Maeve carried everything to the table. She spread the bread with generous amounts of mustard, wincing at the smell. She layered in two slices of ham, and then looked at the hemlock. Could she really do this?
Lou strode into the kitchen and peered at the half-made sandwich.
“I made you lunch,” Maeve said, as casually as she could manage.
Lou raised an eyebrow. “Lunch?” He folded his arms. “When do you ever make me lunch? It's not poisoned, is it?” He laughed at his own joke.
Maeve's heart beat like a drum. She was sure he'd hear it.
“It's a peace offering,” she said quickly, stepping away from him. “An apology.”
“That mustard stinks. And what's that?” He pointed at the hemlock leaves.
“Parsley,” Maeve said with a smile.
Lou snorted. He grabbed the mustard-covered knife, and swept the leaves onto the floor.
“Rabbit food,” he said. He closed the sandwich and walked back to the shop.
Maeve looked down at the scattered hemlock leaves. Several of them had dropped into the basket with the other cuttings. She knelt down, scooping up the leaves from the floor. Then she set about inspecting each and every cutting, removing anything that looked even remotely like hemlock. But without their distinctive stalks, it wasn't a simple task.
When she'd finished, she wrapped the leaves with the rest of the hemlock and stashed it in the storage room. Maybe, if she found the courage, she'd try again.
13
Maeve woke as Uncle Lou wrenched her thin mattress onto the floor. She rolled onto the floorboards, her nightdress hitching up to her hips.
He placed his boot on her arm, and looked down at her.
“The shop is only half stocked. Why are you sleeping?”
“We're low on water.”
“Then I'll go and get some more.”
“You can't. It's dredging day. You have to let the river settle first.”
He pressed his boot down harder. “I know that. But there's flu going around on Lynstock. I need a full shop.”
“There's just not much we can do until the river settles. You'll kill everyone if you use that water.”
Lou removed his boot, and crouched down. He placed a finger on Maeve's knee and ran it up her thigh. “Well, if we can't open the shop, I'll have to find another way to occupy my time.”
“I'll finish up with the water I've got. I'll use small bottles.”
“Just make sure they're cheap bottles. The Lynstock lot are cheapskates.”
He roamed his eyes over Maeve's bare legs before standing, and sauntering out of the room.
Maeve quickly dressed and hurried downstairs. Lou was in the storage room, peering critically into the barrel of water.
“I'll eke it out,” Maeve said.
“Looks like you're low on bottles and cuttings too.”
“I'll get some.”
“I want that shop fully stocked by lunchtime.”
“Of course.” Maeve grabbed her cardigan from a hook in the kitchen, and pushed her hands into its deep pockets.
She stumbled across the mud that had baked hard into ridges and trenches, and stepped onto the wooden planks. The Wall was almost empty today. Almost everyone on The Floor was down at the riverbank, waiting, in hope, for treasures to be unearthed by the dredgers.
“Maeve!”
Maeve looked up to see Topley perched on the railings outside the bakery. She dismounted and hurried down the steps.
“I was just watching all the commotion at the river. I think they may have found something.”
“Well, let's just hope it's not cholera.”
Topley coughed, bending double to spit out phlegm.
“Are you alright?” asked Maeve. “I was just joking about the cholera.”
Topley waved her hand before slowly straightening up. “It's just the stench of the dredging, it's really getting to me today.”
“Six months worth of God knows what.”
“Yeah, and six months between dredges is just long enough to forget how bad it is.”
“But the vultures are still there, hoping to strike gold.”
Topley closed her eyes for a moment, breathing deeply. “Anyway, where are you off to?”
“To find more bottles. Easy pickings when everyone's preoccupied at the river. Are you up to coming along?”
Topley nodded, but her cheeks were pale.
“We'll take it slowly then,” Maeve said, offering her bent arm for Topley to link hers into.
“Have you ever been down on dredging day?” Topley asked.
“When I was a kid. I remember going with my mum a couple of times. I used to love hitching my skirt up, wading out into the water. I liked the way the mud sucked at my feet. I found an amazing brooch once, just unearthed it with my toes. But Uncle Lou pawned it years ago.”
“Can I ask what happened with your mum?”
Maeve stopped and stared at the floor. “I don't even know, not really. One day a group of officers came for her. Uncle Lou was there, and he didn't do a thing. Just watched them take away his sister. He held onto me so tightly. I tried to get to her, but I couldn't do anything other than scream.”
“But the administration has no authority on The Floor.”
“Technically, they do, they just don't really care. Just let us get on with it. I don't know why they wanted Mum. I used to ask Uncle Lou about it, but he'd always tell me to shut up.”
“Do you think she's still alive?”
“I'm sure it's just vain hope, but something has always told me that she is. I feel like, if she died, I'd just know somehow.”
Topley nodded thoughtfully.
“Let's go and find some bottles.”
As they entered The Squeeze, Topley stopped again, gripping her stomach.
“Are you alright?” Maeve asked.
Topley braced herself against a wall as she bent over, vomiting into the mud. Maeve watched helplessly. Topley slowly straightened up, still gripping the wall for balance.
