A Tattooed Heart

by Deborah Challinor

‘Bugger off. She’s not taking callers.’

  ‘Tell her it’s important.’

  Becky stared down at them for a moment, then disappeared.

  ‘Bitch,’ Friday muttered.

  After nearly fifteen minutes Friday had almost decided she wasn’t coming back, but eventually she appeared around the side of the house, carrying a plate. The dogs’ heads whipped round and they galloped off towards her. Veering away in obvious fear, Becky hurled them a lump of meat each, and while they were gobbling it down she trotted to the gate and opened it.

  ‘Just you, Woolfe, ten minutes and that’s it. Hurry up.’

  Friday didn’t need encouragement. She felt the quick squeeze of Aria’s hand on her wrist, then slipped through the gate, picked up her skirts and ran like the wind after Becky around to the door at the side of the house.

  ‘Why don’t you get rid of the bloody things now Furniss is dead?’ she asked as Becky shut the door behind them. ‘They’re a bloody menace.’

  ‘Bella likes them.’

  She would. Friday followed Becky along the hallway but not, as she’d anticipated, into the elegantly decorated, light-filled parlour with the French doors where she’d met with Bella previously. Instead, Becky turned into the main foyer and began to climb the stairs.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Upstairs. Bella’s not well.’

  ‘Really? That’s a shame.’

  ‘You can be a right sarcastic bitch, Friday Woolfe,’ Becky said over her shoulder.

  ‘I try. Where’s Louisa?’

  ‘At the shops.’

  On the spacious landing, a heavily carved hall table displayed a large oriental vase flanked by two smaller urns. The walls were covered with a medium blue paper featuring crested birds in gold and green, and the carpets were thick and luxurious.

  ‘Hasn’t deprived herself, has she?’ Friday observed. ‘Or is this all Clarence’s handiwork?’

  ‘She redecorated when he died. She likes her nice things.’

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’

  Becky frowned. ‘Nothing. Why shouldn’t she? She can afford it.’

  ‘No, you fool.’ Becky always was a bit slow off the mark. ‘I mean why is she sick?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘You don’t know, do you?’

  ‘’Course I do.’

  Becky knocked on a door and opened it a crack. ‘Mrs Shand? She’s here.’

  Friday heard a familiar voice order raspingly, ‘Send her in.’

  ‘Ten minutes, remember,’ Becky said.

  Unable to decide whether she was feeling hatred or dread, or an oddly galvanising combination of both, Friday took a deep breath, raised her chin and went in.

  The bedchamber smelt like a sickroom. The air was stale and warm and the drapes half drawn, letting in only shafts of the late afternoon’s bright spring light.

  Bella sat propped up by a hillock of pillows in a ridiculously tall bed, its canopy formed by heavy swathes of fringed cream damask. The sheets were as white as the petals of a dog daisy, and the bedcover a frothy concoction of white needle lace over cream satin. On the dressing table were arrayed more pots, jars, perfumes and pomades than Friday had ever seen in one place bar the chemist’s, and these were matched in number only by the collection of medicinal potions, tinctures, creams, lotions, ointments, pastilles and pills on a nearby chest of drawers. The rest of the furnishings were as grand and lavish as the bed, but still unexpectedly tasteful; exactly as Sarah, who’d once been in here snooping, had reported.

  The closer she got to Bella, the more she realised how ill she was. She’d always been a tall, thin, sharp-faced woman, her face all angles and dramatic planes she insisted on emphasising with plastered-on paints and powders, and even now she wore rice powder, rouge, kohl and a wig, but she was almost skeletal, her bones seeming close to tearing through her skin. What, Friday wondered gleefully, was wrong with her?

  ‘God, you look like you’re about to kick the bucket.’

  ‘Far from it. What do you want?’

  Thanks, I will sit down, Friday thought, and moved a chair from the dressing table a little closer to the bed. But not too close. A walking cane lay on the bedcover and she didn’t fancy being whacked across the face with it.

  ‘Your last note. You said you don’t believe we have proof you’ve been smuggling heads. Well, we do.’ She opened her reticule, took out the letter stolen from Clement Bloodworth and the confession signed by Neville Clayton, and held them aloft. ‘Two letters that’ll drop you right in it.’

  ‘Let me see.’

