Det är dejligt!

Back again! NU, ser ni, go vänner, har jag varit i Danmark. På badhotellet, närmare bestämt. Jag och hela famljen. Och det har varit underbart! Inte bara för att man har fått bada, utan för att man för ett par dagar har skiftat fokus till att enbart gälla familjen -- och främst då barnen. Dessutom är det ju skitkul att faktiskt få leka med badleksakerna och piratskepp och allt vad det är utan att skämmas det minsta. För som förälder får man ju det! Det får man kanske annars också, men det ser ju onekligen lite bättre ut om det finns barn i närheten som man kan skylla sitt beteende på. God mat, roliga affärer, fina miljöer och en och annan klumpfisk... Mycket, mycket trevlig semester, med andra ord!

Allt det här betyder att jag inte varit särskilt kreativ. Eller så har jag det, genom att tillåta mig lite vila och distans från skrivandet. Jag köpte en fin, fin anteckningsbok i klatschiga färger (med hårda pärmar klädda i tyg) och några goa gel-pennor. Inte för att jag vet vad jag ska ha det här till, annat än att det kan vara bra att försöka hålla koll både på ansökningar till agenter och ansökningar till jobb... Men det kändes kreativt, och det är huvudsaken. Antar att det är lite det Julia Cameron talar om i sin bok "Konsten att vara kreativ" -- den där kreativa belöningen man ska unna sig själv med jämna mellanrum. Då blir man glad, och då gör man bättre ifrån sig! Annars har jag inte direkt vilat från Legacy: efter ett tips från författarcoachen har jag skapat ett konto på urbis.com, och nu fått lite feedback på första kapitlet i Legacy. Jag blev lite förvånad över första recensionen -- han jämförde mig med Ken Follet. Nu har jag inte läst något av just den författaren, och det spelar kanske ingen roll. Det intressanta är att jag blivit jämförd med en manlig författare. Det kan ha sin förklaring i det som samma "recensent" säger: att jag inte går ner djupt i POV, att det är lite avskalat och rakt på sak. Det är faktiskt ganska medvetet gjort, för att jag ville ha action och framåtrörelse i just det här kapitlet. I efterföljande kapitel dyker jag lite djupare ner i Meredith's POV. Eller så kan det vara språket som gör att det känns manligt: om man jämför med en infödd engelsman är mitt språk ganska enkelt. Och kanske, kanske är jag lite skandinaviskt korthuggen i mitt sätt att uttrycka mig. Sånt märks ju också.

Nä... Vad säger ni? Är det inte på tiden att jag faktiskt postar det här kapitlet på min blogg? Jo, jag tycker det. Så här kommer det!
Drar det in er? Vill ni läsa vidare? Är det något som fattas? Vad får ni för känsla? Är det manligt skrivet, eller kvinnligt? Om ni vill kan ni kommentera: antingen här på bloggen, eller så kan ni leta upp mig på urbis.com (fast där tror jag ni måste registrera er). Eller, för all del, så kan ni mejla mig.

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Legacy, 2008, copyright Linda Govik

September 12th 1797

Over and over again, it banged against the window of the small room; the insect, the large fly. Since it was late in the year, and autumn was inevitably moving closer, it was slow in its movements and its buzzing a low, tired humming. Even so, its perseverance was tireless; its efforts to get out unflagging. Buzzing, it made its way over the sash bar, further onto the glass, where it fell and started over; a painstaking climb that lead nowhere.

The man took a step toward it. He stood before it for a short while, studying the insect with intense interest before he put his thumb over its fat little body and pressed down. The initial, aggravated buzzing was followed by a silence that left only the faint sound of laughter and the clinking of glasses from the downstairs salon to disturb the stillness of the room. The man brushed his hands against each other, and turned to the room once again. At the sight of the bed – or rather, what was in it, his features brightened some. Two steps, and he was there, squatting beside it to study her. She pulled the thin cover to her chin, and stared into his eyes; trapped by them, caught in their world of frost.

"How are you doing?”

She didn’t answer, but it didn’t seem as though he’d expected it.

“You will be fine,” he concluded, and straightened up. “You’re just exhausted. I told you that you would be, hm? Told you there was no way you could win. But you wouldn’t listen, and now you’re paying the price.” He shrugged; dismissed the subject with a firm shake of his shoulders. “I’ll be going downstairs for a while: use that time to get some rest. I’ll bring something with me when I get back. Is there anything you want?”

