Castle In The Clouds, Chapters 33 & 34 (standard:drama, 2904 words) [17/21] show all parts
Author: Brian Cross	Added: Aug 15 2010	Views/Reads: 2440/1744	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Gibbings and Veronica take shelter from a demented pursuer. Continuation of my drama.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

mind of his intended. 

He had to have taken her. If Dawson hadn't already done so he would find
them and rectify the situation. 

In the castle basement, carved deep into the molten rock which formed
the building's base, was the remains of an armoury which had once 
formed the core of the castle's stronghold. When he'd acquired the 
castle, Llewellyn had discovered several weapons still intact and 
though the pistols were no doubt unusable, the sabres he'd found were 
perfectly preserved in their sheaths. 

Delving in the basement now, he selected one, drew it and held it close
to his nose with a quivering smile. The perfect solution to the 
problem; the perfect weapon to effect Gibbings' demise. 

Llewellyn didn't bother securing the castle entrance way, the thought
didn't enter his mind. Out in the driving rain he marched down the 
slope. Somewhere in the village he'd find them, he was sure - they were 
trapped on the island after all. 

*                           * 

Veronica thought ahead, marching to the outer door and tugging the
handle, before turning towards Robertson for the key. 

The noise of Dawson's fist intensified and then the door began to bulge
as he applied his shoulder to it. Gibbings cast a sharp glance back, 
'It won't hold for long.' 

Robertson nimbly slid the key into the lock and ushered them out into
the open, locking the external door after them. 'There is a small 
chapel at the rear of the church garden,' he whispered. 'God willing 
you will be safe there until you are able to commence your journey.' 

'And if not?' Veronica raised her voice above the sudden crescendo of
the wind, 'Are you now so certain of the innocence of this island?' 

'It was free of violence until your arrival, which is all I know.' There
was an edge to Robertson's voice, resentment on his face as he strode 
towards the rear of the vicarage. 

'Foolish man, his principles blur his vision,' Veronica uttered with
enough velocity for him to hear. 'Come John, it seems we have no refuge 
other than the chapel.' 

The gravestones stood stark, greying monoliths in a storm, a reminder if
any was needed of the peril they were in, but anger clouded Veronica's 
mind - fury at the Reverend's  intransigence, at the way the thug, 
Dawson, was pursuing them in blind ignorance, in the cause of his 
"master," who was insane. 

If it wasn't for John Gibbings she would regard the shipwreck as the
disaster it should have been. But now, even though in great peril, his 
words loomed large, words she hadn't a chance to answer. "Are you 
beyond my reach, Veronica?" 

"Beyond her reach?" he was every bit within it. Those recollected words
shafted arrow-like through the anger she felt, as thoroughly soaked 
from the driving rain they hurried through the undergrowth to the 
chapel. 

'John Gibbings,' she said, breaking open the door with her foot, 'you
are within my reach - I am in love with you, I have fought against it 
as much as you - though this is not a particularly ambient location to 
admit such -' 

'Damn the location, Veronica, and your highly polished language. All I
want is you - and security for my daughter.' 

'You shall have both.' Veronica allowed Gibbings to embrace her, to draw
her close. Outside, within the vestry, Dawson would soon break through. 
Well let him come, she would be ready. 

*                           * 

Llewellyn had the sabre, he had the means to eliminate Gibbings and
dispose of the body in much the same vein he had Dorothea's. 

For Gibbings was the only entity which stood between him and his dream -


The cluster of buildings that constituted the hub of the village lay
ahead; he only needed the correct one - and it couldn't be that 
difficult. The inn would be his first port of call, and from there he'd 
branch out - if he needed to. 

The door to the inn was ajar. He pushed it open, the bar was empty and
so he climbed the stairs to a room at the top; in the dim light he made 
out a figure he thought he recognised, that of a man slumped in a 
chair, a swab to his head, with a tall thin man at his side attending 
him. 

But he gave it no thought, because the ones he sought weren't there. 

