Dead of Winter - James Goss [16]
I could hear Amy yelling foul, but I pushed on ahead and streaked off around the corner.
I had travelled a hundred yards before I realised that something was wrong.
Oh Mother! Will they forgive me for KILLING him?
What Amy Remembered
Prince Boris toppled out of the bath chair, taking it with him. The ridiculous, funny bear of a man crashed to the floor with a rattling groan. He was gasping for air like a drowning fish, one leg kicking out over and over again.
I ran to him, as best as I could, and stroked his vast mane of hair. He held his breath suddenly, like he was trying to ward off hiccups, and then whispered urgently: ‘Don’t let the child see me like this.’ Then a fit of coughing racked him. The coughs were like a great engine misfiring, tearing him apart.
I stood up, trying not to panic, looking around for Maria.
Instead, looming over me was a giant, all beetroot face and red hair. He looked furious. ‘What have you done?’ he roared, his Russian accent thick as stew.
‘It was just a game,’ I protested, my voice sounding like I was a naughty 6-year-old.
The man scooped up Prince Boris with ease, carrying him off to his room and slamming the door behind him. The wheelchair sat in the corridor, one wheel spinning to a halt. I gingerly set it right, leaning upon it. I could feel my strength go and rested against a wall for support.
With a pathetic squeak-squeak-squeak, Maria’s chair slowly rounded the corner, her eyes wide as plates. ‘Where’s Prince Boris? What’s happened?’ she asked.
‘He, uh…’ I looked at the door and then back at her. She looked at me, clearly worried. ‘He’s gone for a lie down,’ I said.
She looked at me, her lip starting to tremble. ‘Am I in any trouble?’ she quailed.
I shook my head. ‘No, no, no. He’s just tired. What about you? Do you fancy an afternoon nap, too?’
Maria stared at me, unblinking. ‘You’re a terrible liar,’ she said.
I was about to reply when the door to Boris’s room started to open. ‘Run!’ I hissed, and she did.
A giant steak of a hand landed on my shoulder. It was that strange giant and he didn’t seem any happier.
‘I think you should come inside,’ he growled.
A Letter from Mr Nevil
St Christophe
6th December 1783
Dear Octavius, you old fraud,
This terrible place continues to grind me down most intolerably. Run by a pinched goose of a fellow and his hell-cat wife, the food is terrible, and the treatment is laughable.
The rest of the patients are as addle-pated as one could hope for – no doubt you are praying that I shall join them in insanity.
Four of the wretches play music all the dashed day – only it’s a mere three at the moment as one has become mercifully indisposed. It is wretched German vulgarian stuff, but then the main players are two dried-up old spinsters from the Danube, the Elquitines.
The fat one speaks passable English and seems quite intelligent, but the thin one simply scowls and writes sheet after sheet of numbers – no doubt laundry lists.
Of course, those two new English guests can’t leave them alone. It is Mr Pond who insulted the thin one. He picked up one of her sheets of paper, which scandalised her.
‘I am sorry,’ he said, apologising too late. ‘But really, these are extraordinary. This is amazing work.’
His colleague, the one who calls himself a doctor (but clearly isn’t) nodded. ‘I was wondering when you’d notice.’ He smiled a big fat smile – it’s the look I’ve seen on many a poacher returning home with a rucksack full of my rabbits.
‘These… these are…’
This Dr Smith nodded again, leaning forward and returning the sheet of paper to a clearly very distressed Elquitine sister. ‘Helena,’ he said, ‘you are amazing. Years ahead of your time… this is extraordinary stuff…’
‘It looks like machine