needed the money if he had ever planned to
leave home but for now he doubted he would still be free to walk the
streets let alone buy land of his own. Reluctantly, and with more than a
pang of guilt, he took the satchel from its resting place and with it
ended his day dream of leaving the nest.

Harold sat and counted out half of the money, he was to give
it to his mother before he left. The money, Harold explained to his
mother who had at first refused to take it, was to maintain the house
while the shop was shut. Harold knew she needed it and was relieved
when she finally accepted it. He hid the rest of his savings under his hat
and made for the door, out into the busy morning.

Harold decided to stick to the main roads as he figured that
fighting his way through the crowds was his best way to remain hidden.
It sounds a flawed plan but it is often harder to see something in plain
view than it is something that is hidden. It was out of his way but
Harold stopped by the shop. It looked so empty, so devoid of life, even
the mice seemed to have deserted it. Since Harold locked its door on
the night of the fire the only sign of movement inside a building that
usually bustled with life was a spider’s web. Harold found himself
impressed by the speed of the little creature as the web already
stretched from one of the manikin in the centre of the display to the
other side of the window. The fine threads and almost perfect lacing
were of a far better quality than his father or Harold could ever hope to
create. Harold wondered if they could hire the little feller. It made him
smile, if only for a second.