Doctor Who_ The Sleep of Reason - Martin Day [29]
‘You filthy pig,’ he muttered. ‘Is it not right and proper that I treat you like an animal? It’s all you deserve.’
(I myself have heard Fern’s tiresome attempts at self-justification.) Mary tried to scream (I have seen it often enough, the bleeding fingers pulling at her hair, tugging her head from side to side in self-punishment) but I do not know if anything emerged from her thin lips. In response, Fern bent down and took hold of her hands.
‘Don’t you hurt yourself. Do you not recognise your lover from afar? See, I come in rich clothes, with beautiful gifts for my lady.’
I can see Fern puffing out his chest, strutting about, his rampaging desire like a fruitless demon in his breast. I am told he suddenly knelt at the woman’s feet and clasped his hands together. His eyes ranged upwards, towards the heavens. ‘Oh, dear beautiful lady,’ he said in a shrill falsetto, ‘your lord has come to seek your hand in marriage.’ He laughed again. ‘I will of course ask your father’s permission. . . ’ The low growl returned. ‘But if ’e’s dead, I’ll ’ave you like a farmyard animal.’
Tears began to well in Mary’s almost sightless eyes, her hands fidgeting in panic.
Fern sat next to her, placing a brotherly arm around her. ‘Oh my love,’ he said, looking at her closely. ‘You might indeed have been pretty once.’ (Mary Jones indicated his actions towards her at this point, stroking her matted hair, running a gentle finger down her bruised cheek.) ‘I reckon you were a buxom farm wench – in a pretty dress you could gull many a choker, eh? And now. . .
Your bad deeds have become filthy rags. You’re not respectable, miss – look, your leg is bleeding, this room stinks of piss – you’ll be a judy no more.’ Fern’s cruel baton emerged again, which he slapped repeatedly into his palm. ‘But 50
I’ll always love you!’
Extract from the Diary of the Reverend Mr William Macksey Thursday 24th December 1903
This evening I had the pleasure of the company of Mr Charles Torby. After a most excellent meal I ushered him into the study.
He looked to me, as if for guidance. ‘If one wished to be whimsical. . . ’ he began.
‘Speak your mind, I said, ‘on this night of all nights.’
Emboldened, he continued. ‘I feel this room could be described as being both a haven from the outside world and a doorway to myriad other universes, each one based on a different assumption or premise.’ He indicated my rows of books, musty – if I in turn might be permitted such grandiloquence – with learning and sunless libraries. My books and journals encompass theology, philosophy, philology, ecclesiastical history and – in those corners where the beams cast their darkest shadows – works whose very titles hint at the esoteric and the apocryphal.
I hoped that the gravity of all this learning would be offset by the volumi-nous armchairs that faced a roaring open fire. The damp logs spat from time to time, but I found the more usual background crackle like the breathing of a soothing animal. I poured Charles and myself a drink – the yellow light flickering through the cut crystal glasses brightened the tawny port to make miniature golden seas.
Yes, it was a night for fanciful thinking!
Charles Torby leaned back in his chair and sighed. ‘Your good lady wife cooks food fit for the Lord.’
I nodded vigorously in agreement. ‘I admit that there is no end to her talents.’
I know how I must appear to young men such as Charles – a large fellow, nearing retirement, and now accustomed to the finest things in life – but it is only in recent years that I have entirely shaken off the appearance of a youthful ascetic. I was such a different man, back then, when first I encountered the Lord. My passion burns as bright as ever; however, my expression of that has changed. Perhaps that is why I feel so relaxed in the company of a man some thirty years my junior.
Torby sipped at his glass again. ‘It is most