The Sideways Door Page 2

  ‘The big French clown painting by the main door.’

  Honoré stiffened at her tone until he saw the smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

  ‘You’re entirely too sensitive,’ she said, and walked away.

  After Emily left, Honoré reviewed his notes. Looks like a rope climb after all, he thought, and his legs, damaged in the War, ached at the prospect. The only good part of the plan was that he and Emily only needed to worry about breaking into the place; the getaway, given their special abilities, would not be a problem. And it wasn’t as if they were actually stealing anything.

  We only need to touch it, he thought.

  Honoré paused in his work to look up and study the painting. Strange, he thought, that I should find myself in front of a Degas. The great artist’s father and brothers, cotton speculators, had lived in New Orleans, Louisiana, not too far from the home of Honoré’s grandmother, the woman who had raised him from early childhood, after his mother had died. His grandmother had, in fact, been a maid for the De Gas family for a short while, and had even met Edgar once when he had left his beloved Paris to visit – or rather, she had met him in the seen-but-not-heard way a young chambermaid can meet the visiting son of a wealthy banking family. According to Honoré’s grandmother, Edgar Degas had been the most sober, level-headed one of the whole arrogant, highbrow lot, an’ you’d tink it’d be t’other way ’roun. Honoré smiled and shook his head ruefully at the memory of his Grandmother Delecroix. He had not heard the sound of her feisty, no-nonsense Louisiana French patois in his head for a long time. Honoré took from his pocket the watch his grandmother had given to him all those years before, and rubbed its silver casing thoughtfully. The ornate engraving on its face had been worn almost smooth after so many years. Not a man given to wool-gathering, he nevertheless sat still for a time and let the memories come.

  Honoré is 12, seated on his grandmother’s rickety dock, chucking rocks at an alligator. The ’gator lies unmoving in the green, still water, its ponderous head resting on the muddy bank, its long body and tail hidden in the duckweed. Another smooth, small stone plunks inches away. The ’gator, sluggish in the morning cool of the swamp, ignores the splash of the stone, remains motionless. The boy watches, frowns, picks up another rock and takes aim. This time the stone bounces off the ’gator’s snout with a hollow thud.

  ‘Why you pestering that ’gator, Honoré?’

  Honoré turns to see his grandmother slowly make her way down the rickety dock, every step a wobbly balancing act of two legs and a cane; but she never falls, never once.

  ‘Rocks don’t bother that ’gator, Gran-maman,’ he tells her. ‘He don’t even blink.’

  ‘No, he too scared to blink,’ she says, looking over the boy’s shoulder as he lobs another rock. ‘He blink, maybe then he cry, non?’ She smiles down at Honoré. Her face is a deeply fissured mapwork of lines and graven furrows: her brow creased from worry, deep crow’s-feet around her eyes from years spent working outdoors, laugh lines at the corners of her mouth because she has always been easy to laugh, a good-natured woman always full of life. ‘He cry, maybe then everyone think he not so tough no more.’

  Honoré says nothing, but stares down at the fistful of smooth, round rocks he holds.

  ‘It’s all right to be sad, Bébé,’ she says. ‘All right to be angry, too. But you can’t be angry all the time.’

  Honoré tosses another rock, aiming at nothing, satisfied to hear the kerplunk as it sinks into the bayou. ‘Not mad at those men,’ he says, after a time. ‘They’s crazy, crazy bad. No, not them. I’m mad at me.’ Honoré does his best not to blink. Tears will come if he blinks.

  ‘Those men,’ she echoes quietly, unconsciously crossing herself. ‘Tell me, why you mad at yourself? You didn’t do nothin’, Honoré.’ She wearily shakes her head.

  She doesn’t speak the names of the men who killed Honoré’s mother, perhaps because she fears saying the murderers’ names aloud will give more power to their memory. Besides, everyone in all parts around has heard about the bodies found in the house of John and Wayne Carter, two murderers the newspapers called the Royal Street Vampires. There was no pattern to the selection of the victims, no motive other than torture and murder for its own sake. Bodies strapped into chairs, their arms sliced open: men, women, children.

  And Evangeline Lechasseur, Honoré’s mother.

