Manouche *sees he’s awake*  Inspector, how y’ feelin’?  *holds up bottle*  I ‘ave somethin’ for ye from Malachi.  Y’know ye can count on his concoctions t’ set ye right –  *stops, looks at him, concerned*  Blimey, what is it, mate?  Y’ave a bad dream?

Abberline *sighs*  Just memories ... or nightmares ... they are the same thing.  Can he stop them from haunting me?

Manouche *looks at him sympathetically*  If anyone could come up with somethin’ t’ work against unhappy memories, it’d be Malachi.  But fer now, ‘ere’s somethin’ that’ll bring down yer fever, an’ per’aps help ye sleep without bad dreams. 

Blake *stirs, opens eyes, sees them both*  Sorry, I must’ve dozed off … *stretches, sits up, looking confused*  I had strange dreams … somethin’ to do with Malachi … and I saw a strange necklace, a pendant, I think you were wearing it …  *looks at Manouche*  … but then you changed, and a blonde woman was wearing it … I think she was pregnant …

Manouche *inadvertently brings hand up to soul box key around her neck for a moment, as if to make sure it’s still there*  Ahh, well, who knows about dreams, ay?  *smiles, turns to Abberline, passes bottle to him*  Jus’ drink it down all at once, luv … Malachi says it’s one dose, an’ it should work right quick.

Abberline *sharply*  What did you say?  What pendant?  Manouche, what does it mean?  *takes the bottle but forgets it*  It's her ...  Did you really see her?  You have to tell me all about it.  *looks at the bottle*  Can I have something with this?  I'll take it if you give me some brandy.

Manouche:  Aye, y’ can ‘ave some brandy with it.  *takes bottle back from him, pours contents into glass, adds shot of brandy; hands glass to Abberline*  ‘Ere y’ are, now, bottoms up, it’ll do ye good.  *puts a hand to his forehead, nods*  That’s better, yer fever’s down.  Still feel warm, though, so go ahead an’ drink that stuff.

Blake *frowning, trying to remember*  I … I don’t know who the woman in the dream was, I didn’t recognize her.  The pendant … it looked like a key.  *looks at Abberline*  ‘Her’ who?  Who do you think it was?

Manouche *sits back down in chair next to Blake, sighs*  I reckon he thinks ye saw his wife, Victoria … *to Abberline*  Keep in mind, mate, it may jus’ be a lot o’ nonsense.  Ye know how dreams can be.  Mustn’t get yerself in a state.

Blake:  She’s right, Inspector, it’s probably a jumble of images and thoughts left over from the peyote.  It doesn’t make any sense.  I mean, why would I be seeing your wife and mine wearing the same pendant?  And I don’t even know what your wife looks like … well, I think I saw a picture of her once …

Manouche *feels the metal of the key tucked in her shirt glow warm to the touch for a moment, then cool down again; pushes aside apprehension, smiles slightly*  Quite a coincidence, innit, th’ pair o’ ye dreamin’ about ‘er at th’ same time.  *looks over at window, notices it’s getting dark*  Mr. Blake, love, per’aps we should be gettin’ home.  Sergeant Godley is ‘ere to see to ye, Inspector.  An’ I imagine ye’ll be sound asleep very soon from Malachi’s drug.

Blake *stands up slowly*  I’ll go on down an’ tell Godley we’re gonna be on our way, have him come up.  Take it easy, Inspector, we’ll check back with you tomorrow.  An’ if I can remember anything at all from that dream, no matter how small, I’ll tell you.  Sorry I can’t remember more.  *leans down, kisses Manouche, leaves room, goes downstairs*

Manouche:  Be down in two shakes, love.  *turns to Abberline*  I’ll keep tryin’ t’ reach Raven, savvy?  I’m bound t’ get through to ‘im sooner or later.  Remember all we talked about.  Be patient, he’ll come back to ye.  *stands, draws covers up around him again.  He suddenly looks like a frightened young boy to her, and she's reminded of Raven.  She sits on side of bed, takes his hand in hers; looks at him anxiously*  Are ye sound, luv?  Is there anythin’ else I can do fer ye before we go?  Jus’ name it.

Abberline:  How can you be so sure about Raven?  *after a pause*  You know that it was not nonsense and that it was really her.  You are keeping something from me ...  *clasps her hand*  Do you have to go?

