Shadow of a Dream
"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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PART THREE
The Previous Evening . . .
Veronica groaned and opened her eyes, raising a hand to her temple. When she eventually focused on her fingers, she could see they were smeared with blood. Her memory returned with a frightening jolt. She pushed herself upwards abruptly. It was too much, too soon. Her head swung accordingly, nausea constricting her throat.
Head-hunters.
They'd been attacked. Her and Roxton . . . out hunting . . .
Panic rose in her breast again. They'd been swamped and severely out-numbered. So why was she still alive?
It was beginning to get dark. The sounds of the jungle were changing and a heavy dew had fallen on the ground. A bat swooped low through the cooler air, in-search of its night-time prey. Already, the trees above her head rustled with nocturnal life.
Veronica pushed herself upwards again, this time rather more cautiously. She was lying in a glade by the side of a log, no sign of a single head-hunter. It was hard to imagine why they’d left her, unless she'd imagined it all. It was not beyond the realms of possibility. The false Tom Layton had taught her a lesson, not to take things at face value any more. She felt older and wiser, grown in experience, but filled with a sense of loss. Looking harder, she saw the grass had been flattened, trampled down by a host of feet. Proof that a fight had taken place. It was a grain of comfort, at least.
Something gleamed in the fading light and Veronica gave a sigh of relief. Once night fell on the Plateau, it could be deadly to be caught without a knife. She felt better once she was holding it, the leather hilt reassuring in her hand. But it brought back other, disturbing memories, and after a second she frowned. However hard she tried to forget, there was no escaping what she’d done. The shadow of Largo and her subsequent actions lingered almost exclusively in her thoughts.
It had not been easy stabbing Roxton. A hard thrust with her whole body weight behind it. The razor-sharp blade had sliced through his skin into an initial barrier of flesh. The sinewy strength of abdominal muscle had provided tough resistance, but that day, she’d been fired with exceptional power and Roxton was wary of hurting her.
A burst of primitive anger had done it. Anger, and the need to please her ‘father.’ She remembered feeling triumph as the thrust hit true, the softness of visceral organs. The fear and surprise on the Englishman's face as his blood spilled out over her hands.
For a second then, they'd seemed frozen in time. The huntress victorious and her prey. Their eyes had locked and she'd held his gaze, enjoying his helplessness. She’d smiled with elation at her bloody coup, adrenalin pumping through her veins. She recalled his silent agony as she cruelly twisted the blade, the grating sensation of metal-torn flesh as he sagged down against the tree. She'd been on the verge of disembowelling him when Marguerite had screamed out in rage.
The thrill of attacking Roxton had surprised her. The thrill and feral control. It was as though the plant drug had given her freedom and released the whispering conscience of her soul. She’d been driven and drenched in a tide of violence, unleashing and glorying in her strength. A man, brave and physical as Roxton . . . yet ‘she’ had taken him down. She had stripped the alpha male of his power and reduced him to the status of victim, watching him writhe in torment, utterly helpless in her hands.
A single tear rolled down her cheek and dripped onto the blade. Veronica forced her memories aside and regarded it with sudden distaste. She had stabbed Roxton - meant to kill him. And for a moment, she had revelled in it. No wonder she could hardly bear to look at him. She could hardly bear to look at herself.
Roxton. Oh God, Roxton . . .
She looked wildly around the clearing, straining her eyes in the gloom. For a second, she thought they’d taken him, but then she saw a familiar shape over by the edge of the trees. The Englishman lay far too still and she was almost afraid to approach him. After all that had happened recently, it would be bitterly ironic if Roxton died defending her now.
“Please . . .” Veronica rolled him onto his back, the single word catching in her throat.
He was inert and heavy, no muscle resistance. Pale and deeply unconscious. An ominous shadow stained the front of his shirt. Veronica caught her breath, lifting the leather waist-coat aside to take a better look. It was like some ghastly deja-vu, the darkening stain was blood. It spread from the top of his belt-line up the left-hand side of his body.