  ‘I saw it,’ says Honoré. ‘I saw it all up here –’ Honoré taps the side of his head with the knuckles of his still-closed fist. ‘Behind my eyes, Gran-maman. It was like a dream, only I was wide-awake, and I saw her walk away and I called out but she didn’t hear me, she didn’t listen. And then I saw her die. I saw how she died. I saw what they did to her. I saw everything.’

  His Grandmother Delecroix takes the boy in her ample arms and holds him close. Buried in her warmth, Honoré knows that it is all right to cry now; now he can grieve, now he can let go; so he does. And after a time, the tears stop coming. Honoré feels empty, hollow as a drum. ‘Here now,’ his grandmother tells him. ‘Nothin’ you could do, child.’

  ‘I could have stopped her from going that day,’ he says, the conviction in his voice hard and frightening. ‘It would all be different now if I’d stopped her.’

  She puts her hands on his shoulders and holds him at arm’s length. He thinks she is going to call him fou, crazy, touched, for claiming visions. But she doesn’t. Her tired eyes are full of love.

  She grieves too, Honoré thinks, and is annoyed by his own selfishness.

  ‘Things happen the way they supposed to, Honoré,’ she says. ‘They happen for a reason, and sometimes the reason ain’t given to us to know. But a thing done can’t be undone. No sense punishing your own self on someone else’s account.’

  Then, oddly, she smiles. ‘I bet you done forgot what today is.’

  Honoré hasn’t forgotten. He is 12 today. It is his birthday. It doesn’t seem to matter. He feels much older. He feels old.

  ‘It’s been four months,’ Grandma Delecroix says. ‘Time, it moves on. You got to move with it.’ She reaches into the pocket of her apron and pulls out a shiny silver orb. Honoré’s eyes go wide. He recognises it.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind, child. I didn’t bother with no wrapping.’

  ‘Gran-pere Delecroix’s watch,’ he says. Honoré’s eyes widen in wonder. This watch is probably the most valuable thing his Grandfather Delecroix ever owned. At 12, Honoré doesn’t know the word heirloom, but he understands the concept.

  ‘And now it’s yours.’

  Honoré takes the watch and holds it reverently in his hands, the last of the rocks he has been holding clattering to his feet. He feels the engraved pattern of vines entangling themselves in a circle on the casing, beginning nowhere, ending nowhere.

  ‘You know how to work it, Honoré?’

  He feels carefully around the edge for the clasp, presses it. The casing flips up easily, revealing the watch face, the second hand steadily racing its way around.

  His Grandmother Delecroix squints hard at Honoré, tilts her head to the side as though looking through him rather than at him. ‘You take good care of that watch, boy. That and the sight are the only things this family got to give you. And the watch, well, it’ll always be a gift. Can’t say that for the other.’

  But Honoré the boy pays no attention to his Grandmother Delecroix, his gaze drawn to his own reflection, distorted like a miniature funhouse mirror by the shiny convex casing.

  Honoré gently closed the casing on the watch and slipped it back into his trouser pocket. He’d left Emily waiting long enough. He rose to leave. His knees made muted pistol-shot sounds, and he grimaced with the pain.

  ‘Still here?’ Emily said, a soft voice from behind. ‘Get lost in the painting?’

  Honoré dusted some pencil shavings from his coat. He gestured at Degas’ beautifully-rendered pastel. ‘I
never used to care for art,’ he said. ‘But now, every time I look at a real human being, I see all the –’ he hesitated, searching for the word – ‘all the possibilities: what they’re doing, what they’re going to do, what they might do. A painting or sculpture, on the other hand …’ he trailed off.

  ‘Simply is,’ Emily said, finishing his thought. ‘I know. There’s a timelessness with the good stuff, especially for people like us. I find it hopeful, somehow.’ She gestured to the arched entrance. ‘Shall we?’

  Stung by the biting wind, Honoré shivered and huddled deeper into his winter coat as he and Emily stepped outside the gallery and descended the steps. He loved London in 1951 – his London – more than any other place or time he had ever been: its people, its streets, its noise and bustle. But he doubted he would ever grow to love its weather or its food. At the word ‘food,’ his mind conjured up the smell of his grandmother’s gumbo, causing his mouth to water.

