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Home Parts 1 & 2 Parts 3 & 4 Parts 5 & 6 Parts 7 & 8 Parts 9 & 10 Epilogue & Author's Notes
Author - Lisa Paris - 2005
Feedback - All constructive feedback gratefully received at lisaparis25@hotmail.co.uk
Disclaimer - Last time I checked the situation had not changed. Sadly, neither Roxton nor the rest of the show belongs to me. Ah, the injustice of it all!
Category - M/R, of course. Veronica also has a starring role, with a special guest appearance from Kartas. Minor violent scenes and profanity. Some mention of adult/sexual situations.
Summary/Spoilers - Set about two months after the highly unsatisfactory (as far as I’m concerned) Season One episode, 'Prodigal Father.' There have already been some excellent takes on this episode. This story merely explores another angle. I thought it might be interesting to roll time onwards and still have some unresolved issues. After all, some fairly momentous actions occurred during this episode and I believe it would have taken more than a cup of tea and a few apologies to recover the status quo. Anyway, on with the story. Things remain strained between the explorers and the atmosphere in the tree house is still tense. Roxton loses something important to him. Marguerite has a bad dream . . .
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"No, no, I'm sure, my restless spirit never could endure
To brood so long upon one luxury,
Unless it did, though fearfully, espy
A hope beyond the shadow of a dream.”
Endymion ~ John Keats
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Morning . . .
Roxton frowned uneasily and looked down at his hand. Something important was missing. Something, which according to the divine laws of justice, should still be on his finger. There was a patch of white skin below his knuckle, firm evidence of its existence. But sadly, there was no disputing it. The Roxton ring was gone.
He felt strangely light without it, stripped bare and somehow naked. His mind roved over the list of possibilities but he'd been through them a hundred times. The ring had been on his finger when he'd gone to bed. He distinctly remembered seeing it when he’d gone in to get undressed. The bloody thing had become caught-up on a loose thread hanging from his shirt. The little altercation he’d had with a raptor had been a shave too close for comfort. Once more, he'd have to call upon Marguerite's skills as a seamstress, or very soon, his lack of clothing would force him to run around naked. Maybe when he got back from hunting tomorrow . . .
Roxton qualified the thought. He would have to beg favours from Marguerite, not run around in the nude. Now wouldn’t ‘that’ put the cat amongst the pigeons . . .
He frowned. The ring had nearly slipped off his finger then, sliding over his knuckle as he tugged the shirt past his head. He wondered how much weight he'd lost. By his reckoning, getting on for a stone.
‘That’s what a knife in the guts does for you, old boy,’ he pondered, wryly, the sting of it almost twice as sharp when wielded by a friend. He'd been pretty ill for a several weeks. Weak and delirious with blood-loss and fever, as frail as an orphaned kitten.
As if on cue, Veronica wandered in from the balcony, an empty wooden bowl in her hands. There was an air of fragility still hovering around her. She was pale and unaccustomedly quiet, her golden enthusiasm gone. Inexplicably, Roxton felt guilty. Like it or not, things ‘had’ been strained between the two of them since the false Tom Layton debacle. The bloody man had hurt everyone, albeit in different ways.
It was there now - he could see it. The hint of discomfort which shaded her eyes the minute she spied him there alone. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t matter, that it didn’t cause a fair amount of pain. Since their arrival on the Plateau, he’d spent an awful lot of time with Veronica. Their respective skills had thrown them together in a logical, reasoned way. The small group’s obvious providers, the hunters and gatherers of food. They were also its natural protectors, both warriors, albeit of a different kind. The more he’d worked alongside her, the more his admiration had grown. For a young and beautiful girl like Veronica, surviving alone in this deadly jungle had been no easy feat. Roxton’s respect knew no bounds.
Since his recovery, they still went out hunting but something fundamental had changed. He never questioned the sense of trust they’d developed or the reliance upon each other’s abilities. That, at least, was as strong as ever, but the easy camaraderie was gone. Perhaps forever. He had helped to destroy her most precious dream. Indeed, he had played the largest part in it. His injuries had compounded her broken heart by making her wretchedly guilty.
Roxton knew exactly how she felt. And perhaps that was the saddest part of all. When William had died, his own pain and anguish had made it hard to go home. His father’s heart attack so soon afterwards had only made things worse. In Roxton’s tortured mind, he was responsible for killing both men. The singular, guilty cause of his mother’s agonised grief. And it was true - he had resented it. Resented the way it made him feel and everything the tragedy denied him. A relentless, vicious circle, spinning around and around in his head.
