Read Online The Linnet Bird: A Novel by Linda Holeman - Free Book Online
Authors: Linda Holeman
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“And so of course you must be stopped. You and all your kind, for nothing can end the agony you’ve inflicted upon me. Not the mercury salts, not the bromide nor the chloral. Temporary, all temporary relief. So I’m keeping a collection, you see, of those I’ve prevented from spreading the foulness. So many colors. And I’ve been looking for quite some time now for an addition to my collection. It had to be the perfect color,” I heard him say. “And now I’ve found it. Linny from Liverpool.”
I looked back at the jars, staring into the one closest to my face. And then I let out an involuntary noise, a strangled gasp, and tried to move away from what I realized I was seeing. But it was as if I had joined my mother now, except my hair couldn’t float like hers, not anymore. I moved my arms in torpid arcs, attempting to swim through the thick air, swim away from the jars with their horrible contents of disembodied hair.
Gleaming black, rich brown, deep red and bright orange, dark blond. All floating.
The man put his hand on my shoulder and I turned with the pressure, and then something glinted above me and I thought of the gull, saw the shears in the air, silver and gold, moving toward me. Instinctively I put up my arm, not quick enough to stop the blades, but they were deflected by my forearm, and instead of stabbing into their intended target, my neck, they slid further and slashed the soft flesh over my heart in a long, crooked line, slicing through the green dress as if it were butter. I saw blood pouring from the gash, but there was no pain, no shock.
I was deeper in the water now. There was no sound but the turgid beat of my own blood in my ears. When the shears were raised over me again, I struck clumsily at the old man, and the shears flew from his hand.
I stooped and picked them up. I looked into the maddened eyes, and then my own arm rose and lowered in what I saw as slow, graceful movements that felt like a dance, and the old man fell, the shears finally and firmly planted in one of those terrible eyes, his mouth a round and trembling wet circle.
I looked at him lying at my feet and my own legs gave way, and I knew I was falling, falling, back into the Mersey where my mother waited.
T HE VOICES GREW LOUDER. I recognized the faint hysteria of the boy in the flowered dress. Clancy.
“I don’t know, do I? How were we to guess he wouldn’t kill her first, as he’s always done? Oh. Oh, Pompey, I feel terribly lightheaded. Please. Let me lean against you.”
“Christ. What a mess. Why the hell wouldn’t he have given her enough chloroform to kill her before he started in on her? But she’s dead now, isn’t she?” asked another voice. A man, older than the boy, his voice self-assured.
“I believe so, young master.” Pompey’s voice. I thought of the drink he had given me. Him, not the old man.
“Well, we’ll never know how this happened, will we?” the voice of the man called Young Master said, anger just under the surface. “But I knew we shouldn’t have let him keep on with his sordid game. I knew we shouldn’t set up another. And now look at this. I should have listened to my intuition.”
I still felt nothing, although I became aware of something new, a dull, thumping surge, a minor crescendo of pain through the top half of my body. There was the fresh iron smell of blood. I felt my head being lifted and moved, my hair pushed back from my face. I was pulled up by my wrists, and cool air blew across them as my sleeves slid back.
“Look at that mark,” Clancy squealed. “Like a fish.”
Then I was let go, falling limply to the floor again.
“Who brought her? Was it a pimp? Will anyone come looking for her tonight?” It was the same well-bred voice, with a touch of superiority about it. A voice no one would argue with. How odd, I thought, that I could hear and understand, but felt powerless to move so much as an eyelid.
“I believe she was bought for the
“And so of course you must be stopped. You and all your kind, for nothing can end the agony you’ve inflicted upon me. Not the mercury salts, not the bromide nor the chloral. Temporary, all temporary relief. So I’m keeping a collection, you see, of those I’ve prevented from spreading the foulness. So many colors. And I’ve been looking for quite some time now for an addition to my collection. It had to be the perfect color,” I heard him say. “And now I’ve found it. Linny from Liverpool.”
I looked back at the jars, staring into the one closest to my face. And then I let out an involuntary noise, a strangled gasp, and tried to move away from what I realized I was seeing. But it was as if I had joined my mother now, except my hair couldn’t float like hers, not anymore. I moved my arms in torpid arcs, attempting to swim through the thick air, swim away from the jars with their horrible contents of disembodied hair.
Gleaming black, rich brown, deep red and bright orange, dark blond. All floating.
The man put his hand on my shoulder and I turned with the pressure, and then something glinted above me and I thought of the gull, saw the shears in the air, silver and gold, moving toward me. Instinctively I put up my arm, not quick enough to stop the blades, but they were deflected by my forearm, and instead of stabbing into their intended target, my neck, they slid further and slashed the soft flesh over my heart in a long, crooked line, slicing through the green dress as if it were butter. I saw blood pouring from the gash, but there was no pain, no shock.
I was deeper in the water now. There was no sound but the turgid beat of my own blood in my ears. When the shears were raised over me again, I struck clumsily at the old man, and the shears flew from his hand.
I stooped and picked them up. I looked into the maddened eyes, and then my own arm rose and lowered in what I saw as slow, graceful movements that felt like a dance, and the old man fell, the shears finally and firmly planted in one of those terrible eyes, his mouth a round and trembling wet circle.
I looked at him lying at my feet and my own legs gave way, and I knew I was falling, falling, back into the Mersey where my mother waited.
T HE VOICES GREW LOUDER. I recognized the faint hysteria of the boy in the flowered dress. Clancy.
“I don’t know, do I? How were we to guess he wouldn’t kill her first, as he’s always done? Oh. Oh, Pompey, I feel terribly lightheaded. Please. Let me lean against you.”
“Christ. What a mess. Why the hell wouldn’t he have given her enough chloroform to kill her before he started in on her? But she’s dead now, isn’t she?” asked another voice. A man, older than the boy, his voice self-assured.
“I believe so, young master.” Pompey’s voice. I thought of the drink he had given me. Him, not the old man.
“Well, we’ll never know how this happened, will we?” the voice of the man called Young Master said, anger just under the surface. “But I knew we shouldn’t have let him keep on with his sordid game. I knew we shouldn’t set up another. And now look at this. I should have listened to my intuition.”
I still felt nothing, although I became aware of something new, a dull, thumping surge, a minor crescendo of pain through the top half of my body. There was the fresh iron smell of blood. I felt my head being lifted and moved, my hair pushed back from my face. I was pulled up by my wrists, and cool air blew across them as my sleeves slid back.
“Look at that mark,” Clancy squealed. “Like a fish.”
Then I was let go, falling limply to the floor again.
“Who brought her? Was it a pimp? Will anyone come looking for her tonight?” It was the same well-bred voice, with a touch of superiority about it. A voice no one would argue with. How odd, I thought, that I could hear and understand, but felt powerless to move so much as an eyelid.
“I believe she was bought for the
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