  Memories cling, he thought. Strum a thread, the whole web trembles.

  ‘I need to ask you something,’ Emily said. He saw that her eyes were looking straight ahead, as if embarrassed. He sensed her reluctance.

  ‘Out with it.’

  ‘It’s a request.’

  ‘Come on, then.’

  Emily expelled a long breath. ‘I’m tired of playing damsel in distress, Honoré. Each time something happens, there you are, running to my rescue.’

  Honoré nodded. ‘We get into a few tight spots; nothing new there.’

  ‘Exactly. Show me how to fight, Honoré. Show me how to defend myself. I want to be able to hold my own, physically. I don’t like feeling helpless. I don’t like being helpless.’

  ‘You’re not helpless,’ said Honoré. ‘As I recall, you beat Simon in a fair fight.[1]’

  ‘But that was with swords – I want to learn how to look after myself unarmed.’

  Honoré stopped at the foot of the stairs. ‘Do you want to walk home or hail a taxi?’

  ‘Walk,’ Emily said. ‘And you’re dodging the issue.’

  They started walking. Honoré’s legs had been bothering him all day, but he dismissed the aches, determined not to allow his life to be dictated by the vagaries of pain.

  After a long quiet, Honoré broke the tension that had grown between them. ‘I’m no commando, Emily. I was a soldier in the War, but the truth is, I hate fighting. I hate killing. I would much rather use my head than my fists. Or a gun.’

  ‘You’re no coward,’ Emily said. ‘I’ve seen you.’

  ‘I do what needs to be done, but that doesn’t mean I like it. I’ve killed, sure, but only when there was no other way.’

  ‘You or them.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So you won’t teach me anything?’

  ‘Nothing to teach, really. People have the wrong idea about fighting. It isn’t a matter of the weapon in your hand or a particular technique. It’s about willingness.’

  Emily shook her head. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘There’s a door, Emily, a threshold most people are unwilling to cross. Look, most of us are brought up from childhood to believe that killing another human being is the very worst thing you can do. A thief can pay back the money. A man cheating on his wife can apologise and promise never to do it again. There is no going back once a man is dead. “A thing done can’t be undone.”’

  They were silent for a while. A few minutes later, Honoré gestured to an alleyway, a shortcut he knew about from an old investigation. The alley was narrow and dark and piled high with rubbish in places, and Honoré was grateful for the London winter; otherwise, the smell would’ve been unbearable.

  ‘What about the really bad ones?’ Emily said.

  ‘You mean like Radford or the Albino? The ones who deserve it? Perhaps they do have it coming, but – all things considered – I’d rather they got their due from someone else.’ Honoré’s tone lightened. ‘That said, should we find ourselves in a room filled with unfriendly acquaintances, feel free to join in.’

  ‘With enthusiasm,’ Emily said.

  ‘A well-placed kick in the right place at the right time can make a big difference,’ Honoré said. ‘Trust me.’

  Honoré had been looking at Emily as he spoke, but from the corner of his eye had caught a flash of blue light down at the end of the alley. ‘Here, what’s that?’

  Emily followed his gaze. ‘I see it,’ she said. ‘Faint, but it’s there.’

  ‘Travellers, you think?’

  Emily smiled faintly in spite of her obvious worry. ‘Possibly. Things like that tend to happen to us.’

  They hurried their pace. Honoré felt the ache in his legs dissipate as his heartbeat quickened and his breathing deepened. Although he sometimes longed for a life more ordinary, he quietly revelled in moments like this: that sense of expectation and discovery, that feeling of being fully and truly awake and alive.

  ‘It’s a man,’ Emily said, stopping short just ahead of Honoré, blocking his view. ‘He is a traveller,’ she went on. ‘And he’s alone.’

  Chapter Two

  ‘None of it right,’ the ragged stranger mumbled, as he stumbled forward, tripping on a pile of rubbish and falling to his knees. The traveller raised his eyes to the sky like a penitent praying. ‘Bollocksed up, all of it. Can’t you see, it’s all wrong …’ The man said more, but his words were hopelessly slurred, his voice hoarse and rough, trailing into sodden incoherence.