“I better get you home,” Maeve said, taking hold of her arm.
“I'm sorry.”
“Don't be. This is obviously more than just the smell.”
“I'm sure it's just a bug. I just need some sleep.”
Maeve attempted a smile. “Just don't take any of my Uncle Lou's bogus medicine.”
The following day, the stench of the river still hung thick over The Floor. Maeve wandered downstairs, her mood darkening as she heard Lou already opening the shop. She enjoyed the mornings he slept late. They were her hours, and the only time she didn't need to be alert, or watchful.
She crept down towards the storage room, keen for him not to hear her. She glanced at the barrel, stopped, and went back for a closer look. It was full. And it absolutely reeked.
Against her instincts, Maeve walked up to the shop and stepped through the door. Lou was sat behind the counter with his arms folded across its polished surface. His head was rested on his arms, his eyes closed.
“Uncle Lou, did you get more water?”
Lou lifted his head and sneered at her. “You asked for more, and I delivered. Now you have no excuses.”
“But it's dredged water.”
“No. It's clean. I got it this morning. While you were still tucked up in your bed dreaming about daisies. I live to serve.”
“It's definitely this morning's water? You didn't get it yesterday?”
Lou rose to his feet. “Can I say it more clearly for you?” He stepped forward and took hold of Maeve's hair in his fist. With each word, he gave it a hard tug. “Yes, it is this morning's water.” He pulled her head back, forcing her to look up at him. “Are we understanding now.”
“Yes, Uncle Lou.”
He pushed her back into the hall. “Then get back to work.”
Maeve sat on her sacking cushion and picked up a bottle. She dunked it into the water and held it up to the light. Maybe it wasn't dirtier than usual. She grabbed a plant cutt
ing, and carefully inspected it. She couldn't risk slipping poison hemlock into the bottles.
14
Lou opened his eyes as the bell above the shop door jingled. He sat up, and smoothed down his hair. He didn't bother standing up. Not for customers from The Floor.
“Jean Louis Benedict Ricard at your service,” he said, the fake French accent coming automatically. “How can I help you today?”
“Our daughter has a fever,” the woman said. “I'm sure it's nothing serious, but she's a little delirious, and I'd like something to help her sleep it off.”
The man she was with began browsing the shelves. Picking up the odd bottle, putting it back, picking up another. The constant chinking of the bottles grated Lou's headache, but the man was enormous, with arms like tree trunks, so he wasn't about to argue.
“Well then, I have just the thing.” Lou pushed himself to his feet and wandered over to the shelves. He made a show of checking the bottles, as if they contained different things.
He chose a plain, average-sized bottle. Nothing special. Nothing expensive.
“Credits or cash?”
The woman dug into her pockets. “Credits.” Her voice cracked. It was a sign Lou knew well; the sign of a desperate mother. He played close attention to his customers' body language, the tone of their voice, the look in their eyes. Not because he cared, but because he knew desperate people would pay a higher price.
“Two luxury, or six standard.”
The man shifted his weight, and for a moment, Lou thought he might have a haggler on his hands. He had neither the energy, nor the inclination to haggle. Let them name their price. But the woman handed over six credits without argument.
Lou wrapped the bottle in a paper bag and passed it to her.
“I hope she feels better soon.”
“Thank you,” the man said.
Lou frowned as they turned to leave. “Excuse me,” he said. “Are you from the bakery just next door?”
“Yes we are,” the woman replied.
15
Gretta wrung a cool cloth into the bucket by Topley's bed and laid it, gently, over her daughter's forehead. Topley groaned in her sleep, her eyelids fluttering. Gretta touched her hot cheek.
“Maeve came to see you, darling. I sent her away. Maybe you'll be well enough to see her tomorrow.” Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat.
Gretta heard Hex's heavy boots on the stairs, and quickly wiped her eyes. She turned to the door with as much of a smile as she could manage.
“How's the patient?” Hex asked.
Gretta shrugged. She didn't trust her voice not to betray her.
“Maybe a bit more medicine.”
Gretta moved off the bed and let Hex take her place. He put his hands under Topley's arms and hefted her up to sitting. Her eyes flicked open, but they didn't focus. Hex poured some medicine into a small cup, and held it to Topley's mouth. She turned away, but he moved the cup, and pushed it between her lips.
“Come on sweetheart. If it tasted nice, it probably wouldn't work. Come on.”
Topley relented, and swallowed the foul water.
“There, that's better. You get some rest now.” Hex eased her back down in the bed. He bent forward and kissed her cheek. He looked up at Gretta.
All of Gretta's reserve had hung on convincing herself that she was worrying over nothing. But when she saw that same look in her husband's eyes, it was more than she could bear. Dropping to her knees, she finally let the tears come, her body heaving them out of her.
Hex knelt beside her, his thick arms holding her tight. But they couldn't protect her, and they couldn't protect Topley. Not this time.
“She'll pull through,” Hex whispered. He lifted Gretta to her feet. “Come on. Lets leave her to rest. That's what she really needs.”
Gretta swept back to the bed and took Topley's hand in hers. She clasped it to her chest.
“I love you darling,” she said.
