‘No going back now,’ he said, tipping his hat to me before disappearing into the crowd on the street.
‘There is an old saying, Before you set out on a journey of revenge, you must dig two graves,’ said a woman’s voice, deepened by time and wisdom, yet unmistakably that of my old friend Jane.
‘Jane!’ I cried, embracing her tightly. I had written and asked if she would meet me in the hotel lobby.
‘Confucius said that,’ she warned, fearing the endeavour would somehow destroy me too. ‘Are you sure you want to go through with this?’
‘I need to own my story. To take back my power.’ I realised now that I shared another commonality with the families of those dead soldiers. I was shamed into silence. Ashamed of what happened to me, of how I had somehow ‘let’ it happen to me and of how people would look on me now, as some sort of damaged woman. I felt tainted by it. Other than Josef’s quiet and humble company, I had isolated myself from the world because of it. Was I ready to return? Maybe not, but then, does one ever feel truly ready? All I knew was that, in that moment, I had suffered enough in my silence. At least the pain of speaking out might bring me courage.
‘The world needs to know who Lyndon Carlisle really is. I offered up my own story - Commanding Officer Carlisle, The Reaper, had his own sister locked up in an asylum for the insane.’
‘Good grief! Will your editor print it?’ Jane asked.
‘It’s something of an old boys’ network at The Times. What Lyndon did to me doesn’t count, apparently.’
‘That’s absurd!’
‘Mr Turner was of the view that any hint of mental weakness could tarnish my reputation and detract from the “real story”。 His words.’
‘Perhaps he has a point,’ Jane mused, chewing her lip. ‘Lyndon might use it to his advantage.’
‘I suppose you’re right. One last sacrifice to see justice done.’
I had set events in motion now; there was no turning back. Was I scared? Of course I was. Yet the story had now become so much bigger than me, I felt responsible to act on behalf of all those who would never have the opportunity to get justice for what my brother did to them. I would restore some integrity to the Carlisle name. I felt it was what my father would have wanted also. The time had come. I had to confront him face to face.
As the evening grew dark, I made my way to my erstwhile family home. The air was still and quiet, my footsteps on the pavement the only sound, save for the blood pounding in my ears. I came to the front gate of the house. How much smaller everything looked.
I knocked on the door, and in the moments while I waited, I tried to imagine myself as a very tall, strong-rooted tree. I let the muscles in my shoulders release and focused all of my energy into the centre of my belly. That’s where the fire burned, and I knew I would need to draw on it now, with precision and fierceness. A woman answered.
‘Mr Carlisle,’ I said, plainly.
‘Is he expecting you?’
‘If he is not, then he is a fool.’
The woman looked puzzled, then went to deliver the message. I didn’t wait for an invitation into my own home. I closed the door behind me and followed her across the parquet hall to the parlour.
‘Excuse me, Madam, you must wait here.’
‘I’ve waited long enough,’ I said, pushing past her with ease. He was having his supper at the table and almost choked on his soup when he saw me.
‘What the devil—’
‘Surprised to see me, Brother?’
He didn’t speak another word. He hated being seen to be at a disadvantage. He would wait to see the lie of the land before planning his counter-attack. I was not prepared for how much older he would look – older than his years. He had become frail, his skin papery and thin and frightfully red around his scars. His hands were arthritic, curling into themselves, and he was practically bald.
‘You’re wondering why I am here and not in my cell at St Agnes’s?’
He patted the corner of his mouth with a napkin and placed it on the table. The woman who had answered the door still hovered around me like a fly in summer until he waved her away.
‘How did she do it? you must be thinking to yourself. And what of Dr Lynch? He still takes your money every month, does he not?’
He narrowed his eyes and stood up from the table. For all his weakness, he could still command himself like an officer. It took all of my will not to step back.
‘How dare you show your face here.’
I could almost feel his breath on my skin, he stood so close to me.
‘I am not afraid of you any more. What more could you do to me?’
‘Shall we find out?’
I held his gaze. I wanted to strike out, but I had something greater than violence in my armoury.
‘You wanted to erase me? That little girl, Father’s favourite? Well, allow me to congratulate you. That girl no longer exists. The woman that stands before you now is a very different creature, one who is also bent on destruction. Namely yours.’
‘Am I to be moved by this spectacle? Because I assure you, I am not.’
I paced around him like a lioness around her prey.
‘Within hours, the whole world will know what you have done. The ink is soaking into the paper as we speak.’
‘What paper? What are you talking about, woman?’
‘The Times. They were very interested in your past. Especially your nickname, The Reaper.’
I saw a flicker of concern.
‘Paper will take any ink, regardless of its veracity. And you will only reveal yourself as a dim-witted fool who belongs in a sanitorium.’
‘Ah yes, you have me there. Unjust as it is, I knew my story alone wouldn’t be enough to ruin your reputation. Tarnish it, perhaps, but not the annihilation I seek. No, Lyndon, the morning papers will be full of your crimes on the battlefield and those men you murdered under the guise of cowardice. Most of the records were destroyed, but I have gathered enough evidence of your despicable acts to make you a pariah in the eyes of everyone you know and an enemy to everyone else.’
His eyes widened momentarily.
‘Those pitiful excuses for men did not deserve to wear the uniform. They were a disgrace to their families, to their country.’
‘I have proof that the men you shot were not deserters. Witnesses who are prepared to go on record that you murdered those men. Their families deserve justice.’
‘I gave them justice!’ His voice boomed like a cannon from his ribcage.
‘It’s just as I suspected. You are truly mad.’
We were all just pieces on a chessboard to him. Inconsequential pieces to be moved around at his will.
‘Well, it takes one to know one. Besides, they were conscripts, not real soldiers.’
I knew he was baiting me.
‘Some of them were just boys, did you know that? So yes, perhaps they panicked in the face of all that death, but they were not deserters.’
‘Oh, please, Opaline, do tell us more about your experience of life on the battlefield. Enlighten me with your knowledge of such matters.’
‘I know that it is not my right to be judge and juror over someone else’s life.’
‘Shall I tell you of the thousands that died of exposure that winter? Still more from cholera. The indescribable suffering of millions of the Empire’s best men, lying in those mud trenches for weeks, in rain, cold, wind – hungry and weary under the constant rain of the enemy’s bullets. The terrible booming and slaughter that carried on ceaselessly. The dead and wounded cleared away for new soldiers to face an enemy better armed and better prepared. Showers of black mud raining down on the wild, primitive countryside. Twenty thousand men were killed on the first day at the Somme. It was as if the last day had come, and every man had to face it with only the comrade at his side for support. In the trenches they ate when food could reach them, starved when it could not. There they killed and were killed, were buried in shallow graves, half eaten by rats. And they were the lucky ones.’