Ill Will. Michael Stewart

lot. Spoke to no one except the dogs. And when you had all gone to church, I went onto the moor. Fasted and thought. I had to turn things around. I had to get you back.

      I came in through the kitchen door, went to Nelly and said, ‘Make me decent.’ I was younger than Edgar but taller and twice as broad. I could knock him down in a twinkle. I wanted light hair and fair skin. Nelly washed and combed my curls. Then she washed me again. But she couldn’t wash the black off my face. Then I saw you all, descending from a fancy carriage, smothered in furs. Faces white as wealth. I’ll show the cunts, just as good as them, and I opened the door to where you and they were sitting. But Hindley pushed me back and said, ‘Keep him in the garret. He’ll only steal the fruit.’ How ashamed I’d felt that day. How cold and lonely I’d been in that garret with just the buzzing of the flies for company.

      I stopped by a ditch and picked some crowfoot. I looked at the white petals and the yellow centres. Some call it ram’s wort; it is said to cure a broken heart. How pretty it looked with its lobed leaves, and how desolate. I crushed it up and threw it on the ground. I had no use for pretty things. Bring me all that is ugly and I will serve them all my days, the henchman to all that is loathsome. I laughed at my own grandiosity. What was I? Even less than the muck on my boots. Which weren’t even my boots, but Hindley’s hand-me-downs. How he’d gloated over that. Another detail he could use to show the world that I was beneath him. Almost everything I owned had once been his property. I had nothing that I could call mine. Not my breeches nor my surtout, not even the shirt on my back. I walked a little further through grass and moss and rested by a rowan tree. It is said that witches have no power where there is a rowan tree wood. Do you hear me, Cathy?

      My mind snapped back to that day. That cunt Edgar had started, saying my hair was like the hair of a horse. I’d grabbed a bowl of hot sauce and flung it right at him. Edgar had screamed like a girl and covered his face with his hands. Hindley grabbed hold of me, dragging me outside. He punched me in the gut. When I didn’t react, he went for the iron weight and smashed it over my back. Go down. Kicking me in the ribs. In the face. Stomping on my head. Then he got the horse whip and flogged me till I passed out.

      I gripped the root of the rowan to help me to my feet. I needed something to eat to stop the pain in my gut. I saw some chickweed growing by a cairn and clutched at the most tender stems. It tasted of nothing. I found some dandelions further on and chewed on the leaves. They were a bitter breakfast. I carried on walking. Something of the plants must have nourished me because as I walked I could feel some of my strength restored. The sun was getting bigger and higher in the sky and my wet clothes began to steam.

      Cold stone slabs. When I had woken the next day from Hindley’s flogging, Cathy, I discovered that he’d locked me in the shed. I was aching all over, bruises everywhere, caked in dried blood. It wasn’t the first time he’d beaten me senseless, nor was it the first time he’d shoved me in the shed. I could cope with the beatings, and the cold stone flags for a cushion, but the humiliation still stung like a fresh wound. A razor’s edge had a kinder bite. I could hear you and them in the house. There was a band playing, trumpets and horns, clatter and bang. I could hear you and them chatting and laughing as I lay in the dark, bruised and battered, my whole body a dull ache and a sharp pain. I swallowed and tasted the metal of my own blood. How to get the cunt? I didn’t care how long it took. I didn’t care how long I had to wait. Just so as he didn’t die before I did. And if I burned in hell for all eternity it would be worth it. At least the flames would keep me warm and the screams would keep me company. Kicking the cunt was not enough. He must suffer in every bone of his body and in his mind too. His every thought must be a separate torture. He must have no peace, waking or asleep. His whole life, every minute of every hour of every day, must be torture. Nothing less would do.