Grief, self-blame, resentment . . . over and over again.
Roxton looked back down at his hand. He had lost the family ring. The one thing which linked him to his father and brother, to the honour and lineage of his name. Passed down by and worn, since the fifteen hundreds, by every Roxton heir. Logic dictated the bloody thing must be somewhere in the tree house. He had searched the place from top to bottom, rifling through all the junk in his quarters as his hopes began to fade.
Veronica slipped away to her room without so much as a word. The thought depressed Roxton even more and he gave a heavy sigh. They were supposed to go out hunting again this morning, he was not looking forward to the prospect. The herds of game had been scarcer of late, moving deeper into the forest to escape the unusual heat. Another two days of awkward silences interspersed with perfunctory words, then running the gamut of the other’s anxious glances when they eventually returned home. He was probably imagining it, but occasionally it seemed as though the others held him partially to blame for Veronica's unhappiness. Malone certainly, and to some extent, Summerlee and Challenger.
As for Marguerite . . .
Well, Marguerite was her usual, enigmatic self. As hard to read as a Latin grammar, mysterious and impenetrable as ever. If anything, she had been strangely quiet of late. Subdued and wandering off alone since his recovery from the knife wound. It was as though she were trying her best to avoid him as much as she possibly could.
Roxton sighed, again. He had sought to do the right thing, to protect and ultimately save them. But the stabbing was more than a physical cut, it was symbolic in many ways. It served as a bloody summary of Veronica's guilt and sorrow. Talk about rubbing salt in the wound. It remained an ugly souvenir of the ease with which their society had been breached by an outsider. A near and deadly reminder they had almost been destroyed.
Hell, he was probably being paranoid. It was unrealistic of him to expect life to return to normal overnight. They had all suffered greatly in various ways as a result of their ordeal. Judgements had been questioned and friendships put to the sword. Allegiances tried and tested and some of them found wanting. True, the circumstances had been less than natural - that damned, hypnotising plant had seen to that - but whichever way you cared to look, it was a miracle none of them had died. That alone, was hard to forget. A thorny fact to get over.
Just like losing the Roxton ring.
The thought of it caused him deep distress and a foreshadowing of unease. The ring had a long and interesting history. It had been carried all the way to England by his piratical, Elizabethan ancestor. The first John Roxton had plundered it from the conquistadors down on the Spanish Main, plying his sail along side Raleigh in the turbulent Caribbean waters. His grandfather, the old rogue, had worn the ring as a boy soldier at Waterloo. It had faced Napoleon’s Imperial Guard and lived to tell the tale. His own father had worn it during his days as a Subaltern in India and Afghanistan. The 3rd Earl had been painted sporting it prior to the royalist debacle at Marston Moor and it had graced the hand of the 5th Earl during the Battle of Blenheim.
For the hundredth time, Roxton frowned. There was a twisted irony in the fact he'd worn the ring continually whilst in the trenches. The ring had survived both shell and shot and soldiered through unscathed. But now it had been swallowed up by the Plateau. Along with so many other things.
Roxton left the table and went in search of his guns. There was just enough time to check and oil them before he and Veronica left. He couldn’t resist one last, perfunctory hunt for the ring, turning his quarters upside down in a futile effort to find it. It proved fruitless, but then he had known it would. The Roxton ring was lost.
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Much later that evening . . .
In her dreams, Marguerite watched as Roxton and Veronica ran through the trees. She was separate yet somehow elevated, a horrified, distant observer. His guns were spent, the chambers empty, the cartridges used up to deadly effect. But still the enemy chased them, relentless in pursuit. She could sense their urgency, feel their anxiety. The surge of adrenalin and pounding heart-rates as they fled for their very lives.
The enemy was catching-up with them. Rolling inexorably on a wave of darkness which overwhelmed and then engulfed them. She gasped with the effort of hand-to-hand combat, knowing the ragged struggle of taut muscles and straining limbs . . .
His companion went down with a cry of pain and for the first time, he was afraid. But not for himself - it was never for himself. His fatalism terrified her. His mind became remote and efficiently detached. Not merely a man, but a fighting machine. Grim and focused on the deadly battle of keeping his companion alive.
"No . . ."
It was her voice which screamed at him, shrill and imperative, angry at his blatant, self-sacrifice. ‘How dared he . . . how could he be so selfish?’
His life was no longer his alone to give.
He didn't hear her. Couldn't hear her. Resolute and utterly determined as he fought manfully for their lives. The sheer weight of numbers was wearing him down, the odds stacked too heavily against him. She could sense he was tiring, his physical fatigue, and the edge of despair which rolled over him. The darkness was pushing him backwards, advancing and claiming minor victories. She flinched with anguish as she felt his pain, the warm blood gush over his skin.
