The Lace Balcony (7 page)

‘Hush, lad,' the Irishman advised, ‘do ye want to be visiting the cat again?'

Mungo had intended the words for his ears only, but he realised his voice must have carried on the wind, by the reaction from a slack-jawed officer. Within seconds Mungo felt the musket prodded into his back and he was being frog-marched away from the gathering.

Knowing his fate, Mungo decided to have the last word.

‘Have a heart, officer. I ain't met the Governor yet!'

The response was a whack on the back of the head that sent him flying, followed by a kick in the buttocks as he tried to stumble to his feet. Mungo felt a cold, creeping sensation as he saw what lay ahead of him.

Floggings had failed to break him. Ahead of him was his baptism of fire. Solitary.

•  •  •

Mungo tried to concentrate. His lips were cracked, his mouth lined with ulcers, the dry biscuit bread seeded with weevils. Was this his first or second dose of solitary confinement? Moreton Bay Time had swallowed him up, having been in solitary for God only knew how long – was it weeks, months, a year? Was it 1828 or even twenty-nine?

Using the same words he did as Sean O'Connor to his fellow prisoners in the iron gang, Mungo Quayle repeated his mantra, alone in the dank darkness of the underground cell, his voice bouncing between the walls: ‘Moreton Bay under Logan. No place for heroes. No place for cowards. No place for the living. Only the dead can hope to survive here.'

Would Father Francis Xavier answer him? Or were his words simply a desperate attempt to create the illusion of a man's presence?

The echo of his voice died. He waited out of courtesy for a reply but none was forthcoming.

‘No arguments, tonight, eh, Father? No promise of God's mercy? I see. Given up on me, have you?' The reason for the silence jolted him. Father Francis Xavier was now no more than a name on a gravestone, badly chiselled by one of the faithful, a prisoner who had later succumbed to fever but lay in an unmarked mass grave for his trouble carving the stones of others.

‘So what about
you
, girl? Playing shy of me, are ye?' For as long as he'd been sentenced at Moreton Bay, many months past two years, he had been able to summon her up, to comfort him during those rare nights when no other man was close enough to hear his lovemaking. He hid her name in his heart. She was as real to him as moonlight, but when he forced her to come to him, it was always a private fantasy. Mungo clung to a vestige of pride. Let other men pull themselves crazy and cry out to God the name of a long lost woman – or the substitute man or boy who gave them relief. Mungo only made love to her when he was alone.

He was determined to show his woman respect. He had taken her many times, gently, hungrily, desperately as the need for her seized him. But always when alone. So their coupling was rare, a secret moment. A woman, no more than a girl, his equal in passion, giving him back as much as he needed to give her. No money exchanged. No names. No promises. Was she real or a composite of all the women he had taken to bed?
No! She's different. There's no other woman like her.
He clung to the memory of her . . .

At the foot of the gallows, he watched Will being prodded at the end of a musket up the steps to take his place in the queue of the condemned. Mungo saw her face across the heads of the crowd, her wild mass of golden hair teased by the wind, her arms raised to draw Will's attention to her – as Felix L'Estrange lifted her up onto a wall to enable her sweet, clear voice to cry out in anguish and anger.

‘I'm here, William! I kept my promise!'

And Mungo had thanked the God he didn't much believe in for
giving Will that last precious moment on earth. Because the moment that Will caught sight of her he called back to her.

‘As God is my witness, wherever you go, I, William Eden will watch over thee . . .'

•  •  •

Whatever else he had done wrong in life, Mungo was glad that Will's last sight on earth was a lovely girl who kept her promise to be with him to the very last.

Now each night alone in solitary, just within reach of Mungo's imagination, that golden girl's words, even the colour of her gown, changed to fit his mood. He was desperate to retain every detail of her face that had begun to fade like a memory from childhood – except for the intense blue of her eyes.

Mungo thanked God that her body never failed to stir him . . . the girl who lay with him all night then disappeared in the mist of dawn, leaving him with her whispered promise, ‘I will come to you – just so long as you remember me . . .'

