Hello it's Lydia here, I hope you enjoy it.
Chapter 1
Sick
I was pushed from the carriage roughly, which caused me to trip and fall. I tasted the dust from the cobblestones in my mouth, and cried out in pain as a rock dug into my knee, drawing blood. A rough, merciless hand grabbed my wrist and twisted it around, dragging me up from the ground as though it were my fault that I had fallen. I was used to it though. I was spun around to face a horse drawn, ornate carriage, and my master. He smirked at me, a horrible malicious smirk that I had learned to hate. He surveyed me with interest and then sighed.
“It’s a shame,” he said, leaning forward, and twisting a finger in a lock of my hair. “You were...” He pondered for the right word, drawing his finger away to scratch his chin mockingly. “Fun” he smirked again. I lowered my head as tears pricked at my eyes. I was determined not to show weakness in front of him, so I wiped them away quickly. He tutted, turned away and cracked his whip, sending the horses cantering down the alley their hooves clattering against the cobbles.
I was left at the mercy of the rough hands, the hands of the man my master used to do his dirty work. He was called Peter. It was such a common and friendly name, that when I’d first met him, I found it hard to believe what the other girls had told me about avoiding him. Peter spun me around to face the town square.
I had once thought, in my youth, that the town square was a happy place a home of celebrations like May Day and Carols on Christmas Eve. But my perception of the square had changed since then, and I hated it now. The gallows that were taken down for celebrations were there, ominous and looming, the noose full of the last pleas of its victims. It was waiting, to take the life of another human. My life. I tore my gaze away from them and surveyed the crowd. It made me so angry, but sad at the same time, looking at them. They were ordinary people, who had been manipulated by the people in power into thinking that this was the right way to build an honest and stable community. The men were the worst. They stood there jeering at the gallows waiting for the execution and revelling in the atmosphere. It was sick. Sick that they would enjoy watching someone die, someone who they didn’t even know, someone who may not deserve to meet that fate. But it was true, I was watching them. I felt sorry for most of the women, who had, by the sad looks on their faces, been dragged along against their will. I had been in the same position once, and I had watched against my better judgement. I shuddered. My observations were interrupted by a sharp jab in my back.
I was pushed up to the gallows, and onto a small stool. The crowd jeered again as my wrists were tied, and the noose that had killed so many in my position, was fastened around my neck. I cried then unable to stop the sobs from shaking my body. My fate was unavoidable, I could see that now. I hoped there was something there for me after death, heaven perhaps. It wasn’t as though I had led an unfaithful life. I lowered my head in a last desperate prayer. The executioner, dressed in black, stepped onto the gallows and put his boot against the stool that I stood on. The noose was designed to deliver a slow and painful death during which, your air supply would be cut off and you would slowly suffocate. It was supposed to entertain the crowd for longer. Sick. I wasn’t looking forward to it, but there was no escaping it now. I felt the stool move slightly underneath me, and I realised that the executioner was playing with me. He was enjoying himself, though how he could, I didn’t know. He pushed again, one of the men in the crowd cheered, and then groaned when the stool stayed on two legs. I looked at him; he was fairly ordinary with close cropped blond hair. He had a little girl of about 6 standing by his ankles. He was hiding her eyes and I couldn’t understand how a father of a young child could be so cruel in front of her. I dropped my gaze.
The executioner pushed the stool, properly this time, pushing me off the edge to my death. I felt the noose tighten slightly, and I started to scream, scream at the top of my lungs. The scream died in my throat, and I began to say my last prayer aloud.
“Mother, mother I’m sorry. I love you. I know you didn’t mean what you did. I know it. Molly, be strong and try to get out of there, please, don’t be afraid of him, you will be ok. And James, James I hope you are ok! And Charlie...Charlie I...”
“Stop!”
I felt the stool wobble back onto two legs. I was safe, for now.
I looked up to see who had shouted. I recognised him immediately, he had his hand raised and a grimace on his face. It was Charlie.
“Stop,” he repeated, pushing his way through the crowd towards the gallows.
“I want to...I mean I’ll...”
“Spit it out,” shouted the executioner pushing the stool slightly.
“I’ll buy her,” said Charlie grimacing. He looked disgusted at himself, and I knew he wasn’t going to hurt me, he was rescuing me.
“Ah, well it will be a pretty penny for this one young man,” said the executioner pinching my cheek as though I was a child.
“Don’t touch her!” Charlie said reaching towards me. “Name your price.”
“Oh, well. I would say about 12 pounds and sixpence for this beauty. I wouldn’t mind her myself but I already have plenty of...toys,” he smirked at me. I glared back; I was tired of being used. I knew how those girls that he had locked up at his home felt. Charlie counted out and handed over a fistful of coins. 12 pounds was a lot of money, I would have to pay him back someday.
“Now, let her down.”
“Fine,” said the executioner a strange glint in his eye. He faced me looking as though he was about to take the rope off of my wrist. Then he pushed me off the stool, and laughed a cruel horrific laugh. I felt the noose tighten around my neck and I chocked as my air supply was cut off. The crowd roared whether in approval or shock, I couldn’t tell. The rope burned my throat, and I tried to grab it with my hands to pull it away. I gave up, it was impossible. I was going to die, and Charlie had paid all that money for nothing. I became limp, no longer fighting because it would only kill me faster.
