Steadfast (28 page)

Curtains are closed tight . . .

He continued to pound until the door was suddenly wrenched open by a giant in nothing
but a pair of trousers with the braces hanging down over his hips. Lionel was assaulted
by a wave of stale sweat and beer-smell as the man—stubbled, yet with a crude sort
of dark good looks about him—raised a fist—and it was all Lionel could do to maintain
his expression of suppressed rage and not turn and run.

Then the man did a visible second take, took in the suit, the air of superiority,
and the equally wrathful expression on Lionel’s face and lowered his fist again.

“Wot yer want?” emerged from the oddly sensuous face. “’Oo be ye?”

Lionel drew himself up, trying to look as if he’d been insulted by such crude questions.
“I am Lionel Hawkins, not that it’s any of your business, fellow,” he said, in his
poshest of accents. He even contrived to look down his nose at the brute, even though
the man towered over him. “Where’s Kate Langford? She’s overdue for rehearsal.”

As he had hoped and prayed, the bully responded to this by being taken aback, at least
for a moment. But unfortunately, he rallied again, leaning against the doorframe with
his arms crossed over his formidable, and bare, chest. “She ’on’t be comin’,” he replied.

Lionel made himself go pop-eyed, as if with thwarted rage. “What do you mean by that,
fellow?” he spluttered. “Who are you? Where is my assistant?”

“Oi’m th’ lad wut is tellin’ yer she ’on’t be comin’,” he repeated, with a smug expression
on his face. “Dick Langford is ’oo Oi am. ’Tis dark day. Yer got no roights to ’er
toime on dark day. She’ll be takin’ care uv ’er ’usband as she should be.” He nodded,
as Lionel feigned fuming in impotent rage. “Oi know me roights.”

Lionel pretended rage for a few more moments, then shook his finger in the strongman’s
face. “She had better be at the hall at nine in the morning
on the dot.
I can get myself another assistant like
that.”
He snapped his fingers. “And what’s more, I can have her replaced as the Russian
dancer quickly enough, just by informing the papers of what she
really
is, a cheap little circus acrobat masquerading as a ballerina!”

Finally
he made an impression on the man, who went from smug to alarmed, and put on a placating
expression. “’Ere now! No need ’o thet!” he said, and Lionel knew he had found at
least one feeble weapon to hold over the brute in this strangest of wars. Money. He’d
try to confirm this with Katie later, but he was certain that fear of losing Katie’s
wages was what had suddenly turned the strongman from arrogant to cowed. “She’ll be
there. But yer got no roights over ’er toime on dark day, an’ a man’s got a roight
t’ ’is woife!”

Lionel tried to make himself swell up. “Just—see that she is!” he exploded, and stamped
his way back to the cab.

He held his persona until they had turned several corners, then allowed himself to
collapse in the corner of the seat.

Dear god, the man’s a monster.
Huge. Huge and brutishly intimidating. Like something out of a penny-dreadful.
Think, Lionel. What did you learn?

Well . . . whatever had happened last night, the brute hadn’t killed Katie, and he’d
been half afraid that was exactly what had happened. And unless Katie did something
to provoke Langford, his lust for money was probably going to keep him from killing
her, or even damaging her.

But the clock was ticking, because while this might be true while the man was sober,
Lionel had no idea how controlled he’d be when he was drunk—and the smell of beer
on him had suggested that the man was likely to be drunk as often as he could afford.

But if he’s drunk enough . . . he’ll be too drunk to hurt her.
That was an idea that had some merit. He tucked it away for later.

By that time the cab had reached his home; he paid the driver and dashed into the
house. Maybe Jack had learned something—or thought of something.

•   •   •

Katie huddled in terror on the bed from the moment that the pounding started on the
door. In all the time she had been here, there had never once been a visitor, or even
someone looking for another address. There were only two people likely to come here
and knock with that much urgency, and both of them were going to be in deadly danger
from Dick—

She wept—silently—with fear when she heard Lionel’s voice. She was certain at every
moment that Dick was going to break his neck—right up until she heard Dick’s tone
abruptly change as Lionel threatened to sack her and get rid of her ballerina act
if she didn’t turn up at the proper time in the morning.