Tonight Mungo had special need of her. He tried to make her come to him, wearing a filmy wedding gown, a floating mass of tulle, the smell of orange blossoms in her hair. And suddenly there she was. His heartbeat raced in anticipation of what was to come. She hovered above him, beckoning him, a bride unafraid of her wedding night, his equal in passion, gentleness and need.

His bride came closer, running her hand gently along the curve of her breast, smiling with that sweet gesture that never failed to arouse him.

‘I'll never forget you. I am waiting for you, Mungo Quayle.'

‘Hush, darling. It isn't safe to use my real name here. I'm Sean, Sean O'Connor. Don't give me away. No knowing what that mongrel Logan would do if he found out who I am – who my father is. I promise you when I've done my time here, I'll come back to you. I'll marry you properly. Sign my true name on the register. Mungo Quayle. Hell! I mustn't even think that name. I might say it aloud in my sleep – or yell it out next time I cop two hundred lashes of the cat . . .'

She turned her head away, tears in her eyes. He was desperate to detain her.

‘Forgive me. I mustn't waste our precious time alone. Come to me sweetheart, come here and touch me . . . I'll close my eyes . . . please lay your hands on me . . . and let me love you . . .'

Mungo closed his eyes and waited, his thighs rigid, his pelvis arching, aching from the need of her. Then that other sound came to him. The scratching sound made by rats. Mungo crawled back into the corner, his eyes wide, angry that he had lost her.

He peered into the darkness, barely able to make out the dim grey outline in the corner – the source of that insistent, soft scratching sound.

It was then he saw him.
Stimson.
A prisoner who he had seen copping three hundred stripes, yelling in agony at each cut of the lash. After that, Mungo had stolen a rusty metal file for him and Stimson had sawn through the chain linked to his leg irons, until the blood flowed from his ankle. Mungo had watched him running in crazy zigzag patterns into the bush, drunk on freedom and howling like a dingo.

Stimson.
There was no mistake. Mungo recognised him by the curious pattern of his missing teeth and the way one eye was always fixed on the heavens no matter which way the other was directed.

Tonight Stimson was smiling as if he had discovered the secret of freedom and would be willing to share it – at a price.

‘Bugger you, Stimson, I had company. She's a real lady, she only comes to me when I'm alone.'

Stimson nodded sagely and whistled through the gaps in his teeth.

Mungo was curious. ‘What are you doing here? You were gone so long in the bush the chaplain said a prayer for your soul. I thought you were dead.'

Stimson continued to smile. ‘I am,' he said.

Mungo heard the bark of a dog but realised it was his own laughter caught in his throat. ‘Christ, that's all I need. A bloody ghost for company.'

‘You could do worse.'

‘How?'

‘You could be a ghost yourself. Ever asked yourself if maybe
you
were dead?

‘Do ghosts eat, piss and defecate?'

Stimson looked patient. ‘No need, mate.'

‘That proves I'm still alive. Half crazy when I'm cooped up in solitary, I'll give you that. But not dead yet, not by a long shot.'

‘I came to give you a bit of advice,' Stimson said gently.

‘What's that worth? Did you get it straight from the right hand of God – St Patrick, St Peter, one of your mob?'

‘If you shut your mouth, I'll tell you. I came to warn ye, you're going to be involved in a man's murder.'

‘Yeah? What kind of a ghost are you? Don't tell me you're on the side of the angels.'

‘Right now I'm on your side. You put salt on my wounds after I'd been flogged. I was howling like a wet-nosed dog. You trickled water into my mouth. Bathed me with a rag until my fever broke. Then stole that file to saw off me irons.'

‘I must have been crazy.'

‘
Kind.
Dead men don't forget things like that.'

‘Yeah, so who's this bloke I'm going to top? I've got the perfect candidate. But I just promised my woman I'd marry her. She's waiting for me. You can't break a promise to a woman or a kid. Your God wouldn't like that, would he?'

‘Don't twist me words, Mungo. Mr L'Estrange don't like liars.'

‘Hey, where'd you get that name from? I'm Sean. Sean O'Connor!'

‘You talk in your sleep. Yer secret's safe with me. Ye can keep your promise to your girl. That's why I'm warning ye. You'll be tempted to take your revenge. Do murder. The choice is yours.'

‘Why the hell are you warning me?'

‘To see what kind of a man ye are. You're being watched.'