She shook her head.

“I’ll bring you some cognac. Just remember to rest, hm? And do wash up for a bit as well.” He moved across the room to the door, steps brisk and back straight; a proud man, full of confidence. “Don’t worry, angel. I’ll be right back.”

* * *

With the door slammed shut behind him, and knowing he was gone – at least for a while – Meredith Bradley dared to move. She pushed the cover to the side, sat up and pushed her legs over the edge of the bed; careful not to make any sudden movements that would enhance the pain, clenching her teeth when it still pierced her body as she rose to her feet. Each step across the floor cut through her body so viciously it almost made her scream, but somehow she made it to the large commode beside the door. She closed her eyes when she could grip the edges of the washing basin on its top, and had to rest there for a while, forehead leaned against the sharp edge, before being able to continue.

From the jug, she poured a rich amount of water into the washing basin, and tried to wash up the best she knew how to. When done, she soaked the delicate lace trimmed washing cloth, and pressed it firmly against her eyes. The soothing coldness helped to wake her up; slowly, the numbness of her soul folded and all her senses returned with cutting sharpness. She smelled the blood and sweat from her own body, felt the taste of blood, like silver, in her mouth. There was a faint, rhythmic thudding against the wall in the room next door, moaning and groaning; sounds she now knew all too well. She pressed her hands to her ears and folded over slightly from the overwhealming urge to vomit. No more. Never again.
But what was the point in trying to fool herself – when she knew all too well there was no reason why it wouldn’t happen again? What was going on behind the wall, was her job now, too. It had been decided for her by others, and so it must be.
It was certainly nothing she’d known as she’d woken this morning, and it made her slightly bitter to know how she’d gone about her day, thinking she was Meredith Bradley, barmaid at The Golden Horse, without knowing or even suspecting how drastically all that was to change that very same evening. Well, some things were still the same: she was still Meredith Bradley, thank God for that. Meredith Bradley just wasn’t a barmaid anymore. One day, and one decision, was what it had taken for her whole world to change.

Was this going to be her life from now on? Would she have to suffer this foulness everyday for the rest of her life? Be pushed into rooms with strangers who wanted to… do things? Was that really what Derek wanted from her? Yes. She knew it was. This was, she gathered, what he’d had in mind for her since the day she was born. After all, the daughter of a whore, could never be anything but a whore, herself.

She got dressed. Her clothes were torn, but not too badly, and if she pulled the shawl over her shoulders and tied it properly over her chest, the big tear from the neckline to the sleeve was barely detectable. With her shoes in one hand, she went to the window, leaned forward, pressed her nose against the glass. The night was very dark, sky lit only by the sporadically placed gas lights along High Street some blocks away, and the autumn chill kept people cowering inside their houses, leaving only a deserted world; perfect to disappear into.
A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed that she was still alone, and no sounds indicated the man’s return. He was probably socialising in the bar; taking his time, enjoying his cognac. Knowing she would be there when he returned. Or maybe not.

The window swung out into the dark. Her shoes went down first; she saw them drop to the ground, and cringed at the thud when they landed on the trampled dirt. The house was only three stories high – but quite enough to cause injuries, if one should happen to fall. Her mouth was dry, her legs shaking, when she pushed herself out onto the small ledge that ran along the house façade. Carefully, she glided out, back against the cold wall, staring at the abyss far below her feet. A sudden gush of air gripped of her skirt as it swished passed, into the alley. She dug her fingers into the wall, and closed her eyes. What was she doing? What you must. Of course.
Eyes still closed – it felt safer that way – she slid her feet along the very thin ledge; one small, nerve wrenching step at a time. Her plan was to get to the other side of the house, where another, lower house took over and offered a safe way down to the ground. But it was discouragingly far away… I’ll never get there in time. Faster – she had to move faster.
The moment the thought had entered her mind, her arm was yanked back by a brutal hand.

“What the hell are you doing?” His voice was hoarse with rage. He tugged at her, forced her back. “Get back this instant!”

“No! Let go…”

“Hardly. You’re getting back in here now. What do you think will happen if you fall? You’ll hurt yourself. Do you want to get hurt, girl?”

