‘No.’ She placed her bag on the bed and unwrapped her cloak.
The room was small but elegant. A fire burned in the grate, and there was a four-poster bed with clean sheets and plump pillows. A set of drawers sat in front of a window which overlooked the backyard and the privy directly below. Beside the door was a mahogany wardrobe which shone like treacle in the candlelight.
She closed the curtains then opened her bag and removed the bottles and the two glasses. She set it all on the drawers and poured herself a whisky. She took the stopper out of the laudanum and began to pour it into the other glass.
‘Not too much tonight. He might notice.’
She stopped, then topped the rest of the glass up with whisky. She plugged the laudanum and put it in her bag again.
John locked the door and paced before the fire, wringing his hands; he was always excited on these nights. Cat sipped her drink and scratched at her scalp through the wig.
‘What time’s he due?’
John checked his pocket watch – a trinket acquired some weeks ago from another unsuspecting victim once he had fallen asleep.
‘Not long now.’
Cat fiddled with herself; pushed up her breasts, pinched her cheeks, bit her lip until John marched towards her.
‘Not tonight.’ He pulled off her wig.
It was a relief, at first. The horsehair was itchy and hot, but it was protection. Her own hair reached just to her shoulders, unbrushed and tangled. John ran his fingers through it, trying to neaten it, tugging out the knots and making her wince.
‘Take this off.’ He pulled off her shawl, loosened her corset, pushed her breasts down.
‘What you doing?’
He stood back to assess her.
‘And your shoes and stockings.’
She did as she was told. ‘John?’
‘Say you’re fourteen tonight.’
She laughed. ‘And who will believe that?’
‘It’s not a stretch.’ He nodded as he looked her up and down.
‘Who is he then?’ she said, sitting on the bed and taking another gulp of whisky. It seemed she would need it tonight.
‘An officer.’
She stood up. ‘You know they’re bad, John. I don’t like them sort. They’re too rough.’
He jumped to her, his hands smoothing over her cold, upper arms. ‘Eh, quiet now, you’ll be fine. Last one tonight, remember? Last time.’
‘Forever?’
‘Forever, I promise.’ His thumb brushed against her cheek, rough against smooth.
She rested her head against his chest. How she wished it could just be the two of them tonight, in this little room, locked inside together. She could feel tears niggling at her as they embraced and listened to each other’s breathing, so she bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself.
One last time … And after tonight, John would send the money they had saved to his family. And then, it would only be a matter of time before John asked her to marry him. And then, when they’d got themselves sorted, Lottie and Helen could come to live with them in their house.
She kissed him. ‘I love you, John.’
He patted her back, then prised her away from him to check his watch.
‘He’ll be here any minute.’ He made his way to the wardrobe and settled himself inside.
‘You won’t let him hurt me, will you?’
He pulled his coat over himself, so it didn’t get stuck in the wardrobe door. It would be an uncomfortable time for him in that cramped space, but he never seemed to mind if he got a wallet full of cash at the end of the night.
‘’Course I won’t. Remember to lock the door.’ He gestured at her to shut him inside.
She strolled back to the bed and rolled her glass in her hand until it had taken her heat. She sipped the warm liquid, letting it bite at her nausea – she hated army types. Ruby used to get a lot of them, especially the deformed ones. Bitter, most of them, too keen to take their pain and rage out on the women they were fucking. She’d heard Ruby’s cries often enough, her body hitting against the walls, the floor. Cat had only ever had one army bloke take her by the cut, and John had stepped in before the man’s fist had thrashed into her face. Perhaps an officer would be different; a better class, a better man.
She did not have long to ponder as there was a quiet knock on the door. She set her glass next to the other on the drawers. There was only the slightest variation in the shades of the liquid as they sat side by side; a man with sex on his mind would never notice.
She unlocked the door and peeked through the gap. She met a face, meaty, bearded, smirking, and allowed it to enter.
She watched him come through. He was a good head taller than her. He wore regular clothes, no uniform. He removed his hat to reveal waxed hair combed into place, his beard oiled and tidy, though the skin of his face was somewhat piggish; bloated and pink.
He faced her as she locked the door behind him.
‘Name?’
‘Sophie.’
He grunted, a smile showing his set of good, sharp teeth, as his gaze studied every inch of her.
‘Age?’
‘Fourteen, sir.’
He nodded, threw off his coat, and sat on the bottom of the bed. He patted his knee. She obliged, and he grabbed her thighs to pull her closer. His fingers gripped the tips of her hair as he raised an eyebrow.
‘Sold it for the money, sir.’
‘Pity.’ He pulled her head close, rubbed the tips over his cheek, and said into her ear, ‘you’ll do anything for the money, then?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Her head held fast, she felt his other hand slide up her thigh and over her corset, his fingers plucking off the ties of her bodice. ‘Drink, sir?’
He shoved her off him and laughed as she stumbled on the floor.
Her cheeks stung. ‘Would you like a whiskey, sir?’
‘Take your clothes off.’
Her hands wrapped around herself as he chuckled again. The room was too bright to be naked in, his stare too intense. When she did not move, he clawed at her until her skirts hung off her.
