One of Us Buried by Johanna Craven (year 2 reading books TXT) 📕

South Wales. I had always known, as I had felt the ship buck its way down the Thames, that I would never be returning to the land of my birth. But I had not expected the end to come so abruptly. I will not see my thirtieth birthday.

In the dim light of my cell, I look down at my hands. I can still see the bloodstains; can still see where the skin is discoloured, darker than the rest. For all my astronomy lessons and garden parties, for all the scales my fingers have churned through on the piano, I will go to my death with blood on my hands.

I don’t sleep. Though I want to escape the violent chaos of my thoughts, I know I will have this escape soon enough. The darkness is almost impenetrable, and the hours are blank. At once both interminably long and painfully fast.

I am terrified for Blackwell. Wherever he is, I know he is not safe. Perhaps Owen has already killed him. Perhaps the rebel leader has gotten the revenge he so desperately sought. And I am the one who will swing for Blackwell’s death.

Untouchable Owen.

Faint birdsong breaks through the dark and it makes sickness rise in my throat. Throughout the night, I had felt a sense of cold resignation, but with the light, I am terrified. Today I am to die.

The sunlight comes, brighter and brighter, straining beneath the door, through the keyhole. My entire body shakes as I wait for the footsteps of the men who will take me to my death.

I wait.

And I wait. I alternate between pacing the cell and huddling in the corner with my knees to my chest. At times I want this horror to be over; I crave stillness in my pounding chest. The next moment, I want time to freeze, so I might catch hold of every last thread of my waning life.

I hear footsteps, murmurs, but they do not come to my cell.

And then it is afternoon. And then the pink light of evening. My thoughts knock together, jumping around my memories. Twelfth night balls, the stained bulkheads of the Norfolk. Counterfeit coins in my reticule, Blackwell’s hands in my hair.

Another night comes and I am still alive. I am dizzy, sweat-soaked, disoriented. I don’t know what to do. I was not supposed to be here, not supposed to see this hour. And so I keep sitting. Keep pacing. Keep waiting.

It is the next morning when the footsteps finally come. I am unprepared. I had readied myself for my death and the moment had passed. I had even fallen into an exhausted sleep.

The door clicks open and I hear a cry of fear escape me.

“This way,” says the guard. His voice is cold and empty.

My legs feel weak beneath me. The world swims and my mouth goes dry. I grapple at the stone wall, searching for something to steady myself. My legs give way and I fall to my knees.

The guard looks at me with something close to pity, and for some reason, this is worse than his coldness.

I follow him out of my cell and down a long stone corridor. We stop in front of the door leading to the room I had first been interrogated in. The guard knocks.

“Enter,” says the voice on the other side.

When we step into the room, I see the captain and ensign who had placed this murder at my feet. They gesture to a chair in front of the table.

I crumple into the seat, my legs barely able to hold me. My vision is swimming. I don’t understand what is happening. I was expecting to be led to the gallows.

The captain folds his hands on the table in front of him. He says:

“Another woman has come forth and confessed to the murder.”

For a long time, I don’t speak. There is so much wrong with this. I had been the one to pull the trigger. The memories are there; hazy, but they are there. I had made myself certain of them. But if I am wrong about this, perhaps I am also wrong about the body being Dan Brady’s.

“No,” I hear myself say.

They tell me of a trial that took place while I was waiting out my last day on earth. They tell me of the woman who came forth and spoke of the altercation outside Captain Grant’s home. Spoke of the ball she had put in the chest of Dan Brady.

Dan Brady, says the voice in my head.

Dan Brady.

Dan Brady.

I don’t understand why Lottie has done this; I only know it can be no one else.

I don’t move. I don’t speak. I can’t deny this story, of course. I was unconscious at the time.

Even if I could deny it, the trial has taken place. Lottie has already condemned herself to the hangman. And in doing so, she has freed me.

“Please,” I say. “Let me see her.”

The guard takes me to Lottie’s cell, two doors down from where I had been held for the past five days. She is sitting in the corner with her knees to her chest. She barely looks up as I enter. I glance over my shoulder at the guard.

“Will you let us speak?”

A faint nod. He pulls the door closed, locking us in.

I kneel beside Lottie in the filthy straw and press my hand to her arm. Her skin is cold. I am still blazing from my aborted date with the hangman. Even at the touch of my hand, she doesn’t shift her gaze.

“Lottie,” I say. Finally, she looks up at me. Her eyes are dry, almost expressionless. Her hair hangs in pieces around her hollow cheeks.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask.

“Because I was the one who killed Dan Brady.”

“No. You’re lying.”