"Roxton!" His name was torn from her.
She fought to get to him through the fray, struggling and clawing like a feral cat whilst a stronger force kept her at bay. He seemed unaware of her presence, of her efforts to reach his side, staggering under the weight of his enemies as he strove to protect his companion. She knew it the moment he started to wane. The second his vision began to blur and blackness wove through his mind. Shadows rose, clamouring and grasping, as they sought to drag him mockingly to the ground. There was too much blood and sweat in his eyes. Too much blood and yet, not enough. She felt the contraction of weakening muscle as his over-stressed heart rate faltered.
"Fight them, Roxton! God damn you. Fight them . . . you can't give in!"
Her voice was shrill with desperation. He must . . . he had to hear her. If he died, she would never forgive him. If he died . . . how could she go on?
He stumbled, falling onto his knees. Still cursing them, still fighting. Trying to stem the bloody tide of vicious kicks and blows. She sobbed now, straining to get to him. Forced to watch the inevitable show.
"No!"
She sensed the blow which felled him - her own blood roaring in her ears. A single second of agony, then the frenzy and pain were gone. She could no longer see him, no longer feel him. He was lost and she feared it was forever.
His enemy roared with triumph. The mêlée parting like the Red Sea around him as their leader pushed his way through. Her eyes stung with tears of rage and grief as she witnessed them kick him in the ribs. Waiting for any signs of life - signs which didn’t come. Her anger increased on a deluge of scarlet, pounding and sweeping through her veins. Darkness began to uncoil inside her, or perhaps it had always been there. Growing and swelling, a malignant cancer, as her pain and fury increased. She was burning and twisting like a single leaf consumed in the blackening fire. Prey to the emotions which surged through her body on waves of frightening power.
In her dream, she arose like a fury. Separate, yet connected to his side. Omnipotent and crackling with elemental fire as she shrieked out her hatred to his enemies. She was changing - somehow evolving. A deadly being, fluid, otherworldly. The jungle bowed down in awe of her rage as it swathed a tract through the trees, swirling with a vortex of energy which blotted the sun from the sky. She fed off their abject terror, revelling in their fear. Like a vampire, it filled and consumed her, until she grew swollen with power. His enemies scattered in panic, their silent prey forgotten on the ground. Marguerite's anger pursued them relentlessly, roaring out a threnody of violence. She was supreme and sentient with nature. Her terrible wrath knew no bounds.
And suddenly, just as the storm had arisen, it seemed to implode and was gone. Marguerite awoke in a tangle of bedclothes, breathless and glistening with sweat. She was hanging, half-in, half-out of the bed, heart pounding with adrenalin and fear. She sat up slowly in the moonlight and raised a shaky hand to her hair.
"Great," it was a birds-nest of matted curls.
It took a few minutes to re-orientate herself. As dreams went, on a scale of one to ten, it had been a bloody nightmare. She couldn’t get rid of the feeling something awful had happened. Roxton and Veronica would be all right. They always were, weren’t they?
“No,” a small voice inside her answered. “Actually, sometimes, they weren’t.”
Roxton had been anything but all right after Veronica had filleted him with that dammed knife of hers. He had, in-fact, been very all wrong for several, anxiety-ridden days. She pushed the memory away from her. It was a place she didn’t wish to re-visit. The appalling time had flown by in a haze of revelation. It had forced her to look long and hard at herself and re-examine her values. She hadn’t liked what she'd seen. A cynical, embittered woman, independent and strong. The wary, clever Marguerite Krux, so proud of her self-sufficiency.
There was no doubt she had softened. She was danger of losing her focus. Of letting emotions in under her guard and beginning to care about others. Especially, one specific other. Marguerite moved restlessly and swung her legs onto the floor.
Why now?
Why had she, of all people, fallen into this particular trap? It was weak, self-indulgent to let herself love. Foolish and dangerous in her line of business. Such weakness was easily exploited. Such foolishness might be used against her. A chink in her armour. An Achilles heel. Her enemies (and there were many of them,) would not scruple to use such power to distract her from her goals.
As much as she hated to admit it, John Roxton was definitely a distraction. From the top of his fine-shaped, noble brow, to the tips of his well-heeled boots. The bits in-between weren’t all that bad, either. Marguerite let her mind linger on his Lordship’s anatomy with a slightly wistful sigh. There was no doubting his many attributions or the fact he knew how to use them. Roxton was walking testosterone, a very, sexy man. Not to mention the title, the various grand houses, or the fortune thrown in for good measure.