She unbuttoned his shirt with trembling hands in an effort to assess the damage. The cotton had begun to stick to his flesh and she was forced to ease it aside. Roxton stirred but didn’t wake as she tugged the garment free. She bared the wound with trepidation. It was a spear thrust, deep and ugly, the surrounding flesh raised and swollen with purpling bruises only a matter of inches from the new scar inflicted by her knife. The rest of the Englishman's body was mottled with darkening contusions and there were other, superficial gashes. The worst of which was a blow to his temple that distorted the side of his face.
It was not good. Veronica sighed and sat back on her heels, she had to work something out fast. Roxton needed urgent help but it would be foolhardy to treat him here. The jungle was full of nocturnal predators, all attracted by the scent of blood. Their danger was increasing with every second that passed.
It was a miracle nothing had detected them yet. Veronica glanced uneasily around the clearing. There was also the unanswered question of the vanished head hunters. She deliberately tried not to speculate on what might have frightened them off. A tyrannosaurus perhaps, or a pack of hunting raptors. Which led straight back to the salient question. Why were she and Roxton still alive?
The glass had been flattened in the struggle for their lives but for the first time, she noticed the trees. They were bowed in a tangle of torn vines and branches, as though destroyed and trampled down by a herd of rampaging elephants. Some of the smaller saplings had been completely up-rooted, tossed aside forlornly, as though by a giant hand. The larger boughs were stripped and totally de-nuded, the branches bereft of their leaves. It was as though a small tornado had whipped a path through the jungle, scything down anything which stood in its way, yet leaving the rest untouched.
Weather anomalies were not unheard of on the Plateau. The climate was not exclusively tropical and sometimes the jungle was ripped apart by hurricane force winds. Veronica had no doubt that if Challenger were here, he would have a ready explanation. Her eyes pricked suddenly, with unaccustomed tears. She really wished Challenger . . . or for that matter, any of the other explorers were here. But this was no time for self-pity, she had too much to do.
Every minute they remained in the open was an open invitation for trouble. Even if the head-hunters didn’t return, it wouldn’t take long for some other predator to find them. The surrounding jungle was alive with danger, filled with the creeping sounds of night. Veronica strained her ears to listen, alerted by a rustle nearby. It was only an owl in the broken tree-tops, cracking the bones of some hapless rodent with the lethal curve of its beak. There was another, more familiar noise in the backdrop. The sound of water on stones. Veronica’s heart gave a leap of relief. They were still fairly close to the river-shallows, not far from the lime-stone escarpment. And thankfully, the whole area was typical of that particular form of geological composition. The cliff-faces riddled with caves and crevices, plenty of safe places to hide.
She glanced down at Roxton again. It was all very well in theory, but unless she could count on the Englishman’s help, there was no way on earth she could move him.
“Roxton,” She shook him firmly by the shoulders, ignoring his murmur of pain. “Roxton, you have to wake-up!” When he didn’t respond she shook him harder, and this time, even more ungently. “Roxton!”
“Marguerite?” His voice was little more than a whisper. “Marguerite, are you there?”
“Marguerite’s safe, she’s back at the tree house.” Instinct told Veronica what to say. “It’s Veronica. We were hunting, remember? And then we got attacked.”
Roxton’s eyes fluttered open, hazy and clouded with pain. They focused on her face with dawning confusion as deep lines furrowed his brow. She waited a second, suffused with relief, just glad to see him awake. For a moment, when she’d first seen him lying so still, she had truly believed he was dead.
“No – Roxton, don’t you dare. You have to stay awake!”
His eyelids began to flicker again as he threatened to drift away. Veronica bit down hard on her lip. She hated what she was about to do, but at the moment, there was no other choice. She slapped him sharply across the cheek, watching as he jerked to awareness. He stared at her in hurt bewilderment, but at least he was back with her again.
“I’m sorry . . .” being brutal was her only option. She hoped Roxton was conscious enough to realise it was the only way of keeping them alive. “. . . but we have to make a move. We’re sitting ducks if we stay out here. We have to get to the caves.”