      I’d been walking for a good hour and my clothes were almost dry. I’d walked off the stiffness and the pains all over my body were abating. But not the pain in my head. That was growing. I walked through Midgehole and along the coach road to Hebden. I’d walked it before, once with my father and several times with Joseph. With horse and cart. I was hungry again and thirsty. The chickweed and dandelion breakfast not enough to sustain me for long. I hadn’t eaten a proper meal since yesterday morning, and only then a heel of stale bread with a bit of dripping. Along the roadside was a row of cottages. Sparrows flitted from the ivy to the hedges. A cat sat and watched. The world was waking up. I saw a man load up his horse and cart with woven cloth and earthen pots. It was market day then. Rich pickings for some. Perhaps there would be opportunity to work for some food or like the vagabond you all think I am, I might find a way to steal some victuals.

      By the time I got into town, the market was already open. Merchants stood by their stalls. Some of them shouted their wares. Others made a show of their articles. There were ’pothecaries selling cure-alls, potions for this, creams for that. There were herb sellers. Grocers standing by stalls piled high with fruits and vegetables. Some sold meats: hunks of hams, racks of rumps. Others sold cheeses: wheels and wedges, finished with mustard seeds and toasted hops. Baskets, breeches, a brace of grouse. Hats, shawls, second-hand wigs, a heap of dead rabbits. Cordials and syrups, jams and sauces. Woollens from the hill weavers. Pewter dishes, earthen plates, porridge pots and thibles. I could smell lavender, thyme and burdock, and other sharp smells I couldn’t discern. The stallholders shouted over each other, so that you couldn’t make out what they were saying, just the bark and screech of their voices. Did I want this? Did I want that? A quart for a quarter. Four for a penny. Half for ha’penny. I didn’t want much. A lump of cheese or a slice of beef would do me. I wandered around, waiting for my opportunity, but there were too many eyes about.

      I bade my time before I found a way to swipe an apple. I tucked it under my coat and walked off, waiting until I was around the corner before I took a bite of the sweet flesh. The apple was wrinkled by winter but to me it tasted delicious. As I took bite after bite of the fruit, I wondered if my revenge would taste as sweet as that ripe pulp. I watched children laiking. They ran after a ball around the town square, playing catch, then piggy-in-the-middle. A small child squealed as the older taunted him. I remembered playing piggy-in-the-middle with you and Hindley. He’d always throw the ball too high for me to catch, even if I jumped. But you would throw it low on purpose and pretend it was a bad throw. From those outward actions, our inner feelings grew.

      I thought back to the day his slut gave birth to a son. She was ill, crying out in pain, and it was such joy to watch Hindley suffer. That week, as she lay dying, the cunt was in agony. How I laughed behind Hindley’s back. Thank you, God, I said under my breath, or thank you, devil. I’d prayed to both, not knowing which would hear me first. All my prayers were answered. I knew what Hindley loved the most and it was his slut. I knew what would hurt the cunt the most – the slow, painful death of his slut.

      The doctor’s medicine was useless. My spell was stronger. I learned from your witchery and from your arcane power. My anti-medicine had worked. I watched her cough and splutter. I watched her chuck up blood. I watched the life drain from her face. I watched the wretched slut die in front of the cunt. I went to the funeral so I could observe his agony some more. How I’d wanted to laugh when they’d lowered the coffin into the ground and tears had rolled down his cheeks. Each tear was a sugared treat. And afterwards in the church hall, he was inconsolable. The curate had patted him on the back, said he was sorry for his loss, and offered him some brandy. But Hindley was unreachable in his grief. Only I knew how to reach him. Later that night I’d put my ear to his chamber door and listened to him sob as though it were sweet music.

      Hareton was the bairn. The fruit of Hindley and the slut’s union. You were fifteen, all curves and skin. I taunted Hindley so that he beat me. Called his bairn a witless moon-calf. And I laughed when he fired and lost his temper. So that his beating brought no satisfaction. Fuck the lot of them: Isabella, Edgar, Hareton, Hindley. I’ll make them pay. I’ll make them all suffer. I’ll make a purse from their skin. They called me vulgar, called me brute. But they had no inkling of the depths of my brutality. I spoke through gritted teeth: mock me now, but one day I will sup from your silver cup. And it won’t be ale I’ll sup, but a broth of your tears and blood.

      I stopped a way from the market and watched women haggle with the stallholders. I gnawed the apple to its core, crunched the pips between my teeth, and slung it over