He heard the tall thin man shout, but his words didn't register - he
stumbled down the steep stairs using the railing but not conscious of 
its support and then outside towards the square where a blast of wind 
buffeted him. But it had no effect, because a voice was guiding him 
within, venomous, calling out the name “Gibbings” - he was here in the 
vicinity and should be accounted for. 

Veronica was here and she should be rescued - 

At the crossroads the vicarage lay ahead, but he didn't give it thought,
he passed it by along with the church - and then he stopped - 

Contrasting with the howl of the wind there was a deeper sound, the
thud, thud, thud, of a door being struck, could this be Gibbings? 

Perhaps Veronica had managed to find refuge - and perhaps any minute he
might break through - 

If so, he was on hand to rescue the love of his life. 

Chapter Thirty Four 

Llewellyn drove his tiring body into the wind, forcing his legs to the
limit of their endurance; his arms were beginning to flail but his 
right hand clung steadfastly to the sabre. 

Dawson heard his floundering steps in the aisle. 'She's through here,'
he grunted, 'with the gardener, but I'm about to change that.' With one 
further thrust of the shoulder and a splinter of oak he'd broken 
through. 

Dawson hurried into the small box room to find it empty, its outer door
swinging back and forth in the storm. Beyond the church the grounds 
looked empty, descending into undergrowth, with wild heather and 
bracken rustling furiously in the wind. 

'We must find them - and quickly,' Llewellyn gasped, 'before harm comes
to Veronica - this is not of her making.' 

'I fear,' Dawson sneered, 'she needed little persuasion to flee.' 

'It is all that wretched gardener's fault.' Llewellyn wiped rain from
his mouth. 'You should have paid more attention to his activities; you 
were hired to protect her,' 

Lofting his head as waves thundered in the distance, Llewellyn raised
the sabre, the fingers of his free hand fumbling with the sheath, then 
finally baring the blade he said angrily, 'Let it not bother you unduly 
however - I shall soon account for him.' 

*                           * 

'The smell is rancid, the air full of decay; can you not smell it, John
Gibbings?' 

'Would you suggest we open the door?' Gibbings asked, raising his head
to watch the rain stream down the chapel's greasy windows, 'Shall we 
see how long it is before they find us?' He sniffed.  'Women!' 

'Men -' with all their witless sarcasm.' Veronica turned her head
slowly, forcing a smile as they sat huddled in a recess of the 
long-disused chapel. 'You realise if he finds us the "game," as they 
say, is up?' 

'We cannot run with nowhere to run to,' Gibbings snapped. 

'Kiss me, John Gibbings.' 

He sprang forward. 'What?' 

'Well, what else will we do to pass away the time?' 

Veronica coiled an arm around his neck, held him close, her kiss gentle
on his mouth; she felt his rigidity. 'John,' she asked, inching apart, 
'is your desire not as great as mine?' 

Gibbings sighed, wrenched himself from her grasp. 'This is not the place
- and I should be protecting you not hiding like some defenceless 
animal while Llewellyn's damned henchman closes in - desire has nothing 
to do with this.' 

'Does it not? Does your attitude not derive solely from the fact that
you are the man and I am the woman - do you think that should count for 
anything?' 

Veronica traced a finger down Gibbings' cheek and said softly, 'I can
see that in your eyes at least - it does.' 

Gibbings said nothing, but his blue eyes exuded an added hue that
reflected his resentment. 

Veronica sat forward, and clasping her hands around her calves studied
him. 'Do you think that the gravity of our demise escapes me - how long 
before the causeway becomes clear to cross?' 

Gibbings shrugged. 'I could tell by the light were it not for this
storm, the time must be approaching. Damn this man Llewellyn that he 
should ever have come here.' 

'And damn me -' 

'Damn you no -' Gibbings let out a great sigh. 'You are the one good
thing that's happened - it's just that I feel so powerless to help 
you.' 

'Then let us take our chance - up and go - I trust your judgement, John
Gibbings, it cannot be long before the waves relent.' 

Veronica held out her hand, allowed Gibbings to pull her up. She met his
eyes and asked a question. 'What is it, John?' 

'Even with your hair a mess, you look so beautiful.' 

She pushed him onto the porch, and together they prepared to brave the
storm. 