Manouche:  Blimey, mate … I ‘ave nothin’ concrete t’ go on with Raven, it’s jus’ somethin’ I feel sure of.  An' I’d be bloody dumbfounded if I were proven wrong.  Some things y’ just know.  Savvy?  As fer th’ other …  *looks at door nervously, then back at him*  Right.  Inspector, I’ll level with ye, in as much as I know meself.  That gift you an’ I an’ Raven share, it’s no use me pretendin’ with ye, y’ know better.  Ye can’t read me mind quite so clear as lil’ mate, but th’ apple don’t fall far from th’ tree.  *pauses*  I don’t keep many secrets from Mr. Blake … but I’ve kept a few in recent times, fer his own safety … things concernin’ th’ soul box.  He knows I ‘ave it, an’ he knows only I know where it’s located.  An’ he knows some o’ me recent trainin’ with Alifi allows me t’ keep certain information from those who would interrogate, in a manner o’ speakin’.  Unfortunately, some o’ that sort of trainin' appears to have rubbed off on Raven, an’ he’s successfully managed t’ shut me out.  Knowin’ him, he prob'ly thinks he’s doin’ it fer me protection … th’ lil’ buggar.  *shakes head, blinks away tear, looks up*  What Mr. Blake don’t know is … he don’t know about this … *reaches into shirt, brings forth key on the chain around her neck*  This is th’ key to the box, mate.  I need t’ use it whenever it comes time t’ diffuse th’ bloody thing.  The box seems to ‘ave taken a place on th’ back burner as of late, which is fine by me.  I’d just as soon nothin’ ever come of it, ever again.  If I can’t assemble everyone an’ everything jus’ as needed to destroy it, then may it rot away in its hidin’ place fer all time.  Th’ secret of its location can die with me.  Let someone else generations after us deal with it.  *tucks key back into shirt; shivers, reaches over, pours a brandy, drinks it*  Now, as far as Mr. Blake’s dream … I couldn’t tell ye if that were Victoria he saw.  It may ‘ave been, but I swear t’ ye, mate, I ‘ave no idea what her connection with all this would be.  If I knew, I’d share it with ye, I promise.  That part of th’ dream could very well be nonsense.  Or per’aps it has somethin’ to do with th’ fact that yer investigation involved th’ soul boxes, an’ Fiji, an’ somehow all those things come together in Mr. Blake’s subconscious to create the dream he had.  Aided an’ abetted by th’ remnants o’ th’ peyote in his system.  If yer bonnie lass had anythin’ more than that to do with th’ box, it’s news to me.  Th’ one thing I would add is that … well, this blasted key changes temperature every now an’ then, an’ I ‘aven’t been able t’ clock what causes it.  It were most uncomfortable durin’ an encounter with th’ guardians … an’ jus’ now, as we were discussin’ the dream, it warmed up briefly, then it was back t’ normal in less time than it takes to tell it.  An’ that truly is all I know, luv.  I confess, I weren't goin' to tell ye all this, 'cause I wished t' spare ye painful feelin's o' thinkin' of yer missus.  I were plannin' to tell Mr. Blake when we got home.  *looks down at his hand in hers*  Would ye feel better if we stay till ye’ve fallen asleep?  I’m sure Mr. Blake wouldn’t mind.  Th’ pair of us bein’ out after dark ain’t so dangerous as either of us out on our onesies.

Abberline *looks at the key and frowns*  Maybe it would be best to leave it buried.  I don't want to know where it is.  I don't want to ever see it again.  But there's the Guardians, and those who were shut in the box … *shudders at the thought* ... And Marchand ... Portsmith ... The Order ...  There's so much unfinished business and I feel totally useless.  *lets go of her hand*  I should not detain you any more.  But you have to believe me, if Blake saw her, and I am sure that it was her, then there must be some reason for that.  It was her.  I don't believe in coincidences ... I don't think she had anything to do with the box, but … *after a pause* … maybe it's because I saw her in a dream, as she was when I told her I'll be leaving for Fiji, and she was crying.  I made her cry.  I did not have to take the assignment, but I left her.  She's been dead for long, and still I see dreams about her …

Manouche:  Try not to torment yerself with regret over what's done, Inspector ... y' do that, an' before ye know it, that's all ye can do.  *takes his hand again, holds it in both of hers*  ‘Detain’ is a word fer businesspeople an’ bureaucrats, luv.  Yer me mate.  Yer not detainin’ me, I’m ‘ere because I want t’ help.  Savvy?  *pauses*  I’m wonderin’ … d’ ye suppose, if we were to all work together an’ destroy that box once an’ fer all, it might set somethin’ free that’s per’aps standin’ in th’ way o’ yer missus restin’ in peace?  Wouldn’t that be a fine thing, mate?  Per’aps yer investigation into th’ boxes carried some sort of curse, fer lack of a better word, a curse that were visited upon her … somethin’ that’s keepin’ her in a netherworld, between life an’ peaceful eternity, as it were.  Jus’ a thought.  *gently caresses his hand*  If I may ask a question … ye’ve often mentioned that ye didn’t ‘ave to take that assignment, but ye took it anyway.  I don’t mean to step out o’ line in askin’ this, but I’ve shown by now that y’ can tell me anythin’ an’ it’ll go no further than right ‘ere.  I’m curious … why did y’ take that assignment if ye didn’t need to take it?

Abberline *deeply distressed*  Are you saying that not only did I get her killed, but I managed to get a curse upon her?  That she's still in a way paying for what I did?  Oh gods ... Why didn't they take me instead of her ...  I did not have to take the assignment, I was told that they wanted me to go there, but they knew that she was having my ... having a ... that she was expecting.  I need a smoke.  *lights one and tries to calm down*  You don't want to hear this, Manouche.  I wanted to get away from her, because ... because I didn't want … her to know that I did not want to have it.  *looks at her with wide eyes*  I have never told anyone about this.  You must despise me now.

