TW: SA and attempted SA. This is a rough chapter.

Reviews would be appreciated as always.

Chapter 7

Botany Bay, Australia

Jean bent down slowly, by degrees, his eyes on the guard the whole time. Something glimmered in the turmeric-yellow sand. When he was close enough he fumbled desperately through the powdery dust, snatching the object up before dropping it again in shock at the intense heat.

He rubbed his scalded hand against the side of his breeches, eyes watering and unblinking, fixed on the guard still. He tried a second time, swooping down, snatched it up, and bumblingly stuffed it into his pocket, taking a fistful of sand with him.

The men watched him from afar.

'Still got a good feeling about him, Ben?' Robin quipped, watching as sand dribbled traitorously out of Jean's pocket.

'Give him a few days,' Ben muttered, head bent. His pockets were already jangling with pilphered goods: mussels from the bay rocks, loose screws, and the nub of a detached hammerhead that he'd found half-buried in a sand dune; suspicions wavered and fingers grew shrewd after fifteen years.

Ben's eyes had been set on Jean since their first night together. He was intrigued by his incongruity—his gentle, grandfatherly persona, his disarming broken English—and the speed with which he had broken up the fight, the urgency with which he wanted to escape. Ben watched him now, shirtless in the heat, his muscles rippling under the terracotta-red skin. Pulpy grey scars were slashed across his back, so numerous and thick that they looked like a bustling hive of worms. They writhed as he worked.

This was clearly not his first time in a place like this. But why the urgency to escape? Why wasn't he, in his old age, quietly resigned to spend his final days here? Surely he wasn't like Ben, who had a young family who needed him.

Seeing that Jean was approaching, Ben snapped out of his thoughts, stabbing his shovel into the cracked, clay-thick ground.

'Here,' Jean said breathlessly. He reached into his pocket, retrieving a long nail that was bent at 90 degrees. 'This help?'

'Put that away you stupid berk!' James snapped.

Jean complied, scrambling to stuff the nail back into his pocket. 'Sorry, sorry,' he said, lowering his head and raising his hands in submission. This was the paradox that intrigued Ben who, half as strong as Jean, would have happily snapped James' arm for speaking to him so.

'That's good, Jean,' Robin said, clapping his arm in encouragement. The turmeric-yellow sand had reduced his cropped, woolly hair into a nitty wig. 'You never know what turns out to be useful.'

'Fat lot of good a crooked nail's going to do,' James muttered. Robin turned to him.

'You manage just fine with your crooked cock.'

The men erupted into ribald laughter. Ben smiled. It was the first smile Jean had seen from him. His face seemed as pale and perpetually saturnine as a Greek theatre mask.

'Yeah, alright,' James said, cheeks red. He scowled at Jean, show was as amused as the others. 'Why don't you pan for more broken screws, froggy?'

A high shriek cut through them like a knife.

The laughing stopped. All but Jean and James ducked their heads. Jean craned his neck, a sense of paternal panic seizing his chest. He thought of the night in Rue Plummet, of Cosette's scream, the scream that had displaced them to England. A guard emerged from behind a hut. Beside him, he dragged a young girl by the hair.

James grinned, baring his rotten teeth. He gave a wanton hum of approval, watching as the girl kicked up clouds of golden sand, trowelling her feet desperately into the ground. The guard yanked at her strawberry-blonde hair, as carelessly as if he were tugging the leash of a misbehaved dog, and caused her head to snap back at a vicious angle. She looked no older than eighteen.

'Fresh off the boat,' James murmured to Jean who had resumed a white-knuckle grip on the shovel. 'That guard, Callaghan, he likes to break the new ones in. Lucky fucker. I bet she's nice and tight.'

Jean's pulse was racing. He tried to calm himself—this was kind of heat that killed the elderly, and couldn't afford to make himself dizzy with emotion—but it was unbearable.