16
Maeve wandered out of the shop and leaned against the railings. It was three days since the dredging, and the river's stench had lost its sickening potency.
She glanced down at the bakery. Gretta had sent her away yesterday, and this morning, they hadn't even opened the shop. The thin blinds were pulled down over the window, and a small card was taped to the door.
“I hear she's sick,” Lou said, appearing in the doorway.
“Who?”
“The girl next door. Your friend.” He drew the word out, making fun of the concept.
Maeve frowned. “How do you know?”
“Her parents came in for some medicine yesterday. Paid over the odds too.” He grinned.
Maeve pushed herself off from the railings, and ran down to the street. She raced up the bakery's steps, grabbing the door frame with both hands. The card was handwritten, and the hand that had written it had been shaking.
The bakery is closed due to a family bereavement.
We're sorry.
Maeve felt as though her insides had dropped out of her, leaving her body cavernous and echoing. She staggered back, and gripped hold of the railing. But it was jelly in her hand, and she sank to her knees.
Crawling to the door, she leant back against it, and let the tears come. Topley was dead. The only friend she'd ever had. And she'd killed her.
Her face grew hot with anger, with guilt, and she found the strength to stand. She ran back down the steps, and into the apothecary, shoving Lou out of her way. She skidded into the storage room, and grabbed the towel with the hemlock wrapped inside.
“You idiot,” she muttered.
With tears blurring her vision, Maeve ran blindly back to the street, and cut through The Cubes. She bashed into people, ignoring their shouts, and stumbled across the rutted mud. She didn't stop until the freezing water of the Falwere River was wrapping itself around her waist.
She lifted the towel above her head, and threw it, as far as she could. She rubbed at her eyes, and watched the bundle float away.
“No!” she screamed, beating the water with her fists. “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.”
She crouched down, the water running fingers along her jawline. She lifted her feet from the bottom, bobbing in the water like a cork.
Maybe I'll let the river carry me away, she thought.
Maeve had heard stories of people trying to escape Falside by swimming downstream. There were stories of rapids and jagged rocks, bodies pulled from the water with every bone broken. There were stories of sharks, crocodiles, piranhas. Stories of soldiers on the riverbanks that shot people on sight. But the current trickled past her gently, incapable of carrying her anywhere.
Maeve stood up again. She didn't deserve an easy way out. She deserved to look at what she'd done, every day, for the rest of her life. She deserved the guilt, the self loathing. That would be her monument to Topley. A pillar of bitterness, a wreath of hatred, a banner of loneliness.
Balling her sodden skirt into her hands, Maeve waded out of the water, and dragged her feet through the mud. She didn't walk along the wooden walkways, opting instead to perilously find her way through the furrows of mud.
She stood in front of the bakery, and looked up at Topley's bedroom window. She walked slowly up the steps, her need for solace outweighing her desire to suffer. She cursed herself for being so weak willed.
The bakery door was open, but they weren't serving customers. They were packing their belongings.
Maeve stood in the doorway, water pooling around her feet. She hung her head.
“Maeve,” Gretta said. “We're leaving. There's nothing here for us anymore, and there's nothing for you either.” The softness in her voice had gone, replaced by sharp corners. “You should just go home.”
“I could come with you,” Maeve whispered.
Gretta picked up the basket she had been packing. She looked around the shop. “That's everything. Let's go.”
Gretta pushed past Maeve, with Hex following silently behind. As they de
scended the steps, he turned and looked back at her.
Maeve sat down on a box, a stack of rubbish was piled behind it. Maeve ran her eyes over it, looking for something familiar; a memory, a souvenir. Something that would keep Topley close to her.
And there it was. The thick, round neck of a bottle. She pulled it out and looked at it. A sprig of lavender stood inside it, and in the bottom, a thick layer of brown sludge slowly shifted. Maeve stared hard at it.
She pushed herself to her feet and ran down the steps, and up to the apothecary. She marched down to the storage room, grabbed the rim of the barrel, and toppled it, water washing over the floor. Behind it came the sludge. Thick, sickly, suffocating.
This water could have only been collected on dredging day.
And her uncle had collected it.
17
Harris knew exactly where to find Lou. They'd frequented the brothels in The Slip together for years. He knew Lou's type, and his type was cheap.
Harris gingerly made his way down the steps to The Floor. He hadn't been down here for several years, and the steps were more perilous than he remembered. At least his habit gave him right of way wherever the steps were too narrow for two people to pass.
When he reached the ground, Harris looked up The Wall. Maeve wasn't far away. It would be so easy to walk to the apothecary, and knock on the door. Physically easy, at least. Instead, he turned the other way and picked his way down to The Slip.
The girls leaned out of doorways as he approached, whistling, calling out to him. He would be a fetish to them, a story to tell, a badge of honour.
“Have you seen Louis?” he asked one girl.
“Not tonight, baby,” she replied, her drunk tongue struggling over the words. “But I got something I want to confess to you.”
Harris ignored her, and walked on. By the time he reached the end of the row, word had already spread.
“You can come see my Louis,” one girl called out, lifting her skirt.
The Bottle Stopper Page 5