He nodded dully and attempted to sit-up, survivalist knowledge taking over. It wasn’t a total disaster. He made as far as one elbow before doubling over in pain. “Damn!”
“Here, let me help you.” She slid an arm under his good side and waited whilst he caught his breath. He was thinner . . . lighter and much thinner . . . strange she hadn’t noticed until now. But then again, she’d been doing her best to avoid him whenever she possibly could. Pain and a guilty conscience had made uneasy bedfellows. Every day since the stabbing, she’d been pulling quietly away.
Oh God, she had done this to him. To this man, who had always been her friend.
“Thank you,” he hissed, through gritted teeth, leaning heavily against her shoulder.
She knew how much effort it cost him. The veins stood out like cords on his neck as he strove to deal with the pain. He pushed himself onto his right-hand side and levered his body up slowly. For a second, he faltered and she supported his weight, knowing if he fell, it would be fatal. It was a testament to strength of character he had managed to make it this far. If Marguerite were with them, she would say it was thanks to his stubbornness. His sheer, bloody-mindedness. She would goad him and proceed to torment him, but her tactics always worked. John Roxton would pull himself together and try his level best not to let her down.
Veronica gave a tiny sigh. ‘Marguerite, all is forgiven. I could really do with you here, now.” If the famous, iron-will failed him and Roxton slipped from her grasp, Veronica knew it would be impossible to get him back on his feet. The big Englishman would certainly die and Marguerite would never forgive her.
Veronica shivered. The thought of an unforgiving Marguerite was not a happy one. She had learned very quickly not to underestimate the heiress. There was far more to the enigmatic Miss Krux than apparently met the eye.
From the very beginning, they had been wary of each other. To say their relationship had not been formed under the best of circumstances was a mild understatement. Marguerite reminded Veronica of the gemstones she appeared so fond of, as hard and faceted as a sparkling diamond, held up to catch the light. There was definitely something about her which didn’t quite ring true. It made Veronica uneasy, always slightly on-guard.
Oh, Marguerite was courageous, of that, there could be no doubt. She could also be charming and witty, whenever she was in a good mood. And if anyone was capable of coaxing Marguerite out of one of her caustic tempers, then nine times out of ten, it would be Roxton. It was inevitably the kind-hearted Englishman who could lighten her disposition. Who managed to initiate in Marguerite those rare and surprisingly enjoyable moments of grace.
Veronica shivered slightly as she remembered the stabbing again. Even though she had been under the hallucinogenic influence of her father’s neurotoxin, she would never forget the look in Marguerite’s expressive eyes. Silvered with primeval fury, almost blank with rage and despair, Marguerite had been driven by a powerful inner strength and the desperate need to save Roxton. If anything should happen to Roxton now . . . it didn’t bear thinking about.
“Veronica,” his voice was hoarse. “You were hurt, I saw you go down.”
“It’s nothing,” she muttered, gruffly. It was taking much valiant effort to ignore the remorseless pain behind her temples. “A slight blow to the head. I’m fine, but we won’t be, unless I get you to safety.”
She didn’t mean to sound as terse, but the words came out more harshly than intended. In-spite of his crippling injuries, Roxton was trying hard. His concern for her was typical, but right now, it grated on her nerves. Veronica’s eyes pricked with treacherous tears and she hated the unaccustomed weakness. She would rather be stuck here with anyone else. Anyone else except Roxton.
They staggered on through the gathering dusk, each step a major achievement. Somehow, they made it as far as the river and she felt light-headed with relief. Roxton had been grimly silent apart from the odd grunt of discomfort. It could have been due to the pain of his injuries, but Veronica didn’t think so.
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The going was far from easy and they moved at a snail’s pace, feet snagged and tripped by the tangle of roots which criss-crossed the jungle floor. Roxton leant on her heavily, dependant on her strength. She could hear the ragged catch of his breath as it tore at his heaving lungs.