And here they were, just like Adam and Eve stranded together in Eden. A big, juicy apple, just ripe for the plucking, so rosy and full of temptation. There was only one tiny problem. She was no bloody Eve and Roxton was no bloody Adam. She was more Lilith, the temptress and witch, banished to the fringes of society. And Roxton was tainted with innocent blood, forever branded with the mark of Cain. Even their Eden was a masquerade. There were serpents and demons behind every tree and they shared their quasi-paradise with too many significant others.
She got out of bed and left her quarters, heading straight for the balcony. It felt instinctive to seek this place whenever she was troubled or disturbed. Looking out across the jungle soothed her somehow, helped to ease her pain and ruffled feelings. She was separate from everything up here in the tree-tops, detached from the brutalities below. It was stupid - just an illusion. Marguerite knew that, of course. You couldn’t escape from your problems when they were seared like a brand on your soul. And Roxton knew it too. His Lordship had travelled far and wide in an attempt to come to terms with his guilt.
Roxton. It always came back to Roxton lately. Or at least, it seemed that way to her. The bloody man even haunted her dreams, better make that her nightmares. A disturbing vision flooded her thoughts and she shook her head with annoyance. It must be the result of recent events, a legacy of their encounter with evil. Some twisted form of hangover still lingering in her head. That was all it was - right?
Damn it, who the hell was she trying to convince? There was no one else out here but her. She ran her fingers lightly over the hand rail and stared, deep in thought, down at the ground. The night was clear and unusually bright, the moon round and full in the heavens. Something gleamed and caught her eye. A flash of silvery metal, held and snagged by the tangle of creepers which laced up the ancient tree-trunk. Marguerite knelt down quickly and stretched her arm through the rails, squinting with effort to reach it.
There . . . got it!
Her fingers closed around a small, metal object. The Roxton ring. She knew immediately what it was, but didn’t know Roxton had lost it. Marguerite frowned, suddenly. The thought of him without it was unsettling. It was his talisman, his good luck charm. A symbol of the man and his honour. No wonder he had seemed so distracted this morning before setting out from the tree house. The ring must have slipped off his finger and become tangled up in the liana. He had lost a significant amount of weight since his injury and the damn thing must have got loose. She could picture him standing out here at the railings in almost this very spot. Lord knew, he spent enough time out here, and lately, it had been by himself.
A scene from the dream flashed through her mind, like a picture or a frozen, cinema still. An image of Roxton bloodied on the ground, silent and unmoving. He was slumped amongst roots at the base of a tree, as he’d been when Veronica had stabbed him. The horror of that moment was still etched in her soul, in her desperation and anger.
Dear God, the very thought of it nearly made her physically sick. The wet slick of scarlet all over her hands as she fought hard to stop it pumping out of him. His muted groans of agony as she’d pressed down hard on the wound. She'd wanted . . . wanted to bear his pain as he tried to be brave for her sake. Marguerite shook her head in an effort to clear it, to chase away the host of mocking demons. The nightmare remained stuck firmly in place like the cold knot of fear down inside her.
'What if it wasn't a dream - what if it was some kind of vision?'
A vision or perhaps a premonition. A disaster just waiting to happen. It wouldn't be the first time she’d experienced something similar. Her life had been saved several times in the past by something other than intuition. Once as a child, in a busy street with a runaway carriage bearing down on her. She’d seen the careering wheels in her head and leapt out of the way just in time. There was another time in Paris, after sensing a trap. She and Adrienne had been fleeing for their lives. She had known the very moment when to dodge the bullets, it was little short of a miracle both of them had survived. Call it gut-feeling, call it a hunch. Call it what you will. Marguerite knew it was far more than that, but was afraid to probe into things too deeply. The gift sat uneasily on her shoulders. Was it a blessing or a curse?
Marguerite laid the ring flat on her palm and stared at it in the moonlight. For a moment, the psychometric charge which emanated from it was so strong, she could almost see Roxton standing in front of her. Leather and gun-oil, soap and sunlight, the tantalising scent of masculinity. She could see him, smell him, and hear the timbre of his voice. If she reached out her hand she could touch him . . .
The apparition shimmered and was gone. She was alone with the night and the jungle. She gripped the ring tightly, suddenly afraid, as images of blood returned to haunt her.
“Roxton, where are you?” Her voice sounded peevish and angry. Angry he could wield such power over her.
The darkness echoed the sound of her words, mocking and flinging them back at her. Only the deep silence answered. It was filled with presentiment and fear.