  ‘Not likely. You’ll rip them up.’

  Looking thoroughly unruffled, Bella shifted slightly and pulled the edges of her charmeuse silk robe closer across the bodice of her chemise with hands that trembled badly. ‘I very much doubt I’d bother. Read them out.’

  Friday didn’t hear, too busy staring at Bella’s palms, which were dotted with warts. God, how revolting. Imagine being touched by those. ‘What?’

  ‘Still a moron, I see. Read out the letters.’

  Friday did.

  Bella made a rude horse noise. ‘Forgeries.’

  ‘They’re not. Clayton’ll stand behind them.’

  ‘Why? He’ll only go to gaol.’

  ‘Rather that than be eaten by the folk you robbed.’

  A red flush stole up Bella’s death-white face, her eyes bulged and she erupted into a disgustingly liquid cough that hacked on and on. Fumbling for a cloth on her nightstand, she spat into it, inspected the bloody mess, then leant back on her pillows. After a moment, her eyes streaming, she said, ‘I stole nothing.’

  ‘Furniss, then.’ Spitting blood; that was a fantastic sign.

  ‘Furniss is dead. I can’t be blamed for his crimes.’

  Friday flapped the letters. ‘Neville Clayton says you can. Look, it’s been years. You’ve had your money’s worth out of us. We’ll forget about the heads if you stop the blackmail.’

  ‘Never!’ Bella spat, firing bloody spittle down her lovely silk robe.

  Friday immediately dropped any pretence of civility. ‘Right, then, you fucking old tarleather, I’m going straight down the police court. And you are dying. I can smell it on you, and fucking good job.’

  She stood and turned to leave but before she’d taken a single step the cane struck her across her back.

  ‘Ow, you bitch!’

  All Friday’s loathing for Bella exploded out like the stinking head of a particularly toxic boil and she whirled and snatched the cane out of her hand and walloped her across her blanketed legs. Bella opened her mouth to shout — presumably for help — so Friday shoved her hand into her face, pushing her back into the pillows. Bella clawed at her wrist with long nails and Friday tore at her hair, which came off.

  ‘Not so pretty now, eh?’ Friday taunted.

  Bella’s rouged mouth made a shocked ‘O’ and her shaking hands flew to her head, grasping at sparse salt-and-pepper strands tied back in a bun. ‘You fucking whore, I’ll kill you!’

  Friday laughed. But then Bella made a lunge for the nightstand and yanked the drawer open, revealing a small pistol. In went her hand, and down came the side of Friday’s palm on her forearm. Bella cried out in pain — roared, really — and Friday skipped to the door and locked it. That’ll keep you out, Becky Bitchface Hoddle. Oh, this was so easy — Bella was pathetic!

  When she turned, however, she saw she’d underestimated her; Bella was on her feet, the pistol held in both hands and aimed.

  ‘It’s not loaded,’ Friday said, praying it wasn’t.

  ‘It’s always loaded.’

  Bella fired, but missed due to her palsy. The shot went wide and the ball went through Augustus Earle’s illustration ‘Sydney from Pinchgut Island’, presumably burying itself in the wall behind it.

  Friday nearly passed out with relief but recovered in a second. As a furious hammering came at the door, she marched towards Bella, snatched the pistol with h
er left hand and punched her with her right. But Bella expertly blocked the punch and bit her arm, hard.

  Friday gaped at the bite mark, which had gaps in it. Then Bella let fly with an extraordinarily unladylike swing that took Friday in the side of the head. It would have knocked her out cold had Bella been hale, but she wasn’t so Friday only staggered a few steps, shook her head, decided enough was enough and delivered her own almighty clout. Stunned briefly into unconsciousness, Bella flew backwards onto the bed, arms and legs flopping, then slid onto the floor, her robe and chemise riding up almost to her waist.

  Friday stared and stared, unable to believe what she was seeing. Instead of the skinny old minge she’d expected, nestling between Bella’s legs was a flaccid cock and a pair of balls. Fucking hell!

  ‘Bella, let me in!’ Becky shouted.

  But Friday took no notice. Mentally, she was reeling: because of what she’d just seen, she realised that the blackmail had come to an end in a way she could never have imagined.