Officers, so it seemed, were no different after all.
‘Take them off.’ He returned to his place on the bed and resumed his position as watcher as she rolled her skirts away and dropped her bodice on the floor until she was in nothing but her slip.
‘Everything.’
This was not how it was supposed to go. The others had taken the whisky the minute they had entered. They hadn’t been bothered about nakedness as she’d laid them on the bed and crawled on top of them, satiating them with her words, her hands, until the laudanum had started to do its job.
The officer slapped his hands together, making her jump. She did as she was told, half-heartedly trying to cover herself with her arms as the slip fell to her feet. He ogled her for another minute, frowning, then smiled.
‘Now, I’ll have that drink.’
She crept to the drawers, handed him his glass, then took her own and downed it.
‘Come here.’ She turned to find him rubbing his trousers and, reluctantly, she crawled onto his lap. He nuzzled into her neck, his teeth grazing her shoulder as he gripped her breast.
The glass was still in his other hand. He rolled it over his lips as his fingers trailed from her breast, down her stomach, and came between her legs. He studied her face as his fingers pushed against her, bit his lip as she gasped, and then, finally – she sighed with relief – he drank.
She held eye contact with him as he gulped the liquor, his fingers circling and pressing against her, and she moaned for him. His hardness was against her thigh now; he would not be long.
He threw her off him and onto the bed. She forced herself to lie still, open, exposed, as he got to his feet and grappled with his breeches.
One last time …
He was unsteady, but she did not know if that was the alcohol, the laudanum, or lust.
‘Turn over,’ he said, sucking at his lips, sneering, frown
ing; confused.
She rolled onto her front, trying not to notice his growing unease, trying to ignore the sense of dread that was growing inside her. She heard him slowing and glanced back at him. He had stopped, his breeches half-open, his tongue poking out between his teeth.
She raised her backside off the bed, hoping to distract him. ‘This what you want, sir?’
He turned towards the drawers, picked up his glass, and sniffed it.
‘More whisky, sir?’
‘The taste …’ He licked the inside of the glass.
‘I’m sorry it’s so cheap, sir. Not the kind of quality a man like yourself is used to, I’m sure.’
His tongue traced his teeth. His lips pursed, and Cat saw his jaw working. His eyes were black slits as he glared at her. ‘It’s you, isn’t it?’
She rolled onto her side and pulled her knees up to her chest. ‘What is, sir?’
‘What did you put in my drink?’
‘Nothing, sir.’ She edged up the bed away from him as he stalked towards her.
‘You would trick me.’
‘No, sir.’
‘You would rob me.’
‘I wouldn’t, sir! Please, you can go if you like.’
The officer nodded, turned for the door. She held her breath, praying that he would leave, that John would stay in the wardrobe, that in a few minutes, this would all be over forever.
His hand hovered above the doorknob. He chuckled, low and quiet. His fingers slipped off the handle and found the key.
‘Why would I leave now?’
He took the key from the lock and dangled it before him. Stretching onto his tiptoes, he slid the key onto the top of the wardrobe where Cat couldn’t reach it. He pulled his leather money bag out of his pocket and hurled it at her. She dodged it just in time, and it slammed against the wall behind her.
‘You can take it all at the end if you’re still alive.’
He lunged at her. She shrieked and dived off the bed. She was on her knees, crawling as fast as she could, as he grabbed her by the hair. She struggled against him, beating at his arms to no avail. The bed was behind her. She squirmed, wriggled onto her side as she felt clumps of hair tear from her head, then his knee thrust into her stomach. Her breath rushed out of her mouth, the pain eye-watering.
Suddenly, she was reeling through the air, and she slammed into the wall. Whimpering, she slid to the floor, her vision blurring, trying to make out the shape of the officer towering above her and holding onto himself inside his breeches.
She saw the black blur of his boot too late; it crashed into her stomach again. She slumped forward, willing it all to be over, when his fingers dug into her skin. He ripped her from the floor and hauled her around the room. She struck out her arms as she tumbled into the furnishings and heard the smash of one of the glasses as she hit it.
She had no idea where she was. The sheets were all around her suddenly; the room swirled so that she didn’t know which way was up. The heat from the fire burned the top of her head, and as her eyes focused, she realised she was at the foot of the bed. The officer straddled her, and she wished that she had remained blinded, for then she would not have seen the smirk on his face, and so she would not have felt such terror as he waited a moment, collected himself, then raised his fist and punched her in the face.
The blow stunned her. Her ears rang, and the world around her was silenced. Her head lolled off the edge of the bed. Upside down, she saw the fire raging, the golden light catching on shards of broken glass on the rug.
Something was fiddling with her, down there. Her legs were shoved apart as her arms flailed over the back of the bed, flimsy from shock. His hand crushed into her chest as he thrust inside her. She felt herself rip and heard the involuntary scream from her throat as he continued to pummel into her, shoving her further off the bed until her fingertips grazed over the glass.
The pain suddenly made her keener. The ringing in her ears stopped as she gripped a long, sharp shard. She held it tight, and it cut into her palm. She breathed in deep, readied herself, then hurled her arm over her head and slashed his face.