Manouche:  I ain’t sayin’ what ‘appened was yer fault, I were jus’ speculatin’.  If it’s true at all, it were unforeseen fallout from yer activity, savvy?  Ye couldn’t ‘ave known.  Take it easy, mate, take it easy … *squeezes his hand, pauses, takes in all he’s told her*  Y' didn't want --- By th’ powers, why on earth would y’not want to ‘ave a baby … *looks up at him, tears in her eyes*  … ohh ... is it ‘cause o’ what ye wrote in yer journal?  Oh, Inspector … I – I won’t tell a soul any o’ this, luv, I swear.  I don’t despise ye … but I understand ye a sight better now … an’ I surely see why ye ‘ave such horrible nightmares … an’ why ye forever chase that bloody dragon … *lowers her head over his hand, cries*

Abberline:  Please, Manouche, don't …  *stops as he hears himself saying the same lame words as in his dream*  Yes, I didn't want a baby.  How could I tell her anything like that?  I couldn't handle it.  I still can't.  And I can't handle you crying ...

Manouche *sniffling, quickly tries to stop her tears*  S’all right, Inspector, I’m sound … *wipes eyes, looks at him*  I can’t imagine what ye’ve been goin’ through … ‘avin’ felt that way back then, an’ to find out years later that ye ‘ave a son.  Blimey, no wonder … it explains so much.  But still an’ all, don’t ye see from th’ way Raven is, that yer theory – or belief, or cold hard scientific fact, whatever ye prefer to call it – can be fallible?  There’s exceptions t’ every rule, mate.  I’d say what y’ need to consider goin’ forward is what ye want t’ do from ‘ere on.  An’ that’s prob’ly somethin’ ye can’t answer straight away, y’need to give it some thought.  An’ ye sure as ‘ell don’t want to be makin’ any major decisions when yer still not well.  *brings a hand to his forehead*  Fever’s goin’ away … that Malachi knows his chemicals, don’t he?  *pauses*  I’m sorry to ‘ave said anythin’ to get ye so upset when yer needin’ yer rest, luv, an’ all this we’ve spoken of will remain confidential.  But I’d like t’ point out somethin’ to ye … ain't it interestin' that ye shared a very dark secret with someone fer th’ first time … an’ that someone is still ‘ere.  She don’t despise ye, an’ she don’t think less o’ ye … granted, she’s a pirate an’ a scallywag, but she’s still ‘ere.  *smiles slightly*

Abberline:  I don't know what to do or what to think anymore.  *lies back, the drug beginning to take effect.*  Can you really say that you don't despise me for letting her down, now that you know what I did?  You are not turning your back to me?  I could not even tell Sergeant Godley, I was so sure that he would not have understood.  And Raven ...  In Fiji ...  what happened was inexcusable ...  She would have hated me for that.  Maybe she does, and that's why she appears in my nightmares.  *after a long pause, with a faint smile*  You got to be the best pirate I've ever heard of ...

Manouche *smiles*  Cheers, mate.  No, I won’t be turnin’ me back on ye.  I’m a bit stubborn on that point, savvy?  Once someone’s me friend, it’s bloody hard fer ‘em to be released from that particular status.  *pauses, thinks for a few minutes*  Yer nightmares don’t come from Victoria hatin’ ye, mate … they come from your yerself.  I used to ‘ave nightmares about me brother, till I stopped blamin’ meself fer his death.  Once I was able t’ do that, it were like a switch went off, they stopped jus’ like that.  *snaps fingers*  I admit, I still ‘ave times when I wish they’d caught me instead o’ me brother … but I no longer hold m’self responsible fer it.  Ye couldn’t be with yer missus every second o’ every day, Inspector.  Somethin' tragic could've happened to her whether ye’d been on assignment or not.  If y’ can forgive yerself fer all that, ye jus’ might stop havin’ them bad dreams.  *studies him for a moment*  Y’ look like yer gettin’ sleepy.  I know ye tend t’ not dream while under influence o’ Malachi’s potions.  Here’s hopin’ this’un’ll be no exception.  *pours out two more shots of brandy, hands him a glass*  One more, mate, a little nightcap, as it were.  *holds up glass*

Abberline *drinks the brandy*  I can't …  I am just trying not to think about it ... How nice it would be not to feel anything ... Like sleeping long without any dreams.  Be still a while with me, there's something I have to say ...  *Manouche waits for a while, but he does not continue, and she sees he's fallen asleep again*

Manouche *leans toward him*  Inspector?  *sees he’s sound asleep, thinks*  I wonder what he wanted t’ say?  Guess it’ll ‘ave to wait.  *stands up, adjusts covers over him one more time; leans in, kisses him on the forehead.*  Rest easy, mate.  *Sets glasses on table, grabs chair she had brought over to the bedside when Blake was asleep in the other one; pulls it back where it was, across the room.  She hears something drop on the floor; looks down, sees that something has fallen from Abberline’s jacket, which hangs on the back of the chair.  Crouches down, finds the black notebook, picks it up.  She looks at Abberline, who's sleeping heavily; takes the notebook, leaves the bedroom, softly closing the door behind her.  Stands in hallway, flips open notebook, starts to read.  Tears fill her eyes …  *

Abberline’s Journal:

This is my last will.  Everything I own goes to Sergeant P. Godley.  He is to burn all my letters and my personal files, including this journal.  With the rest of the property, he is free to do as it pleases him.  He is the only one I trust, but even he doesn't know the truth.
 
