The Lion's Courtship by Annelie Wendeberg

Author:Annelie Wendeberg [Wendeberg, Annelie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-10-27T21:00:00+00:00

FRANKENSTEIN

‘O ’Hare!’ calls the warden, rattling a large ring full of keys, most of which lost their locks long ago. Their only purpose is to impress. In Newgate Prison, the man with the keys is king.

Garret is led through a dingy corridor out towards the gallows. The thief holds his head high, taking in all the details one last time: the moisture dripping down the vaulted ceiling, the green slime growing on cold stones, the echo of his footfall, the murmurs, shouts, and cackles of his fellow prisoners. The light at the end of the corridor is blinding; a hooded figure cuts through its centre, black on white — the executioner.

Thirty, echoes in Garret’s skull. Thirty. The word still carries the magistrate’s satisfied lilt.

He remembers feeling very small in court. The charges against him were laughable. The police soon noticed that they had caught the wrong man, for he didn’t look like the pickpocket they’d been chasing — a skinny boy with hair as black as a raven’s plumage. Yet, the police needed to catch someone, and this was his misfortune.

He would have been released at once if not for the bundle of burglar equipment and the two pieces of opium-stuffed pig liver.

Garret insisted that he found both at the corner of High Holborn and Broad Street. He told the magistrate how lucky it was that the police caught him. Else he would have eaten the liver and surely died of opium poisoning. He even folded his large hands to appear humble. But it didn’t help much. He looked like the brute he was.

Lacking solid evidence, they couldn’t detain him for very long. Owing to his build, however, and his roots in St Giles, and the incriminating accessories, the magistrate decided that punishment would only do Garret good.

Summoning all his courage, Garret keeps his eyes on the executioner. The man has a good grip on the cat — an object anything but inviting. Its handle is about two feet long, and shiny from regular use. The nine tails, all fourteen or fifteen inches of them, are twitching. The executioner strikes at the whipping frame as though his beast needs testing. Garret knows this is done to initiate terror. Pain comes eagerly when fear is there to welcome it.

The hangman nods to Garret and first asks him to take off his shirt, before he ties Garret’s wrists to the wooden frame.

How considerate, thinks Garret. At least, more tears in his once best shirt are unlikely to be added to the many it has already received in this godforsaken place. A week ago, he sold his jacket for food. His boots would have been next, but luckily it hasn’t come to that.

The first swish bites through the air and catches on Garret’s back. One drawn-out lightning of pain.

Two.

Three.

Four. His skin is growing raw, as though it’s about to peel off his back. Now the cat’s tails begin to feel more like flames than leather. She licks him again and again.

Fifteen.

Sixteen. Ah! Even his toes hurt with every lash.

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