and now back to the story...
I had never known before that day how easy it was to just walk someone out of Newgate, and I think that if I had it would have inspired in me a sort of abstract terror that the surreality of our present situation was sufficient to diffuse entirely. When we left, it was with Jim Holly in tow, a silver mask over his face to hide the most visible symptoms of his syphilis.
We climbed into a nondescript carriage when we left. I remember wondering where it had come from, since we had walked from our flat to Newgate. Once the door was shut, Holly took the mask off and clawed away some of the linen underneath. His face had clearly not been attractive in anyone's recent memory, but now it was a mess of sores. I was thankful that he did not remove more of the gauze, because the shape of his nose beneath it suggested something I did not want to see. My father passed him a bottle of brandy, and the criminal drank from it greedily.
The clatter of our wheels on the cobbles barely drowned out the tattoo of my heart, let alone the questions that flooded my brain. The sight of this decaying man in front of me was a terrible thing, but far more terrible were my father's words that still rang in my head.
I want you to kill Isaac Newton.
Why on earth would my father want such a thing? He warned me of lakes of fire, reminded me of my commandments. Of all the men in the world, in my mind he was most holy. Now he talked of murder. And what had Holly said to him about violence--was my father a violent man? I suppose that everyone reaches a place eventually where they begin to question their parents' choices, and for me it was quite specifically sitting on a carriage seat across from a syphilitic felon, putting space between us and Newgate Prison.
After a few long moments of silence punctuated by road noises and Holly's slurping at the bottle, the criminal saw fit to speak. "You talk, boy?" he asked me, as if suddenly becoming aware of my presence.
"You will not speak to him," said my father before the man's question had time to even register. Only an hour ago I would have been grateful to him for saving me, but now I felt resentment settling into my stomach like cold stones in the bed of a river.
"I only talk when I've reason to," I snapped back impertinently, and raised my eyes to meet Holly's.
My father tensed beside me, and the horrible face of Jim Holly spread into a grin that was more horrible still. "An' have you reason enough now?"
"What ought I to say to a criminal like you?"
"Could argue you ought t' be polite t' criminals. Or d'you fancy the thought of gettin' gutted fer yer insolence?"
"Do you have a habit of threatening children, Mr. Holly?" my father interrupted, but quickly turned his hard eyes on me. "Enough," he said, and there was enough finality in his tone that I did not press the issue, though it did nothing to pacify my growing bile. I sat silently for the remainder of our ride, and I was only moderately surprised when the carriage let us out in front of our old home. The laboratories of the Esoteric Brotherhood.
We climbed into a nondescript carriage when we left. I remember wondering where it had come from, since we had walked from our flat to Newgate. Once the door was shut, Holly took the mask off and clawed away some of the linen underneath. His face had clearly not been attractive in anyone's recent memory, but now it was a mess of sores. I was thankful that he did not remove more of the gauze, because the shape of his nose beneath it suggested something I did not want to see. My father passed him a bottle of brandy, and the criminal drank from it greedily.
The clatter of our wheels on the cobbles barely drowned out the tattoo of my heart, let alone the questions that flooded my brain. The sight of this decaying man in front of me was a terrible thing, but far more terrible were my father's words that still rang in my head.
I want you to kill Isaac Newton.
Why on earth would my father want such a thing? He warned me of lakes of fire, reminded me of my commandments. Of all the men in the world, in my mind he was most holy. Now he talked of murder. And what had Holly said to him about violence--was my father a violent man? I suppose that everyone reaches a place eventually where they begin to question their parents' choices, and for me it was quite specifically sitting on a carriage seat across from a syphilitic felon, putting space between us and Newgate Prison.
After a few long moments of silence punctuated by road noises and Holly's slurping at the bottle, the criminal saw fit to speak. "You talk, boy?" he asked me, as if suddenly becoming aware of my presence.
"You will not speak to him," said my father before the man's question had time to even register. Only an hour ago I would have been grateful to him for saving me, but now I felt resentment settling into my stomach like cold stones in the bed of a river.
"I only talk when I've reason to," I snapped back impertinently, and raised my eyes to meet Holly's.
My father tensed beside me, and the horrible face of Jim Holly spread into a grin that was more horrible still. "An' have you reason enough now?"
"What ought I to say to a criminal like you?"
"Could argue you ought t' be polite t' criminals. Or d'you fancy the thought of gettin' gutted fer yer insolence?"
"Do you have a habit of threatening children, Mr. Holly?" my father interrupted, but quickly turned his hard eyes on me. "Enough," he said, and there was enough finality in his tone that I did not press the issue, though it did nothing to pacify my growing bile. I sat silently for the remainder of our ride, and I was only moderately surprised when the carriage let us out in front of our old home. The laboratories of the Esoteric Brotherhood.