I am writing this after the death of my beloved wife Victoria and the child she was expecting.  Since she has left me for good, there is nothing more for me to live for.  I have resigned my duty at Scotland Yard.  At last, I am freeing myself of the burden that I have been carrying for a long time.
 
It is all about heritage and guilt.  We all are a sum of those who have been before us, we are a part in the chain; we pass our ancestors' genes onto our children and their children, and we are combinations of the traits of our parents, and their parents.  We inherit our genetic traits from our ancestors.  I am not a scientist, but it is my firm belief that heritage is all about who we are and what we will be.  And I firmly do believe that we don't only pass the physical traits on.  I believe that the memories, compulsions, passions and dreams are a part of the heritage.  I have seen it repeatedly confirmed in my work, how the descendants not only strongly take after their ancestors but become their parents and grandparents.  We are not simply a combination of our parents.  Children seem to inherit their traits directly from their grandparents, for some strange reason genetic traits seem to skip over one generation.  That is why I have decided that my father's line dies with me.  I am freeing the world of the genes of my father, of all the dreams and memories he had.  They deserve to die with me.

He was a respected and outstanding citizen.  He was also cold, distant and cruel.  He was never a father to me.  I was not the son he wanted, and he was not the father I needed.  That was not all.  I suspect that my father committed the worst sin there is:  I suspect that he killed his own brother and his wife ruthlessly in a dispute over money.  I overheard their quarrel and the threats my father made, and shortly afterwards my uncle and his wife disappeared, never to be found.  My father claimed that they had moved abroad.  But after their disappearance, I began to see hazy odd dreams, like nightmares while being awake.  I saw horrible things; a blade dripping blood, dead faces and lifeless bodies, those of my uncle and his wife, and a man walking away.  In one vision, the man finally turned around and looked straight at me – it was my father's face.  But I already knew it by then.  And he knew that I knew his secret.  I could have given him in, but I did not.  I could have pointed out the places where the bodies of my uncle and his wife where hidden, but I never looked them up.  My father went to his grave as he was, during his lifetime, a respected and feared man.

He died of a heart attack and I watched him die.  I did not call for a doctor despite his pleas to help him, and I felt nothing but hatred towards him.  I looked at him while his life escaped from his body and he stopped breathing.  He never confessed.  As I turned to go, I saw my mother looking at me at in the doorway.  She accused me of his death and my unsubstantiated suspicions of him being a murderer, she told me I was ungrateful and that she never wanted to see me again.  I had no evidence.  Visions don't count as evidence.  She never forgave me, and she never spoke a word to me after that.

I understood that I am a part of what my father was, and that his death was not enough.  I had to redeem for what he had done, I decided to dedicate my life to stopping the likes of him and joined the Police.  I did not want to end up like him, so I carried the guilt he never felt for his actions.  Nobody is innocent, even newborn children are not innocent; they bear the burden of their heritage.

And then came Victoria and made me forget.  For a while.  I did not tell about my family.  She would not have married me if she had known, I know it was wrong of me, but I believed that her love could save me.  I was as happy as she when she announced that she was going to have my child, but when the weeks went by I began to have doubts, I found it hard to look at her smiling, carefree face and her body beginning to show the pregnancy.  She did not know what kind of child it would be, but I did.  I could not stop thinking about the child she was carrying.  My son would carry on the deeds and nature of his grandfather, just as all the cases of heritage that I had witnessed, and I understood, that I can't redeem for what my father did, that the same curse will fall upon my son, my flesh and blood, as much as I am of my father's.  'The sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the sons'.  And grandsons.  I knew that I should never have married and let this child be born, but I could not tell Victoria what was wrong.  At last, I could not take it anymore; I signed up on an assignment in faraway Fiji; I told her they needed my expertise and that I had to go.  I told her I would be back when her time was due.

This is the hardest part to write, but I have to do it anyway to get it off my conscience.  When I returned, she was eight months pregnant, she was glad to see me, but I could only think about that child growing in her.  Would he become like my father?  Everything that my father was, would also be in my son.  It would be inevitable.  And I remembered how the traits skip a generation ... I worked late and avoided going home, wandering out at the streets in desperation and dark thoughts, feeling guilty of abandoning her, of not being able to give her any support, and then I found by chance a tavern with stairs leading down right to hell, into an opium den, I bought a pipe and forgot all pain, remorse and anger for a while.  And then I saw a vision, I saw her dead, her dress soaked with blood, her blue eyes staring lifeless at the ceiling.  I knew then what I had not dared to think about, that I did not want that child, that I wanted to get rid of the child, and I felt that I was indeed as bad as my father.  There is no way to avoid the heritage.  And when they murdered her, I knew that she had paid for my sin, and in a way, it was I who had killed her.  I did not want the child.  And so I lost them both.