END OF PART ONE
Lisa Paris - 2005
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PART TWO
Roxton glanced sideways at Veronica and suppressed a weary sigh. They'd hardly spoken a word to each other since leaving the tree house this morning. Their little expedition was proving to be everything he'd dreaded and worse. Lady luck wasn't exactly smiling on them either. The game had moved off deeper into the jungle, away from the grassland plains full of predators and the unusual, scorching heat. There was not a wild boar to be seen, only the tracks of migratory deer heading towards the river. They'd been forced to take a detour to avoid a pack of raptors, no doubt following the same prey they were after. If the worst came to the worst, they might have to settle for dinosaur meat, but Roxton was sick to death of it and hoping for tastier fare.
He rolled his shoulders tiredly and carefully flexed his spine. His back was playing him up again, a niggling ache in his lumbar region. It was thanks to a lifetime of strenuous activity and the curse of being tall. And truth be told, he knew he hadn't quite recovered from his recent, debilitating injury. He still tired much too easily, but it had not seemed politic to admit it. The sooner everyone forgot what had happened, the better chance of returning to normal. If it meant keeping his mouth shut, he would learn to be a damned clam.
Veronica glanced at him furtively and a shade of doubt crossed her face. Roxton braced and gave her a hearty smile to prove he was feeling fine.
"I think we gave those raptors the slip."
"Perhaps." It was her usual, one-word answer. He was getting used to those these days.
"We ought to head for the river shallows - pitch a camp and wait until evening. They'll come out of the jungle to drink then, I think it's our best chance."
She nodded her head, briefly. He saw her glance involuntarily at his body, guilty eyes travelling down his torso to rest at the spot where she’d wounded him. "Trouble is, the raptors will know that too. We might end up with unwanted company."
"We'll stop at the base of those limestone rocks. Nothing can sneak up on us there and we'll have a good view down river. The moonlight's plenty bright enough for a couple of clear shots . . ."
They both heard the snap of a twig under pressure at exactly the same time, freezing in place from dint of long practise as they listened for any other sounds. Roxton drew one of his Webleys and waited. He saw Veronica's knife glint wickedly in her hand. Not a raptor, that was for sure. Once their cover had been blown like that, the beasts usually attacked straight away.
The leaves rustled slightly away to the left and Roxton felt his hackles rise. He touched Veronica softly on the arm and nodded across in that direction. The warning was unnecessary. She was already scanning the undergrowth keenly, muscles tight with readiness and tension.
"Cannibals." She said, tersely. "I can smell them from here."
"Great," muttered Roxton, under his breath. "I know I said I wanted fresh meat, but I didn’t plan on being part of the menu. Time we got the hell out of here. I think discretion is the better part of valour.”
The clearing erupted as the words left his lips and head-hunters surged from the trees. Roxton fired and brought two of them down, pushing Veronica on before him.
“Me and my big mouth . . . let’s hope they’re not all that hungry today!”
“Don’t bet on it,” she said, dryly, as they pelted along the trail.
He turned and fired three more shots, each one of them unerringly accurate. “That should give them something to think about and hopefully, a little food for thought.”
He was doomed to disappointment if he thought she would admire his pun. She disappeared through the jungle in front of him, as fleet and lithe as a cat. Roxton was reminded of an ancient Greek myth he had always liked as a boy. Atalanta, the mighty huntress, in search of her golden apples. It was strange, the kind of thing which occurred to one, when running through the trees to stay alive. As much as he tried not to dwell on it, he was seriously short of breath. The remnants of too much blood loss, an aftermath of his fever. Much more of this and he’d run out of puff, endangering both their lives.
He felt the familiar kick of the Webleys as he fired another three shots. Three more natives dropped to the ground but the rest kept right on coming. He made a swift calculation. He’d already used up eight rounds. Two to go, plus his bare hands and his rifle. He’d better make them count.
“Roxton - hurry-up!” Veronica’s voice from some yards ahead, a mixture of impatience and concern.
He used the last two rounds to good effect and ran onwards, un-shouldering his rifle. It made a damned, good club for short-range combat, far better than a knife or his fists. His side was ripping with a painful stitch, but he forced himself to ignore it. The freshly healed muscles protested in vain as he ran determinedly on. Plenty of time to worry later, if they ever got out of this mess. Roxton could hear the slap of bare feet and feel their blood-lust and anger. He’d killed enough of them by now to have made it a personal vendetta.
