She slipped up a narrow alley beside the perfumery and leaned casually against a gate a few feet from the shop's back door. She knew the routine of everyone who worked there, and waited for the owner's daughter to sneak outside for a quick cigarette.
The woman appeared, nodding quickly to Maeve in a silent understanding of discretion. Women weren't given credits to buy cigarettes, nor were they supposed to idle in alleyways.
The woman lit a half-burned cigarette with shaking hands, and sucked on it as if it were the only thing keeping her alive. A voice sounded from inside and she winced, flicking the cigarette to the ground. She smoothed down her white apron, fixed a pin in her hair, and disappeared back inside.
Maeve wandered over and picked up the still smouldering cigarette. She placed it between her lips, the end greasy with lipstick, and sucked. Her mouth filled with smoke, and she coughed. She stubbed the cigarette out on the wall, adding to the speckling of soot marks, and dropped the butt into her pocket.
A man walked up the alley, his cap pulled low and his collar turned up to his jaw. He carried a waft of beer and urine with him. Maeve pressed herself against the wall, dropping her gaze to the floor. She held her breath as he passed. She glanced after him, and watched as he shook a blade from inside his sleeve. Maeve looked back at the ground, counting to forty before looking up again. The alley was empty.
Maeve exhaled, and turned her attention back to the perfumery.
Rising onto her toes, she peered through a small window into the dim interior. There was no one in the back room, and six pretty bottles stood on the counter.
As Maeve nudged the door open, a full range of scents reached her, ranging from delicate and floral, to heavy and spicy. She closed her eyes and breathed them in, imagining the exotic places each scent came from. She couldn't believe any of them were native to Falside.
She inched the door further open, and slipped into the cool room. She kept her eye on the door to the shop, and listened for the muffled voices beyond. Creeping across the flagstone floor, she lifted the bottles, one by one, and carefully lowered them into her pockets.
Looking around, she spotted half a cheese loaf. She wrapped it back into its paper, and tucked it under her arm. She took one last deep breath, trying to lock the smells into her memory.
As she slipped back outside, she heard the door to the shop open. She flattened herself against the wall and slid down into a crouch.
“Goddammit!” A man's voice.
The back door swung open, slamming into Maeve's knees, and shuddering back from the impact. Maeve bit her lip against the pain.
Four thick fingers wrapped around the edge of the door, and the man leaned out. A wrinkle of fat cushioned the base of his bald head. He looked up and down the alley, while Maeve held her breath behind the door.
“Goddammit!” he yelled again, and disappeared back inside. “How many times have I told you to lock that damn door? You'll pay for those bottles, girl.” After a moment, he yelled again. “Goddammit! And my bloody bread.”
Maeve stared at the floor, and slowly counted time away in her head. When her heart had returned to its usual rhythm, she pushed her hands into her pockets, wrapped her fingers around the bottles, and walked casually away.
She came back onto Crick Lane, and followed it to The Downs. She turned towards the stairs that would take her back to the slums. Then she stopped. She had no reason to hurry back.
She looked around her, opting for the security of another alleyway, this time running past the monastery, and joining The Downs to the large, open square of The Hide. The alley was dark and narrow, made even narrower by the boxes and crates that were piled there.
Maeve looked up at the small windows of the monastery, the stained glass scenes barely visible through layers of dirt.
Up ahead, a small door opened and a monk, dressed in his black habit, stepped out. Maeve froze, unsure what to do. She had never met a monk before and wasn't sure of the proper etiquette, especially when she had no business creeping around the back of the monastery.
She tucked herself in between the boxes as the monk looked up and down the alley. She held her breath against the acrid stench of rotting food and dead rats.
The monk tugged a woman into the alley. Her hair was matted, her unbuttoned dress revealing the ridge of her angular collar bone. Her skirt was hooked up on one side, revealing her laddered stockings, and her thigh above. A slum girl.
She grabbed the priest roughly, kissing him hard. His hand moved up to her blouse, slipping between the buttons, kneading her flesh.
She pushed his hand away and stepped back with a toothy grin. “Now, now, Father Harris. No freebies.” She held out her hand.
The monk pressed a few scrappy credits into her palm. She looked at them with a scowl.
“You know I'm worth more than that.”
“We both know you're not.”
She snorted, pushing the credits into her pocket. “I'll tell everyone.” She jabbed him with a bony finger. “Everyone will know what their church donations really pay for.”
“And who's going to believe a cheap whore?”
She snorted again and set off down the alley. She stopped and turned back to him. “My pimp's gonna get you.” She spat out a large globule of phlegm. “You'll be back.”
The monk shrugged. “Yeah, probably.” He stepped in through the door, and pulled it shut behind him.
4
Maeve loaded the last of the bottles onto the shop shelves, and clambered back down the step ladder. She stood back, and checked for any obvious gaps. On tip-toes, she shifted a few bottles around until she was satisfied with the display.
Lou strode into the room, pulling his coat on.
“I'm going out,” he said. Maeve could already smell alcohol on him.
She nodded, struggling to fold the wooden ladder. It slipped from her grip, slammed to the floor, and set all the bottles rattling.
“Careful!” Lou barked. He grabbed the ladder and stashed it behind the counter. “Try not to break anything while I'm gone.” He crossed to the front door and pulled it open. “Or I'll bloody break you.”
The bottles shook again as he slammed the door behind him.
Kneeling on the window seat, Maeve pressed her nose against the glass and watched Lou disappear into the darkness of The Floor. In her lap, she moved her fingers into an obscene gesture.
She switched off the lights and slipped out of the front door. She hurried down the steps to the street, and straight up those of the bakery next door.
The last few loaves, pies, and pastries were still laid out in the window, nestled into wicker trays and baskets. Maeve's mouth watered, and she swallowed hard. The sign in the door had already been turned to 'closed', but as Maeve pushed the brass handle, it swung open and she stumbled inside.
A woman turned to look at her. Her cheeks were red, and dusted with flour. Her hair had come unpinned and strands frayed around her face. She smiled broadly, her green eyes lighting.
“I'm afraid we're just closing,” she said. “But I'm sure I've time to serve one last customer. What can I get you?”
Maeve inhaled the scent of sugar and warm bread. As she closed her eyes to appreciate it without distraction, her head spun, and she realised how tired she was. She snapped her eyes open again.
“I'm from next door. My uncle owns the apothecary.”
“Ah, of course.” The woman extended her hand for shaking. “I'm Gretta.”
Maeve slipped her hand into Gretta's, allowing it to be shaken up and down. “Maeve.”
Gretta moved back to the counter, grabbing a chocolate éclair from the rack. “It's a little floppy, but it'll taste just as good.” She slipped a napkin around it and held it out.
Maeve stepped back. “I don't have any money.”
“It's free. Whatever isn't sold gets wasted anyway. Take it.”
Maeve took the offered pastry in both hands. She knew the names of all the delights bakeries sold, but
she'd never tasted any of them. Not that she could remember, at least. Uncle Lou's diet was mostly liquid, so he never stocked more food than the absolute barest of essentials.
The moist chocolate topping clung to Maeve's teeth as she sunk them into the light, air-filled pastry. Soft cream slipped over her fingers, and she let the taste sit on her tongue for some time before swallowing it down.
“So, is it just you and your uncle?” Gretta's question brought Maeve back to the room.
She nodded, licking cream from her lips.
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
“You're only two years younger than my daughter.”
Maeve nodded again, speaking with her mouth full. “I didn't see her when you arrived.”
“She came along after. I believe the last tenant drew quite a crowd when she left.”
Maeve shrugged. “Not a lot happens around here. Gossiping and delighting over others' misfortune are the favourite pastimes.”
Gretta laughed. “Don't worry, I've lived on The Floor long enough to know all about gossip.”
Maeve sucked her fingers, her eyes wandering over the remaining cakes.
“Don't get to eat cakes often?” Gretta asked.
Maeve shook her head.
“How about another? I have these cakes topped with mint chocolate. They're not a huge seller, but they're my daughter's favourite.”
Maeve took a step back and gestured towards the door. “I should get going.”
“Is your uncle waiting for you?”
“He's out for the night, but...” Maeve looked at the floor.
“My daughter's out with her dad. They've popped back to our old shop in The Squeeze to pick up the last of our stuff. They won't be long. You could wait to meet them if you like. I could put the kettle on? Better than going back to an empty house.”
Gretta and Maeve quickly made their way through a large pot of coffee and half a tub of biscuits. Maeve's cheeks ached from laughing, and this carefree happiness was a feeling she wanted to keep hold of. But she knew the shadow of reality wasn't far away.
The bell above the door jingled, and cold air from outside rushed in. Gretta put down her mug and hurried over to relieve her daughter of a large box. Behind the box was the same contagious smile as Gretta's, the same eyes. Maeve smiled back instinctively.
“This is my husband, Hex, and our daughter, Topley,” said Gretta, placing the box on the counter. “This is Maeve. She lives next door.”
Topley was slim and athletic, her hair cut short. She wore a hooded jumper and jeans turned up at the bottom. Maeve had only seen a handful of women in trousers, and all of those had been manual workers. Topley wasn't just unconventional, she was defiant. Maeve liked her instantly.
Hex shuffled across the floor, balancing his box on one huge forearm while he shook Maeve's hand. His fingers were thick and hairy, his palm rough.
Topley skipped across the floor and pulled Maeve into an unexpected embrace. “Welcome to the family,” she whispered in Maeve's ear.
Slipping her hand into Maeve's, she led her out of the shop and into the hall behind. The house was an identical layout to Uncle Lou's, but it was brighter here, fresher, happier. It felt like what Maeve had always imagined a home should feel like.
They tumbled onto Topley's bed and giggled.
“Can you stay over?” Topley asked, propping herself up on one elbow.
“I have to be in bed before my uncle gets home.”
“Where's he gone?”
Maeve knotted her fingers behind her head and sighed. “He calls it his 'rhythmic exercise'.” She rolled her eyes. “He's at the brothels.”
“Well, don't you worry, you'll always have a safe place here. I just know we're going to be great friends.”
Although Maeve didn't dare say it aloud, somewhere in the ball of warmth growing in her stomach, she knew it too.
5
Lou picked his way along the wooden walkways, tentatively making his way down to The Edge, where the Falwere River sucked at the slums like a hard-boiled sweet. The stench was almost unbearable and Lou pulled his handkerchief from his pocket to cover his nose.
He'd been born in the wet silt of the river, the son of a clam digger who thought nothing of how his fingers reeked. It was only through Lou's quick tongue that he found his status improved to live along The Wall. It wasn't easy to make a move like that; a man's past could cling to him stronger than the mud here. Drag him down.
But he always found himself back here, walking the horribly familiar route down to the brothels of The Slip. The women there were ugly and gristly, but they were cheap, and up for anything. And they treated Lou like a king.
“Louis!” came a shout from ahead.
He stopped, raising a hand to shade his eyes from the glare of the lit doorway.
“Who's that?” He stepped closer, and his face broke into a grin. “Lilly,” he sung.
She leaned against the doorway, her dress barely covering the bits he paid for.
“I missed you, Louis.” She stepped forward, running her hands down the lapels of his jacket.
“Is that right?”
Hooking her fingers between the buttons on his waistcoat, she pulled him against her, gazing up at him. She smiled, revealing a few gaps where teeth should have been.
“I've missed you so, so much.” Her breath stank of fish and beer. “Are you coming in?”
Lou nodded and allowed Lilly to lead him inside.
6
Father Harris sat in his small room staring at the papers in front of him. The names and dates had blurred together some time ago. He rubbed his eyes and leaned back, reaching out for his wine.
“Crap,” he said, as the glass tipped, staining the papers pink. He snatched them up and shook them, drops of wine dripping from them like blood. “Oh crap.”
Laying the papers out to dry, Father Harris shifted his chair to the window. As one of the longer-serving monks, he was honoured with a view of the monastery's walled garden.
It was by far the largest garden on The Hope, and it was reserved exclusively for the small population of monks. The high walls ensured that barely anyone even knew it existed. It was a true oasis.
It was beautifully landscaped, and enjoyed an exotic array of trees, shrubs, and flowers that seemed to have been specifically chosen for their fragrant quality. Harris could enjoy it without needing to leave his room. The far corner held a small cemetery for monks who had passed on over the last century or so. The monastic lifestyle did seem to be one that afforded its members an unnaturally long life. Perhaps it was something in the water.
Harris pushed himself to standing and wandered over to his wardrobe. He pulled the door open and knelt down. He pushed the habits aside and felt the back for the loose panel. Easing it out, he laid it aside and reached into the gap. He removed a large, brown bottle, cradling it carefully.
“There you are.” He eased out the cork, and lifted the bottle to his lips.
The home-made brew was brutally strong, and Harris had barely drunk half before his arms refused to lift the bottle anymore. Leaning back against the cold wall, Harris fell asleep, snoring loudly.
A knock at the door woke him. His body ached from the cold, and his joints retaliated with pain as he rolled onto all fours and crawled towards his bed.
“Father Harris?” came a voice through the door.
“Go away!” he yelled, wincing as the sound pounded his brain. He eased himself up onto his modest mattress, and sat with his head dangling limply.
After a moment, the voice came again, more hesitantly this time. “Father Harris?”
Huffing, Harris forced himself to his feet, and stumbled to the door. He pulled it open. “What?” he snapped.
Brother Grant jumped back. He was young, still wearing the pale grey habit of a novice. “I'm sorry, I—I—I just...” He gestured helplessly down the corridor.
Harris held up his hand. “My apologies. I had some bad bre
w.” He attempted a smile, but it didn't soften the fear on the novice's face. “I guess it's all bad brew really.”
Brother Grant smiled warily. “I guess so.”
“What can I do for you?”
“There's someone asking for you. A woman. A lady. You know, a—” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Prostitute.”
Harris nodded, keeping his face serious. “Yes. Yes. She's probably here for a reading lesson.”
Brother Grant shot his eyes to the ceiling. “Probably.”
Harris stepped into the corridor and closed his bedroom door. “You need to relax a little. Why don't I see if she has a friend who you can teach to read?”
“No, no, thank you.”
“Maybe she can teach you to read.” Harris laughed, walking away towards the church.
Lacey was stood by the altar, her face tilted up to the impressive cross that hung above it. Her blonde hair was illuminated in shades of pink and green as the sunlight caught it through the stained glass window. If it wasn't for her low-cut dress and her bare thigh, she would have almost looked angelic.
Harris crept across the flagstones, keen not to disturb her moment of peace. He wanted to remember her like this. As he sat down on the front pew, the wood beneath him creaked, and she turned. The image was lost.
Lacey smiled and settled herself next to Harris. He reached up to touch her face, but she shied away.
“It's too dark in here for sunglasses,” Harris said, reaching out again.
Relenting, Lacey let him remove her glasses. They were too big for her; designed for a man.
Her eyelid was sunk over the empty socket, a crescent of red flesh showing beneath it. Harris ran his hand gently over her cheek. He would never forget seeing her at his bedroom door, her face unrecognisable; swollen and bloody. He had scooped her up, run through the monastery, paced the room while Father Benson carefully removed her eye. And he would never forgive himself for it.
The Bottle Stopper Page 2