Sticks and Stones

Chapter 1 

There was the sound of a key turning in the lock, the solid steel door opened then clanged shut; its sound hollow. The prisoner’s head turned as three sets of boots sounded heavy on the cold flagstone floor as they walked stiffly down the corridor towards him. A patch of light from the small iron barred window at the top of his cell blanched the dusty darkness. From the shapes, the prisoner could tell one was a woman, one the guard, and the other a priest. He recognised the woman and his heart squeezed. Every curve of her had burnt into his brain. That temptress had been his downfall. That She-devil, he cursed, was the reason he was here, behind bars.

The woman drew near the bars but did not put her hands on them, her eyes were cold and her body taut. She was slight, dressed tidily in a neat grey day dress, nipped in at the waist, she wore a bonnet that framed her pretty face and covered her fiery red curls.

“What’s she doing here?” Charlie demanded of the guard; his voice icy with hate.

“Mrs Healey, of Long Gully, requested an audience with you,” the gaoler told him, giving the prisoner a baleful stare.

“I don’t wish to see her.” The prisoner turned his back, shunning his visitors.

Mary looked at the scruffy hunched figure of Charles Butler sometimes known as Champagne Charlie, a man she had once known and trusted, and fought the urge to vomit. It had been well over a year since she’d last seen him, but in the haunts of her dreams she could still feel the terror of his hands around her neck, and the heat of the flames as the hotel burned to the ground. Charlie’s beard was full and matted, and his hat had been taken from him so he had nothing to hide his bald pate. He had always hated being seen without his large black slouch hat. His hands were rough with callouses, and his prison garb, grey serge jacket and corduroy trousers were ripped and torn. There must be no sympathy. Be strong, get revenge, must have justice, for Jim’s sake, someone must pay, she told herself.

“I wish to speak with you,” Mary said, desperately trying to keep her voice even, she didn’t want him to know seeing him again had affected her.

“What fer?” Charlie turned around; his eyes full of scorn. “I got nothing to say to the likes of you, whore! I thought you were dead.”

“Well I’m not,” Mary returned, her voice echoing around the walls.

Charlie’s eyes narrowed. He squinted at her and grinned. “He is though.”

Mary flinched. Did Charlie know, or had he guessed? “We escaped the fire.”

Realising he had hit a nerve, he studied her with shrewd knowing eyes.

“I wanted to see you before…” she mocked, putting her gloved hands to her throat.

Charlie turned to the guard. “Take them away. I don’t want no visitors. I got nothing to say to the likes of them.”