He spun around quickly and took them by surprise, dropping to one knee on the ground. The rifle was already up and sited as he squeezed the trigger, taking two more down. They were on him then, like a surging, black tide. He staggered backwards, reversing the rifle, aware of a golden flash at his side as Veronica joined the affray. Instinct and training took over from then on. Roxton battled for their lives like a man possessed, blocking blow after blow from the lethal stone axes aimed with deadly intent at their heads.
Veronica uttered a cry of distress and crumpled to the ground. Roxton shifted his body-weight in order to protect her, wielding the rifle in a wide-reaching circle as he swung it round his head. He fought with clinical precision and an almost remote sense of calm. The odds were stacked heavily against them, but he was damned if he’d give up ‘till the last. He didn’t see the spear thrust which caught him but the shock of it forced him to his knees. He continued to struggle as they bore him down, cursing them and grunting out profanities. He was impervious to their vicious blows as the blood ran into his eyes. The sun was angry, glaring above him as the periphery started to fade. Darkness began to roar in his ears like the swirling rush of tide. It edged and tinted the brightness to black as he felt himself swept under.
For a moment, he saw her standing there - the silvery green of her eyes. There was fear on her face and words left unsaid . . . soft words. His heart raced with hope . . .
“Marguerite,” he formed her name in his throat but the syllables remained unspoken.
The world spun away in a spiral of pain. A single, cruel blow and it was over.
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Marguerite looked at herself in the mirror. She was gaunt and hollow-eyed from lack of sleep. Unable to snatch another wink since having that bloody nightmare. And now it was breakfast time again. There was already someone - Malone, no doubt - banging about in the kitchen, making loud chopping sounds with a knife and whistling a bluesy, ragtime tune. That clinched it. It was definitely Malone. Challenger very rarely cooked and Summerlee would never choose that genre. Now if it had been Gilbert and Sullivan, perhaps, or some ghastly, old Victorian hymn . . .
Marguerite groaned and climbed back into bed. With any luck, they would leave her alone for a while.
"Marguerite - breakfast in ten minutes." Malone's voice was depressingly cheerful.
She pulled the pillow down over her head and muttered rudely under her breath. Any wistful hope of a lie-in, grudgingly abandoned for now. Damn Malone for that. Didn't he know she'd been up half the night, that something was definitely off-kilter? For God’s sake, Veronica was supposed to be the girl of his dreams. His precious inamorata. Hadn’t the inconsiderate man sensed anything was wrong?
Wrong in the past-tense, she realised with a shudder. The dream had been a witnessing vision as opposed to a premonition. If anything had happened, it was over and done with. Finished. Roxton and Veronica might already be dead. All traces of tiredness deserted her. She lay there uneasily for another few minutes, considering what to do. It was one thing to be so sure in her soul, to know something terrible had happened, but how on earth was she supposed to tell the others about it?
She could stroll blithely up to the breakfast table and announce she’d had a visionary dream. Right, that would work. Marguerite made a face to herself - alternatively, they might all think she’d gone mad.
The morning sun shone through the thatch still lemon-bright with newness. It caught and gleamed on the band of gold she had placed on the nightstand beside her. The Roxton ring. His ring. She reached out shakily to pick it up. It suddenly weighed heavily in her hand. As though he was counting on her to save him. As though it was his life she was holding . . . his life in the palm of her hand.
The options had been taken away from her. The choices already made. Marguerite knew she had no alternative, so let them think her crazy if they dared!
She was up and dressed in minutes, lie-ins and lack of sleep forgotten. All at once, there didn’t seem to be much time. The sooner she was able to convince the others, the faster they would get to Roxton’s side. She picked up the Roxton ring and hesitated for a moment, balancing it in her hand. As stupid as her feelings of superstition seemed, she knew how important they were. For some reason, it was her job to keep the ring safe. She threaded it through a piece of black ribbon and hung it around her neck, tucking it carefully in her camisole bodice, the cold metal close to her heart. The symbolism was glaringly obvious, but probably best ignored. It trespassed in places she’d rather not visit, forbidden and definitely off-limits.
“Marguerite . . .”
Malone was bawling her name again. Something about a pot of coffee. Marguerite grimaced. He didn’t seem to feel the need to yell at the Professors, she noted sourly, but perhaps it was partly her fault. Things had always been a tad fraught between her and Malone, right from the very start of the expedition. He was such a babe in arms. So earnest, so apple-pie American, so wet behind the ears . . . rich and easy pickings for her cool, sarcastic barbs. It wasn’t that she didn’t like him exactly. He was brave and clever and in-fact, rather sweet. But she mistrusted journalists for obvious reasons; they always wanted details of her past. E.T. Malone was no exception to the rule and she always had to stay on her guard. She'd invested too much in this bloody expedition to be denied her real quest now.