'We used to be able to use them as we liked, when we first got here.' James continued. A wave of sweat washed over Jean. Droplets clung to the tip of his nose like stalagmites. 'Get it out of our system. You should have seen it. Anarchy; sublime fucking anarchy—'

'James,' Ben said gruffly. His face was bowed, but Jean could see that it had reverted to its sombre mask.

'—ripping their corsets open like we were opening Christmas gifts, fighting over the youngest,' James continued. He whistled, closing his eyes indulgently.

The girl's cries became strangled as Callaghan crushed her windpipe. She reached blindly above her, clawing at his hands. James chuckled, like he was watching a child struggle to tie her shoelaces. 'Feisty. Callaghan will soon knock that out of her.'

Callaghan released the girl's hair, reaching into his pocket to unlock the hut door. She fell to the ground and, in a scuffle of dust, scrambled desperately to her feet. Callaghan, wrestling the door open with one hand, caught her arm with the other and yanked her back. Her howling began anew, as she let her body go limp, collapsing at his feet like a bug. 'Please, please, please,' she wailed, her words slurred together into a hopeless incantation.

Before he knew what he was doing, Jean charged forwards. Almost as suddenly, a hand reached out to stop him. He was looking into Ben's face, into the black, hyena-shrewd eyes, the sharp, sloping cheekbones. 'Don't,' he said firmly.

'I can't,' Jean said, tearing his bicep away from Benjamin's grip. 'I can't let this happen. I—'

'You think any good man wants to let this happen?' Ben snapped, grabbing at Jean's arm again. 'If you want to get yourself shot then go ahead.'

Every fibre of Jean's being told him to ignore Benjamin. The need to act was unbearable, red-hot, racing through him. Benjamin felt the muscles in his arm tighten under his grip. The seconds snailed by.

'Shit,' Robin muttered, watching from afar. The men had all stilled, their eyes fixed on the pair. The day seemed to have ground to a halt, the thick air unstirred by breeze, the sun high and static in the sky.

Then, like a marionette whose strings had been cut, Jean's arm went slack in Benjamin's hand. He let his head slump forward. 'Merde,' he muttered, through gritted teeth. Benjamin, quite uncharacteristically, gave Jean's arm a pat.

'I know,' he said, with a grudging degree of sympathy. 'There's plenty goes on around here worse than that. You'll have to toughen up.' With that he leaned down and scooped up the axe he had discarded in the sand.

An excruciating fifteen minutes passed before the curtains in the window twitched open. Through them, Callaghan's yawning face came into view. He was shirtless, his chest glistening with sweat. With the ease of a honeymooner strolling onto a balcony, he scratched at his ape-like stomach and struck a match, before balancing a cigarette in the corner of his self-satisfied smirk.

Jean watched him, and felt a pang of emotion that he hadn't succumb to in years. A bitter feeling nestled deep into his guts as he watched the man blow smoke into his raping nook; hatred.

Kiri's Lane, London

It had been weeks, and no one had touched her.

At first, Johanna was relieved. She slept through her first few nights as peacefully as she had in childhood, when the only villains that scared her were the wolves and witches that stalked her nightmares. Then, she stopped seeing his face in the corridor. He wasn't there to give her a perfunctory nod in the morning, or to eat across from her at lunch. The silence, which had once been tranquil, now felt desperate. She itched for something to displace it, for some governess to come and teach her, for some maid to dress her. As she sat at the window, absorbed in another asinine embroidery project, (flowers, always bloody flowers,) she thought back to the last time the judge had touched her like a father. She had vague memories of reaching her toddler arms above her head and chanting "up, up," only to be met with the unsettled face of Turpin and a pang of rejection that had stayed with her ever since.

