Page 5 of The Demons of Wychwood

DESPERATE MEASURES

The younger man was now alone, and silence settled in the bedroom that had, moments before been a scene of tempestuous buggery.

27 rubbed at his wrists where red lines from the binding marked his skin, and then he rolled over and pulled his drawers and trousers up.

He eased his legs up to his chest and curled in on himself.

Then, to my horror, the man began to sob.

I’d only heard men cry this brokenheartedly on the battlefield when the bloody reality of war made them long for their mother’s breast.

I’d always given my comrades comfort and kind words cos I could never find it in me to block out or ignore the pain of my fellow man.

And so, hearing this handsome, fragile, fellow sobbing tore at me like claws in my chest and made me feel completely wretched.

There was something very wrong going on between 27 and 45, something I didn’t understand.

I’d thought all of the talk about demons and sickness was just a game they played, but it was something more.

A wave of shame rolled through me at the realization I’d had found pleasure in this man’s pain.

It made my knees buckle and I pushed my palm onto the wall to steady myself.

I was a heartless, filthy bastard to watch this man getting fucked by a zealot.

I was ashamed and disgusted with myself.

“This is the last time.

It has to be the last time,” I swore.

No matter my desire to leave and to make this the last time I spied, I was worried about 27 and so instead of scurrying away to hide my shame I remained, watched over him, and waited, hoping 27 would pull himself together and leave, but he didn’t.

After sobbing for a few minutes 27 retrieved a silver object from his waistcoat pocket.

A distinct click made a blade pop out of a mother of pearl shaft.

“I told you…I told you…this would be the last time,”

27 said in a sobbing drunken slur, and then he ran the knife over his left wrist.

The white linen sleeve of 27s shirt immediately turned scarlet as he stared in horror at the swiftly flowing blood.

27 then collapsed back onto the bed and passed out.

“What the...

Jesus fucking Christ !”

I said out loud, not giving a shit if anyone could hear me.

My heart beat double-time with fear and I knew that if I didn’t act quickly the man would bleed out and die.

I couldn’t have his death on my hands, no siree.

I did not sign up to dispose of no corpses! I had a little experience of helping a surgeon with battle wounds and so, not caring about the consequences of discovery I picked up my lantern and hurried through the maze of passages until I was standing in the linen closet again.

I grabbed a clean folded sheet, made my way to the door, and blew out the candle.

I left the lantern at the inside of the door jamb and took a few calming breaths to settle my nerves.

I opened the door a little and heard the roars of laughter from downstairs and the repetitive hearty thudding of fucking occurring in the other rooms, but I was relieved to see the gas-lit corridor was empty.

With my heart in my mouth, I sprinted down the carpeted corridor and opened the door for room six.

I entered the bedroom and closed the door behind me.

“Sir, are you quite well?”

I said as I walked over shards of broken glass that crunched beneath my booted feet.

My voice sounded mousy to my ears, but I needed to keep my tone gentle so as not to scare the fellow.

However, the injured man did not stir.

Seeing the dishevelled, bloody man from a different angle, blind panic took over in a crashing wave.

When looking at it from behind the wall the view had been different, titillating.

It was separate, almost unreal.

But this scene before me was real.

This was a disaster, a murder scene! Rich crimson blood was seeping from the wound on the man’s wrist.

I knew the first thing I had to do was to check he had a pulse at his neck, and then stop the bleeding.

An air of calm washed over me.

I’d done this before in worse circumstances, where there was no clean water, blistering heat, red dust, and men attacking me, cursing in a language I didn’t understand.

If I could help then, this would be a doddle, I told myself.

My Pa always praised me for not losing my nerve when we were on a job and we needed to run for our lives.

And my commanding officer also congratulated me for being good in a crisis.

And so, I reached for the flick knife 27 had used to slit his wrist and using the bed sheet I’d picked up from the linen closet, I began cutting it into strips.

When I’d had done that, I rounded the bed and checked the pulse at his neck.

It was galloping fast and so the bugger wasn’t dead yet! I positioned the unconscious man higher up on the bed with his head resting comfortably on the feather pillows.

Then using a strip of linen, I elevated the arm with the bloody wrist and tied it up to a bedpost.

Using a second strip I tied a tourniquet.

I’d seen a field surgeon do this for a soldier who’d had his fingers sliced off by an insurgent’s sword.

