XXIV

"Purgatory is hell with hope." Philip José Farmer, To Your Scattered Bodies Go

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XXIV.

Belle was not certain for how long they travelled. The days seemed the blend into each other, and the haze from the two concussions that Jean had bestowed upon her didn't not help with her ability to focus.

She wanted to be able to. She wanted to concentrate on what she could see out the window. She wanted to be able to memorise the roads, any particular landmarks, or special trees, anything to be able to determine her location.

But her mind wouldn't let her.

The carriage only stopped to change horses. Belle was not permitted out of the carriage during these stops, and Jean made sure to wait with her. They didn't stop to rest overnight. And as much as she wanted to remain awake and alert, restless, broken sleep found her.

Jean had not touched her again, most likely because his size made manoeuvring inside a carriage quite awkward and challenging. But that did not stop him from watching her with his corpse eyes, leaving Belle wishing that she had a heavy, thick cloak to wear to cover herself from his hungry gaze.

Belle did not say another word to him. As much as she was glad that she had spoken up against him, she knew that she needed to be smart. She wanted to live. She wanted to go home. She wanted to see Peter again. She needed to keep herself alive.

She would allow Jean to think that she had returned to her submissive demeanour. But Belle would be damned if he ever laid his hands on her again. She would kill him first.

Jean did not refrain from speaking. He filled the silence comfortably, seemingly regaling her with his triumph in locating her after more than a year's absence.

"I am ashamed to say that it did take me a day or two to notice that you have disappeared after the hurricane," Jean confessed. "My mind was elsewhere. The damage needed to be seen to. But when I realised that you had disappeared, I must say that I laughed." Even now, he snickered, his lips peeling back over his teeth in a sinister grin.

Belle said nothing.

"It must have been a little of this spirit that you now have," he surmised, tilting his head a little, his eyes raking over her from top to bottom.

Belle looked away.

"I do like it, you know," Jean reminded her coolly. "It is more fun when they fight."

An icy shiver ran down Belle's spine as bile rose up in her throat. But she didn't say anything, no matter how she wanted to curse him. She wanted to tell this vile excuse for a pig person that he was condemned. She wanted to tell him that he would rot in hell for how he had treated her, and those like her.

And she would. Belle promised herself that she would tell him exactly what she thought when she was in a position of power. She would not remain powerless. She would take the power from him somehow.

"I hate to admit it, but it did take me a little while to track where you had gone. But I wasn't going to let you go. Not you." His voice thickened, and Belle could hear his sickening desire.

He leaned forward, though struggling a little in the small confines of the carriage, and he placed one of his meaty hands on her thigh over her skirt.

Belle reflexively swatted his hand away, like she would if an insect had landed on her sleeve. A deep chuckle gurgled within Jean's chest as he placed his hand back firmly on her leg, gripping the sides of her thigh in a tight vice. His hand was large enough to nearly envelope half of her leg, and she winced as his grip tightened to hurt her.

Jean watched her, smiling, sickeningly entertained, as his grip grew firmer and firmer, to the point where her leg was screaming in protest.

Belle squirmed, writhing, but she kept her mouth firmly shut. He wanted her pain. He wanted a cry. That was what he desired. He wanted evidence of her submission, of his power over her. That made him more excited than anything.

Tears pooled in Belle's eyes, but she clamped them shut, refusing permission for them to fall down her cheeks.

Belle tried with all her might to keep her mouth shut, but as Jean's hand squeezed to the point of crushing her bones, a cry of pain escaped her lips, and Jean let her go. A moment later his hand was rubbing her leg gently, though he was laughing softly, satisfied.

"You went to Portugal," Jean continued, his tone taunting, as though he was mocking her with his clever detective skills. "Did you know that was where you were going? Did you mean to go there? You did not stay there long."

Belle didn't answer him.

"But you were captured again. One of my men, Claude, you remember him?" Belle did known Claude. She would have called him a henchman. She had not seen the driver, but she would had assumed it was Jean's dog who bit others when ordered to. "Claude discovered your name on an illegal ship's manifest, the copy that was not provided to harbourmasters. A copy that was kept by smugglers. You fell into the hands of smugglers, didn't you?" When Belle said nothing, he continued. She could hear the smile in his tone, though she was not looking at him. "You must have thought you were so clever, running away from your master, your husband. But your evil caught up with you."

Evil. Jean was the epitome of the word.

"It took me longer that I would have liked to find out your next move. Smugglers are notoriously sneaky with their catches." He spoke of her as though she were a fish in a net. "You were brought to the British Virgin Islands. And you were sold, weren't you? Sold to a man named Harold Wilkes."