Not far now . . . they were nearly at the caves. Her shoulders burned with the strain. Already, out there in the darkness, she could hear a dinosaur’s roar. Roxton must have heard it too and he managed to speed up a little. Heaven only knew what it cost him, but they were making much better progress. The limestone cliffs soared above them and Veronica almost sobbed with relief. Just a little while further and then they would be safe.
Safe. The thought seemed wildly incongruous, but she couldn’t waste time worrying about anything other than the immediate future. She had to get Roxton under shelter and take a proper look at his wound. Their long term prospects would have to wait, otherwise they would end up as dinner.
Roxton’s increase in pace had drained him, he was floundering badly now. Totally reliant on her upper body strength as she dragged him unceremoniously through the shallows. There was something in the bushes about two hundred yards behind them, something big and hungry enough not to care about other predators.
“Behind us . . .” Roxton had obviously heard it too.
“Nearly there.”
They stumbled out of the water and through a bank of bushes, the jagged thorns on the branches tearing at their flesh. Whatever was pursuing them, closer now, driven on by the scent of blood.
“You’ll make faster time . . . if you leave me behind . . .” Roxton’s arm slipped off her shoulder and she felt his grip start to loosen.
“No one’s leaving anyone behind,” she grunted, grabbing him tightly around the waist. “Nearly there . . . we’re nearly there.”
She thrust him head first in front of her and they sprawled into the entrance of a cave. Thank God, her memory had not failed her; she’d been terrified of misleading them in the dark. The bushes crackled behind them and she caught a quick glimpse of a large, leathery head. A Deinonychosaurus, judging by the outline. Vicious, with teeth like steak knives, and out on the hunt for fresh meat.
“That was close.” There was a hint of humour in Roxton’s tone, despite the fact his voice sounded weak.
“Too close,” she said, wryly. “It’s a good thing the entrance is so narrow.”
There was an awkward moment of silence before Roxton spoke again. “I owe you my life, Veronica. That monster would have had me for hors d’oeuvres.” He sank back with difficulty onto his elbow and gave an involuntary groan. “I should have stayed in bed this morning. All in all, this just hasn’t been my day.”
“Here, let me take a look at your wound.” Veronica moved across to his side. “It shouldn’t be delayed any longer.”
She dealt with him matter-of-factly, carefully avoiding his eyes. It was easy to keep her head safely lowered as she unbuttoned the blue, cambric shirt. She uncovered the wound and sucked in her breath, glad that he couldn’t see her face. To her dismay, it looked swollen, puffier than before. At least there was minimal blood loss, but Veronica wasn’t fooled. Just because there wasn’t much on the outside, it didn’t mean he wasn’t bleeding into his gut.
“How does it look?”
Even though she hid her expression, Roxton must have read her mind. There was a sheen of cold sweat on the Englishman’s brow and he was clearly in a lot of pain. There wasn’t a lot she could do for him. In-fact, barely anything at all. They were trapped, without help or much hope of it, forced to survive alone. The rest of the explorers wouldn’t know anything was wrong until they failed to return by tomorrow evening. Even then, it would be foolhardy to risk mounting a rescue party until first-light, the following morning. Theoretically, she and Roxton might be stuck here for at least forty-eight hours before help reached them. The thought of being found by anyone else was not something she wished to contemplate. Their tracks would be easy to follow – there was a good chance the head-hunters would return.
“Veronica?”
She shook herself out of her reverie. “It doesn’t seem too bad.”
“Liar.” The tinge of humour was back again, but she knew he was worrying too. “Listen, you should leave here in the morning. Head out at first light and get help.”
“No,” she was uncompromising. “You won’t stand a chance by yourself. The others will realise something is wrong and they’ll come looking for us.”
Roxton’s mouth twisted, wryly. “You know as well as I do, that won’t be for a day, at least. We’re not due back until tomorrow evening, they’re not foolish enough to travel by night. You could make the tree house easily by noon. It would save us a lot of time.”
