Read Online The Golden Locket (Unbreakable Trilogy, Book 2) by Primula Bond - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Primula Bond
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it’s as if he sucks strength from Gustav’s dismay. Even at this fragile moment he still reminds me of one of those Roman emperors who threw Christians to the lions for a laugh.
The celebratory fireworks outside have long gone quiet. Gustav sits down and I follow him. He starts to speak.
‘We were living in Paris, near Montmartre, down a dead-end street. I was fifteen. Pierre was a little toddler of three. I had sneaked out to see a girl when I was supposed to be studying. They were loving and decent, our parents, but they were heavy drinkers and, once they were asleep, that was it. Nothing would wake them. I thought I could get away with disobeying them this once.’ Gustav watches Pierre, but Pierre’s head is down as he tucks his shirt into his trousers. I’m astonished to see him checking his phone before putting it back into the pocket. ‘Anyway, a fire broke out in our apartment on the top floor. It was a beautiful old building but decrepit. A tinderbox. The other residents had moved out. Something made me dash home earlier than I intended, otherwise – I should never have gone out. I should never have left him there.’
Gustav lifts his fist to his mouth and coughs, almost as if he’s back in that smoke-filled house. I sit like a sentry beside him. Pierre’s face has solidified into one of the masks he sells.
‘I saw the flames. People panicking with buckets of water. Well, I rushed straight up, the fire hadn’t spread beyond our apartment, and I found this one crying in the hall. It was like he was wearing an orange liquid cloak. Just his little face was clear of the flames.’
Polly grips Pierre’s arm, her mouth open in horror, and this time he doesn’t flinch as her nails dig in. As if she isn’t there.
I slide my fingers over Gustav’s thigh and lace them through his. He turns his head as if it weighs a ton. His lips move, but nothing comes out.
‘Gustav rolled me in a rug and carried me down to the courtyard, but he couldn’t get back up the stairs.’ Pierre’s voice has lost the transatlantic drawl. The faint European trace of an accent clips at some words, just like Gustav’s. ‘The only good thing is that Gustav escaped the flames unhurt – he had no long-lasting damage. No scars. The rug protected him.’
The images rip through our minds. The tall shuttered windows buckling, the grey Parisian stone starting to blacken, the tiles loosening like teeth and crashing onto the watching faces below.
Gustav clears his throat. His grip is so tight that my fingers have gone white. ‘Do you see now why I cared so much about our parents’ jewellery? They weren’t trinkets. They were mementos.’
‘But they were also life-savers. They fetched a lot of money when I sold them. Surely our parents wouldn’t have begrudged me that?’ Pierre shrugs on his jacket, keeping his eyes on his brother. ‘Look. We’ve both done dreadful things. Made each other suffer. But don’t you think it’s time to call it even?’
I stiffen. None of this is even. But, as Gustav said, it’s not my fight.
Gustav nods wearily. ‘We could argue until the cows come home. But yes. Let’s call it even, if we are ever going to move on.’
He stands as Pierre comes up to him and lays his hand awkwardly on Gustav’s arm. They’ve sucked the life out of each other as only warring brothers can.
I wait for a moment, afraid to invade the space, then make a decision of my own. ‘Do you mind if we say goodnight now, Pierre? Polly?’ I murmur, turning to each of them as I say their name. ‘I think tonight has knocked the stuffing out of all of us, and in a way I’m glad. I don’t know much about families, or brothers, but it had to come out at some stage, otherwise Margot’s lie would have festered in there forever.’
‘She’s right, Pierre. Let’s give these guys some space. And you and I need to talk about all this, too,’ echoes Polly, tugging at Pierre. ‘Maybe you two brothers should make a pact.
The celebratory fireworks outside have long gone quiet. Gustav sits down and I follow him. He starts to speak.
‘We were living in Paris, near Montmartre, down a dead-end street. I was fifteen. Pierre was a little toddler of three. I had sneaked out to see a girl when I was supposed to be studying. They were loving and decent, our parents, but they were heavy drinkers and, once they were asleep, that was it. Nothing would wake them. I thought I could get away with disobeying them this once.’ Gustav watches Pierre, but Pierre’s head is down as he tucks his shirt into his trousers. I’m astonished to see him checking his phone before putting it back into the pocket. ‘Anyway, a fire broke out in our apartment on the top floor. It was a beautiful old building but decrepit. A tinderbox. The other residents had moved out. Something made me dash home earlier than I intended, otherwise – I should never have gone out. I should never have left him there.’
Gustav lifts his fist to his mouth and coughs, almost as if he’s back in that smoke-filled house. I sit like a sentry beside him. Pierre’s face has solidified into one of the masks he sells.
‘I saw the flames. People panicking with buckets of water. Well, I rushed straight up, the fire hadn’t spread beyond our apartment, and I found this one crying in the hall. It was like he was wearing an orange liquid cloak. Just his little face was clear of the flames.’
Polly grips Pierre’s arm, her mouth open in horror, and this time he doesn’t flinch as her nails dig in. As if she isn’t there.
I slide my fingers over Gustav’s thigh and lace them through his. He turns his head as if it weighs a ton. His lips move, but nothing comes out.
‘Gustav rolled me in a rug and carried me down to the courtyard, but he couldn’t get back up the stairs.’ Pierre’s voice has lost the transatlantic drawl. The faint European trace of an accent clips at some words, just like Gustav’s. ‘The only good thing is that Gustav escaped the flames unhurt – he had no long-lasting damage. No scars. The rug protected him.’
The images rip through our minds. The tall shuttered windows buckling, the grey Parisian stone starting to blacken, the tiles loosening like teeth and crashing onto the watching faces below.
Gustav clears his throat. His grip is so tight that my fingers have gone white. ‘Do you see now why I cared so much about our parents’ jewellery? They weren’t trinkets. They were mementos.’
‘But they were also life-savers. They fetched a lot of money when I sold them. Surely our parents wouldn’t have begrudged me that?’ Pierre shrugs on his jacket, keeping his eyes on his brother. ‘Look. We’ve both done dreadful things. Made each other suffer. But don’t you think it’s time to call it even?’
I stiffen. None of this is even. But, as Gustav said, it’s not my fight.
Gustav nods wearily. ‘We could argue until the cows come home. But yes. Let’s call it even, if we are ever going to move on.’
He stands as Pierre comes up to him and lays his hand awkwardly on Gustav’s arm. They’ve sucked the life out of each other as only warring brothers can.
I wait for a moment, afraid to invade the space, then make a decision of my own. ‘Do you mind if we say goodnight now, Pierre? Polly?’ I murmur, turning to each of them as I say their name. ‘I think tonight has knocked the stuffing out of all of us, and in a way I’m glad. I don’t know much about families, or brothers, but it had to come out at some stage, otherwise Margot’s lie would have festered in there forever.’
‘She’s right, Pierre. Let’s give these guys some space. And you and I need to talk about all this, too,’ echoes Polly, tugging at Pierre. ‘Maybe you two brothers should make a pact.
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