Had Belle ever known his name? She wasn't sure. But she certainly remembered being sold. She remembered being forced to stand there in the middle of a square, naked before all of those jeering people who hurled words at her that she could not understand. The humiliation and the fear haunted her, and it was just another day in her life that she had tucked away in a quiet place in her brain while she prayed that it wouldn't hurt her again.

But Jean had pulled it right back out of her safe spot. She remembered that man, Harold Wilkes, speaking to her in a tongue she didn't know, only know that she could understand, the memories became all the more terrifying.

But Alex had been there, and Alex had been able to stop him. Belle pulled her eyes back to Jean's cold stare. There was no one here to save her, but there was someone here to stop him.

"It wasn't you who killed him, though, was it?" guessed Jean, cocking an eyebrow. "You're too meek for that, spirit or not." Jean did not wait for Belle's answer, even though there was not to be one. "You vanished after that, and it took me a long time to discover what had happened to you next. I eventually found myself in Louisiana. I thought perhaps you had been captured again. There are plenty of slaves on the mainland of America. But it was there that I heard of a wedding. A wedding that was taking place between a negro man and a white lady. I recognised the name of the man. His had been on the manifest beside yours. The same as he had been sold to Harold Wilkes alongside you. It turned out the captain speaking about this marriage was that slave's father!" Jean exclaimed.

Belle felt the blood rush from her face as she imagined Captain Whitfield proudly chatting about his son's upcoming nuptials, very innocently in a tavern or somewhere like it, completely unaware that a man like Jean Leclerc was listening.

"And England became the next port of call. I sent Claude on ahead with instructions to track you down. And that was exactly what he did. When I arrived, he had located you, and so began the reconnaissance, the search for the perfect moment to reclaim what will always be rightfully mine."

Jean spoke almost triumphantly, as though he expected her praise for managing to find her after so many bumps in the road. It was like he had won a prize and wanted congratulations.

"When Claude informed me of your adultery, he offered to kill you for me."

Jean's voice had suddenly become as cold as ice, ominous in warning as he endeavoured to put fear into her, to exert his control.

"He suggested breaking your neck, or stoning you like a Moor."

The mention of a stone stirred a blurry memory in Belle's mind from the night she had been taken from the Winter Assembly. She could remember Peter being struck by something, by someone. And she did not remember anything after that. She couldn't recall him getting up. She couldn't recall him breathing.

Panic began to quicken her heartbeat. Was Peter alright? Had it been Claude who had struck him? The merciless attack dog.

God, let him be safe, Belle prayed.

"What do you have to say to that?" Jean provoked.

But before Belle could answer, or not answer, the carriage came to a stop. Belle's breath hitched in her throat. It had not been long enough to warrant a changing of horses. And it was not a mealtime. Why had they stopped?

"We're here," realised Jean as he peered out the window of the carriage. "Finally. Five days of travel wreaks havoc on the joints," he muttered.

Five days. That was how long they had been travelling for. Five days was a long time to travel, and certainly a great distance had been covered. How many miles was she from Ashwood? Had anyone known which direction she had gone in to follow her? Belle worried for a moment that as she hadn't been recovered, that no-one had noticed her absence. But she knew in her heart that would not be the truth.

When the carriage door opened, a cold breeze immediately blew into the small, enclosed space. Belle could suddenly taste salt on her tongue and realised that they were now close to the ocean. She knew England to be a great island. Which ocean?

The chill in the air chattered Belle's teeth as Jean shuffled awkwardly get up and out of the carriage. He nearly stumbled down the step, before he turned around and looked at her. "Come along now," he beckoned.

Belle didn't move. She was frozen to her seat. Seeing Jean standing out on the dirt road sent a shock of fear through her. He was no longer sitting across from her like a lump of lard. He stood, hulking frame and all, ready to seize her, to take her.

"Claude." Jean spoke his henchman's name and nothing further, but that was enough.

Claude appeared in the doorway of the carriage, blocking out the light from the misty sky. Belle had not seen him for years, but he had not changed at all from the way she had remembered him. Claude was large as well, but his bulk was strength, and not the French menu that Jean indulged in. He kept his head clean shaven as he had once occasionally worn a wig back on Saint-Martin. There was no hint of a wig today. His lips were turned up in a sneer, and his thick, black brows were downturned in a serious scowl as he glared at her.

Claude reached out with one of his tree trunk arms and seized her forearm, his hand fully encircling her, his fingers meeting his thumb. And he yanked. He yanked her so forcefully that Belle tumbled out of the carriage and down onto the dirt, bumping and grazing her legs on the steps. Her shoulder protested the pull he had on her arm.

Belle managed to gather whatever wits she had left to look around her. This had been the first time that she had been allowed out of the carriage save for a relief break in the middle of nowhere occasionally. In the distance, she could see the ocean. It was a ribbon of blue peeking over a grassy hill. The dirt road continued on over it.