But it does not matter anymore.  Nothing does.  She is dead, and there is no afterlife where she would be waiting for me.  If there was, she would not anyway forgive me.  There is only darkness, where both the good and bad go.  For me, it is a consolation.  There is no point in going on, I could never forget her, and I don't want to make the same error again.  She is dead because she married me.  I am relieved that I am not leaving any descendants after me to carry this tainted heritage on.

Blake *climbs stairs, coming to look for Manouche*  Honey, are you about ready to go?  I was talkin’ to Sergeant Godley … he’s having a grand ol’ time down in that big kitchen, baking pies!  He’s pretty good at it, too, from the looks of—  *voice trails off as he reaches the landing and sees Manouche sitting on the floor outside Abberline’s bedroom, weeping over the journal*  Oh, honey, I’m sorry …  *sits down on floor next to her, takes her in his arms*

Manouche *sniffs*  It – it’s even worse than y’ made it sound, love.  *holds up book*  This is a deep tragedy, this.  His whole life, so much unhappy burden t’ carry about all on his own … an’ then fer Raven t’ read his thoughts on it all.  Bloody ‘ell, no wonder he’s always playin’ advance an’ retreat with lil’ mate.  *wipes at her eyes, swallows*  Th’ Inspector sounds so sure about it all in ‘ere.  H-how can we convince him that this ain’t necessarily th’ way it has t’ be?

Blake *holding her close*  I don’t know.  I’ve been trying to think of something ever since I read it myself.  *looks at her*  You made some progress, though, didn’t you?  You managed to get him to talk about it a little.  Little Gypsy magic at work there?  *squeezes her*

Manouche *smiles*  Mr. Blake, ye do ‘ave a way with words … always seem t’ know jus’ what to say.  *looks at him, notices his weary expression*  Ye feelin’ some pain, love?  We should get ye home.

Blake *nods*  Yeah, I’m pretty tired … and I need to lie down.  We could stay here, if you’re worried about the Inspector.  Sergeant Godley invited us.  I, ah, think he wants an excuse to make a big breakfast again tomorrow.

Manouche *laughs*  That’s most kind of ‘im, innit?  I thought about stayin’ … an’ if th’ Inspector really wanted me to, I would.  But he’s sleepin’ peacefully, Sergeant Godley's 'ere, an’ Malachi’s drug’ll prob’ly knock ‘im out for a good eight hours, at least.  We can come back tomorrow an’ see about ‘im.  As fer tonight … t’ be honest, I’d like to go home to our house, fall asleep in yer arms in our bedroom, an’ wake up with th’ sound of our river in me head.  *kisses him gently*  I’d like t’ leave a note fer him, though.  Do ye ‘appen to have paper an’ pen on yer person?

Blake:  Always.  *grins*  Mightier than the sword, you know.  *reaches in pocket, pulls out small notepad and pen, hands them to her.  He holds her, stroking her hair, as she writes for a few minutes … everything quiet except the scratching of her pen, the ticking of the big clock downstairs, and its chime as it strikes the hour*

Manouche *signs with a flourish*  There, that’ll do.  I’ve included some o’ yer verse, from th’ one called –

Blake:  On Another’s Sorrow.  Thank you, honey.

Manouche *smiles, stands up, helps him slowly to his feet*  Right, I'll leave this for 'im, an' we’ll be on our way.  *she enters Abberline’s room quietly, sees that he’s in a deep sleep – no tossing and turning, breathing easily.  She steps over to the chair where his coat hangs, places the notebook in one of the pockets.  She comes to the bed, looks down at him, is relieved to see that the feverish flush has gone out of his face, and his expression is peaceful.  Puts hand to his forehead, he feels cool; brushes his hair back, once again sees resemblance to Raven, blinks away a tear.  Folds the note, starts to put it in Abberline’s shirt pocket, notices something else there; pulls out astragalus root*  What th’ –  *she looks up, sees Blake peeking in the door; holds up root, eyebrows raised; Blake shrugs, she blows a kiss at him.  Turns back to Abberline, carefully tucks note and astragalus root into his pocket, smiles gently at him.  Tiptoes out of the room, softly closes the door behind her.*

Dear Fred,

I’m honored to have been taken into your confidence.  Rest assured that everything we spoke of stays with me, not even to be repeated to Mr. Blake.  I’ll leave that to you, if you wish to talk to him.  (I recommend it if you’re of a mind; he’s a fine listener and a kind, understanding soul.)  I also believe your dear friend Sergeant Godley would understand, perhaps more than you think.  Your life can be whatever you choose to make of it, and so can Raven’s, savvy?  Hang science!  A predilection for certain behavior doesn’t mean that’s how it has to be.  Everyone makes mistakes and errors in judgment, some worse than others; the despicable ones are those who don’t accept responsibility for their actions, or see nothing wrong with harming others.  Forgive yourself, luv, that’s where it begins.  Mr. Blake and I are your friends, we’re here for you and we’ll not turn away from you.  As he expressed in verse:

Can I see another’s woe, and not be in sorrow too

Can I see another’s grief, and not seek for kind relief

Can I see a falling tear, and not feel my sorrow’s share

Can a father see his child weep, nor be with sorrow filled

Can a mother sit and hear an infant groan, an infant fear

No, no – Never can it be / never, never can it be

We’ll return tomorrow to see how you fare after Malachi’s treatment … and perchance to take advantage of Sergeant Godley’s new-found (and highly successful) embrace of culinary domesticity.  Tout notre amour, cher ami,

Manouche and William Blake

At Manouche and Blake’s house:

Manouche and Blake *return safely from Bournemouth House after assuring Godley they'll return the following day.  (He keeps them a few minutes longer to proudly show them the smoked salmon he plans to incorporate in tomorrow's brunch.)  They enter their house, switch on light, lock door behind them*

Manouche:  Blimey, it’s good t’ be home.  Can I get ye a drink, love?  Or are ye goin’ straight to bed?

Blake:  Yes and yes.  Meet me in there in five minutes, and come bearing cocktails for two.  *wraps arms around her, pulls her close, kisses her passionately*

Manouche *gasping for breath*  Easy, William Blake, yer injury …

Blake:  Hang the injury.  *kisses her again, releases her*  Don’t mess about.  *grins, heads down hall to bedroom.*

Manouche *smiles, turns to the bar, pours drinks.  Is about to pick up the glasses when she pauses, thinks for a moment, then leans her head down and concentrates, murmuring softly*  Raven … gol, I hope ye can hear me … yer dad needs ye, luv, he needs ye t’ forgive ‘im.  If ye can’t, so be it.  But if y’ possibly can … please let ‘im know somehow, an’ hurry back to us, savvy?  Stay safe, lil’ mate, we miss ye.  *focuses, feels that she may be sensing him, but she’s not sure.  She jumps slightly as she feels the key around her neck warm slightly, then cool back to normal again.*

*She opens her eyes, looks around the room, with its big fireplace, overstuffed furniture, books everywhere, and Wilko asleep on his perch.  She’s suddenly very thankful for their quiet, comfortable little house on the river — not anywhere near as luxurious as Bournemouth House, not as opulent as Chateau Blanchefort, or grand and lively as the Wonkas’ factory (much as she adores her beloved Willy and Madame and the factory, with the room they keep ready for her at all times) — but it’s hers and Blake’s, it’s home.  She smiles, snaps off light, picks up drinks, walks down the hall, is delighted to see candlelight flickering from bedroom.*  ‘Ere I come, Mr. Blake … *she steps in doorway, strikes a sultry pose in the glow of the scented candle … and looks down at Blake, burrowed into the covers, hugging the pillow, sound asleep – a dreamy half-smile on his face*

Manouche *shakes head, sighs*  Aye, there we 'ave it …  *raises one of the glasses*  To Sainte Manouche-Roussel, patron saint o’ good fortune an’ ill timing.  *shrugs, drinks one drink, then downs the other.  Sets glasses down, climbs into bed next to Blake.  He turns toward her, slides arms around her; she snuggles against him contentedly, the sound of the rushing river filling her head as she drifts into dreams*

On an unknown ship:

Malachi *comes to, finds himself on board a ship, locked in a brig.  Shakes his head, tries to focus, sees two men watching him – two pirates, one of them the man who had talked to him before he was knocked out.  Pulls himself up, hanging onto the bars, rubs his head*  Y’know, you might’ve tried asking.  I may have surprised you, an’ come along peacefully.

Pirate #1 *smirks*  Apologies.  Me associate ‘ere does tend to embrace th’ dramatics a bit more than is good fer ‘im.

Malachi:  And who do I have the pleasure of addressing?

Pirate #1:  Captain Barnes … yer a guest aboard me ship …

Malachi *nods toward other man*  And who’s your chatty friend?

Barnes:  Ah, yes, me associate … Mr. Noble …

Malachi *grins*  Barnes and—

Barnes *holds up hand, cuts him off*  DON’T START, y’blighter, I’ve heard ‘em all!  Most unfortunate pairin’ o’ names, I’ll grant.  *motions toward Noble*  If he weren’t so dependable an’ good at his work, I never would’ve taken ‘im on, fer that reason alone.

Malachi:  Okay, we have the niceties out of the way.  Now what am I doing here?  And what’s the big idea of ransackin’ my place?

Barnes:  That weren’t us, laddie.  I ‘ave me suspicions who it were, which I’ll be all too glad to share with ye when th’ time is right.  Yer ‘ere because we see a profit in ‘avin’ ye in our custody.  I don’t know if yer aware, but yer quite in demand as of late.  So th’ way we see it, we keep ye ‘ere, we let all interested parties know of yer location … an’ we put ye up fer auction, as it were.

Malachi:  I think you’re overestimating my clout around here.

