The Lunatic's Curse (8 page)

‘Humanity?’ said Rex sarcastically. ‘Oh, there’s plenty of that, if you consider humanity treating me as if I don’t exist! I won’t go back. I’m going to
stay with you.’

Ambrose shook his head slowly. ‘You cannot.’

‘Then what is to become of me?’ Rex was tired, his head ached badly and he was frightened. He didn’t want puzzles, he wanted answers. ‘Just what is going on?’

‘Listen, Rex,’ said his father. He paused for a long time, searching for the right words. ‘I have a . . . disease. It’s like a curse. I cannot trust myself to do
what’s right. It’s too late for me; I’m not strong enough any more. But Acantha must be stopped. I found information on the island, all the proof you need to expose her, but I
couldn’t bring it with me – it was too dangerous. Maybe it is the disease that makes me so untrusting, but I was afraid, afraid that it might fall into the wrong hands. Oh, Rex, if you
can face it, you must go to Droprock Island, find the proof and take it to someone you trust . . . my friend on the
Hebdomadal
, Cecil, he will know what to do with it.’

‘But how will I find it?’ asked Rex in exasperation.

‘Just use your head.’

Suddenly there were shouts and the sound of running feet on the stones. Ambrose spoke quickly. ‘Rex, I wish I could tell you more but the less I tell you, the less you can tell others.
It’s safer this way. If Acantha gets her hands on you I know she will try to find out what I have told you.’

‘But you haven’t told me anything!’ protested Rex.

‘Take this,’ he said, and he pressed something into Rex’s hand and closed his fingers around it. ‘You must get to the island. The asylum is safe now; Chapelizod is gone.
The answers you’re looking for are there.’ His voice was no more than a hoarse whisper. ‘And remember: don’t fly too close to the sun.’

‘What?’ Now his father really was talking nonsense.

‘Just do as I say, Rex,’ he urged desperately. ‘
On your head be it.
’

Ambrose started to walk away, still facing Rex. Rex struggled to his feet, but he was woozy and having trouble standing. ‘Just take me with you,’ he pleaded, reaching out to his
retreating father, but he fell to his knees, his legs unable to carry him.

‘I can’t.’ Rex knew in his heart that this was the final goodbye. He didn’t understand why and he didn’t think he could bear it.

‘Remember the good times, Rex,’ called Ambrose, and his voice was breaking. ‘Before all of this. Remember me as someone who loved you. Not as . . . as a monster.’

A monster? Rex felt as if he had sustained a crippling blow. This was all so terribly wrong. Then there was a shout and three burly cloaked figures came running down the shore.

‘There he is,’ shouted one of them. ‘The escaped madman. Catch him, boys! Catch him.’

Ambrose tried to run but he was too weak, and the yielding shingle made it even more difficult get away. The constables were upon him in a matter of seconds. Rex watched as his father fell to
the ground with a terrible crunch and lay there unmoving. And through blurred and swollen eyes, Rex saw them chain him and drag him away.

He never saw him alive again.

11

Cadmus Chapelizod stumbled out of the freezing shallows and fell heavily to the shingle. He was cold and wet and he knew that he smelt very bad indeed. ‘Oh Lord,’
he kept saying over and over. ‘I made it. I can’t believe I made it.’

After the lunatics had escaped and gone on the rampage, he had wasted no time trying to contain them but had immediately hidden where they were least likely to look for him – in one of
their own abandoned cells. After a couple of days under a pile of stinking straw he judged that the noise from above had quietened and dared to emerge. It seemed that everyone was gone, but, just
in case, he disguised himself as one of his former charges and ran down to the jetty, hoping against all hope that the ferryman might still be there. His relief was immeasurable when he saw the
cloaked figure in the boat. Without further ado he leaped in and barked at him to take him across the lake to the town. He spoke not another word during the crossing, merely stared straight ahead at
the lights of Opum Oppidulum and prayed earnestly for his safe delivery.

And now he was here. He could have wept with joy! He looked around him. They had landed quite far down the shore; in the fog the ferryman must have missed the jetty, and now the boat was nowhere
to be seen. Cadmus didn’t care. He suspected that the ferryman was in cahoots with the escapees; after all, hadn’t he just rowed him to town even though he must have thought he was a
lunatic? He would arrange for the man to be arrested along with anyone else who had escaped and could be found.