It didn’t help that he was right. It was definitely the sensible thing to do. But she baulked at the thought of leaving him alone, there was a more than even chance he wouldn’t make it. She knew the spear thrust was serious and the likelihood of him going into shock was high. Not enough time had passed since he’d recovered from the stab wound. He’d been denied a proper chance to heal. Even for someone as strong as Roxton, the signs did not auger well.
“No,” she said again, this time much more bluntly. “It isn’t an option. You’ll be defenseless if I leave you here alone.”
The matter was over for the time being and they fell into an uneasy silence. She made Roxton as comfortable as possible, but he was suffering from a good deal of pain. He needed help she couldn’t give him – help that Summerlee and Challenger could. In the morning, when it was safer, she would venture out and find them some food. The riverbanks were fertile with comfrey and yarrow, herbs which might help Roxton’s wound. She was afraid he was starting to succumb to infection, there was a brightness of fever in his eyes.
By the time she had collected enough dead wood from the entrance of the cave to build a small fire, Roxton had sunk into a restless slumber. Or perhaps he was simply unconscious again. Veronica settled down on her haunches and stared into the heart of the flames.
She felt surprisingly weak and bruised herself and it wasn’t just a residue from the fight. Inside, she was still battered by her recent betrayal, by the evil which had touched all their lives. She despised herself for feeling so feeble, for her out-of-character sense of frailty. Hating the loss of confidence which one man had wreaked on her soul.
Roxton twitched and murmured restlessly in his sleep. The name he uttered was inevitably familiar and Veronica wondered if Marguerite could even begin to guess at the depths of the Englishman’s feeling for her. And if she did, what was she waiting for? From her reaction after the stabbing, it was obvious she felt the same.
The roar of a dinosaur interrupted her thoughts. A T-Rex was out there stalking the darkness, but it was still many miles away. The night air amplified the sound and filled it with sudden menace. Veronica shivered, suddenly cold, and placed some more wood on the fire. It was going to be a very long night.
END OF PART THREE
Lisa Paris – 2005
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PART FOUR
Later, the Following Morning . . .
Marguerite heaved a sigh of irritation and shifted her shoulder-pack. The stupid thing was bloody uncomfortable and appeared to weigh a ton. She wouldn’t be surprised if Malone had deliberately loaded all the heaviest gear into her rucksack in order to pay her back for; what was in his words, ‘a wild goose-chase.’
“Keep-up.” Malone trudged past her. “It’s not safe to lag behind.”
Was it her imagination, or was there a hint of complacency in his tone? Marguerite glared at his disappearing backside and made an un-ladylike gesture. Now, if Roxton had spoken those words to her, she would have taken them in the spirit they were offered; out of genuine concern for her welfare after years of experience in the bush.
Well, all right then, if she was being totally honest, she would have demurred just a bit. Roxton was annoyingly bossy and could be quite impossibly high-handed. In-fact, he drove her crazy at times with his over-bearing, arrogant manner. How had she ever fallen for such an imperious man?
Whoa, there!
Who said anything about falling for him?
Something pressed up against her breast, as hard and searing as a brand. It was the Roxton ring, of course. She still kept it safely on the piece of black ribbon, a constant reminder of his presence. A chill of fear rippled through her again at the thought of him being without it. It was ridiculous to consider it an omen . . . and yet . . .
It would be good to return it to him. She would feel so much happier when he was standing in front of her, all six feet plus of aggravating male, with those wickedly, sexy eyes.
Flashes of her dream reoccurred to torment her, of Roxton, lying injured on the ground. She’d carefully omitted the gloomier details when relaying parts of her nightmare to the other men. Challenger had regarded her with a knowing look but to her relief, he hadn’t said a word. For all she knew, both Roxton and Veronica were already dead. It didn’t bear thinking about.
“Do you need to take a short rest, my dear?”
It was Summerlee, concern in his tone. Ever since he’d whacked her with that infernal skillet, he’d been full of solicitous guilt, fussing around her like an old mother hen with a slightly damaged chick.
Marguerite tried to curb her impatience as she turned to him with a sigh. “I’m fine, Arthur. Really.”