Stimson rolled his eyes and pointed to the ceiling. Mungo took his words literally.

‘You mean the officer in charge?'

‘More powerful than him!'

‘You mean Logan?'

Stimson looked impatient. ‘Nah! Much more powerful.'

‘No man's more powerful than bloody Logan.'

‘That's because you've been here too long.'

‘We've
all
been here too long.'

Stimson sighed. ‘Remember, when the moment comes, “Those who live by the sword, die by the sword.”'

Mungo gave a snort of amusement. ‘That nice old Bible-basher really got to you!'

Stimson's voice rose to a gravel-like screech. ‘You ruddy little know-all. I didn't have to come here tonight, ye know. It was my choice. I thought ye needed cheering up. I can see I've wasted me 'uckin' time.'

Stimson could never pronounce some letters of the alphabet due to the peculiar gaps in his teeth but Mungo got the message. He couldn't stop himself from grinning.

‘Ghosts are allowed to swear, are they?'

‘Why should I tell you? If ye don't believe in God, how can ye believe in ghosts? But it proves ye do, because you're talking to
me.
Most of the other half-mad bastards around here can't even see me. That proves ye suspect God's out there somewhere, right?'

Mungo couldn't think of an answer to that. ‘Thanks for the advice, Stimson. You're welcome to come again for a bit of a chat. Anytime.'

‘Don't do me any favours,' Stimson snapped. ‘Just remember what I told ye. This is your chance to prove you're a real man. You're in luck. Most prisoners don't survive long enough to get a second chance.'

Mungo slapped at a big brute of a mosquito that had drawn blood. Pleased that he'd killed one of the tribe of insects that made Moreton Bay a misery at this time of year, he examined the size of it. ‘Got you!'

When he looked back at Stimson the corner was empty. There was only a rat staring at him, its eyes glowing red in the darkness.

That proves I'm now completely nuts. I talk to dead men.

Yet Mungo felt an odd sense of peace. ‘Goodnight, my bride,' Mungo said as he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, the first following a timeless chain of broken nights.

Like some feral beast let loose overnight, the summer thunderstorm rattled the French doors onto the cast-iron veranda framing three sides of Severin House. Rain plastered the window panes with long slivers of eucalyptus leaves, forming sinister patterns like witches' fingers.

Seated in her bedchamber, designed by Severin in a style aimed to fulfil a man's erotic fantasies, Vianna embroidered the final God's-eye stitches on a silk dress for Daisy that she hoped would still fit the child.

During a momentary lull in the storm she heard the distant sound of a fiddle playing ‘The Black Velvet Band.' The haunting Irish melody transported her back to that night Severin had rescued her.
Was it only two and a half years ago?

She glanced uneasily around her transformed bedchamber, the giant four-poster bed, walls and windows draped with elaborate swags and festoons of shimmering blues, greens and gold.

It's like an underwater cavern for a mermaid. Romantic – but no longer mine.

Severin had banished all traces of her personal treasures, such as Daisy's first pair of shoes, to the boxroom behind the invisible door concealed by the wallpaper. Giant mirrors hung on each wall and above the bed.

Severin had replaced the naïve watercolours Vianna had painted from memory of English landscapes. In their place were erotic paintings, including a group of voluptuous nymphs languidly posed in an Arcadian setting and a copy of Tintoretto's portrait of Veronica Franco who Severin said was a famous sixteenth century Venetian courtesan. He had likened her beauty to that of a fallen angel, innocent until you noticed the hand subtly directing your eye to her low neckline where one blood-red nipple nestled above the lace edge of her gown.

Does Severin need all this to arouse him? I simply must hold his interest – I am nothing without him.

It seemed to Vianna that all traces of Fanny Byron had been erased by Severin's game, one she had entered into without realising its full implications. She had become Severin's creation – Madame Vianna Francis, the mysterious beauty now ‘in keeping' to him, but who had been a London courtesan with the Prince Regent amongst her lovers. The fewer facts Sydney Town knew, the wilder the speculation. Severin himself had spread the word that the suicide of the Russian Count who blew out his brains over his gaming table was due to his unrequited love for Vianna. Truth was, the young count had gambled away his family fortune.