The carriage had stopped next to a small house. Rather a shack, really. It was constructed out of driftwood, the salty sea having greyed and weathered the timber. It was small, with two chimneys at either ends of the far walls. Belle counted two small windows on the front of the house, and someone had thought to add flower boxes, though it was not the season for blooms.

"Where are we?" Belle wondered aloud, completely involuntarily.

"Purgatory," murmured Jean in reply, and amused smile on his face. "Allow me to give you a tour." His eyes darkened, and his grip replaced Claude's on her arm.

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Hope you enjoyed it!

What a bloody turn of events I have to tell you. I have had some of the worst experiences of my life the last few days, made totally worse by my own anxiety.

So, as per my last author's note, I was supposed to be overseas giving you this update. Well, I'm not. I'm in my bedroom. Like usual.

I had booked to go to Fiji ages ago, and I was supposed to leave on Saturday morning. I got up at 3:30am to get to the airport on time. Now, this was my first time travelling alone, and I was already anxious. I have a fear of not knowing where I'm going. The thought of getting to Fiji and not knowing where to go made me really anxious even though I had transfers booked and everything. So I'm hyped up, and stressed out. A really great start to my holiday. I get to the check in desk and give over my information, only to find out there's a problem with my PCR test. I literally started to panic. And my reaction when I'm panicking is to cry. I started to cry at the check in desk, and this woman was so condescending and rude and not sympathetic at all. Like, you can see I'm a nervous traveller and I'm in distress, so anybody's natural reaction would be to reassure, right? Nope. I had to get re-tested, but this meant that I would miss my flight as my result wouldn't be back in time. I literally started to have a panic attack in the middle of the terminal.

I'm hyperventilating as I go to get tested, and the nicest person I encountered was a security guard! He was lovely. I get tested, but it's all for nought. I can't get on my flight and I'm just in pieces. I had to call my mum to come back to the airport to pick me up. I had to arrange to rebook my flight for Sunday morning instead. Then I'm having to call my travel agent to switch my transfers and hotel booking and everything, and my stomach is just in absolute knots with anxiety.

I also have a fear of being a burden and inconveniencing anyone. This happening is a major trigger for my anxiety.

I get home and I'm feeling sick. I'm in so much pain, I'm literally writhing. I'm trying to breathe deeply but I can't. I'd worked myself up into such a state. I'd taken about six pills trying to get rid of the pain, including 2 industrial strength painkillers, which kicked in just as I was standing in my doctor's office being told that they couldn't get me in that day. The pain finally dissipated, and I was knocked out on my couch for about 4 hours.

The next day, yesterday, it was take two. I wake up again at 3:30am. I get to the airport, and I check in. I'm already worked up. I'm anxious as all hell. I'm trying to breathe, but I have my mask on and that's severely stopping me from doing meditative breaths. And what do you know? There's a problem with my travel insurance. I started to cry again because that's my panic reaction and I profusely apologised to the check in person and I explained what had happened the day before and she was a lot nicer. After 40 minutes of trying to contact my insurance company and me stressing at the desk, I was finally checked in and I had my boarding pass. FINALLY I WAS GOING.

I got to my gate and I sat down and I just read my book trying to remain calm. Boarding time comes and goes and I'm wondering what's going on. Then there's an announcement saying the flight had been delayed due to volcanic ash.

I started researching on my phone and saw that there had been an eruption in Tonga. My mum was messaging me anxiously telling me not to go on any beaches if the tide drew out as that would mean a tsunami was coming and she's not doing anything for my blood pressure lol.

Half an hour later, there's an announcement that my flight was cancelled. My trip was over. I couldn't rebook because if I got covid, I needed to make sure I had a week between getting back to Australia and going back to work to isolate so that I didn't need any time off.

I'm absolutely gutted. It felt like the entire universe was working against me trying to stop me from going. And all I wanted to do was go and have some peace and quiet, where nobody would need anything from me, where I could read my book and heal my heart and come back refreshed and ready to go.

I sincerely hope everyone in the area is okay! I know my problems are nothing compared to those actually there and suffering.

I then experienced guilt for feeling sorry for myself, because there are so many people who have it worse than I do. But it's okay to feel sorry for yourself. It's okay to experience sadness, even if someone is worse off than you, because bottling things away is not a healthy way to cope with your troubles.

So, yeah. That's been my weekend. I'm exhausted. Mentally fried. And my stomach feels like I have abs of steel after the stomach spasms I self-induced.

I sincerely hope you all had a better weekend than me!

I'm going for a take 2 of international travel in April. Really more like a take 4 with how many trips I've had to cancel due to covid. Here's hoping it works out!

Vote and comment xxx