  On the floor, Bella stirred. Friday stepped well back. Bella opened her eyes, then sat up and swept her robe between her legs in one swift movement. A thin trickle of blood ran from her nose over her top lip. She wiped it away with the back of her hand, then coughed and reached for her cloth again.

  When she’d finished hoicking and spitting, Friday said, ‘I saw.’

  ‘What?’

  Friday pointed at Bella’s groin. ‘I saw.’

  Bella froze, flashes of fear, shame, rage and an awful, hollow sadness chasing across her powdered face.

  ‘You’re a cove, aren’t you?’ Friday said. Christ almighty. It explained so many of the mean and rotten things Bella had done.

  But did it really? Because although she’d behaved so brutally over the years, she’d done it with the vicious sort of cunning Friday had always associated with certain women. Women could be a lot nastier than men when they felt like it. They knew what to do that really hurt, physically and in your heart, and the really poisonous ones never forgot and they rarely forgave. And Bella, regardless of her secret cock dangling under her silk and taffeta, had behaved just like a woman. Always. A bloody sour, angry one, but a woman all the same.

  More hammering. ‘Bella!’

  ‘Fuck off!’ Bella shrieked, then drew up her knees and wrapped her arms around her head.

  She stayed that way a long time, nearly ten minutes. Friday shifted the chair back to the dressing table and sat down to wait.

  Finally, Bella got off the floor. She moved to the bed, slowly and carefully put her wig back on, then said bitterly, ‘Go on, then, laugh.’

  Friday shrugged. ‘I’ve seen your sort before.’ And she had, in the mollyhouses of London. Many times.

  ‘My sort? Do you even know what “my sort” is?’

  ‘’Course I do.’

  ‘Then I’m sure it’ll give everyone you tell a laugh.’

  ‘I won’t tell, but only if you stop blackmailing us.’

  Bella’s eyes narrowed and she dabbed at her nose again. ‘Do I have your word? Do I? And is it worth anything?’ she added with a sneer.

  ‘Yes, and you know it is.’

  Bella looked away, then gave a weary little sigh. ‘All right. It’s over.’

  ‘What about your word?’

  ‘It’s as good as yours.’

  ‘You played the crooked cross on us before.’

  ‘This is different.’

  It was, and Friday knew it. She nodded, telling herself to sit still and stay calm, though what she felt like doing was collapsing on the floor and bawling with relief. But it wasn’t quite over.

  ‘You said once that all this was my fault.’

  ‘All what?’

  ‘The blackmail. Sarah asked what’ve we ever done to you, and you told her to ask me. So why? Why was it my fault?’

  Bella glared at her. ‘You’ve driven me bloody well mad for years.’

  ‘I have? Why?’

  ‘Look at you! Your hair, your face, your body. I’d give anything to be you. You’re a paragon of female beauty and what do you do? You sell yourself to any bastard with a shilling to spare.’

  ‘A bit more than a bloody shilling.’

  ‘Shut up. And you abuse yourself by drinking like a fish and you’ve a foul mouth and you’re inelegant and you let women down.’

  ‘I do not let women down! I’m bloody loyal,’ Friday protested, though she had in fact failed Harrie, Sarah, Aria and Mrs H more than once. How had Bella known about that?

  ‘I don’t mean your silly friends, I mean women as a species. You make an absolute mockery of the gifts God gave you. I’ve hated you for that. Hated you. So I punished you for it.’

  ‘That’s it?’ Friday said, astounded. ‘You blackmailed us because you’re jealous of me?’

  ‘No! It’s . . .’ Bella thumped the mattress frustratedly with a closed fist.

  Her voice was ragged and warped, her pain filling the room with a sudden ocean of words. It seemed to Friday that now she’d started talking, there were things coming out she really had to say. Perhaps she truly was dying.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Bella tried again. ‘It’s more than jealousy. You’re such a wastrel. You could so easily have a fine loving husband and as many children as you like and a happy home — all those things every woman wants and I’d kill for! But not you. Not only are you a slut: you don’t even like men! It’s so unjust! Have you any idea what it’s like to desperately want what someone like you has, and know you’ll never, ever get it? Have you any idea what it’s like to know you’re a woman, but be doomed to suffer in a man’s body till the day you die? Have you any idea at all how hard it is to keep up the pretence day after day after stinking day?’ She snatched up a crystal tumbler and hurled it at the wall, where it splintered into a thousand pieces. ‘Well, have you?’