  ‘What’s he saying?’ Emily asked as Honoré reached forward to bring the man to his feet. Light as a bird, Honoré thought. An almost palpable wave of cheap rye and stale urine filled his nostrils and made his eyes fill with tears.

  ‘No idea,’ he said. ‘I don’t speak Drunken Bum.’

  Emily looked about. ‘I know a café not far from here,’ she said. ‘Perhaps some coffee?’

  Honoré draped the drunken man’s arm around his shoulder, the only thing keeping the man upright and on his feet. ‘Good idea,’ he said. ‘Lead on.’

  ‘Never meant to bollocks it up,’ the man muttered as Honoré helped him forward. ‘Just wanted to make it right again.’

  Steering an alcoholic is hard work, Honoré discovered, as he half-dragged, half-carried the man to the café. The place Emily had in mind was less than half a mile away, but seemed far further. It wasn’t the stench – Honoré had endured worse. It was the disgust he always felt when dealing with cowards and alcoholics. He considered himself as charitable and compassionate as anyone, but when faced with this, he was always painfully reminded of the dismal state that he himself had once been in, before he had managed to pull himself out of the downward spiral.

  ‘No! No sir, not in here.’ A paunchy little waiter stood his ground just inside the entrance to Chez Henri. From the waiter’s accent and bearing, Honoré noted that the man was French – really French, not one of those ersatz Frenchmen from Bristol or wherever, putting it on for the customers. Taking in the waiter’s stance, Honoré’s mind flashed on an image of a rooster his grandmother had kept – noisy, neurotically aggressive, full of flash and feathers – and he smiled ruefully at the memory. Louisiana just won’t go away today, he thought.

  ‘Look, we just want to get our friend some coffee,’ said Honoré. ‘He’s had a bit of a rough time.’

  ‘Your gift for understatement is exceeded only by the noisome odiousness of your companion,’ said the maitre d’, wrinkling his nose.

  ‘“Noisome odiousness”?’ Honoré said. ‘You mean the smell?’

  ‘Please,’ said Emily, stepping around Honoré and the drunken stranger. ‘Perhaps a table outside?’

  The waiter’s eyes lit up as Emily spoke. He clearly remembered her fondly. ‘Mademoiselle! Surely you are not associated with these … gentlemen?’

  Emily didn’t need to see Honoré to know he was glowering. ‘Things aren’t what they seem,
’ she said. ‘Really, we just need coffee and a place to sit down.’

  Drawing himself up to his full height, the waiter made a show of scanning the café for an empty table. ‘Over there,’ he said, pointing toward a window.

  ‘Thank you,’ Honoré grumbled.

  The waiter motioned them toward the door. ‘The table outside the window, if you please.’

  Honoré let the drunken man crumple into one of the iron chairs beside the table, dead to the world. He sniffed at his leather coat, wondering at the cleaner’s bill, then sat down himself.

  ‘Do you see anything?’ Emily asked.

  ‘Not yet,’ he replied. Of course, Emily wasn’t referring to his natural sight – Honoré’s vision was as keen as the next man’s. It was his unnatural sight she meant – his gift. Honoré could see a human being’s past and future before him as though unfolding a roadmap.

  ‘Relaxing your eyes seems to help, remember?’

  ‘I am relaxed,’ he said. ‘I’ve done this enough by now to know how to do it right.’

  Emily drew back, startled at the sharpness of his tone, and Honoré instantly regretted it.

  ‘Your coffee, mademoiselle,’ the waiter said, appearing with a steaming china cup and saucer. He placed it in front of Emily, maintaining as much distance from the two men as possible.

  ‘Thank you,’ Emily said. She reached into her purse and fumbled with its contents for a moment, then looked up, face flushed red with embarrassment.

  ‘I have it,’ Honoré said, pulling out some change and offering it to the waiter.

  ‘Thanks,’ Emily said.

  ‘Forget it,’ Honoré said. ‘Sorry about earlier. I’ve been having a very strange day.’

  He caught her raised eyebrow.

  ‘More strange than usual,’ he said.

  The traveller had passed out almost as soon as Honoré had seated him. The man snorted and groaned uneasily in his sleep.

  ‘Our friend is difficult to read,’ Honoré said after a moment. ‘His time-snake, that is. His time-snake reads short.’