His hand came off her chest. He fell back, sliding out of her as he clutched his face. She slithered from under him and landed on the floor, the shards of glass pricking into her legs. She gasped for breath as she watched him hold onto his face, the blood oozing between his fingers. He was panting, grunting; he was coming round. She did not have long, but where could she go? The door was locked.
She jumped to her feet as he rallied himself, then grabbed the whisky bottle. She smashed the end of it on the side of the drawers. Whisky and glass rained onto her feet. She turned, the bottle stretched out before her, as he charged at her.
She aimed well. The glass lodged into his neck, stopping him in an instant. He frowned, unsure, then flung his fists at her. She took more blows until he wore himself out. He staggered backwards and thudded into the foot of the bed, falling to the floor, surprised, tiring – the laudanum was beginning to take effect.
He stared up at her, suddenly childlike, as blood pulsed out around the bottle in his throat.
Cat slumped against the wall and stared at the officer. Blood seeped down his front, and his eyes blinked as if they could not focus. She peeled her gaze from him and looked down on herself. Red dots freckled her flesh where the glass had spiked against her skin. Her hands were bloodied and trembling, and try as she might, she could not still them. There was a throbbing inside her skull, her abdomen, between her legs. Her knees shook, unable to hold her for much longer.
In the silence, the wardrobe door squeaked open. John stared at the scene before him, white-faced and wide-eyed. He lurched out of the wardrobe, keeping his distance from the officer who gazed stupidly at him.
‘What have you done?’ he whispered.
She stumbled towards him and fell against him, her body quivering as she sobbed.
‘What have you done?’ he repeated and pushed her away.
‘What have I done? He was going to kill me, John!’
John kneeled in front of the man. ‘He needs help.’
She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She grasped the mantelpiece as John pushed against the wound, trying to slow the bleed.
‘What are you doing?’
‘He’s dying, Cat.’
She strode across the room, her naked feet crunching over the broken glass; she felt nothing. She shoved John out of her way, gripped the neck of the bottle, and wrenched it out of the officer’s neck. The blood flooded out of the man now. She stepped back as it raced towards her toes.
‘Shit!’ John said, straining against the wall, panicked.
Cat watched until the officer’s red breath stopped bubbling in his mouth, until he did not move. She turned for her clothes and wiped the blood and glass off herself with her slip. She chucked the soiled rag on the fire, then dressed – her hands were surprisingly steady as she laced her shoes. She grabbed her wig from her bag and arranged it on her head. She found the money bag at the side of the bed, full of shillings and notes, and tipped the contents inside her own case; she was alive, after all.
A knock at the door made them freeze.
‘Everything all right in there?’ A woman’s voice, old, frail, scared.
John stared up at Cat, horrified.
‘We need to go,’ Cat whispered and helped him to his feet. She gestured to the window. The privy roof was not a long drop – she only prayed it was strong enough to hold her weight.
John helped her out first, holding onto her arms as her legs dangled in the air, then let her go. She landed with a thump. The roof was precarious, but it held her. She jumped down into the yard, wincing as her ankle gave way.
‘Come on,’ she called to John, who she could see was hesitating, glancing back at the officer. He disappeared from the window.
She waited, assessing her escape route through the back gate, wondering if she should run now, without John, but then she heard him scrambling out
of the window. He dropped beside her in an instant.
‘What were you doing?’
‘Covering him,’ he gestured to his trousers. ‘Shouldn’t just be left all out like that.’
She grabbed his hand and dragged him out of the yard, despising his sentimentality for the man who had just ravaged her. They emerged into a narrow street, and she pulled him into the shadows.
‘What will we do?’ How long did they have before the old lady raised the alarm?
He rubbed his hand over his face, trying to concentrate.
‘Did you meet with the landlord?’ she said.
He nodded.
‘He knows your face?’
He nodded again.
She cursed, and wiped her hands on the brick wall, hoping to scratch off the dead man’s blood.
‘I’ll be hanged,’ John said.
‘Don’t say such things.’
He glared at her, and she shrank away from him. ‘We need to go,’ he said, suddenly determined.
He lugged her through town. She remained silent as they followed the path along the cut, curling away from strangers, hiding their faces.
‘The money, John, at home! Your things?’
‘Too late.’
He walked fast and never looked back at her. His hand was cold in hers, and hard. The ground underfoot was slippery and uneven, but he caught her when she tripped and didn’t let her slow for an instant. She kept her eyes on his back and didn’t chance a look at the strange streets and alleyways they passed. She followed him blindly, as the drizzle ebbed away, and the clouds broke up in the sky to reveal a full moon which lit their path out of Birmingham.
Chapter 30
October 1853. Birmingham.
Two days had passed since that night. The whole thing already seemed like years ago. Had she really killed a man? Had she really been beaten and raped? It all seemed dreamlike now, a bad nightmare. Surely, they could turn back, head home, and get back to their normal lives?
But John pressed on.
She had not slept for … hours? Days? John had pulled her forward, stopping only when the sun was at its peak. They had hidden inside dead trees, empty cowsheds; anywhere they could find which was quiet and warm.
Convenient Women Collection Page 59