Read Online The Golden Locket (Unbreakable Trilogy, Book 2) by Primula Bond - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Primula Bond
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‘So everything you told me then, when I was having nightmares, when you used to put that special cream on my skin in the middle of the night, that was the true story?’
Gustav lifts his hands and runs them through his hair in that achingly familiar gesture. Then he does something I’ve never seen before. Crosses his fingers and lays them up against his heart.
‘They were my parents too,’ he says.
Pierre copies the gesture. ‘That’s exactly what I hoped you’d say.’
His shirt is buttoned up now, but the sight of his poor burnt skin is seared onto my mind. All that damage going on beneath that cocky exterior. For the first time I feel a genuine, spearing anguish for this scarred young man. For both these lost brothers.
There’s an intense hush in the air.
‘I should have been more understanding when you first showed me. I was useless,’ Polly pipes up, dragging herself into an upright position and tugging at her skirt. ‘That’s why you won’t let me into the shower with you, isn’t it? You always wear something, a shirt, or–’ Her white face is streaked with an uneven pink. ‘We always do it in the dark.’
‘What’s the matter, Polly? Ashamed of your deformed boyfriend?’ Pierre’s fresh antagonism is this time aimed at her. There is a harsh wobble in his voice. ‘Can you see now why I like to dress up? Why I have developed a fascination with masks and costumes? My life has had to be one long illusion. One long cover-up.’
Gustav rubs his chin. I can see a little nick of dried blood under his jaw where the black bristles have resisted his half-hearted attempts to shave on the journey over from Europe. That little sign of vulnerability makes me want to take his face in my hands and kiss him. Whether or not it’s because he has an audience, Gustav is superb in the face of Pierre’s raging self-pity.
‘P, don’t lash out at Polly. Maybe you need help with this.’ Gustav’s knuckles are white as he lowers his hand to grip the windowsill again. ‘Maybe we both do.’
‘It never goes away.’ Pierre taps his temple, the one with the blue vein. ‘I’ve only ever talked properly about the fire with you, Gustav. And Margot.’ The two men stare at each other again. However hostile their earlier words, the way they hold each other’s eyes in this moment still speaks of their old closeness, the direct link they used to share.
‘I would take every one of those burns away if I could.’ Gustav’s eyes are shadowed as if he hasn’t slept for centuries. As if he’s been hollowed out.
‘I believe you. You didn’t start the fire. But you ran out on us.’ Pierre has a fragile calm about him now, as if rocked by his brother’s quiet gravity. ‘You should have been there to stop it ever happening.’
‘You and I know the truth and it isn’t how you’re painting it.’
Pierre’s eyes flicker over to me. The scars near his collarbone and throat look like a vile red and white scarf trying to strangle him. I look back at him, still speechless, trying to communicate some kind of sympathy even while worrying how disloyal that might look to Gustav.
I think Pierre has interpreted my intention, because he clears his throat. ‘I’m sorry for that display. It was clumsy, and it was unpleasant, and it nearly jeopardised everything we’ve come here for. I’m sure a psychologist would have a field day with me, but my simple diagnosis is that I still blame my brother for not being there when it mattered. I always will. But no. Gustav didn’t start the fire.’
At last Pierre is calm, at least on the surface. Perhaps sensing that he’s scored some kind of victory. Because Gustav, despite his poise, looks shattered.
Polly stands shakily and puts her arm around Pierre’s waist, but already she’s acting differently, gingerly, as if he’s made of glass. As if she’s scared. Pierre ignores her, a strange, sad smile playing around his lips. I can’t quite articulate it, but
‘So everything you told me then, when I was having nightmares, when you used to put that special cream on my skin in the middle of the night, that was the true story?’
Gustav lifts his hands and runs them through his hair in that achingly familiar gesture. Then he does something I’ve never seen before. Crosses his fingers and lays them up against his heart.
‘They were my parents too,’ he says.
Pierre copies the gesture. ‘That’s exactly what I hoped you’d say.’
His shirt is buttoned up now, but the sight of his poor burnt skin is seared onto my mind. All that damage going on beneath that cocky exterior. For the first time I feel a genuine, spearing anguish for this scarred young man. For both these lost brothers.
There’s an intense hush in the air.
‘I should have been more understanding when you first showed me. I was useless,’ Polly pipes up, dragging herself into an upright position and tugging at her skirt. ‘That’s why you won’t let me into the shower with you, isn’t it? You always wear something, a shirt, or–’ Her white face is streaked with an uneven pink. ‘We always do it in the dark.’
‘What’s the matter, Polly? Ashamed of your deformed boyfriend?’ Pierre’s fresh antagonism is this time aimed at her. There is a harsh wobble in his voice. ‘Can you see now why I like to dress up? Why I have developed a fascination with masks and costumes? My life has had to be one long illusion. One long cover-up.’
Gustav rubs his chin. I can see a little nick of dried blood under his jaw where the black bristles have resisted his half-hearted attempts to shave on the journey over from Europe. That little sign of vulnerability makes me want to take his face in my hands and kiss him. Whether or not it’s because he has an audience, Gustav is superb in the face of Pierre’s raging self-pity.
‘P, don’t lash out at Polly. Maybe you need help with this.’ Gustav’s knuckles are white as he lowers his hand to grip the windowsill again. ‘Maybe we both do.’
‘It never goes away.’ Pierre taps his temple, the one with the blue vein. ‘I’ve only ever talked properly about the fire with you, Gustav. And Margot.’ The two men stare at each other again. However hostile their earlier words, the way they hold each other’s eyes in this moment still speaks of their old closeness, the direct link they used to share.
‘I would take every one of those burns away if I could.’ Gustav’s eyes are shadowed as if he hasn’t slept for centuries. As if he’s been hollowed out.
‘I believe you. You didn’t start the fire. But you ran out on us.’ Pierre has a fragile calm about him now, as if rocked by his brother’s quiet gravity. ‘You should have been there to stop it ever happening.’
‘You and I know the truth and it isn’t how you’re painting it.’
Pierre’s eyes flicker over to me. The scars near his collarbone and throat look like a vile red and white scarf trying to strangle him. I look back at him, still speechless, trying to communicate some kind of sympathy even while worrying how disloyal that might look to Gustav.
I think Pierre has interpreted my intention, because he clears his throat. ‘I’m sorry for that display. It was clumsy, and it was unpleasant, and it nearly jeopardised everything we’ve come here for. I’m sure a psychologist would have a field day with me, but my simple diagnosis is that I still blame my brother for not being there when it mattered. I always will. But no. Gustav didn’t start the fire.’
At last Pierre is calm, at least on the surface. Perhaps sensing that he’s scored some kind of victory. Because Gustav, despite his poise, looks shattered.
Polly stands shakily and puts her arm around Pierre’s waist, but already she’s acting differently, gingerly, as if he’s made of glass. As if she’s scared. Pierre ignores her, a strange, sad smile playing around his lips. I can’t quite articulate it, but
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