“Well, if you’re quite sure . . .”
“I’m quite sure.” Marguerite looked at him a little more closely and wished she’d bitten her tongue. If anyone required a five minute break, it most certainly wasn’t her. Instead, it was Summerlee who needed to rest. He was perspiring and red-faced with heat. She grimaced quickly and shifted her pack. “On the other hand, this is starting to weigh me down a bit. Perhaps we should stop for some water?”
A shade of relief crossed Summerlee’s face and he nodded almost immediately. “I think that’s very sensible, the sun’s getting hotter by the second.”
“Here, let me help you with that.” Malone must have been listening to their brief conversation. He turned back and gave her a conciliatory look before sliding the pack from her aching shoulders.
“Thank you.” It was good to be without it.
They settled down in the shade of a tree and shared out some pieces of fruit. Marguerite cast a surreptitious glance across at Summerlee. The botanist mopped his brow with an over-sized handkerchief and gave her a slightly rueful look.
“I must confess to feeling somewhat glad you decided to let me sit down.”
She smiled spontaneously back at him, gently appreciative of his honesty. This was more like the old Arthur, the one with whom she shared such unexpected rapport.
“It was just the excuse I was waiting for,” she couldn’t help the softness in her tone. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear Malone gave me the heaviest pack to carry.”
Marguerite looked at Malone as she said it and watched the tips of his ears turn pink. He acknowledged the hit with a nod of his head and an expression of shame-faced guilt.
“I’ll take some items out for you before we set off again.”
She ate up her fruit in silence and considered her compatriots once more. On the whole, they were a motley crew, but somehow, the dynamics seemed to fit. Before setting out from London she couldn’t have cared less about anyone, let alone a pair of fusty old professors or a wet behind the ears reporter. It was odd how at ease she felt in their company. How curiously well they had clicked. The idea of losing any of them was as sharp as a knife in her breast.
There was a rustle in the bushes behind Challenger and she brought her head up with a jerk. The others were apparently oblivious and continued to talk amongst themselves. If Roxton was here, he would undoubtedly have heard and immediately been on his guard. Roxton . . . the thought of him hurt her once more. When this adventure was finally over, it was the hunter she was going to miss the most.
There it was again – louder this time. There was definitely something in the bushes. She could continue to ignore it at their peril or do something Roxtonesque. Marguerite caught hold of Challenger’s arm, squeezing it tightly with warning. She lifted her fore-finger up to her lips and slowly un-holstered her pistol, nodding towards the source of the sound as she rose smoothly to her feet.
Malone placed his guava fruit down on the grass and picked up his discarded rifle. To his credit, he didn’t question her. They had been here long enough by now, to know better than to waste pointless time. A second here or there on the Plateau could mean the difference between life and death.
They moved into position around the clearing and waited with baited breath. Whoever or whatever was fast approaching had clearly never heard of stealth. Foliage crashed and branches were snapped as it pushed its way through the jungle. Suddenly, the bushes parted before them and made way for a huge, wild boar. It was one of the biggest tuskers Marguerite had ever seen, bristling with spikes and spines of hair, as it picked up their scent and paused. They stepped back warily, weapons at the ready, but it seemed to sense the threat of their guns. After eyeing them for a moment, the pig gave a single, loud contemptuous snort before vanishing back into the jungle.
Marguerite watched it rush angrily by and ruefully shook her head. Visions of roast pork and apple sauce danced around in her head. She could almost taste the crackling as it crunched between her teeth. Succulent gammon steaks floated by, on platters creamy-rich with parsley sauce. There was enough meat on that big boy to supply them with bacon for weeks on end. She gave a heavy sigh. If only Roxton or Veronica had been here.
If only.
Malone lowered his rifle and began to laugh out loud. “Is anyone else thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Bacon,” said Marguerite, promptly.
“Roast loin with sage and onion stuffing,” answered Summerlee.
“Chitterlings.” Challenger was wistful and Marguerite started to giggle.