Then she nearly wept with relief. Lionel had somehow found the only thing he could
use to hold over Dick’s head. Money. And that was a—not a weapon, but a defense in
her hands. Dick would never kill her, and probably wouldn’t cripple her, as long as
she was bringing in plenty of money.

And at last her mind started working. Just get through today. Tomorrow, she’d find
some way to tell Lionel that Dick had an informant in the hall. One thing at a time.
Concentrate on the next hour, the rest of the morning. Survive that . . .

She got out of bed as Dick closed the door. “Breakfast?” she said, timidly, not daring
to reach for any clothing until he allowed her to. Oh, how she ached! She had gotten
used to not hurting . . . the pain of movement came as a shock, and reminded her of
what she had to do—keep her voice, her head down. Be meek. Never contradict. Offer
every possible comfort. “There’s bacon, eggs—”

She glanced up through her hair to see Dick grinning. “Learnt yer lesson, then? Aye.
Food, ’oman. Put s’thin’ on. Thet skinny carcass uv your’s like to kill me appetite.”

Given permission to dress, she did, quickly, and hurried over to the stove, where
she fried up every rasher of bacon she had, all the eggs, and made fried toast in
the grease, and brewed a strong pot of tea. She loaded up two plates with the bounty,
and brought it all over to him. She didn’t expect to share in the feast, and that
was just as well, since he ate every bite, wiping the plates clean with the last bites
of toast. “That was the last,” she said in a whisper. “I’ll have to buy more at the
shop.”

He was in a good mood after such a breakfast—at the circus, Andy Ball’s cook doled
out the food with a scrupulous hand, and no use asking for second helpings. Dick had
gotten more than anyone else, of course, but she’d still needed to make him elevenses,
a big tea, and often a supper after he’d come back from the pub. “Aight,” he said
agreeably. “Yer kin do thet, while I hev a bit more sleep.”

And with that, he turned over on his side and was soon snoring.

When she was certain he was soundly asleep, she quietly pulled down the cabinet-bath
and carefully ran cold water into the tub, trying not to let it splash. It was already
too warm in the cottage, but she didn’t dare open the curtains to let air in, and
chance waking him. She stripped herself, soaked in the cold water, and scrubbed and
wept, trying to scrub out the vileness she felt in herself.

But she did it all silently. Everything must now revolve around Dick, if she wanted
to escape as many beatings as possible. There was no Andy Ball here to restrain him.
He
might
remember that she was the only bread-earner, but if he was really in a rage, he might
not.

Then she did the dishes—he would explode if she left dirty dishes. There were two
kinds of people that lived in caravans; the scrupulously clean, and the slovenly.
Travelers were always scrupulously clean, and oddly, when it came to the caravan,
so was Dick, though he seldom washed himself. The one and only time she had ever left
dirty dishes for an hour or two, because he had eaten late and she had been too busy
with the show to get to them immediately, she had been met with the one and only blow
to the face—a blow that left her with half her face blackened. Andy Ball had had a
right fit over that when he saw her—he’d raged at Dick for an hour because he couldn’t
put a bruised girl out in front of an audience, and Dick had been mightily put out
because she hadn’t gotten any pay until she was fit to look at again.

That was when Dick had learned to hurt her where it didn’t show, and he had become
almost scientific about it. He’d also learned never to hurt her in a way that would
keep her from performing. She only hoped he hadn’t forgotten what he’d learned.

. . . and what a dreadful thing, to be reduced to hoping that her husband “wouldn’t
hurt her too much.”

Maybe it was a good thing that it had taken him so long to find her. Right after she’d
run, he probably would have murdered her. With so much time passing, the red-hot rage
had cooled enough that when he’d found her, from what he’d said already, he’d taken
the time to find out what she was doing, and discover that she was worth a lot more
to him alive.

Right now, he was in a good mood. He’d established his ownership of her. He would
not have to work as long as she was able to. He was full of good food, he was tucked
up in what was probably the best bed he had ever slept in in his life, and he was
“in the cream.” The longer she could keep him in that mood the better. Maybe she could
even keep him happy enough that she could go a full month or more between beatings.