Once, when she was eight, and yet another governess had abandoned her, she remembered walking down the huge, broad staircase in her nightgown and stockings. The house was so empty that it felt like a tomb. Seeing the judges overcoat hanging by the door, she was suddenly moved by a desperation to be held. She took the great big sleeves and wrapped them around her little body, squeezing them tight around her, rocking against the imaginary embrace. She couldn't remember how long she had been there for, but she did remember pulling her face away only to see the real, flesh-and-blood Turpin stood frozen in a doorway, as inert as an oil painting, eyeing her with a mix of disgust and pity, as though she had thrown up on a possession of his. Johanna was so embarrassed that she ran upstairs and spent the day under her bedsheet.

Rain began to spatter against the window. Johanna lifted her head, ready to witness the comforting choreography of sudden rainfall—men drawing their women tighter, girls crushing their bonnets onto their curls—and was surprised to see the water-wobbled image of a carriage stopping before the garden gate.

Johanna lowered her embroidery and checked the time. It was hardly afternoon, much too early for Turpin's workday to be done and, if he had come to dine for lunch, an unsettling deviation in routine. Before she had time to wonder what this could mean, a pale head bobbed out of the carriage.

The embroidery hoop slipped from Johanna's skirt and onto the floor.

It was her. A mirror image, a parallel. The girl was a softer version of Johanna; where Johanna's skin was ivory, hers was rosy. Where Johanna's hair was yellow, hers was gold. Even her clothes, as humble as they were, only threw her obvious beauty into relief. The girl ambled uncertainly up the garden path, but she did not look frightened, just resigned, demure. All of a sudden, she lifted her face. It felt like an icicle had slid from Johanna's chest and into her stomach. This girl was her twin, she realised. Some version of her that had never been touched. The girl turned her eyes up towards the window and, seeing Johanna seated there, smiled. The icicle in her stomach twisted. The girl raised her hand and waved with the zeal of a schoolgirl.

Johanna was frozen for a few seconds, before sweeping what remained of her embroidery from her lap and walking out of sight.

Cosette stood in the garden, her hand still raised, her eyes on the now darkened window. Feeling like a fool, she dropped her arm and smoothed an imaginary crease out of her skirt. Turpin soon followed up the path. 'I think I have just seen your daughter, sir,' she said, being sure to bow her head as he passed.

Turpin gave a vague grunt and removed a key from his pocket.

The house was cold and surprisingly dark inside.

'You have a beautiful home,' Cosette said politely. She looked across the blood-red walls, trying to decipher the figure in an oil painting as her eyes adjusted to the lack of light. Seeing that it was a female nude, she ducked her head, cheeks burning. Turpin chuckled.

'Beautiful, isn't she,' he said, standing behind her to admire the painting. A shiver ran down Cosette's spine at his imposing closeness, the breath that was stirring her hair. 'I had it commissioned when I was in Turkey. Look at how he painted the light on the silk—'

He pointed over Cosette's shoulder, his chest meeting her back. She inhaled sharply.

'—Oh come now child, don't be bashful, it is art. Look.'

Cosette obediently raised her head. The girl looked very young, with a long brown puppyish body and tiny breasts like knots of garlic. She was splayed out on a lurid peach cushion, a silk throw draped across her body, that was not opaque enough to obscure the dark triangle of pubic hair between her legs. There was a faraway look in her black eyes, and a beaded choker around her neck that put Cosette in mind of a dog.

Turpin hummed in aesthetic approval as Cosette fidgeted. If it had been Valjean behind her, pointing out the contours of the girl's body and the quality of the brushwork, she would have died of embarrassment. But perhaps things were different in England. Perhaps Turpin and the girl she had seen in the window had stood before the painting together many times, coldly swapping their allusions.

Much to Cosette's relief, a woman soon bustled down the hallway, stalling Turpin. 'Ah,' he said, as the woman curtseyed before them. 'Cosette, this is Rose. She will be taking care of you.'

Rose, Cosette was ashamed to admit, had one of the most unremarkable faces she had ever seen. In memory it was blank, like a gloved thumbprint, one of the seemingly hundreds of women that had bustled and fussed around her without sticking. Rose ushered her upstairs, away from Turpin, and Cosette felt as though a weight had been lifted from her chest. She was led into a cold, sparse room with an overstuffed armchair and a decadent four-poster bed. The muffled sound of birdsong issued through the walls.

