The Lunatic's Curse (7 page)

‘Never even seen him,’ said Rex. ‘Why?’

Ambrose shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you are safe.’

‘Safe? From what?’ But his father’s face didn’t invite further query.

‘Ready?’ asked Ambrose. ‘Then let’s go.’

Shortly after, in the creamy light of the waxing moon, Rex and his father made painful progress through the shadowy streets of Opum Oppidulum. Rex held on tightly to his
father’s hand, his right hand. He couldn’t bear to look at the hook on the left. He was in the grip of an uncontrollable torrent of emotions: fear, excitement, hope, dismay, sadness. He
wanted to ask so many questions but he didn’t want to know the answers.

Over one hundred days looking out across the lake every night at the dreary asylum. Watching for a shadow across the lighted window, always hoping for this very moment. And now that the moment
was here it was tainted with dread and uncertaintly. It was not how Rex imagined it would be. It was supposed to feel very different.

They walked for a half-hour or so, leaving the broad familiar streets near their house and heading east through the marketplace to the poorer side of town where the streets narrowed and the
gas-lights were spaced further and further apart.

‘Was . . . is it very bad?’ asked Rex finally.

‘Let us not dwell on such things,’ said Ambrose quietly. It seemed all his energy was being put into the simple act of placing one foot in front of the other.

‘They wouldn’t let me visit.’

‘Chapelizod allows no visitors,’ said Ambrose. ‘It suits him that way.’

Rex was unable to hold back any longer. ‘Are you going back?’

‘Never,’ said Ambrose.

Rex’s heart lifted immediately and then plummeted. There was something in his father’s tone that told him to read between the lines. ‘Never’ could mean many things.

‘Rex, I came to see because you are my son and I love you,’ said Ambrose matter-of-factly. ‘And to give you something for when I am gone.’

‘You’re going?’ Rex phrased it as a question but he knew that it was a statement of fact. ‘But you said—’

‘I cannot come home. Too many things have changed. I have changed, more than you know. Now it is your future that matters.’

Rex took a moment to consider this answer. ‘Well, let us both go somewhere together,’ he said determinedly.

Ambrose took a deep breath. ‘I cannot go with you,’ he said, and there was a profound sadness in his eyes. ‘It is dangerous for me to even spend time with you.’

Rex wrinkled his brow. ‘I don’t understand. Surely as soon as you can prove that you aren’t mad then you can come back to Opum Oppidulum, take the house back and Acantha will
have no more claim on you.’

‘You want me to prove that I am not mad?’ Ambrose laughed harshly. He held up his hook. ‘How can I when the evidence is right before me?’ Instinctively, Rex shrank from
the rusty hook. Ambrose saw his reaction and was immediately remorseful. ‘I’m not the man I was,’ he said softly. ‘I trusted Acantha and I was duped. Now I cannot trust
myself.’

‘What are you saying?’ asked Rex. ‘You were not mad – you were sick; you must have been. It’s the only explanation. It’s not a crime to be tricked. Acantha is
a monster. If you don’t come back I’ll . . . I’ll kill her!’

Ambrose grabbed him by the shoulder and hissed. ‘Monster? What do you mean? What has she done to you?’

Suddenly Rex was frightened. ‘She hasn’t done anything to me, exactly,’ he said nervously. ‘But she is going to send me to the Reform School.’ Then he couldn’t
control himself any longer and he broke down in tears. ‘Oh, why can’t you come home and we’ll be the way we used to be, before Acantha?’

Ambrose hugged Rex tightly. Rex buried his face in his rags and could feel that there was almost nothing left of his father’s once sturdy frame. He felt his warm breath on his hair and his
nose digging into his scalp. He heard him sniff deeply and then he was pushed away again.

‘I can’t go back, Rex, it’s too dangerous, for both of us. Acantha will just have me arrested. I am officially insane. I have lost all my rights. How does a madman prove his
sanity?’

Separated, they began to walk again, in silence. Rex could see that his father had changed in body, yes – but surely his mind was still intact? Could his illness not be cured? What was this
danger he talked about? More confused than ever, he was beginning to understand that his life was far more complicated than he had thought possible. But he didn’t have much time to
contemplate this realization before Ambrose came to an abrupt halt.

‘I hope you’ve been keeping up with your Classical studies,’ he said suddenly.

‘As well as I can without Robert.’

‘Very important,’ he said, ‘to know your Latin and Greek.’

Rex shook his head. His father was behaving very oddly.

They stood on Cuttlesack Lane outside what appeared to be an old shop. Rex noted that there were no goods in the window and the frosted glass was fly-spotted on the inside. Thick cobwebs
stretched from one corner to the other. Above his head a sign swung gently to and fro. Some of the letters were missing and all he could read was:

Rex flinched as Ambrose knocked sharply and deliberately on the door with his raw-boned knuckles. A panel in the door slid across and a pair of eyes appeared in the slit.

‘Ambrose Grammaticus,’ said his father softly. ‘I wish to see Mr Sarpalius.’

The panel closed and the door opened. Ambrose pulled Rex through into a tiny low-lit room. There was a counter in front of them behind which was a heavy black curtain that hung from ceiling to
floor. A cheap tallow candle burned smokily in a holder and a strange odour, not wholly unpleasant, thought Rex, hung on the air.

The door closed behind them and the man who let them in pulled aside the curtain. ‘Room at the end,’ he said with a nod.

