As the morphia had painfully left his blood, food tasted better, and his appetite had grown proportionally. He felt guilty, considering he did nothing but empty the captain’s pantry.
The room that functioned as a dining room, kitchen, and sitting room, even though untidy and chaotic was so much better than his cage. And if he was completely honest, he didn’t look forward to leaving the flat to explore the outside world. Not yet.
What he saw of London from a small window was a jumble of loud people, noisy carts jerking along the street, donkeys braying and horses neighing, and the loud blasts from the nearby furnaces booming. He spent hours just watching that small corner of London. While he loved the colours and the activity, the world outside the flat scared him as well.
He hadn’t seen Vivienne, or if she’d been there, he didn’t remember her. He hoped she hadn’t come when he was out of control from withdrawal. In the circus, his life had been on display for everyone to see and laugh at. The moment he’d been at his worst should be for him only. Having the captain as a witness was already hard enough to endure.
Not to mention the constant fear of expecting Murdock to barge into the house and drag him back in chains. The captain didn’t know who Murdock was. He believed Cade was the ringmaster. Murdock could easily deceive him. All because Samuel couldn’t write and explain the true story.
He finished wolfing down a plate of bacon, eggs, and buttered scones while Captain Jackson filled a large tin container with hot water in the bedroom. Back and forth he went until the container was full.
“It’s your moment, lad.” He showed Samuel a pair of shiny scissors. “You need a proper bath, and we need to cut that…” He waved the scissors in a circle. “Thing. I tried to comb it and broke two combs.”
Samuel rose from the chair, licking the grease from his fingers and palms. Hygiene had never been Murdock’s first concern when it came to Samuel. He’d never had a proper bath, only cold showers with a sponge.
“Now, I’m not a stickler for manners,” Captain Jackson said. “But it’s better if you don’t lick your fingers after a meal in front of a lady, or anyone. Wash them. There’s a basin with soapy water over there. Then I’ll cut your hair first.”
Samuel did as he was told, wondering how many rules he had to learn to live among normal people. After he finished, he sat on a chair as Captain Jackson cut his hair without mercy.
Long, knotted dark brown strands fell to the floor, and somehow, he couldn’t stop staring at them. He didn’t remember having ever cut his hair. Those strands had been with him since his imprisonment had begun.
Another chain was broken.
Captain Jackson clicked his tongue. “I did my best, but you need to wash it before I continue.” He pointed at the tub filled with steamy water. “In you go. The soap is there, and on that chair, you’ll find some clothes, not elegant but decent. The harder you scrub, the better. And remember.” He paused, brushing Samuel’s hair. “When you look into the mirror, you’re a man not an animal. Don’t forget it.”
Samuel had no idea what the captain meant but nodded. Alone in the bedroom, he removed his clothes and stepped into the tub. Steam fogged the air, and a pungent scent wafted from the soap when he picked it up.
The hot water was so far from the freezing baths he’d taken now and then. The sensation of the warm water on his skin cleaned even his thoughts.
He closed his eyes, relishing every moment of the wonderful hot bath.
Captain Jackson had taken care of him, washing him with a sponge when he’d been weak in the bed, but the feeling of scrubbing himself was more relaxing. He wanted to get rid of all the dirt from the circus. He wanted to wash away the pain and hopelessness.
He scrubbed himself until his skin was raw and red and the water was cold and dirty. The clean clothes chafed his skin, but the fresh scent of soap was intoxicating. The trousers were a bit too short, but between them and the shirt, he was properly dressed, like the people who had stared at him in horror.
When he came out of the bedroom, Captain Jackson eyed him with approval. “Excellent. Let’s finish your hair.”
As the captain worked on taming the wet hair and cutting the beard, Samuel wanted to ask a dozen questions. Why was the captain helping him? Where was Vivienne? What was he supposed to do now? What if Murdock found him again? The last thought sent a chill down his spine.
The minty scent of the shaving cream tickled his nose as the captain applied it to his face.
“I have a steady hand,” the captain said, “but don’t make abrupt moves. My hand could slip.”
Samuel remained still as the captain ran a long, sharp razor over his cheeks and neck. A warm towel removed the last traces of shaving cream, and he touched his face. How odd it was not to feel the beard.
Then the captain attacked Samuel’s hair again—it was a battle of scissors and combs.
“Done.” Captain Jackson passed a comb through Samuel’s hair before handing him a mirror. “I’m not an expert, but in the army, I cut the hair of many soldiers.”
Samuel tilted his head right and left, watching his face in the mirror at different angles. His face. He didn’t recognise himself.
His hair was cut very short. He ran a hand over the top of his head, ruffling the short strands sticking out in every direction. Without the grease and dirt, his dark blond hair shone with a golden hue he didn’t know it had.
The beard was gone, and his skin didn’t have any grime. He was surprised to find himself rather pale and with gaunt cheeks. His cheekbones protruded too much.
Captain Jackson stood back and looked at him. “Lion Boy is gone. You look nothing like him. That’s a good thing. No one will recognise you.”
Lion Boy was no more.