Barnes:  ‘Ave t’ disagree with ye.  Let’s see … *starts counting off on fingers*  We ‘ave th’ two gentlemen from the Order.  They’re extremely interested in yer whereabouts, as well as those of the Gypsy, Manouche.  Then there’s Commander Portsmith, she’d love t’ ‘ave ye back in her lockup … poor daft lass, she still believes a little barterin’ of ye with Messrs. Black an’ Brown will get ‘er carte blanche in th’ bleedin’ Order.  It’s all bollocks, to be sure, I ‘appen to know they ‘ave no intention o’ initiatin’ her … but she don’t know that.  An’ I don’t think she’d believe it if she heard it.  Then there are others, though they’re not so much interested in ye personally as to yer drawin’ power, so to speak …

Malachi:  Drawing power?

Barnes:  Oh, aye … the guardians from Fiji … th' Necromancer … an’ a fellow patron o’ th’ pirate trade, a Mr. Carver … all o’ whom are very keen on gettin’ their hands on th' Gypsy, fer various reasons.  All we ‘ave to do is let them know we ‘ave ye, an’ remind ‘em what perfect bait ye’d be fer demandin’ Manouche’s presence.  Matter o’ fact, we can add Portsmith t’ that list … she’s been wantin’ to get ‘er meat hooks into that junkie investigator o’ hers.  It’s highly possible, in an indirect way, if she were t’ use ye to bring Manouche, that could potentially bring th’ Inspector, as well.  So many possibilities.  Y’see, it don’t concern us who winds up with ye, an’ to what ends.  It matters not to us what becomes o' ye, so long as we’re paid handsomely fer our troubles.

Malachi:  Good business, I have to admit.  And you’ve done your homework.  So money is the only thing that’ll influence your decision, eh?

Barnes *nods*  We’re profiteers, mate, an’ we ‘ave no vested interest in this town.  When we’re done ‘ere, we’re done, an’ on our way to new conquests, as it were.  With that in mind, it’s my considered opinion that Portsmith’ll win.  I reckon she ‘as th’ most significant cash reserve at ‘er disposal, savvy?

Malachi:  Do I have the option of outbidding the winning bid?

Barnes *looks at him like he’s mad, glances at Noble, starts to laugh*  Blimey!  Did y’hear that, Mr. Noble?  Our guest wants a place on th’ biddin’ floor.  *laughs heartily; Noble remains silent.  Barnes looks at Malachi*  I’ve seen yer estate, laddie, an’ it weren’t much count before it were plundered!  However, once all bids are in, I’ll review ‘em with ye, an’ ye can ‘ave a bash, if yer keen.  Savvy?

Malachi:  That’s all I’m askin’.

Barnes:  Right, I’ll leave ye to it.  I ‘ave work t’ do, as I’m sure ye can understand … captain’s job is never done, is it?  Mr. Noble ‘ere, he’ll stay on an’ make sure yer not wantin’ fer anything.  *hears someone coming*  Ah, this is prob’ly yer room service, such as it is.

Malachi *looks up, stares, astonished, to see Raven coming down the narrow steps carrying a tray.  Quickly changes his expression as he feels Barnes’ eyes on him.*

Barnes:  Ye know each other?

Malachi *mumbling*  No, I thought he was someone else.  *watches Raven carefully, notices how different he looks – hair wild, face harder, body a little leaner … looking beyond his ten years.  He watches as Raven steps closer, leans down, shoves tray through slot at the bottom of the cell door.  Stands up, raises his head, and Malachi is dismayed to see no recognition for him registering in Raven’s eyes, which still look very much the same – large, dark, solemn – but missing a lively spark he remembered.  Raven looks at him for a moment, disinterested, then turns and leaves without a word.*

Barnes:  He’s a strange one, he is.  Got ‘im offa th’ last ship we encountered, Th’ Lancet.  Come upon 'er returnin' from Tortuga, an’ her crew were most reticent about sharin’ their spoils with us.  An’ after we asked so nicely.  So we ‘ad to become a bit more convincin’ in our bargainin’.

Malachi:  What happened?

Barnes:  Well, we ‘ad th’ last word, as I reckoned we would.  Matter o’ fact, laddie, yer standin’ in th’ very brig o’ The Lancet as we speak.  It were such a pretty boat … ship … an’ me former vessel come off rather th’ worse fer wear when th’ fightin’ were done.  As fer ‘er crew … Not many survivors from that little skirmish.  *motions toward the steps, after Raven*  Th’ fact that the boy managed t’ hold out made me think we should keep ‘im on.  Jury’s still out as to whether I made a wise decision.  He works hard, but he ain’t right somehow.  Goes by White, if ye be needin’ ‘im.  An’ now, with yer permission … *sweeps off hat, bends at waist in exaggerated bow.  Replaces hat, laughs, turns away, goes up to the main deck*

Malachi *watches him go, his mind racing.  Looks over at Noble, who stares at him impassively.  Malachi sighs, takes out cigarette, lights it, crouches down, picks up tray, sits down on bunk.  Eats a bite or two before setting it aside.  Smokes cigarette, looks around, sees magazines on floor.  Picks them up, shuffles through them; swears loudly, flings them across the cell:  Brigs & Rigs; Home Lockups Quarterly; Monuments Illustrated; Castles of the Rich and Famous; Narcissist’s Home Companion; Spectacular Uniforms: The Swimsuit Issue …

Sergeant Godley goes shopping:

Godley *early in the morning, coming home from Grape's Grocery, puts down two heavy shopping bags full of groceries for today's breakfast for four and his own private second breakfast, dinner and supper and second dinner and late night supper, starts to look after his keys when he suddenly feels a gun in his back*

Mr. Black:  Don't try to turn around.