Cadmus still couldn’t believe what had happened. And it was made all the worse by events from the past. For ten years he had been in charge of the asylum with no complaints from
anyone. Well, no one who mattered. He had taken the job when the previous superintendent had gone soft and allowed a dangerous murderer to escape. Ten years without a hitch and now this! At least he
had been spared his life; the other murderous escapee, apparently unreformed, had killed his foolhardy predecessor.

Cadmus gritted his teeth. As for those treacherous cowards, the warders! If he ever got his hands on them they would pay, each and every one, for subjecting him to this humiliation. It was the
head warder who was responsible for the whole mess! As far as he could work out, the escape was all his fault. Somehow one of the lunatics had got hold of his keys.

Cadmus tried to gather his thoughts. He knew what to do: he would go to Acantha’s. She would help him. And she would have food. He needed to get his strength back. She must be wondering
what had happened to him; he had missed the last meal and had been unable to send an explanation.

Cadmus stood up and shuddered. He could still feel their hands on him, grabbing him, trying to kill him! He had shaken them off; after all they were half starved and hardly strong enough to
stand up, let alone hold him down. But the smell and the feel of their scabious hands and the sight of their weeping sores and the look of their running eyes . . . Ugh! It was too much to bear.

His clothes were torn and his face was scratched, and in this state of disarray he began to make his slow, painful way up the shingle until he reached the road. The lights of the town were
beacons of hope and he began to feel as if he could actually be back to normal before too long. As he stumbled along he heard the sound of hoofs from behind.

‘Oh, thank the Lord,’ he rejoiced. His ordeal was almost over. He turned to see a small cart and horse approaching. The driver drew up beside him.

‘I need a ride into town, my good man,’ said Chapelizod in his usual authoritative tone. ‘I have had some bad luck.’

The driver looked doubtful. ‘That’s what they all say. You look like a beggar to me. We don’t like beggars in Opum Oppidulum.’

Cadmus sighed. ‘I will pay you as soon as we get back to my house.’

‘Where is your house?’

‘Er, well, actually I come from the asylum on the island.’ Chapelizod realized his mistake as soon as the words left his mouth.

The driver smiled. ‘So you are a lunatic
and
a beggar?’

‘No, no,’ said Chapelizod. This wasn’t going at all the way he had hoped.

The man jumped down from the cart and Chapelizod took a step back. A feeling of unease replaced his relief. There was something odd about this fellow’s demeanour. Chapelizod had been
around enough madmen to know the signs.

‘I’ll help you,’ said the driver in a low voice now laced with menace. ‘I’ll put you out of your misery.’ In an instant he swung his unnaturally long arm
round and hit Chapelizod over the head. He fell to the ground and he looked up to see a haze of glittering stars. He put his hand up to his mouth and felt his gold tooth. It has come loose, he
thought angrily. ‘Hey,’ he protested but then the stars went out.

12

A T
RIBUTE TO
A
MBROSE
O
SWALD
G
RAMMATICUS

by
Cecil Notwithstanding

It is with great regret that I announce the premature death of Mr Ambrose Oswald Grammaticus last week. He was a friend of mine and a gifted man.

A native of Opum Oppidulum, Mr Grammaticus was considered by many to be one of the finest engineers and designers of the century. In his lifetime he designed and constructed many breathtaking
buildings and structures, all of which serve only to enhance and improve the lives and environment of those who live in them or near them. He founded his company, AmGram Design, Engineering and
Construction, when only barely out of his teens and through dint of sheer hard work turned it into one of the most successful businesses in the country.

Before his untimely death Mr Grammaticus was working on a project to construct a much needed second bridge over the river Foedus in the city of Urbs Umida. It is now unlikely to be completed. In
recent years he proposed to build a bridge across Lake Beluarum to Droprock Island. And there were rumours that he had plans to improve the east side of Opum Oppidulum which is suffering from
neglect and is home to hordes of troublesome beggars.

Tragically Mr Grammaticus was struck down earlier this year by a violent and incurable disease of the brain which rendered him incapable of leading a normal life. He had only recently remarried,
his first wife having died twelve years ago. Mr Grammaticus spent his last months in the asylum on Droprock Island under the professional care of Mr Cadmus Chapelizod. His death comes shortly after
the recent revolt at the asylum.

Mr Grammaticus leaves behind a son from his first marriage, Rex, who is reported to be as talented as his father.

13

In a city some days distant from Opum Oppidulum, Dr Tibor Velhildegildus (a doctor of the mind rather than of medicine) was contemplating a letter that had recently been
brought to his consulting rooms by fast messenger and – for Dr Velhildegildus insisted that things were done in the proper manner – handed to him on a silver platter. He read with his
lips moving, softly enunciating the words: