Yet, he cannot wipe away the images of a sharp blade pressing against Anna’s throat. Not knowing what had happened in the dark, his imagination wants to go rampant. He cannot fathom why Anna never told him about it and why she never asked for help. Real help. Not that visit to the brothel the other night. She won’t even tell him when she’s scared or hurt or in danger! What’s wrong with this woman?
Garret growls, then pulls himself together and focusses his attention back to Fat Annie’s. Perhaps I’m not trustworthy, he thinks. The mallet in his hand agrees, as does the clasp-knife in his breast pocket.
The brothel door opens and light pours onto the wet pavement. A well-dressed man steps out, opens his umbrella, and turns down Clark’s Buildings. Garret locks eyes with Butcher, who gives him a small and affirmative nod in return.
Garret hurriedly sets his feet in motion, pressing his body into every shadow large enough to hide his bulk.
The man turns onto High Street, then onto Arthur Street. He doesn’t seem to notice the large cart blocking the view to New Oxford Street, with its many omnibuses, cabs, and people. The three men smoking next to the vehicle go unnoticed as well.
In a moment, it will be too late. Garret’s mind shows him Drury Lane, the knee-deep cow manure with a girl’s bloated body half buried in it, the maggots, the gashes. When the dead girl’s face begins to look too much like Anna’s, shock and fury burn in his guts, pushing him to the edge of madness.
Garret has to force himself to recall Baylis’ last words when he left his cook-shop a few nights ago. Whatever you do, speed and silence, Garret. Speed and silence.
In the corner of his vision, the three men close in, their rain-soaked smokes forgotten, their hands balled to fists in their trouser pockets, their cold gaze attached to the stranger.
Garret leaps, swings his arm with as much force as he can muster, and brings the mallet down on the man’s skull.
Fat Annie
The creaking of tired floorboards lets her hands fly from the table into her pockets. ‘Ma’am?’ grumbles through the door.
‘Come in, Butcher.’
He opens the door and steps through, pulling his cap down and kneading it in his large hands. ‘It is done.’
‘I’m well aware of this. No complications?’
‘No. O’Hare killed him and put him on Nate’s cart; the Worthing twins drove him to Lambeth and sunk him.’
‘Does Baylis know about it?’ she asks.
‘Not sure…umm. Don’t think so.’ His cap is now compressed to the size of a small apple.
‘What do you mean by “don’t think so?” Does he know or does he not?’
‘They’ll never tell him, what with his past as a copper. Who the devil knows where he gets all that information from?’
‘Hmm,’ Fat Annie says, her eyes focussing on Butcher’s nervous hands. ‘If that’s all, get back to work.’
She opens a journal and pretends to read it, while her ears are pricked to catch the slightest movement of her employee.
Butcher clears his throat. ‘You got money for this. I played my part, so I want to be paid my part.’
‘Take Rose,’ she says without looking up.
He snorts. ‘I could have her whenever she’s late with the rent.’ He steps forward and presses his knuckles on Fat Annie’s table. ‘I want half of the money you got for this.’
‘You do not understand,’ she says sweetly. ‘You can take Rose. She’s entirely yours. I don’t want to see her face anymore.’
Butcher straightens up, not certain if he understands correctly. He sticks a finger into his right ear and wiggles, plops the finger out and asks, ‘Mine?’
Fat Annie nods and waves him away.
Butcher has to pull himself to together so as not to stagger from her room.
Rose
She observes her face in the half-blind looking glass. Almost a stranger’s face. She doesn’t look like a woman of twenty-five. She looks like a forty-year-old whore. The cankers at the corner of her mouth don’t worry her much anymore. She knows it’s the French gout and she knows the arsenic does little to prevent this ghastly death. But she might have years until then, the disease might not disfigure her greatly, perhaps she will not even have to suffer. But who can predict the future?
‘I know it’s not much,’ Butcher says. ‘Only one room in Phoenix Street, the neighbours are noisy, the street is as dirty as this one, but…’
‘I have syphilis, Butcher. This is why she wants me gone.’
He kneads his cap and says, ‘I know.’
‘So you want to live with an old wasp, knowing you can’t fuck her without getting ill, knowing she won’t earn much money on the streets, that she’ll clutter your room, and is of little use. Why?’ The last word shoots out of her mouth with much harshness.
Butcher tips his head; the cap is hiding in his large hands. ‘Because,’ he begins quietly, ‘because I like your hands.’
‘My what?’
‘Your hands. They are gentle.’
‘You are mistaken. My hands are weak. They only appear gentle.’
‘You don’t need to work on the streets. My money is good enough for both of us.’
‘Butcher, I’m a whore. Women like me don’t make decent wives. I don’t cook well, I don’t keep a clean house, and I’ll certainly not have your children. What do you want with me?’
Butcher mutters something unintelligible, staring at his feet.
‘What?’ Rose asks.
‘Just want your company. Don’t want to go to bed alone anymore. Just want a nice woman. You’re a nice woman.’
She swallows the jeers she’d almost thrown at him. Never in her life had she believed Butcher could be lonely.
‘I have the French gout,’ she says again, her voice a rasping whisper.
‘I know. Won’t touch you, not like that, anyway.’
She looks down at her hands, wondering what might be so special about them. ‘When must I leave?’
‘I think she wants you gone by tonight.’
‘Are you not tired of working for her?’
‘Hmm,’ he says.
Perhaps this question was already too private, she thinks. She nods at him, and begins packing her things into a bag, wondering what strangeness the future has in store for her.
Dance
Music pours out through the warehouse’s windows, mingling with chatter and giggles of people within. Anna hears Garret’s laugh — a cannon shot over tin pipes and fiddles. Leaving the chilly autumn breeze behind, she steps through the door frame into a crowd of neighbours. Half a foot above them shows his head with hair the colour of flames sticking out in all directions. The thought of a lion brushes her mind. The mane, the coarse skin on his palms.
‘Oy, Anna!’ booms across the hall, through music, laughter, and conversations. She tries to not look at him for too long, tries to hide the smile that takes hostage of her face. One of her hands goes up and waves half-heartedly; she adds a timid nod, then busies herself with a hunt for ale.
‘Want some of mine?’ he says a few seconds later. How did he part the crowd so fast? she wonders. And why would that stupid heart of hers gives a lurch at a man’s offer to take a sip of his lukewarm ale? She turns and looks up at him, his jug already right under her nose. The encouraging grin makes her reach out with both hands. She takes a large gulp and, for safety, another.
‘Thank you,’ she says and pushes the drink back into his hands. ‘So. What about that conspiracy?’
He grabs the jug too hastily and almost spills his ale. ‘What?’
‘I’d always believed the Worthing twins could only make jokes day in day out, but now you three are conversing with such gravity, it looks as if their sister died.’ She claps a hand over her mouth. ‘I’m sorry. Did someone die?’
‘What?’ Garret squeaks, jumping as a woman pushes past and slaps him heartily on his hindquarters. He twists his neck, but she’s already gone.
‘Was I in the
way?’ he wonders aloud, his eyebrows pushed together, his face bright red.
Anna frowns at him, sees how glad he is about the quick change of topic, and wonders what makes him so nervous.
He clears his throat. ‘You’re safe now to enter Clark’s Mews, if you want.’
Her gaze flicks to the Worthing brothers, who stare back at her and then down at their drinks.
She grabs Garret’s arm, one part of her needing to steady herself, one part wanting to shake him. ‘What did you, the Worthing brothers, Nate, and Butcher do to the knife-man?’
He opens his mouth and snaps it shut again. A moment later, he asks, ‘Who told you?’
‘No one,’ she answers as not to cry out, you all did. ‘I made a guess. Is he arrested?’ Probably not, her mind whispers sarcastically.
She sees Garret’s brain rattling, and then coming to a decision. He bends down, his face close to hers. ‘I’ll tell you my secrets when you tell me yours.’
‘Are you blackmailing me?’
‘No. I’d rather not tell you about this at all.’
She nods. ‘I don’t know if I can ever tell you about…myself.’
‘That’s one of the reasons I offered the bargain. I knew you wouldn’t take it.’
There’s a heaviness in his expression, one she didn’t expect to ever find there. She tips her head in agreement, deciding that patience is needed to solve this riddle.
He clears his throat, takes another large gulp from his ale, and says, ‘So. What about a dance with an Irish thief?’
In the pit of Anna’s stomach, her misgivings begin to twitch harder. ‘You have that enormous ale—’ as a dancing partner, she was about to add, when Garret looks down at it and tips the entire contents down his throat. His Adam’s apple bobs eagerly as all that ale flows from jug to stomach. Streams trickle down his chin, wetting his shirt. He sets the empty vessel in a windowsill and grins mischievously; child-like happiness mingling with nervousness shine in his face. Ale froth adorns his stubble. Anna’s chest is about to burst. She lets out a bark of laughter, wipes his chin with her palm, and curtsies.
‘Splendid!’ says Garret, takes her hand, and whirls her to the centre of the hall, where the music is louder, the crowd denser, and chests, shoulders, and bottoms inevitably bump into each other. The wild Irish music vibrates in her limbs; bold dancers kick and punch, regardless of potential damages caused. Garret shields Anna and takes all impacts without a twitch.
Two or three dances in, someone large must have shoved him, for he stumbles forward, steps onto her foot, and runs his shoulder against the side of her head.
They catch one another and push through the madly dancing crowd, outside, where air and space offer relief. Panting and laughing, they tumble through the frame of the warehouse’s door.
He bends down to inspect her head for bruises, softly brushing her skin and hair. Then, with fresh courage fuelled by ale and the wild dance, he tips her chin towards him and kisses her abused temple.
‘Garret, I…’ She heaves a sigh and takes a step away from him. The tittering of her heart confuses her. The urge to lean into him shocks her. She knows where this will lead. The first step will make the next necessary. And the next. She can’t take them.
‘Hmm,’ says Garret and runs his fingertips across her cheekbone. ‘No kissing, then. But I’m thirsty and I know you like the tea I brew. Come.’ He tugs her hand gently and she allows him to lead her away, along the street, up the crooked stairs, and into his room.
The door closes. Instantly, the space feels like air before a thunderstorm. Charged and heavy, tickling sweat from one’s brow.
She watches him make tea, then takes the offered cup and empties it. She clears her throat. ‘Garret, you have to know that I cannot be... That I cannot…’ Why does her vocabulary fail her now? She kicks his worm-eaten cupboard.
‘I know what you want from me, and I cannot give it to you.’ There, wasn’t too complicated after all. But now that she’s said it, something about it doesn’t ring true.
‘What do I want from you, Anna?’ he asks softly.
‘Bed me.’
‘Oy!’ He doesn’t know where to put his hands. In the trouser pockets they go, hiding until she would allow him to take a step forward.
‘You know I am…a widow.’ For the lack of a better word, she uses the lie.
His eyes darken.
‘He was a brutal man.’ Her voice is pleading.
‘Do you believe I want to hurt you?’
She opens her mouth, snaps it shut and shrugs.
‘Why are you afraid of me?’
‘Because arousal can be a destructive force. One grows blind to the other’s…limits.’ Her shoulders are quivering. She tries hard to push the three men from her mind; one after the other, the knife, the cut, the laughter. And although she likes — or perhaps even loves? — Garret’s company, the fact that his presence stirs up the worst of her memories makes her dread these moments of weakness.
Weakness. What a precise description, she thinks. She grows weak when he is around. But an odd sense of power is taking possession of her, too. Confused by such illogical and contradicting emotions, she shakes her head.
While she is silent, his hands sneak out of his pocket and now pick up hers. ‘I know,’ he whispers, hoping he does indeed understand what she was trying to say. All he can see is her anxiety and dark memories pressing her down.