“I was thinking more of savaloys – perhaps a hot-dog or two. But then of course, I’d have to have mustard . . .” Malone looked yearningly after the boar, aiming and firing his fingers in an imaginary shot. “We haven’t seen any decent game for weeks. This is so typical.”
“Perhaps Roxton and Veronica had better luck.” Summerlee’s words put an end to their merriment as they recalled why they were out there in the first place.
“Perhaps,” agreed Marguerite, quietly. But it was wishful thinking. She suddenly knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Roxton and Veronica’s luck had run out hours ago.
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Roxton woke up in a state of panic. Something was drastically wrong. The Roxton ring – he’d lost the bloody ring. Once again, he’d let the family down. He felt hot and horribly disorientated, burning with fever and pain. Trying to remember was incredibly hard, a little like swimming against the tide and still being swept out to sea. He was searching for Kartas and Veronica had stabbed him.
Veronica had stabbed him with her knife.
“Roxton?”
He flinched away from the sound of her voice and tried again to focus his eyes. A swathe of golden hair blocked the light, Veronica with a water canteen.
“Here, you must drink . . .” her voice faltered as she saw his uncertainty, the flash of raw fear on his face.
“Kartas . . .” he muttered, hazily. “Veronica, you’re in danger. Your father, he isn’t what he seems . . .”
“Shhh.” The distress in her tone was palpable. “That’s over and done with, don’t you remember? We were attacked by head-hunters and you were hurt.”
Head-hunters. The memories began to coalesce slowly as he struggled to clear the fog from his brain. “We were out
hunting . . .”
“Yes.” Veronica offered him the water again. “Drink some, you’re burning-up.”
He gulped the water thirstily and it seemed to help a little. Gradually, he put the pieces together and didn’t like what he saw. Their situation was desperate. Or rather, his was, if help didn’t come soon. He’d been wounded enough times in the past to know that yet again, this was serious. He felt weak and dizzy with fever, useless if it came to a fight.
“Thank you,” he looked at her closely, taking note of the bruises on her skin. “Are you all right? They hurt you too.”
She shrugged and helped him to lie back down. “Nothing more than a mild concussion. I feel a lot better this morning, but I’ll be happier when the others arrive.”
He lay there passively whilst she examined his side, criss-crossing long, green leaves on his skin to use as a dressing-pad. Comfrey, he guessed, they had used it before, in order to help heal the knife wound. She must have left the cave at first light to pick some from the banks of the river. In-spite of her words, she was abnormally pale and he guessed her head was aching like the devil.
“You need rest,” he murmured, “I can keep watch awhile. Don’t worry, I’ll wake you if there’s trouble.”
“It isn’t necessary,” she’d used part of his shirt as a make-shift bandage and pulled it tight enough to make him wince.
“Ouch!”
“I’m sorry . . .” her face creased with distress and for a moment, Roxton thought she might cry. He studied her, perplexedly. This wasn’t the Veronica he’d come to know and respect. That bastard, the faux Layton, had an awful lot to answer for.
“Here . . .” Roxton reached out and tried to take her hand but she snatched it quickly away. “It wasn’t your fault – none of it was. You have to stop blaming yourself.”
He wasn’t talking about head-hunters or dressing his bloody wound. In-fact, right at this very moment, he couldn’t give a damn about the present. It was suddenly important to clear the air. It mattered to him immensely. Nothing had been right for so long now and he wanted things normal again. Or rather, as normal as anything could be whilst they were stuck on the Plateau.
“Don’t!” She turned away from him and stared out towards the entrance of the cave. “You don’t know what it feels like . . .”
“Then, why don’t you tell me?” He said softly, “I’m what you might call a captive audience. It’ll help take my mind off the pain.”
Veronica still didn’t look at him but he sensed an air of slight capitulation. “How can you still be so nice to me after everything I’ve done?”