The corridor beyond the curtain was narrow, only wide enough for one person to pass through at a time, and there were more curtains at intervals along its sides. Rex jumped as he felt a spatter
of hot wax on his cheek from a guttering candle on the wall. The smell from the shop was even stronger back here. One of the drapes was not fully drawn and in the brief second Rex had to look
behind it, he saw a man lying face down on a table. Another man was leaning over him and in his hand he had some sort of tool. It was sharp, and the tip was covered in a red liquid.

Blood? thought Rex in horror. What else could it be? Was this man a surgeon? He caught the fellow’s eye and he raised his head from his work and smiled, displaying a mouthful of large black
teeth. Then he leaned over again and Rex saw that his patient clenched a stick between his teeth.

And its purpose was to prevent his crying out.

‘Father, what are we doing in this place?’ whispered Rex. But Ambrose didn’t answer. For the first time ever Rex’s faith wavered. He wondered if he was wrong; could
everyone else be right? Was his father really insane?

They reached the final curtain. Ambrose held it back and pushed Rex forward into darkness. Rex stood there shivering. Fear overwhelmed his senses. There was someone else in the room. He could
hear steady breathing, neither his nor his father’s. Then there was the sound of a flint being struck against steel and the room lit up. Rex screamed. Out of the yellow light emerged the face
of a grinning monster with black eyes surrounded by scales, and from his mouth there emerged the forked tongue of a serpent.

10

Rex’s scream was stifled as for the second time that night a hand clamped firmly over his mouth to silence him. He felt the sharpness and weight of iron on his shoulder
and he was spun round.

‘Nothing to fear, son,’ said Ambrose. ‘It’s pictures, merely pictures.’

Rex steadied his breathing and steeled himself, and opened his eyes, for he had screwed them tightly shut. The monster was still there, grinning, but he could see now that his father was
right. This was no beast, just a man with pictures on his face and down his neck and up his forearms and across the backs of his hands. He seemed to be painted with colourful scales, like some sort
of reptile, and glinting in the candlelight Rex could see huge golden hoops in his ears. But he was not imagining the man’s tongue; it really was forked and he seemed to enjoy Rex’s
discomfort as he repeatedly flicked it in and out of his mouth.

‘Arrh!’ growled the man suddenly, his head darting forward like the snake he resembled.

Rex jumped back and the man laughed.

‘Anton Sarpalius?’ asked Ambrose.

The painted man nodded.

‘Walter Freakley gave me your name. I’m pleased to meet you.’

He held out his hand and Rex recoiled at the thought of touching the scaly skin; he anticipated it would be as slimy as he imagined a snake might be. The man smelt strongly of sweat and tobacco,
but Rex noticed that he had long fingers, artist’s fingers.

‘I haven’t much time,’ said Ambrose.

‘I can work fast,’ replied the reptilian fellow. ‘What is it you wish me to do?’

Ambrose directed Rex to sit while he and Anton engaged in a whispered conversation. Rex took the opportunity to look around the room. Windowless and bare, apart from a couple of chairs and a low
table, it was small and hardly welcoming. There was a cupboard in the corner, the doors of which were half open, and Rex could see within an array of brown glass bottles, further convincing him
that this unlikely-looking man was a surgeon. Perhaps he was going to cure his father. He certainly looked ill. A noise caused him to glance over at Anton and he was shocked to see that he had
taken out a cut-throat and was sharpening it on a leather strap. Ambrose seemed to think that it was unnecessary and Rex was pleased to see Anton lay it down again.

Finally they shook hands and Rex knew that a deal had been made. Anton pulled the servant’s bell at the wall and a few minutes later the fellow from the front of the shop arrived with a
tray of drinks, one for each of them. While Rex enjoyed his sweet-tasting liquid, Ambrose and Anton watched him closely and sipped from their own wooden mugs in silence. The clock struck one and he
began to feel sleepy. Presently his eyes were so heavy he felt as if he needed pitchforks to lift them. He put down his tumbler. His head was swimming.

‘Father,’ he began to say, but Ambrose only looked at him and smiled sadly. After that everything seemed confused. Rex remembered being taken to the table to lie down and the last
thing he saw was the face of the monster looming over him. And the last thing he felt was fingers running through his tangled hair.

The next sensation Rex had was the coldness of the night air on his cheeks. He was still lying on his back but now something was digging into him. Where has the ceiling gone?
he wondered, for he could see the incomplete moon and the stars. He felt sick and his head was throbbing. He was vaguely aware that someone was nearby. He began to think that he was in the middle
of a nightmare, that his father had not come back at all, but then he caught a strong whiff of decay and he knew that it was all very real.

Then his father was standing over him. His eyes were shining in the light of his lantern.

‘Where are we? Where’s Mr Sarpalius?’

‘Are you all right?’ asked Ambrose softly. ‘How do you feel?’

‘My head hurts,’ said Rex. He touched his scalp and when he took his fingers away they were sticky with blood.

‘You fell on the shingle,’ said Ambrose, staring hard at Rex’s bloody hand. His voice was strangely muted. ‘It will heal.’

Rex tried to focus on his surroundings. He sat up slowly, his head spinning and his ears ringing, and he could hear an odd crunching sound. He realized with a shock that he was on the stony
shore of the lake. ‘What are we doing here?’

Ambrose sighed and knelt down with difficulty. He put his hand on Rex’s shoulder and it felt very heavy. ‘Rex, there’s so much you don’t know, and I don’t want to
tell you, but believe this: I love you and I want the very best for you. You must promise me that you will not go back to Acantha. You were right about her – she is not to be trusted. I found
that out too late. I can only pray that she has shown a little humanity towards you and not . . .’ He didn’t finish his sentence, but coughed long and hard.