'Excuse me,' Cosette said, as Rose instructed her to lift her arms. 'Is that birds I hear?'

'Certainly is, ma'am,' Rose said, threading a tape measure over her shrunken bosom. 'That's mistress Johanna's room. She keeps those birds like they're her children.' Drawing the tape measure away from her waist, she tutted. '23—dear, dear. We'll have to get more meat on those bones, eh?' Cosette smiled politely as Rose dropped to her knees to measure the girl's hips. 'Still,' she murmured to herself. 'He does like 'em waifish.'

Cosette, not knowing what waifish meant, brushed the comment off and obediently stepped out of her rough apron. Rose called to another maid and ordered her to place the garment on the kindling pile. Seeing the grubby clothes against the manicured comfort of the room embarrassed her. She wondered how she must have looked to Johanna, some slovenly gutter-girl walking up the path in rags. 'You'll borrow some of mistress Johanna's old dresses,' Rose continued, as though reading her mind. 'Until we have chance to get you clothes of your own.'

'Merci,' Cosette said.

'Although…' Rose faltered, then coughed to cover her embarrassment. 'Although Master Turpin has selected some undergarments for you; a corset, a chemise…stockings.'

Cosette's eyebrows shot up. 'Oh,' she said. Rose continued to undress her in silence as the other maid brought a huge copper tub into the room. Cosette's fears were immediately assuaged by the sight of it; it had been months since she had properly bathed. Undergarments are a necessity, she said to herself as she slipped into the warm, velvety water of the bath. He is merely being considerate. It would be unseemly for Johanna to share her smalls with me.

By the time she was fully submerged, the thoughts had dissolved. She gave a groan of pleasure as she slipped under the water, ensconced with the smell of Eucalyptus and lavender. Cosette soaped her arms and legs as the maids set to work detangling her hair, lathering it with sweet smelling suds and drawing a comb through it to check for lice. When she finally stepped out, she was rosy and fresh, steam rising from her slick skin.

She thanked the maids dutifully as they began to dress her, insisting that she could do it herself. 'Nonsense,' Rose said firmly. She guided Cosette's legs into ribboned stockings and draped the chemise over her clean skin. By this time, darkness had pressed in, and the other maid began to light the hearth, which looked as though it hadn't seen fire in months.

Rose tied and retied the corset several times before she was satisfied. Cosette could feel her fingers growing anxious as she fiddled with the ribbons. 'You're sure you don't want it tighter my dear?' she asked.

'It feels fine thank you, Rose,' Cosette assured her.

'Right. Well then.' Rose wiped her sweaty palms against her skirt. 'I—I suppose we ought to leave you to it.'

With that, the two women scuttled out of the room, leaving Cosette alone.

Confused and exhausted, Cosette fell back onto the bed. It was only eight o clock, too early for sleep, but she had not dined yet. Had the judge forgotten to feed her?

A loud knock at the door guillotined her thoughts. Cosette's heart began to race. She imagined Johanna on the other side of the door, perhaps with the dress that had been promised to her. Feeling ill-prepared, Cosette scrambled to her feet, looking hastily around her for something to cover herself. The knocking became more persistent.

'One moment!' Cosette called, cringing at the squeaky quality of her voice. As the door began to open, she snatched the blanket from the bed and wrapped it around her body.

The judge stood in the doorway, the light from the hall behind him casting his body in a menacing silhouette. Blood sprang to Cosette's cheeks. 'Oh!' She exclaimed. 'Pardon me monsieur, I—' she backed away from him, wrapping the blanket over her body one more time. Her heart whammed against the fabric.

