“I can show you heaven tonight,” said another.
“Come here, I've got a sin I'd like you to look at.”
Harris rolled his eyes.
“Harris.”
He stopped at the sound of his name. The woman in the doorway was much older than the other girls. She was covered up, and could almost pass for a proper lady.
Harris moved closer, struggling to see her face in the approaching darkness. He frowned, searching through his memory for a name to attach to it.
“Bloody hell,” he said, “is that Niblet?”
She winced. “No one calls me that anymore. It's Madam Lemaire these days.” She gestured to the building behind her. “I'm a business woman now.”
“Very impressive,” said Harris.
Madam Lemaire picked at his habit. “No need to ask what became of you then. You were my best customer too. But maybe we can talk exclusivity deals, if you have some time. I can send all my finest girls to the monastery.”
“Actually, I was looking for Louis.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, he's in. Want to wait for him? We could have that conversation.”
Harris sighed.
“Come on, for old times,” she urged.
“Alright. I'm pretty sure I got lice from the last one I was with.”
“All my girls are clean,” Madam Lemaire called over her shoulder as she led him inside.
By the time Lou was brought down to the bar, Harris was drunk, with a girl lounging on either side of him. He'd lost his habit somewhere along the way, left sitting in nothing but his long underwear. The girls stroked his chest, whispered in his ears, wrapped their toes around his ankles.
He pushed himself to his feet, and the girls tumbled from him.
“Lou, at last.” He clambered over tangled legs and pulled Lou into an unrequited embrace. “Get me out of here,” he whispered in Lou's ear. “God knows how big a debt I've already run up.”
“Where are your clothes?” Lou asked.
“Never mind them, just get me out of here.”
As they staggered out, they passed Madam Lemaire. “See you soon,” she said with a grin.
“You're a good businesswoman,” Harris mumbled.
“You're telling me,” replied Lou.
They wandered, stumbling together, along The Edge, the stinking river eager to swallow them if they fell. Lou tripped, and dropped Harris, his chin bouncing off the edge of the walkway. His inebriation dulled the pain, and Harris rolled onto his back, howling with laughter. Lou eased himself down to sit on an empty crate.
“That's going to hurt in the morning,” Lou said.
Harris looked up at him. “You're right about that.”
“So, how is it that Father Harris finds himself slumming it with the rest of us?”
Harris frowned. Somewhere in the fog of his brain, he remembered having a purpose. “I was looking for you.”
“Why?”
Harris twisted around, managing to sit up against the shack behind him. “I can't remember.” He laughed.
“It must have been important for you to come down here.”
“Yes!” Harris cried with a flash of inspiration. “The girl.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, I saw her. In fact, we bumped into each other.” Harris leaned his head back against the shack, trying to slow the spinning. “She looks just like her mother. I thought I was seeing a ghost.”
“Every day I have to look into that face,” Lou said. “It's like looking at my sister. Some days I'm sure there's something accusatory in her eyes, like she knows my part in it all. Every day, she's a reminder.”
“How is she?”
“Like a thorn in my side.”
“I was wondering if, maybe, sometime, I might come and see her.”
Lou snorted. “And tell her what? 'Hi, I'm your dad, and me and your uncle sold your mum to the administration. Then we spent the money on beer and hookers.' What a touching reunion that would be.”
“Maybe you're right.” Harris looked down at his socks, white in the moonlight. “Where are my clothes?”
18
Maeve unloaded the filled bottles onto the kitchen table. She had cleaned up the storage room, washed out the barrel, and paid a boy to fetch her more water. Uncle Lou had no idea she knew what he'd done. That was an advantage she was keen to keep hold of.
Glancing up the corridor, she could see straight outside; the door from the hall to the shop was open, as was the front door beyond. She wandered through.
Uncle Lou was leaning on the railings, looking down the street. The air was full of shouting and screaming, with people running past to involve themselves in whatever was happening.
Maeve balled her hands into tight fists and stepped up next to Lou. Every part of her wanted to scream, to tear him apart with her bare hands. But she simply swallowed, and forced her voice into a neutral tone.
“What's going on?” she asked.
Lou pointed down the street to a tight crowd of people. “They caught some guy who raped and killed his wife. Been battering her for years apparently.”
Maeve peered down the road. She could see the accused man, his face covered in blood, being dragged along. He was screaming, kicking his legs out, fighting for his life.
“What will they do to him?”
Lou shrugged. “Kill him. Maybe drown him, or just kick him to death.”
“Won't the administration try him first?”
“The administration don't care about what we do. They're never going to come and investigate the death of a slum woman. It's mob justice down here. No trials, no appeals, just the death penalty. What do the administration care if another cockroach dies?”