Things had been worse since Roxton's stabbing. As Marguerite recalled, she’d said some pretty harsh things to Malone in the weeks during the aftermath. He’d appeared to be focused on Veronica to the exclusion of everyone else. Marguerite had told him what she thought of that, in no uncertain terms. She realised she’d been a little unfair. If it wasn’t for Malone’s help and intervention, things might have ended very differently upon that awful day. For one thing, there would have been no kitchen knife handy for Roxton to throw at Largo. The cold-hearted bastard would have shot him where he lay, wounded and bleeding on the ground.
She sighed as she left her quarters. No one had escaped the Layton farrago unhurt. Both she and Ned been right and wrong, partisan to the person they cared for. Ned for Veronica and herself for Roxton, each racked with worry and concern. It was easy with hindsight to see where the problems had arisen, but at the time, Veronica hadn’t been the one bleeding. She hadn’t been blue-lipped and ashen with blood-loss, or tossing with intractable fever. Not saved by a matter of seconds, from being stabbed over again. Marguerite shivered, suddenly cold, as a goose marched over her grave. A second earlier, she might have saved Roxton. A second later, then he would have died.
“Good morning, you’re up bright and early. There’s a fresh pot of coffee on the stove.”
Was it her imagination or did Malone sound surprised to see her out of bed? Marguerite didn’t think so, she could see a hint of query in his eye. She poured herself a cup of coffee and inhaled its rich, dark scent. May as well make the most of it. She had a feeling the caffeine would be sorely needed within the next minute or two. Challenger and Summerlee appeared moments later and Marguerite took a deep breath.
"Something's wrong . . ."
By the time she'd finished telling them, there was a curious silence around the table. Challenger was staring at her quizzically and Malone sat shaking his head. It was Summerlee who first broke the silence, clearing his throat with embarrassment as he placed an extra spoonful of sugar into his tea.
“Things haven’t been too comfortable lately, ever since the Tom Layton affair . . .”
“To hell with the Tom Layton affair,” Marguerite snapped back, bluntly. “This has got nothing to do with it. I’m telling you, something is wrong. Roxton and Veronica are in danger. They badly need our help.”
“And you know this because you had a nightmare?”
“Yes.” She would have slapped Malone’s face, if she could.
“It’s been so terribly hot these last few nights,” Summerlee looked at her doubtfully. “I’ve had trouble sleeping myself, and some very peculiar dreams.”
Marguerite clenched her teeth in frustration and refrained from losing her temper. “Believe me, Arthur, it isn’t the heat. I . . . I’ve had this kind of dream before. Do you think I’d risk making a fool of myself unless I was really sure?”
“It was a nasty blow I dealt you.” Summerlee’s voice was deeply unhappy. “A very bad blow to the head. Perhaps you’re suffering from latent concussion or some other medical consequence . . .”
“More likely Layton concussion.” Malone grinned widely, pleased with the joke, as he took a large bite of his toast.
“My head is fine and we’re wasting time. “ Marguerite stared around at them in exasperation. “If I’m wrong, you can laugh at me later, make fun as much as you like. Arthur, you can give me a lobotomy, or whatever else you have in mind. What have we possibly got to lose except for a little time?”
“Challenger, you’ve been awfully quiet,” Malone looked across at the Professor. “Do you think we should listen to Marguerite’s dream and go off after Veronica and Roxton? Leave the safety of the tree house for the sake of a wild goose chase?”
“Yes,” said Challenger, unexpectedly. “I rather think we should.”
"You do?" Malone was astounded.
"Finally!" Marguerite shot him a triumphant glare.
Challenger steepled his fingers together and rested them against his top lip. "One lesson we should have learned by now, is to always expect the unexpected. As much as it pains me to say it, events here on the Plateau don't play by the accepted rules of science." For a moment, Challenger did indeed look pained. "The physical and metaphysical appear to exist side by side. We've all experienced this in several forms ever since our arrival.” He paused, slightly distracted. “I'm sure that given time, I'll discover a perfectly logical reason for such phenomena, but for now, it would seem foolish to deny its presence."
Marguerite looked at him in sudden relief, grateful for his support. A little unexpected, that was for sure, but none the less welcome for all that. In-spite of the sense of urgency, she wasted vital seconds pondering on his words. Although she had been born with her uncanny 'gift,' there was no denying it had grown in strength since their arrival on the Plateau. As for the metaphysical, Marguerite wondered what Challenger would say if he knew her real motive for funding his expedition.