Turpin raised his hand to silence her. His inscrutable features, cast in dark shadow, unnerved her. 'Don't fuss, child,' he said, stepping inside. Once the door was closed, the fire threw light onto his face. There was a glimmer in his eyes, something quite unfamiliar to Cosette. She took another step backwards, knocking into the fire conifer. The poker and tongs clanged together. 'I merely wanted to see if the clothes I bought you fit correctly.'

'Clothes?' she stammered. 'You mean—'

'Yes. Please, remove the blanket.'

The corners of Cosette's sight seemed to narrow. Her pulse hared. She clung tightly to the blanket, fingers trembling. 'But—'

'Come now,' he said impatiently. 'Let me look at you. I spent good money on them.'

'Please, I—'

'Do you think me some scoundrel?' Turpin said sharply. 'Do you forget that I was the one who took you in? Saved you from poverty? I only ask to see that you are well clothed.'

Cosette thought of the young girl in the painting. She remembered the faraway look in her eyes, the look of being watched, hungrily. Slowly, she let the blanket fall to her feet.

Turpin grunted in approval. He stepped closer. 'It fits you well,' he said, his breath ragged. Cosette squeezed her eyes closed. In her minds eye she saw her father, watching her with disappointment and embarrassment. When her eyes opened again, Turpin's face was darkly near, his fetid breath fanning over her face.

He moved his head next to hers, as if to whisper something, only to plunge his tongue into her ear. A black shudder went through her, all down one side. She squirmed away from him, toppling the conifer over completely.

In the neighbouring room, Johanna lowered her book at the sudden clatter. Fingers tightening on the page, she squinted hard at the words, willing herself to focus.

'So beautiful,' Turpin murmured, tracing his tongue over Cosette's throat, leaving a trail of cooling snail-slime in his wake. Cosette stood there, trance-like, paralysed with terror. Her mouth was dumb, one electric thought beating through her, synchronising her head and heart and nervous system: survive, survive, survive.

Pleasure ached through Turpin's body as the girl shuddered and gasped. He could feel himself hardening as he pressed himself against her clothed thigh, grunting into her fragrant hair. 'Don't be afraid,' he whispered, another flourish of ecstasy passing through him as the girl whimpered. He wrapped his arms around her, groping for the sturdy, whalebone curves of her corset. 'Hush now.'

Cosette instinctively pushed at his wrists, only for her hands to fall slack at the hopelessness of it all. It was futile. He was bigger than her, stronger. She was at his mercy.

Sensing her acquiescence, Turpin crushed his mouth onto hers. His tongue, tensed and slimy, bullied its way between her teeth, probing her mouth. A wave of visceral disgust plucked Cosette from her daze. She grimaced, pushing against Turpin's chest, trying desperately to extract herself from his crushing embrace. He only held her tighter, his quivering tongue pulling back, leaving a cats' cradle of saliva from his lips to hers. 'Has anyone used that pretty little mouth?' he growled, eyes drunk with lust as Cosette scrubbed at his spittle with the back of her hand. She was breathing hard, nausea and fear rolling over her in equal measure. She had no idea what he meant. 'What about that sweet little cunt, hm?'

Then he lunged at her, flipping up the hem of her chemise and gripping her shoulder with his free hand. Cosette shrieked, scrambling backwards, the bed hitting the back of her knees. In some cruel twist of irony, she fell back onto it, the judge leering over her. 'Don't fight,' he panted. 'Don't fight, pretty girl.' Cosette wriggled desperately as he pinned his weight onto her body. Her breasts rose and fell as she fought for breath. This is it, she thought, as his face loomed above her. This is the terrible awful thing that happens to girls who walk alone. This is the fate worse than death. Forgive me Papa, please.

She felt something hard and alien bobbing between her thighs. Gripped with horror, she gave one last scream, as loud as her constricted ribs would allow, before the judge covered her mouth with his rough hand. Her heart thumped in her ears and tears dribbled sideways into her hair. He reached down between them, snatching at the hem of her bloomers, when the door swung open.

Stood there, an inscrutable look on her pale, pinched features, was Johanna.