The absurdity of what he was saying made her laugh – but the laugh turned into a sob, and was followed by a flood of tears that made the sight of his face go blurry. She was now more hanging, than standing up: he had a firm hold of her arm, and had started to haul her in. She let him. Met his eyes, those horrible, jackdaw eyes, and knew that once she was inside the room, his revenge would be relentless, his punishment cruel and without pity. I’d rather die.
She placed her foot on the ledge and pushed back. He didn’t let go, his only reaction a faint, disapproving grunt and a tightening of his grip. She swung her arm back, and took a strike at his face. Her nails were sharp and long: they dug into his cheek, and tore through the pale golden skin all the way down to his neck. He cried out and jerked back, and, as she kicked back against the window frame, finally lost his grip around her arm.

* * *

The fall didn’t last longer than the time between one panicked breath and the next: only a fraction of a second after he’d let go, she landed on hard trampled soil; on her feet. There was a loud snapping noise from somewhere inside her foot, a noise that seemed to spread through her body, into her head – and when reaching it, the pain followed. It shot through her with excruciating strength, a red glowing fire that made her fall down on her side and curl up into a ball, hands pressed against her ankle and teeth clenched to keep from screaming.
In the sudden, biding stillness she heard his voice. Born with the breeze it was strangely clear, and it was trembling with rage.

“She jumped. I couldn't see where she went. Too damn dark.” He swore, low and intense. “Jesus, I'm bleeding. I want that girl back here!”

“Yes... Of course, milord.” The other voice was all too familiar. It was Derek’s. “Wretched child. I don’t know what’s gotten into her. Jump from a window?” His sigh, tinged with dismal over her behaviour, wafted to the ground like a black, tarnished feather. “Ungrateful, that's what she is. Always been quite the daydreamer... like her mother, mind. But I never thought she’d...” He paused, and sighed again. “I’m dreadfully sorry, milord. And I will of course repay some of what you gave, and I hope you will accept a bottle of cognac on the house… It’s the least I can do.”

“Yes, I rather think it is.” His voice grew muffled as he turned from the window. “Get on with it, then. I haven’t got all night.”

Meredith got up, on one leg, using the wall to steady herself. Pain made her empty her stomach fiercely against the house wall. Panting and sobbing she then stood there, unable to move, choking on bile from a still cramping, but now empty stomach, her world disappeared and reappeared with every panicked heartbeat. To calm herself, she closed her eyes, and breathed through her nose. In, and out. In, and out. It helped some: her world grew clearer, more distinct. With her hand pressed against the wall, she took one pained step toward the opening out to the street – but stopped, as door to the house opened. Warm, soft light flowed over the ground, into the alley, reached all the way to where she was standing, and made her lift her head. Staring at it, she knew that the silhouette that filled the doorway, the rectangle of light, must be Derek.

There was a shout from above her head.

“I can’t see her... Perhaps she’s gone?”

The silhoutte that was Derek answered. “No, milord.” His voice was calm, friendly almost. “She’s right here.” He raised it some; called out to her. “You’ll be just fine, Meredith. Stay where you are. I’ll get you.”

And that’s when she ran.

* * *

I must be quiet. Can’t let them hear me. But her sobbing, violent and loud, each breath a strained wail, was nothing she could control, nothing she had power to do anything about, and they echoed through the empty streets, filling each alley with the lamented sound. Limping, dragging herself along the houses, she made it forward – but not very fast. Derek would be right behind her, and he would soon catch up, and bring her back.
Hide. Find somewhere and hide.
One of the houses lining the street provided the refuge she needed: a door to an entrance hall that had been pulled open. As she slid into its dark inner, a cat, clearly upset by her presence, darted past her out into the street, slick shadow. Take my place, little cat. Make him think you’re me. Having shut the door firmly, she limped to the enormous staircase that swung itself so grandiosely to the above apartments. She slumped to the floor beside it, and curled up, hid her face against her arms to protect herself from the rippling waves of pain. Or was it perhaps to escape the torturous buzzing in her head? As it grew stronger with her every heartbeat, a constant, aggrevated sound, as if from the tiny wings of a fly, she moaned slowly, but was unable to escape it. She couldn’t tell when or how it faded – but it did. The darkness that wrapped itself around her, cloaked everything in woollen, grateful silence, and as her conscience slipped away, her whole world soon grew very quiet, and very black.

~~~~~~