He hadn’t troubled to do more than count the money she’d been collecting in the unused
toby jug that had come with the oddly assorted dishes left in the cottage. She knew
he had counted it, because the money was stacked in groups of five by denomination
all across the front of the shelf. He hadn’t cared to hide it or take it, because
he knew she wouldn’t dare touch more than he allowed—and he had just given her permission
to shop for food for him. She took more than she thought she’d need, dressed herself
with more care, and went out silently with a big shopping basket.

The corner shop was not where she went for “decent” food, but they were well stocked
when it came to the sorts of things Dick liked. When she came back, she had all of
his favorites; sausages, ham, and lots of bacon. More bread, cheap little cakes, and
packets of sweets. Tinned baked beans. Tinned mushy peas. And she had something she
hoped would make her life easier; two bottles of gin. Dick was not used to strong
drink; he’d not been able to afford it, and it was easier to get a beer or a lager
or a cider out of the country-folk at the local pub or inn than it was a bit of strong
drink. They’d pay a beer to watch him bend an iron bar. They’d not pay for a tot of
gin for the same pleasure. Many of them equated strong drink with sin, anyway; beer
was food, beer was something you could (and many of them did) make at home, just like
bread and out of the same ingredients, but strong drink was evil, and led to vice—so
their preachers told them every Sunday, at least.

When he woke, she already had luncheon ready for him—and she had seen how he had gotten
into her locked cottage, when she had taken a chance and peeked through the curtains.

He’d been more than usually cunning, and that suggested he had actually been watching
the cottage to plan how to get in. That iron grating over the windows had been no
match for his strength. He’d simply gone to the back and pulled the grating for one
of them out of the cottage wall. There were no passers-by in the rear to see him and
call for a constable, and of course if she had seen a grating gone from a front window
when she’d come home, she would
never
have gone in the front door in the first place.

It was just more evidence of how cunning he could be when he put his mind to it.

As he ate she made a careful accounting of every penny spent, just as she’d had to
at the circus. He sat there, silently chewing his ploughman’s lunch of ham, cheese,
and thick bread and butter, his black brows furrowed as he counted up what she had
spent in his head. He was very good at counting money, too. He could do sums in his
head as easily as she could on paper.

He interrupted her a couple of times. “That’s too much—” he’d say.

“It’s the shop,” she’d reply. “Here’s the bill-of-sale, see? It’s very dear to shop
there. There’s cheaper shops, but they’re farther away, some of them you have to take
the bus to reach, and you didn’t give me leave to go that far.”

He’d grunt, but at least he didn’t cuff her.

Finally she came to the last. “And I got you these,” she said, putting the gin bottles
on the table. “I thought you’d like some Blue Ruin. I’m making money enough, and you
should have good things to drink.”

His entire face lit up and she knew that she had pleased him. He didn’t say so, of
course.

He never gave her anything like praise.

He drank almost half a bottle, then, tipsy, went back to bed after luncheon; she already
knew what her duties were. To clean the cottage in complete silence, then make a big
tea for him. As she cleaned, she cried, longing with all her heart for the quiet cool
of Lionel’s house, for the magic, for the things she learned. . . .

. . . .for Jack . . .

But she shuddered to think what would happen if Jack ever came here. He’d die, of
course. He’d die, because how could a one-legged man stand up against Dick—an
able-bodied,
normal man couldn’t stand up against Dick, and yet she knew he would try to defend
her and take her away. She couldn’t allow him to do that, even though it
would
free her from Dick. . . .

She’d be free, because Dick would be slapped in gaol and hung.

This wouldn’t be the sort of thing where it was just one Traveler killing another,
or one lowly circus tramp murdering another of his kind. Dick was nothing more than
a circus strongman, and Jack was a respectable man with a respectable job. If it came
to killing, the constables wouldn’t just ignore it the way they did Traveler killings,
and Dick would hang for murder.

Dick might be cunning, but he was under the impression that he could do anything he
liked to keep her, even murder, because she was his property. Before Katie had met
Lionel and Jack, she had thought the same. After all, the constables didn’t
care
when lowly sorts like circus folks did each other in. So far as they were concerned,
one bit of trash had got rid of another bit of trash, which was one bit of trash less
to watch out for.