The surgeon explained afterward that elevating the arm and tying a tourniquet made the blood run down to the heart and not out through the wound.

The surgeon had heated his knife and then and sealed the severed finger stubs with the hot metal.

Just thinking about that soldier’s screams gives me nightmares.

I rushed to the washstand and grabbed a clean towel, washcloth, and the jug of water then laid everything beside me on the nightstand.

I folded back the swathes of bloody linen on his shirt arm so I could see the extent of the injury.

To my blessed relief, the blood was now dribbling lazily, and not pumping in a torrent.

The wound wasn’t deep enough to have cut through the big vein.

I was relieved beyond belief that Mr.27 was drunk, cos that meant he didn’t have the wherewithal to make a good job of topping himself.

My relief was not only for the young man but for me.

I couldn’t stop staring at his handsome face, and I thought, ‘Felix, my lad, when will you ever get an opportunity to be this close to him again?’ I knew that when he was sober, this gentleman wouldn’t show me the time of day, and so I greedily reached out my hand and let my fingers trail down his cheek and map the contours of his sleeping face.

I drank him in, the smell of sweat and sex, his breath of soured brandy, and his hair pomade of fresh lemons.

His aristocratic nose wasn’t as straight and perfect as I’d first thought, as there was a tiny scar on the bridge to show he’d broken his nose during a fistfight.

His eyes were closed, and his lashes were dark and thick like they’d been drawn on with a dipping pen.

I remembered how, when his dark brown eyes were open those lashes had framed them like the finest penmanship.

His skin was warm and around his jaw dark, rough stubble was coming through.

His mouth, my god, his mouth.

I gulped and sent up a little prayer of thanks to the Lord for allowing me the privilege of seeing such a beautiful mouth up close. 27 had a full, meaty bottom lip, and a bow-shaped upper that if I didn’t know better, could have belonged to a lady. I wondered what he would taste like. That mouth was so alluring that I had to force myself to pull back and not kiss this sleeping beauty!

I wondered again why such a handsome young man thought the best thing to do was to top himself.

If you ask me, it was a bloody stupid thing to do.

I just couldn’t fathom it.

If he’d have succeeded and I’d been left here with a stiff on my hands, and my employer’s whole ruse would be done for.

Should tell Mr.Joshua about this so that the events of this evening got back to our employer? If I did 27 might get barred.

I washed the cut and then, I stuffed the poker into the fire and let it heat up.

I had to seal the cut, and this was the only way I knew how.

I hoped 27 didn’t wake up and scream bloody murder! I knew the burn would hurt so I made it quick, the red-hot poker in one hand, my other holding his arm in the hope he didn’t move.

I laid the poker down on the cut and held it for a count of three.

27 flinched, but to my amazement he didn’t wake up.

I put the poker back on its hook at the fireplace and went to inspect what I’d done.

The cut was now a blackened line against alabaster skin and trails of crimson, but it was closed and 27 wouldn’t bleed to death.

I cleaned up his wrist the best I could, and wrapped strips of linen around the young man’s wound.

When the wound was bandaged, I sat on the side of the bed and watched 27s sleeping face for what seemed like hours.

I distantly heard raucous goings-on, songs, footsteps, doors slamming, and the sounds of men enjoying themselves, but my focus was on 27.

His complexion became waxy and sweaty as if he had a fever, so I put a damp wash cloth on his brow.

He started murmuring and I couldn’t work out what he was saying.

When he began to snore loudly, I knew he was just drunk and would wake with a filthy hangover and a bloomin’ sore wrist.

I untied the tourniquet and made a sling with another strip of fabric, arranging the arm so the injured wrist rested on 27s opposite shoulder.

Then I gathered his belongings and dressed him the best I could so that when Mr. Joshua found him in a few hours to pour him into his carriage, he wouldn’t find such a shocking scene.

I sat for a while longer watching 27, unable to find answers to the questions whirling around in my head.

I checked my pocket watch.

It was eleven-twenty-five and the last omnibus into town was in twenty minutes.

If I didn’t catch it I would have to hail a hack to take me to town as there was no way I’d walk the streets with a whole five-pound note in my pocket.

I added more coals to the fire, and satisfied I’d done all I could for the fellow I collected my belongings then crept down the servant’s staircase to the kitchen, and from there I made my escape.

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