Maeve looked back at the crowd.
“Mind the shop, I'm going to watch. You don't often get entertainment this good.”
Maeve watched him clatter down the steps. Slowly, she relaxed her aching hands, and rubbed at the deep fingernail imprints in her palms.
19
Maeve settled herself onto her rag cushion, and pulled over her basket of fresh plant cuttings. She unwrapped the hemlock, and stared at it. With its clusters of small white flowers, and its feathery leaves, even its mottled stem, it looked so innocent. No one would guess what it was capable of.
She looked down at her hands. Was she capable? Able to kill indiscriminately? To take innocent lives to save her own?
She picked up her knife and chopped the hemlock down, mixing it among the other plants. If she didn't look, if she didn't know which bottles contained the lethal plant, then she wasn't choosing who would die. That was destiny's job. She may be putting the gun in its hand, but destiny would be pulling the trigger.
Maeve picked up a bottle, and held it tightly. She put it back on the pile, picked it up again.
“Here goes,” she said, dunking it into the barrel of water. She listened to the bubbles fight their way from the bottle, waited for them to cease, and lifted the full bottle out. She reached behind her, and blindly grabbed a cutting from the basket. Screwing her eyes closed, she stuffed the plant into the bottle.
She opened her eyes, and inspected the medicine. No hemlock. She sighed. This wasn't going to work. Sitting the bottle on the floor, Maeve stood and wandered to the doorway. She looked back at the plant cuttings.
“I can't do this,” she said.
Maeve walked up the hall, and hovered outside the door to the shop. She listened for customers; she'd been punished before for walking in while Lou was haggling a sale. She reached out and touched the handle, taking a last glance back towards the storeroom, before turning the brass globe in her hand.
She swung the door open and stepped through. Uncle Lou was stood by the window, staring at her.
“Where are you going?” he asked. “It can't be next door. Your friends there are either dead or disappeared. Guess they didn't like you very much.”
“I need more plant cuttings.”
Lou frowned. “You were out yesterd
ay getting some. What are you up to?”
He moved quickly, and grabbed Maeve by the wrist. He wrenched her arm up above her head and marched her back to the storage room.
“There. What's that?” He pointed at the basket of cuttings. “Trying to sneak off somewhere? I need bottles on my shelves. I'll teach you to be so damn bone idle.”
Lou lifted Maeve over to the barrel, and thrust her head down into the cold stench. Her mouth filled with it, and her stomach lurched at the horribly familiar taste.
Maeve clawed at Lou's hand on the back of her head, but he only pushed down harder.
Bubbles poured from her mouth as she filled up with the water. They slowed, and finally stopped. She felt her consciousness slip, drifting out of her body. She closed her eyes. Maybe this was the best escape after all.
Through the encroaching fogginess, she felt Uncle Lou release her, and she felt her body hit the floor. Her hip, her shoulder, her head.
Maeve woke choking on her own sick. She placed her hands on the cold stone floor, and pushed herself onto hands and knees. Her head throbbed as she retched, and her vision was dusted with spots that swarmed like flies.
The door to the storage room was shut. Maeve crawled over to it, reached up and turned the handle. It was locked. Uncle Lou had left her for dead, and simply locked the door.
I wish I had died. And stunk, and stunk, and stunk.
Kneeling up, Maeve pounded on the door. She heard Lou's footsteps shuffling across the kitchen floor.
“Uncle Lou!” she cried out.
His hand hit the door. “About time you stopped sleeping,” his voice said.
“Let me out.”
“You can come out when every one of those bottles is filled. Not before. I will not have laziness in my house.”
Maeve sunk to the floor. She looked at the pile of bottles. She looked at the basket of cuttings. Fuelled by hatred, she knelt on her cushion and worked fast. She picked through the basket for the hemlock, pushing the leaves into the cheapest bottles. The administration might not care what happened on The Floor, but its residents certainly looked after their own.
20
Kerise hopped up onto the narrow sideboard, curling her legs underneath her. She shifted slightly, and rolled her shoulders. She tugged at her jacket, and finally decided to remove it, depositing it on the floor.
“I don't know how you can work in here,” she said.
Tale looked up from her screen. “What's wrong with it?” she asked.
“No windows, no air, that incessant hum of your computer. And it's so hot.”
“That is the heat of enterprise,” Tale said. “And of revolution. Come on, give me a break, I built this thing from bits begged, borrowed, and stolen. It's a bit of a dinosaur, I admit, but have some respect.”
“I suppose it has its uses.” Tugging an overstretched hair band from her wrist, Kerise tied back her thick, dark hair.