  Bloody hell, Friday thought, carefully flapping glass off her skirt, she’s not a molly at all. She’s one of those other poor mixed-up souls. And she knows about me and Aria. ‘No, I don’t, so tell me.’

  Bella looked shocked. ‘What?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Why?’ Bella asked, her voice loaded with suspicion.

  ‘’Cos when you have, I’ll tell you a few things about what it’s really like being me. Is that a deal?’

  ‘Do I look like a fool? Why should I be the butt of your jokes the next time you go to the pub?’

  Frustrated, Friday raised her eyes to the ceiling. She wanted to hear Bella’s story because she needed to tell Bella hers. She might change her mind then about wanting so much to be a woman. ‘Look, you leery cow, you still know what you know about us —’

  ‘I’ll never forget it.’

  ‘So I’m not likely to tell your secrets, am I?’

  Bella glowered at her, then at last said, ‘Get the whisky out of that cupboard. The good Scottish one. And some tumblers.’

  Very fleetingly, Friday thought about Aria waiting on the street, who’d have her guts for garters if she knew she was in here drinking with the enemy. ‘A bit early for whisky, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not something I’d expect you to say.’

  It wasn’t something Friday expected herself to say. It didn’t mean she didn’t want one, though.

  ‘You pour,’ Bella said. ‘My hands . . .’

  Friday did. ‘So . . . ?’ she prompted, swirling her whisky around in the tumbler. It was a gorgeous bright amber, the exact colour of a large citrine Sarah had been setting into a pendant the last time she’d dropped into the jewellery shop.

  ‘I’m not a molly, you know,’ Bella began. ‘I’m not a man who prefers men. Regardless of the body I have I’m a woman who prefers men, though I stopped having affairs years ago.’

  Friday blinked. That was a bit unexpected and, well, private.

  ‘My life’s lonely, but I’d rather be lonely than . . . mocked.’

  ‘What about old Clarence?’

  Bella made a moue of dislike. ‘Clarence
was a molly. He wasn’t interested in me. All he wanted was a woman on his arm at social events. He was utterly ignorant of what was under my skirts.’

  ‘You know, I hated you for marrying him and getting out of the Factory. Among other things.’

  ‘I hated myself, briefly. Clarence was a shit.’ Bella made a wide sweeping gesture with her warty hand, then sighed. ‘I suppose he had troubles of his own. But it was a worthwhile business decision, especially when he passed away so unexpectedly.’

  ‘What did he die of?’

  ‘A weakened heart.’ Bella smiled unpleasantly.

  She definitely had something to do with that, Friday thought, not at all surprised. ‘How did he manage to get you a ticket of leave? Must have cost him a fortune.’

  ‘Only a small one. He could afford it and I deserved it, putting up with his behaviour. For a nob, the man had no class at all.’ Bella took a big enough sip of her whisky to make her eyes water, and lapsed into contemplation. Then: ‘I knew I was in the wrong body all my life. It’s been a true curse. My poor mother. When I told her she said it was like having a son die, but she came to accept me and loves me. The rest of my family think I’m a degenerate.’

  ‘But how did you know you were supposed to be a girl?’ Friday waved her hand vaguely. ‘I mean, you’ve got the prick and everything.’

  ‘I felt it, in my mind and my heart and my gut.’ Bella’s gaze didn’t waver. ‘In the same places, I imagine, as you felt it when you realised you prefer the bodies and the love of women.’

  Friday scowled. ‘How do you know about that?’

  Bella tapped the side of her whopping great nose. Her man’s nose, now that Friday looked at it properly.

  ‘I know more about you than you think, Friday Woolfe.’

  ‘You can’t even spell my name right.’

  ‘Two ohs in Woolfe. Your lover is very beautiful.’

  ‘She is. How old are you?’

  ‘That’s an impolite question to ask a lady.’

  ‘Well, I’ll ask the cove part of you, then.’

  In a deep, male voice, Bella said, ‘I’m thirty-two: what the fuck of it?’

  It was terribly shocking, hearing the guttural tones coming from a rouged mouth Friday had always assumed to be a woman’s, and she stared, her eyes wide. ‘Is that your normal voice?’