Ingenious pain, Andrew Miller [little red riding hood ebook .txt] 📗

a horse-fly settles on her belly. James opens his bundle. The orrery is wrapped in an old coat. He sets the box on top of the coat, slips the catch. The planets reflect the morning light. He turns the handle. There is some rust on the cogs, just a little, but it means he must use more force to turn them. The wires shudder, the planets vibrate. When Grace sits up he is still with it, Liza's old toy. Grace has not seen it before. She comes close, kneels heavily in the grass and watches. A smile unfurls across her face; she touches the brass sun. James lets go of the handle, closes the box, wraps it in the coat. They go. It is a long empty road.

Tain, friends, is from the devil. It is his touch, his caress . . .'

Salisbury, 10 October 1752. The sides of the booth are buffeted by winds; enormous soft fists beating at the canvas. Gummer must raise his voice above the noise of it. The wind makes the crowd restless. It distracts them. They think of roofs, lost washing, journeys home. Only when Gummer begins his exchange with Grace Boylan do they

hush and lean slightly towards the woman and the pale handsome boy in his blue coat beside her.

'Let me go, Mama. Let me be brave like Father.'

Well spoke, boy! Pass him up! Pass him up!'

On stage again. This time it is a young man, forearms thick as hams, a cast in his left eye, who will help with the torture. The pin, the flame, the potion, the pin once more. There are some marks, red freckles where the pin has been before, but nothing to arouse suspicion. His flesh seems to have no memory.

As Gummer brings the candle, James sees again, at the back of the booth, the same green eyes he has seen now in four of the shows. He has not told Gummer. He is waiting to see what the man will do. The flame laps at his hand. The green eye studies him. The crowd gasps, a voice calls. Til take two!' A commotion, a swirl of figures, the wind beats twice, thrice upon the canvas, and the green-eyed man is gone. Gummer rubs his hands, gets down to business.

Outside, the wind flings birds around the chimney-stacks. A man chases his wig towards the river. A newspaper torn from the hand of a lawyer suddenly wraps the head of a beggar. Grace and James head for the cathedral. Inside, the wind has a solemn echo. Grace slumps on a pew, wriggles a bottle from beneath her skirts, empties it and slides the bottle under the seat.

'Better, by Christ.'

She looks round for the boy, does not see him. She closes her eyes. There is a tiredness in her, a black water in her bones that no sleep can ever ease now. A dozen voices in the choir sing the first lines of the Te Deum. High above her bowed head bats swim through the arches, disappear into the shadows.

James walks towards the altar, looks at the boys in the choir. They are much of an age with him, faces candle-pale, their eyes following the hands of the music master. There is one boy with a face like Charlie's. James thinks of his dead brother, then of

his mother; he remembers her lifting him - how clearly! And he remembers the smell of her. Flesh, milk, the warm appley breath. The blood thuds in his ears. He raises a hand to his chest, then to his face, touches his own hot face. There is something on his hand - water. He licks it. Salt water. The boys are singing; their voices rise like a fountain, fall like rain. He goes towards one of the side doors. A man is standing by the door, hat in hand. He nods to James, pulls aside the curtain in front of the door. James stops, looks around, looks for Grace Boylan. In a distant pew he sees a shape that may be hers, a figure bowed in sleep or prayer. When he looks back the man has gone. From different points in the cathedral voices, hushed and unintelligible, are murmuring. James steps forward. Behind the curtain someone is waiting for him. From across the body of the church there comes a blink of light; Gummer strides in, tiny among the pillars, the great tombs, the cliffs of grey stone. He sees James, waves at him. James moves towards the side door, goes through it. He does not see the man but feels the grip on his arm. A voice says: 'Hurry!', and pushes him forward through yards of disordered air. A carriage and four is waiting. James and the man are running now, down an alley, over a bridge. The river flashes, an empty boat scuds crazily on its surface. As they reach the carriage another man leans out, hauls James up, snaps the door shut. The coach lurches backwards, then forwards. Gummer's face shows suddenly at the window, an arm snakes about his neck, drags him off. James stares back and sees at the side of the road two men knock Gummer down. One has a stick. They start to beat him. There is no noise other than the wind. The man with green eyes gently pushes James back into his seat and draws down the window blind, hooks it. From out of darkness he says: 'You are safe now, child.' A hand reaches out, pats the boy's knee. 'Quite safe.'

A land smooth as bottle glass. Trim gold woods, the green and steel snake of a stream. A lake of manageable size with the spire of a submerged church just breaking the surface. A driveway stippled with the shadows of young trees; Italian gardens; avenues; prospects; miles of red-brick wall, iron spikes.

James opens his eyes. He does not know what has woken him. A bird is staring at him, cocking its