TWENTY-SIX: Anguish

It was early morning by the time Elizabeth had managed to stumble back towards Port Royale, and it was drizzling slightly. April showers. On the outskirts of the town, she went and found a nice-looking inn; she wondered if descriptions of her were circling the area yet. Perhaps there were even posters. But she couldn't bring herself to do anything about it yet; she just paid for a room for the night, and collapsed into the bed, exhausted from everything that had happened the previous day, and that night.

She slept until nearly the afternoon, and then she got up to feed and change William. She also decided that, while she was there, she might as well have a good wash; so she washed first William, then herself, and changed into some fresh clothes. She binned the clothing that she had been wearing the previous night; not only would it be easier to recognize her, but it stank of smoke.

Once she and her baby were wonderfully, deliciously clean, she went down and bought herself some food for a quick lunch—at this rate, her money was going to last her only a couple more weeks. But she would have to worry about that later. Once fed, she returned to her rented room, where William slept on the bed, and she thought.

Over the next few days, she kept her head down and went from inn to inn, keeping herself in the background, changing the styling of her hair a little, and simply looking like nothing more then a woman with a baby. That was it. Nothing more.

There were a few half-hearted posters put up—but there was nowhere near the fury of the big Beckett-hunt. She was just another pirate; oh, if you see her, hand her in, will you? There's a good chap. She realized that with all of the trouble Leonard had gone to in order to capture Beckett... well, he must be crazy. How could a man be so determined to catch a single man?

Now, obviously, it wasn't all about the grudge. If Beckett had simply explained his story carefully, captured a few pirates to show his loyalty and done a bit of sucking up, he could have gotten off with a finger-wagging telling off, perhaps having to publicly apologize or something, but otherwise he would go scot-free, and would probably be welcomed back into his old position as lord.

As much as she disliked him, she had to admit he had been good at his job.

That was probably the reason for her dislike, actually.

She kept up to date with the news, fearing that he was about to be hanged, and wasn't sure what to think about the fact that he had been thrown into an asylum instead of being executed. Clever manipulation on his part, or mental torture that Leonard had decided to put him under?

Many bad things, she'd heard about asylums—how people visited them for amusement. Patients chained to walls, being fed all sorts of things to make them act even madder for the audience; beatings and whippings. It made her shudder just thinking about it... but she had to go and see Beckett. Apparently there was extra admission to see their latest star, but she could afford it... at the cost of a good chunk of her money.

Elizabeth grudgingly took the correct amount out of the small purse and put it into a pocket, putting her belongings into the chest of drawers of the latest inn she was staying at; the Blackberry Bush. It was just after lunchtime; and she took a deep breath, thinking that it was about time she paid Cutler Beckett a visit.

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Audrey Beckett sat, her face pointed downwards; her hands limp on her lap, the corners of her mouth pulled down to match. How long had she been in this cell? Where was her son? It felt like... days. She had been fed about ten times since her capture—with a good gap in between each one—so she roughly guessed that three, four days had passed.

Every time the door opened and the jailer came in, she would try and question him; but he would simply ignore her, and the door would thump closed once more. She was beginning to get very worried. He had told her that he would make sure she was alright—but was he even alive now?

He'd been taken to see Lord Leonard, after all. She wrung her hands together, not sure what to think. If he was dead, it would be terrible—but this not knowing, this uncertainty, eating away at her heart; the dreadful hope that he was still alive... it was much, much worse. She sighed and rubbed an elbow with another arm; wondering if she was going to rot in here. If the only person she would ever see for the rest of her life would be the swarthy, sweaty jailer, bringing her cold food.

She felt... she felt much closer to her son then she ever had before, since the rescue from the gallows, and the time she'd spent with him. Even though he'd been rude, flippant and sarcastic with her, it had felt more like a friendship then any other time in their lives; which was quite, quite sad.

Still—she knew that even though he was her son, she barely knew Cutler Beckett. She knew hardly anything about him; she didn't even really know what he did for a job, she'd just sort of imagined him in a big office, reading through ancient piles of parchment, and discovering something amazing with a cry of 'aha!' ...or something. She didn't know what he liked, what he disliked, his favourite colour, anything at all. They hadn't shared a single moment of mother-son time together since his childhood; it had always been an uncomfortable, firm, 'Good evening, mother,' 'Good evening, son,' situation.

She looked downwards at the floor once more, where her eyes had rested for the last five and a half days.

She hoped he wasn't dead. They had a lot to talk about.

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Beckett sat on the soft, round chair that he always sat on, in front of the soft, round table in the soft, round room, with his lukewarm tea in a toy cup. He watched coolly as people walked by, taking the time to stare at him before wandering off again. He wasn't exactly the most exciting of lunatics—but still, it was the fact that they'd seen him that counted, not what he did. Certainly, it would be more of a talking point if he danced around the cell reciting the alphabet backwards, but he didn't really feel like doing that at the moment.

And he found it easier to write the alphabet backwards then say it, in any case.

There were times when it was better to put on a show. This was not one of those times—it should have been, but Beckett couldn't bear the soiling of his reputation any further. His insanity was the only thing keeping him alive at the moment; if several doctors were to suddenly say that he was 'cured', or something just as moronic, he could be swinging within the day.

Placing the toy teacup back on the soft, round table, he put his hands on his lap and stared out at the people. No familiar faces. Just like normal, and though he knew that he shouldn't be optimistic about this, he still felt a surge of disappointment. He told himself every day that it wasn't going to happen, but still this terrible hope wouldn't go away; it was completely wrong that he should even be thinking about rescue, yet he continued to wait with baited breath.

Having one's hope crushed every time the front of the cage came into view wasn't the most amiable of pastimes.

The other lords and ladies who had been thrown in here by their family—seeing as having an insane relative 'in with Beckett' had become trendy now—didn't have people gawping at them. They got their own private rooms, somewhere above him, where they could peacefully potter around, walking into the soft walls and singing to themselves.

Beckett, on the other hand, got this.

"Get out! Out!" There was some sort of commotion going on outside. Beckett looked up, wondering if at long last, something interesting would happen.

He'd thought that the people staring would be the first to drive him crazy—but the boredom had gotten him first, it seemed. There was nothing to do. There was nothing to look at. There was nothing to work out, nothing to think about, nothing to see or smell or touch. Nowhere to go. His mind, once in perfect condition, he felt was waning, dwindling into nothing, being wasted. He wanted some sort of motivation, damn it, some sort of inspiration...

The corridor outside of his cell was now empty. Finally, he stood up from the soft, round chair, and walked across the soft, round floor, wrapping a hand around one of the bars at the front of his cell to see out. And in walked someone familiar. Very familiar indeed.

But it wasn't what he'd been hoping for.

"How are you finding the asylum, Beckett?" Lord Leonard grinned, "I have news for you."

NB: AAAUUUGH! I just got attacked by a spider! It was this big, I swear! Ahem, sorry. Getting a little carried away there (it just crawled right out of my physics folder!), so, uhm... poor Audrey. Feel bad for her, people. As for Beckett's visitor... not what we were hoping for, eh? I feel like I'm cruel to my characters... now, excuse me, I'm going on a spider hunt.

Extract from the next chapter: "Yes," Beckett said quietly, "But what my mother did wasn't her fault. It was mine."