Godley:  Now what is this?

Mr. Black:  Now listen very carefully if you don't want a broken rib like that miserable weakling friend of yours.  We will be tonight at Chez Roux at eight.  No tricks.  No guns.  And he's got to come alone.  You understood: alone.

Godley:  And who do I say this lovely little message is from?  I doubt he can make it today, he's been ill.

Mr. Black:  He knows.  And we know that he's ill.  Tell him to stop using those abominable drugs at least for today and to haul himself in time there or he's going to be even worse.  And tell him to come sober.  Though I doubt he can.  *spots Godley's bags and kicks one of them, looks disgusted at all the contents spilling out.*

Mr. Brown:  Yes!   We don't like waiting.  *kicks the other bag and seeing that Black is occupied with Godley, quickly stoops down and picks some chocolate bars and white bread and cookies and stuffs them into his pocket*

Mr. Black:  Did you get it or do we have to help you to etch it in your feeble mind?

Mr. Brown *takes gun, cocks it, raises it*  Yes!  With this!

Mr. Black *annoyed*  No shooting.  Yet.  *to Godley*  Your turn will be later.  *signs for Mr Brown to leave, they jump in the car and speed off*

*in the car*

Mr. Brown:  Why do we carry guns all the time when we never can use them?

Mr. Black:  As I said, no shooting.  Not yet.  What a miserable lot they all are.  Did you see his shoppings?  I'll be glad to get out of this sinful den with useless people.  *looks at the bulging pocket*  Now look at your suit.  That's not neat at all.  And what have you got there?

Mr. Brown:  Er … the extra gun?

At Bournemouth House:

Godley *shakes head, stoops to collect his shoppings, leaves the bags in the kitchen, goes upstairs to Abberline's bedroom.  He's still sleeping, and Godley decides not to disturb him with the news.  On his way out, he makes a note to get the door properly fixed and that the corridor need vacuuming.  He goes to the kitchen and begins to prepare breakfast*

Abberline *sitting on the bedside, with a note in his hand, starts when he sees Godley and hides the paper quickly.  Godley notes that his expression is very strange, he's pale and looks like he were shocked, almost frightened*

Godley:  Bad news?

Abberline:  It's nothing

Godley *shrugs, knows he won't get a better answer*  How are you today?

Abberline:  Well, I suppose.

Godley:  I've prepared a modest brunch, nothing like you get at Manouche's or at the factory *eyes become dreamy at the thought of the factory breakfast.*  You should get up and dressed, Manouche and Blake are coming soon *hears the knock on the door*  There they are!

Abberline:  I don't think I want anything.

Blake:  Awfully nice of you to go to all this trouble, Sergeant.

Manouche *hands Godley the bag*  'Ere y' are, mate, croissants ... thought ye might like 'em.  *sniffs air*  Blimey, if I didn't know better, I'd say ye picked up a few pointers from th' oompas, or Marijke's head chef!  *looks around*  Is th' Inspector awake, will he be joinin' us?  Or shall I go up an' see 'im, per'aps take him some coffee?

Godley *pleased, takes the bag*  You were reading my mind!  I hope you will not be disappointed ... I think it would be time for the Inspector to get up finally and have something else than just coffee.  Perhaps you could go and fetch him, I'll add this final touch to the table.

Manouche:  Aye, will do.  *goes through house, climbs stairs, reaches Abberline's room, taps on door*  Inspector?  Y' awake, mate?  Sergeant Godley has quite th' feast prepared.  I know ye prob'ly don't feel much like eatin', but make an effort to please him, if ye can, ay?  Do ye good to come downstairs, change o' scene, an' all that.  *pauses, listens*  Can I come in?

Abberline:  Come in, Manouche.  I'd rather not, but I guess I do not have a choice with both you and Godley.

Manouche *shrugs*  Ye don’t ‘ave to.  I reckoned ye’d be ready t’ get out o’ this room, after bein’ in ‘ere fer so long.  *peers at him*  Y’ look much better today … Malachi’s stuff must’ve done ye good.  Hope ye got some dreamless sleep, as well.  *takes out cigarettes, offers him one*

Abberline:  No, I suppose I have to, I guess I am all right.  *takes a cigarette, smokes for a while, then looks her straight in the eye*  I must say that I feel uncomfortable ... I read the note ... *abruptly gets up*  Let's go downstairs.   

Manouche:  It --it weren't meant t' make ye uncomfortable, Inspector, quite th' contrary.  Apologies ... y' can throw it away, we need never mention any o' this ever again, if that'll help ye.  Savvy?  *puts hand out to him*