“No!” Charlie roared. He jumped up, onto the gallows, pushing the executioner over the edge of them, and onto the cobbles. I heard him land with a sickening crunch. Charlie ignored him and grabbed me around the waist to support some of my weight. I felt the noose loosen a little, but it was still suffocating me. Charlie pulled a knife from his pocket, and attempted to cut the noose loose. He sawed through the rope quickly, but I was feeling increasingly weak and faint due to lack of oxygen. The rope relaxed its hold on me a little and it was enough for Charlie to pull it over my head. I fell limply into his arms, barely conscious of my surroundings. I felt Charlie put his other arm under me and support my weight.
“Lila. Lila. Please,” he muttered in my ear, pulling a strand of hair from my face. I groaned in response. Charlie turned to face the crowd, to get down from the gallows and an angry mob greeted him. Many of the men were climbing onto the gallows on either side of us. One of them was shouting and waving his fist at Charlie.
“Murderer, you murdered a good man!” The man yelled. Charlie cursed.
“Hang on,” he muttered to me. I grabbed a fistful of his shirt. Charlie leapt from the gallows landing like a cat on the cobbles, the crowd parted in surprise. He ran forward, pushing his way past anyone who tried to stop him. I was vaguely aware of someone pursuing us, but Charlie was thin and lanky so he kept ahead of the rich man, who was fat and portly from a better diet. He cut into an alley that led out of town to Avenue Road, where I had lived as a child. He ran at full pelt, back to a house that I had never been in before, so I assumed it was his. It was the nicest one on the road, but that didn’t mean much; Avenue Road was the poorest street in town. He opened the door, shot a few furtive glances up and down the street to check that we weren’t being followed, and slammed it shut, turning the make shift wooden lock, that was clearly for sentimental reasons rather than for actual use. He tried to set me on my feet, but I was still weak and I fell to the concrete floor. I gasped in shock and took a deep breath in. It was painful. I sat up and tried to get the rope of my wrist, so I could make sure my throat was ok. Charlie knelt beside me.
“Let me do that.”
He tried to untie the knot, but it had been tied too tightly. He pulled out his knife again and cut through the rope. I rubbed my wrists, coxing the blood back into my hands. Charlie caught one of my wrists, and gasped as he saw the huge welts and burns from the handcuffs and ropes that had bound my hands so often.
“It’s nothing,” I said as I pulled my hand away. I reached up tentatively, to touch my throat. There was a burn there, and breathing was difficult, but I hoped that I would be ok with time.
“Let me look,” Charlie said. I nodded confused. He saw my expression and began to explain, as he inspected the burn and listened to my breathing.
“I found some work as a doctor in the hospital in town, I earn a pittance, but it allows for a few home comforts.” He gestured to a tatty old sofa and a pile of wood for a fire.
“You will be ok, but breathing deeply will always hurt a little. For now, try to breathe regularly.” He dropped the hand that had been resting on my throat. I touched the burn again and felt a twinge of pain; I drew my hand away quickly. I suddenly realised how cold it was in the house, and I shivered. I only wore an old torn dress and there was no fire in the grate.
“Oh, I’m sorry, you must be cold.” Charlie went over to the fire and lit it, throwing the room into light for the first time. He threw on some of the wood, sending sparks flying.
“I’ll get you a coat,” he said and he left through the door.
I got up from the floor, I was still finding it difficult to breathe, but crushing my airways by sitting down wasn’t going to help. The room was homely, as Charlie had said, particularly with the fire crackling in the grate. But it was still tatty and worn, and it was obvious that Charlie wasn’t lying about his wage. There was an armchair and a sofa, both tatty and second hand with faded patterns embroidered on the cushion covers that didn’t match. There was also a small drawing, framed on the wall. I recognised it from when I was a child. I had drawn it; it was a drawing of me and Charlie playing in the snow the day before I was taken away. I was shocked to see that it was the most, well looked after, object in the room. The door swung open again, and Charlie was there with a coat hung over his arm.
“Here,” he said handing me the coat. I took it but I didn’t put it on. He gestured to the sofa. “Sit down.”
I muttered my thanks, and made to sit on the sofa. Charlie gasped as I turned my back on him.
“Lila. Your back,” he reached a hand towards me again. I instinctively raised my hand to feel the cracked skin, bruises and cuts were I had been beaten. Some of them still bled a little.
“It’s nothing,” I muttered, I didn’t want him to worry about me.
“Lila?” He looked directly at me. “What happened to you?” He asked.
“I’d rather not say,” I whispered averting my gaze. He took my hands in his. I was surprised at the gesture, but I tried not to show it.
“Tell me.” He had a strange persuasiveness about him, and I knew then that I wanted to tell someone. I wanted to share my ordeal. He sat down next to me on the sofa, letting my hands drop. He waited patiently. I didn’t know where to begin so he prompted me.
“What happened when you left Avenue Road?”
I ran my fingers through my matted blood strewn hair and began,
“Do you remember that day when we played in the snow?” I asked him, pointing at my drawing. He nodded. “And those men who came to my house?” He nodded again, sad horror filling his eyes. I shuddered and said, “They took me away from my mother, for £10 and sixpence."