*                           * 

The waters were receding as Rothman reached the causeway, though the
debris deposited by the heavy waves rendered it barely passable. But he 
didn't let that deter him. He couldn't, despite the possible damage to 
his prized motor vehicle - for the circumstances that had induced his 
lengthy drive to a location he had no desire to return to, were dire 
enough to pierce even his conscience. 

Rothman had witnessed the change in Llewellyn, from shrewd City
businessman to hopeless dreamer - he had seen the deterioration in his 
appearance, his attitudes and even his increasingly bizarre bodily 
gestures. And the focus of his dreaming was the enigmatic Veronica Day. 


A woman of extraordinary beauty, refined, unconventional in a way that
he himself was; with first class breeding but with an air of 
mischievousness entwined. Was it her attractiveness that had so 
beguiled Llewellyn, or was it something inherent in the man himself? 
Some form of madness waiting to manifest itself with Veronica the 
unsuspecting trigger? 

It was, he thought, the latter. 

Whatever the truth, he sensed the change in Llewellyn spelled peril for
Veronica. Why, when he'd departed the island just a few days past with 
such nonchalance should that disturb him so? 

He'd an image to live up to; that of a wealthy, sophisticated but
carefree young man, an image entirely at odds with his current course 
of action - 

Veronica Day - 

There was no denying it, he felt aroused at the very thought of her - 

His tingling skin, as he approached the village wasn't a result of the
unusual chill - he accepted as much but fought against the conclusion - 
excitement and Veronica Day seemed inextricably bound. 

The castle lay ahead, looming dark against low grey clouds, its turrets
engulfed in mist. 

Uninviting, unwelcoming in the gloom, stark and uncompromising, and yet
Rothman could feel the adrenaline swelling his veins. 

He abandoned his Rolls Royce at the bottom of the slope, negotiating the
wet cobbles with less caution than he should, reaching the entrance to 
find the main door flapping back and forth like cardboard in the wind. 

An air of foreboding swept over him the moment he stepped inside; the
draught that funnelled through the hall approach seemed more akin to a 
cold wind. 

And the whine of the wind was the only sound that met Rothman's ears as
like the uninvited guest he was, he searched through a castle void of 
any life. 

Concern mounted to new heights the moment he reached the basement room
that had served as an armoury in days long gone; its door wide open as 
was every other in the deserted former fortress - but this was 
different, because within the box-shaped room, amidst weapon 
encasements, wherein most of the explosive fire-power had been rendered 
useless by age, one case stood empty, the wooden cover hanging from its 
hinges. The positioning of the retaining brackets told him a sabre had 
been taken. 

Llewellyn had been here. He'd seen his luggage lying unopened on his
bed, a weapon had gone - and where now was the king of the castle? More 
to the point where was Veronica - Dorothea - the intimidating new 
butler Dawson - just what had happened? 

Veronica was resilient, but she was more than that, and in a sense she'd
become an incumbent of the castle under false pretences - it was 
patently obvious Llewellyn wasn't the attraction for her - 

Had there been an attempt to confine her; had she tried to escape? 

Had Llewellyn tracked her? Was that the reason the weapon had been
removed from its mounting - and where were the others? 

Rothman negotiated the treacherous slope down from the castle, reaching
the bottom cobbles with the intention of driving to the village and 
then a dark shape riding the waves - a human form, made him start. 

Limbs broken, grotesquely disproportionate to the body, soaked clothing
covering its bulk like a shroud - and then a fearful apprehension that 
this figure so suddenly appearing before his eyes might be Veronica. 

Rothman's heart stopped and then resumed beating with an alarming
irregularity as he approached the shoreline. He waded in, stooping down 
amidst the spray that showered his face, took the body in his arms and 
rolled it over - to stare directly into Dorothea's wide-open, lifeless 
eyes. 

Here was a relief he shouldn't have felt - a woman was dead.  But what
cruel fate had determined her demise? 

Could a similar fate have befallen Veronica? Rothman dare not let that
thought take hold of him as, leaving Dorothea's body on the shingle, he 
returned to his motor vehicle and headed for the village. 


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