I wake abruptly, stirring the Plague Doctor who’s staring at a gold pocket watch, his mask painted a sickly yellow colour by the candle in his hand. I’m back in the butler, swaddled in cotton sheets.
‘Right on time,’ says the Plague Doctor, snapping the watch shut.
It looks to be dusk, the room mired in a gloom only partially beaten back by our small flame. Anna’s shotgun is lying on the bed beside me.
‘What happened?’ I say, my voice hoarse.
‘Dance is dozing on his wall.’ The Plague Doctor chuckles, placing his candle on the floor and dropping into the small chair by the bed. It’s far too small for him, his greatcoat swallowing the wood completely.
‘No, I meant, the shotgun. Why do I have it?’
‘One of your hosts left it for you. Don’t bother calling for Anna,’ he says, noticing that I’m eyeing the door. ‘She’s not in the gatehouse. I came to warn you that your rival has almost solved the murder. I’m expecting him to find me at the lake tonight. You must work quickly from this point onwards.’
I try to straighten out, but the pain in my ribs immediately puts an end to my efforts.
‘Why are you so interested in me?’ I ask, letting the agony settle into its familiar spots.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Why do you keep coming here for these talks? I know you don’t bother with Anna, and I’d wager you don’t see much of the footman either.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Why does—’
‘Answer the question,’ he says, rapping the floor with his cane.
‘Edward Da... no, Derby. I...’ I flounder for a moment. ‘Aiden... something.’
‘You’re losing yourself to them, Mr Bishop,’ he says, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. ‘It’s been happening for a while now. That’s why we only allow you eight hosts. Any more than that and your personality wouldn’t be able to rise above theirs.’
He’s right. My hosts are getting stronger and I’m getting weaker. It’s been happening incrementally, insidiously. It’s as though I fell asleep on a beach, and now find myself cast out to sea.
‘What do I do?’ I say, feeling a surge of panic.
‘Hold on,’ he says with a shrug. ‘It’s all you can do. There’s a voice in your mind, you must have heard it by now. Dry, slightly distant? It’s calm when you’re panicked, fearless when you’re afraid.’
‘I’ve heard it.’
‘That’s what’s left of the original Aiden Bishop, the man who first entered Blackheath. It’s not much more than a fragment any more, a little piece of his personality clinging on between loops, but if you begin to lose yourself, heed that voice. It’s your lighthouse. Everything that remains of the man you once were.’
With a great rustling of clothing, he gets to his feet, the candle flame snapping in the breeze. Stooping down, he lifts the candle from the floor and heads to the door.
‘Wait,’ I say.
He pauses, his back to me. The candlelight forms a warm halo around his body.
‘How many times have we done all of this?’ I ask.
‘Thousands, I suspect. More than I could possibly count.’
‘So why do I keep failing?’
He sighs, looking over his shoulder at me. There’s a sense of weariness in his bearing, as though every loop is sediment, pressing down on him.
‘It’s a question I’ve pondered myself from time to time,’ he says, melting wax running down the side to stain his glove. ‘Chance has played its part, stumbling when being sure footed would have saved you. Mostly though, I think it’s your nature.’
‘My nature?’ I ask. ‘You think I’m destined to fail?’
‘Destined? No. That would be an excuse, and Blackheath is intolerant of excuses,’ he says. ‘Nothing that’s happening here is inevitable, much as it may appear otherwise. Events keep happening the same way day after day, because your fellow guests keep making the same decisions day after day. They decide to go hunting, they decide to betray each other; one of them drinks too much and skips breakfast, missing a meeting that would change his life forever. They cannot see another way, so they never change. You are different, Mr Bishop. Loop after loop, I’ve watched you react to moments of kindness and cruelty, random acts of chance. You make different decisions, and yet repeat the same mistakes at crucial junctures. It’s as though some part of you is perpetually pulled towards the pit.’
‘Are you saying I have to become somebody else to escape?’
‘I’m saying every man is in a cage of his own making,’ he says. ‘The Aiden Bishop who first entered Blackheath’ – he sighs, as if the memory troubles him – ‘the things he wanted and his way of getting them were... unyielding. That man could never have escaped Blackheath. This Aiden Bishop before me is different. I think you’re closer than you’ve ever been, but I’ve thought that before and been fooled. The truth is you’ve yet to be tested, but that’s coming, and if you’ve changed, truly changed, then who knows, there may be hope for you.’
Ducking under the doorframe, he moves into the corridor with the candle.
‘You have four hosts after Edward Dance, including what’s left of the days of the butler and Donald Davies. Be cautious, Mr Bishop, the footman isn’t going to rest until they’re all dead, and I’m not sure you can afford to lose a single one of them.’
With that he closes the door.