Assembly day is over, thank the lord. Tom left, sniffing and cold as usual, and I smiled politely until his carriage turned the corner. Checking to make sure that I was completely alone, I began to use the most vulgar and obscene language I knew. Most of which I learnt from Tom, when we were young.
When we were children.
I used to cry when he left. Now I smile in satisfaction.
Turning at the corner of the school, hoping to find Fee or Pippa, and moan with them about the awful day, I run into Ann, and remember that she has not had any visitors today. She has no one to prepare a recital or painting or cross stitch for. I think of how lost she looks, amongst happy families, doting fathers and preening mothers and haughty brothers. I think of how brave she is and how hopeless her bravery is, and I cry for her.
And, like the coward I am, I leave her, because I do not want to have to help her share her burden of misery, because I am an English lady and this is what we do.
Kartik does not reappear that day, nor the next, nor the next. His words have not yet sunk in. I do not believe he has left me, but as the weeks drag on, it seems as though I was mistaken. He has.
We travel back to the realms most nights. We have dark shadows round or eyes, heavy with sleep and with life and with death. It is not supposed to make sense. Is anything supposed to make sense?
Evelyn does not reappear, and so I stop looking for her. It seems as though everyone I have ever loved is leaving me now. Mother, Father, Evelyn, Tom, Kartik.
And Pippa.
Her day draws closer, and her fiancé, the delightful Mr Bumble, visits more and more often. He seems greasy, somehow, and you can see Pippa shudder as he touches her silky skin, whispers vulgarities into her creamy ear. You can see the lust in his eyes, but the worst thing is that it does not leave with Pippa. When he looks at me, and Fee and even Ann, it is still there, glistening wetly in the light.
My poor darling Pippa.
Snow begins to fall at the end of November. Snow, which I've never seen before. They revel in it, squawking delightedly, but I must confess I was wary to begin with. I could not understand how something that looks so fresh and crisp and fluffy could be so cold and sharp. But I fell in love with it, and soon wondered why snow did not fall everyday, lovely as it was.
It is one day, mid November, when we are playing outside in the grounds. We have soaked ourselves through after hurling balls of snow (which Fee sarcastically told me were called 'snowballs') at each other, and then Ann has the wonderful idea of playing hide and seek. Fee immediately begins counting, and when we try to tell her we haven't had any time to get ready, she simply begins counting louder and more insistently, until at last we give up and run off, squealing as the snow we kick up slithers into our boots and makes our feet tingle.
I do not know that I am in the woods until I stumble into the clearing that Kartik had first kissed me in. I sink down, against a tree, and survey the scene.
The tears that I expect do not come. I think of him, of his eyes, his mouth, his fingertips. But most of all I think of his ways. Secretive and sly, silent as shadows.
Can I miss something I never truly had?
I hear a rustle in the undergrowth near me. I stand immediately, glancing around, my heart suddenly in my mouth. What awful thing could be hunting me?
It is as I turn around, checking the other way, that it pounces.
I try to scream, but it is covering my mouth, and drags me down into the bushes. It is not savage, nor even animal. It is him. He spins me round, and my eyes open wide. He did stay.
But he does not smile, or laugh, or even kiss me. He looks me directly in the eyes, and pulls something out of his pocket. A long piece of muslin.
"Don't say a word." He hisses, and then his arms are around my neck and tightening the gag. I splutter, sure that he is trying to kill me, but his fingers find the hollow of my throat and press. Hard.
He is trying to kill me.
"Kartik ... please." I try to whisper, but the gag prevents my voice from being heard. I watch helplessly as he ties my wrists together. I feel the chill wind slice through my already sodden dress, clinging to my shape, and, for the first time in front of him, I wish I were more covered.
He lifts me onto his shoulder, so that my face falls next to his. I try to plead with him with my eyes, but all he does is impatiently sweep my hair out of his vision, and carries me towards the boathouse. I try kicking at his back, but one glare from him quells me.
I wonder why he still controls me.
I wonder if he is going to kill me.
I wonder so many things all at once that I do not notice, for a few seconds, that we are not heading for the boathouse, but the little red rowing boat, loosely secured by a piece of fraying rope. He deposits me in it, slips some heavy things into my pockets, and into his too, and begins rowing.
I wonder at what he is hoping to achieve by doing this. Perhaps he intends to kill both of us. Perhaps I do not care.
We get to the middle of the lake, and he stops. He looks at me for a few seconds, leans across and kisses my forehead, and whispers the words "Trust me."
And he grips my hands in his own, stands, and pulls me with him into the depths of the big black lake.
And I find that I am no longer scared of dying, because I am with him.
used 'mr finchley' because my version of what was going to happen was very different, but have changed plot now so we're back to bartleby bumble. and what a pleasant man he is.