There was time enough for that later. At the moment, she had other, pressing concerns. Her dream was as sharp as a photograph, the images clear and concise. Marguerite could picture the river and limestone cliffs which lay on the far-side of the jungle, forming a natural barrier between the tree house and the inland sea. Roxton had mentioned moving further a-field, something about migratory game. It occurred to her, she was getting to know him a shade too well. She could work-out the way his mind reasoned. He would stick to the edge of the river-bank on the premise of game seeking water. It was there they had been attacked. There they would find Veronica and Roxton. Whether they were alive or dead still remained to be seen.
"Thank you, George." She took a deep breath. "I'm sure I know where they were attacked. It will take at least half a day to get there. We should leave as soon as we can."
He reached over and patted the back of her hand. "I very much hope you're wrong, Marguerite, that Veronica and John will be all right. But in light of everything that’s happened recently . . .” he paused and cleared his throat, hurriedly. “I've been meaning to mount a small expedition of my own. In search of the red-backed beetle we saw that day by the falls. It’ll do us good to get away from the tree house. I'm sure your pharmacy must need replenishing, Summerlee?” He gave Malone a little smile. “So you see, whatever happens, this needn’t be a waste of time."
They all looked at Malone, as if of accord. He grudgingly nodded his head. "I'd better go check on the guns and supplies if you're determined to go through with this. I only hope you've thought up some good excuses. Roxton and Veronica will think we’ve gone loco. We might end-up with egg on our faces."
‘If only,’ thought Marguerite to herself, as she got up from the table. Egg on her face seemed a small price to pay compared for Roxton’s safety. And then there was Veronica. That was less black and white. Their relationship hadn't exactly started out on the best of footings . . . Marguerite gave a small sigh. Of course, she hadn't intended to let that stupid wedding go ahead. As usual, her motives had been misinterpreted and as a consequence, Veronica was suspicious of her. As luck would have it, things had been starting to improve before the stabbing. Granted very slowly, but built on a growing respect. The fake Tom Layton had put paid to that and toppled things back to square one.
Marguerite felt a pang of regret and more than a little surprise. She hadn't been close to another woman since Adrienne had died. What with the war and her other activities, she had spent all her time with men. On the whole, women disliked her. Jealous of her beauty, they perceived her as a threat. Always thinking she was after their husbands. Sometimes, they were right, she was. If there was something she wanted, anything to be gained, she had taken it without scruple. Without wasting a second thought. After all, it was dog eat dog out there. Every man (or woman) for himself. She never took the men for their own sake, always for what they could offer. Money, perhaps secrets or power. Oh, and once for sweet revenge. A tiny, cat-like smile laced her lips. She had taught a certain bitch of a duchess a cruel and salutary lesson.
But Veronica was virtually an innocent, untouched by society’s affectations. What you saw, was what you got. There were no wiles or petty subterfuge. It was refreshing in a tiresome way, at least she always knew how things stood. No games, no double-entendre. No Machiavellian tricks. If Veronica was angry she told you about it, in no uncertain terms. They had fought and squabbled like sisters, trading insults and sulky silences. Until Largo had come to the tree house and put a poisoned end to all that. Now, they politely avoided each other, only speaking when absolutely necessary. Talking about dinner and other mundane things like two Englishwomen over the tea-cups.
Marguerite was a painful reminder of everything Veronica had lost. For herself, all she saw . . . was able to see . . . like a repeating gramophone record, was the gleam of the blade in the other girl's hand. The moment of hatred and blazing triumph as she’d thrust it into Roxton’s belly.
She shivered and collected her things together. They were wasting precious time. Her sense of urgency more heightened than ever and edged with encroaching fear. Roxton and Veronica needed them badly, she had not a shadow of doubt. Whatever trouble had befallen them, Marguerite knew it was bad. Her family by proxy was under threat once more. Once more, she couldn't let them down.
The revelation was almost a bolt from the blue. It made her pause for a second. Oh boy, was she in big trouble. She had broken her cardinal rule. The one she guarded so jealously about letting people under her skin. She was beginning to feel protective, almost sisterly, in-fact. In-spite of Veronica's capabilities, she was far less emotionally strong. And as for his bloody lordship . . . it was better not to go there.
The truth was decidedly uncomfortable, she thought with a wretched twist of pain. She didn't want to lose either one. She cared for them both too much.
END OF PART TWO
Lisa Paris - 2005
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Parts 1 & 2 Parts 3 & 4 Parts 5 & 6 Parts 7 & 8 Parts 9 & 10 Epilogue & Author's Notes
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