‘The problem is,’ she begins, ‘I wish you would hold me. But I don’t want you to believe you could do with me whatever strikes your fancy.’
‘You want me to hold you?’ His voice is filled with doubt and wonder. He sees her struggle. ‘But you are afraid I might hurt you.’ He nods to himself, then shakes his head. ‘Why would I ever do that?’ His brain rattles visibly. ‘What did he do to you?’
‘I will not talk about it, Garret.’
They are standing close to one another. Every one of his words wants to pull her near, yet hers want to push him away. No one surrenders. Time stands still.
‘Well. Then…I’ll hold you now,’ he announces, chin set and hands not quite certain how to proceed.
She looks up at him. Her feet surprise her by taking the first step forward.
To him, it feels as though he soars. To her, as though she’s lost her balance, falling forward and relinquishing all her power and control. His arms engulf her, and his face pushes into her hair. She smells his sweat and the spilled ale on his shirt. Memories of the dance make her smile. Pictures of the woman slapping Garret’s behind. Had he not realised what this gesture meant? She picks out other scenes from her memories. Women smiling at him, encouraging him to invite them for a dance or a chat. He had appeared oblivious to them all; he was talking to friends and only raised an eyebrow or two over those giggly females.
Anna grins into his shirt. Her tension runs down her spine, and down her thighs. She wiggles her toes to chase away the itch of fear and leans against his warm chest, wraps her arms around his torso, inhaling his aroma.
‘Come,’ he breathes into her hair, then lifts her up and carries her to his bed. Too late, he sees her face. ‘I wasn’t…’ He stammers and sets her down onto her feet. ‘I’m sorry. I know nothing about all this.’ He makes a sweeping gesture with his arm, including her and the bed. ‘I just thought that… I wished I could see your face, and caress you and hold you. Somehow, it felt awkward doing that upright. Your neck will hurt when you have to look up all the time.’
She tries hard to hold back the snort. Pressing her face against his chest, a quiet huff escapes her lips.
His apparent naivety calms her nerves. She gazes at the small mattress and the large man, her mind analysing all available data: her one night with three violent men weighs against the unknown. One could extrapolate previous experience in two ways: either the three men are an exemplification of all male of the species, or they are but one example of a species’ broad range of behaviour patterns. The probability of the latter was hi
gh, considering that some women appeared to have married kind men. On the other hand, no matter how many respectful encounters she’d had with Garret, it could all turn violent once she let him take off all her clothes. And yet, hadn’t he already seen her half-naked? The probability of him forcing her appears low, yet too incalculable. Her analytic mind is blurred with fear — a more than unacceptable state.
She comes to the conclusion that statistics won’t help her now. Two individuals in one room; a breadth of unknown outcomes. Only one thing she knows for certain — the terror of one night long past has a grip on her she isn’t willing to tolerate much longer. She makes a scientific decision: an experiment is in order. Running away would prove her spineless.
She tips her chin at Garret.
He sits down on the mattress and his hands feel like foreign objects to him. With puppy-eyes he gazes up at her, wondering how many times he would do or say the wrong thing. She steps forward and kneels on his bed. Neither of them know what to do next.
‘Lie down?’ she suggests after a moment, not wanting to be the first in this weak position.
He obeys and drapes his arm across the bed, offering it to her. Awkwardly, she nestles close to him, her head on his shoulder.
‘Tell me about you,’ she whispers and Garret begins his tale, all the while caressing her short curls, her cheeks, her eyebrows. Well past midnight, she falls asleep in his arms.
Anna’s hand is still resting on his warm chest. The gentle up and down of his breath, his arm around her, and his fingers trailing through her hair spread a warm feeling in her stomach. Her eyes flutter open and meet Garret’s.
Her cheeks blush. She stretches out her hand and begins to trace his lips with her fingertips, wondering how it might feel to kiss him. How it would feel to be kissed.
The Lion's Courtship: An Anna Kronberg Mystery Page 13