Roxton smiled, bitterly. He struggled up onto one elbow, then winced at the resulting discomfort. Damn, he hated feeling so weak. “Perhaps because I understand some of what you’re going through. Because I’ve experienced the sorrow of losing someone I loved. Fate can be a cruel thing . . .” His voice dropped an octave lower as he remembered his own particular grief. “. . . cruel and capricious. It wasn’t you who stabbed me, Veronica. Largo drugged and manipulated you. He abused you for his own ends. None of us realised when we took him in, we were nurturing a viper in our midst.”
“It didn’t take you long to realise.”
“I had a little help,” he said, ruefully. “Kartas didn’t leave me much choice in the matter and other than feeling happy for you, I had no hopes invested in the man.” He was aghast to realise she was crying. Her shoulders hunched with the silent shudders running through her body. “Veronica . . .”
“No,” she turned to face him fully, at last. “You just said it, Roxton. You hit the nail on the head. You know the worst thing he did to me - the very worst thing he did? It wasn’t the lies, the disgusting looks, not even his filthy hands touching me.” She gulped down some air and struggled for breath, striving to cope with her feelings. “He finally took them away from me . . . my parents, my hopes and dreams. All these years I refused to believe they were dead, I’ve been clinging onto a lie!”
“It’s impossible to be sure of a single thing Largo said. The man was a crook, an inveterate liar. Just because he came into our lives, it doesn’t mean your parents are dead.”
“Then how did he steal the map from them? They would never have surrendered it willingly . . . and even if they were still alive, do you know the conditions in those mines?”
“I can guess,” his voice was sombre. “But if anyone stands a chance of survival, then it must be your parents.” Roxton reached across and took her hand, regardless of the hurt it cost him. “And I know this because you’re their daughter. Strong of heart, courageous and true. I had supposed it must run in the family.”
Her fingers tightened hesitantly around his. “I keep telling myself they’re still out there, but it’s harder to believe in it now. There’s this dream, or rather a nightmare – I keep having it, over and over. You and Ned are on the ground and Largo points the gun at you. I see you throw the knife at him, just like it really happened. But there’s a difference, it isn’t Largo.” She paused and her eyelids fell in distress. “It really ‘is’ my father.”
And this was part of the problem. Roxton understood now. He’d symbolically killed her father by exposing Largo’s deception. By causing the death the false Tom Layton, he’d inadvertently caused the death of her hopes.
“I’m so sorry,” Roxton’s regret was sincere. He felt weary and at a loss. His abdomen throbbed and pulsed with pain, in echo to the beat of his heart. Perhaps this was part of his punishment for losing the bloody ring. “If there was any other way of saving our lives . . . if there was another way I would have taken it . . .”
Her face seemed to alter and fade away, blurring and changing shape round the edges. It became masculine, angular, with darker hair. The face that haunted his dreams. If there was another way, he would have taken it, but everything had happened so fast. To think that earlier in the day, he’d been bragging to anyone who’d listen about the power of that bloody gun. About the fact it produced such a mighty punch, a single shot could stop a charging rhino in its tracks.
It had proved every bit as powerful as promised, in the darkest, most tragic of ways. The bullet had bored through layers of flesh and pierced his brother’s chest-wall. He had only tried to do what he thought was best. To do what he could to save William. But the road to hell was paved with good intentions, and now it seemed he’d messed things up again.
The world swung suddenly sideways and began to spiral down into the shadows. Roxton felt himself starting to fall. “No . . .”
He fought the darkness as best he could, but wave after wave dragged him under. Pain rose inside him like a fury and stole the very breath from his lungs. It was a nightmare, all-consuming and relentless. His ears roared with the rush of blood and black spots danced before his eyes. Roxton knew the game was up.
He clutched tightly onto Veronica’s fingers and drew a grain of comfort from her touch. And then the dark tides claimed him and swept him away from her.
She was speaking but he couldn’t hear her. “Roxton, no . . . I’m the one who’s sorry. I never should have blamed you, it was wrong of me and stupid. I realise you had no choice. Roxton, please don’t do this . . . you only did what you had to do . . .”
But sadly, her words went unheeded. John Roxton lost consciousness.
END OF PART FOUR
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