“Without it, we'd be searching for this article by hand. Fancy tackling those lot?” Tale gestured at a pile of storage boxes, piled haphazardly into one corner of the small room. “Be glad I digitised the back catalogue.”
“Fair point.”
“And you should be proud. This is the only computer The Hope has outside of The Compound.”
“That you know of. There could be several underground magazines working to undermine the administration's authority.”
Tale shrugged. “None as good as Asteria.” She pushed her small, square glasses back up her freckled nose. She looked back at the screen, and held up her forefinger. “Hold on, hold on, here's something.”
Tale's head disappeared behind the monitors. Her hand appeared, gesturing in Kerise's direction. “Just printing it out now.”
Kerise jumped as the machine next to her whirred, clicked, and juddered. Bit by bit, it pushed out a sheet of paper. Kerise picked it up, snatching her hand away as if the printer might bite it.
“I hate all these machines. I always feel like they're watching me.”
“These ones are harmless. We're completely off the network here, so no one can spy on us.”
“Either way, I'd rather not look at a screen all day. I'd always be wondering who might be looking back. It's weird to think that just sixty-odd years ago, everyone was addicted to their electronics. Always staring at screens rather than talking face to face.”
“Until the administration turned them all into microphones and video surveillance. Watching our every move.”
Kerise looked at the printout in her hand. “This was the first story, when we picked up on her. Have you got the one covering her arrest?”
“Just looking for it now.”
“There's a picture of her with Maeve here. She must have only been about, what, four years old?”
Tale pointed at the printer again. “Here it comes.”
Kerise grabbed the warm printout and looked it over. “Oh yes, this is it. 'Selene Richards was removed at gunpoint for unspecified crimes against the state. Her six year old daughter, father unknown, was torn from her arms to be left in the care of her uncle, known as Jean Louis Benedict Ricard, the proprietor of an apothecary shop on The Wall. Selene's whereabouts have remained unknown. It is not known whether she is alive or dead.' Is there anything else on her?”
“Hold on,” Tale replied. “Hmm, only one small article a couple of years later. Some woman claimed she was receiving psychic messages from Selene. But her letter was published anonymously. I mean, her name might be on the original letter, but the archives give me nothing.”
“Do you think her letter is still around here somewhere?”
Tale tapped her monitor. “You could try looking through the boxes, or Denver might know. He's got a scarily accurate memory for exactly what and where everything is in this mess.”
Kerise braced herself against the wall and leaned forward. “Denver!” she screamed.
Tale winced. “Can't you go and get him? It is way too early to be yelling like a fishwife.”
As Denver appeared in the doorway, his toothbrush protruding from his mouth, Kerise grinned smugly at Tale.
“It worked,” she said. She turned to Denver. “Apparently, some woman once wrote to Asteria claiming to be receiving psychic messages from Selene Richards. Do you know if that letter's still around?”
Denver chewed on his toothbrush. “Possibly. I've got a few boxes of old Asteria letters. You prepared to dig through some dusty old boxes, Kerise?”
Kerise hopped down to the floor. “You know me, I like to know everything about a situation before I get into it.”
“Never be surprised,” chorused Denver and Tale in unison.
“Yes, alright,” Kerise snapped. “But when I have a knife to a guy's throat, I need to know he won't have a gun against my stomach.”
“I'll grab those boxes.”
“I'll give you a hand.” Kerise followed Denver into the corridor, and down to, if it were possible, an even smaller, more packed, less airy room. The boxes were stacked floor to ceiling, threatening to topple, and rid the planet of them both.
“Do you ever throw anything away, Denver?”
“You never know when things might come in handy.” He winked as he disappeared into the maze of boxes.
“I still think we should just go and grab Maeve before she does something crazy.”
“You know what we decided,” Denver's voice said. “The majority ruled we wait. See what her plan is.” He reappeared with a shoebox in his arms. He handed it to Kerise. “Keep your distance. You're just there to watch her.”
“I know, I know. But whatever she's up to, she bought a book on poisons, so it's not going to be something good. I just want to get her out of harm's way. We can't risk losing her.”
Denver disappeared behind the boxes again. “She hasn't shown any signs of having inherited Selene's abilities. We're really only still watching her out of curiosity. Is she that important?”
“Abilities or not, she's the only link to the most pow
erful psychic we've ever known. So, yes, she's important.”
21
When Jody Kelley walked into the apothecary shop that morning, he had a bad case of diarrhoea. He bought a large bottle of medicine—it was a common occurrence, and best to be prepared for next time—and asked to use the toilet. When he was refused, he crouched under the shop's front steps to release his bowel. He had little choice about it, but it also left him with a satisfying sense of vengeance.
Stopping by his house in Hole Street to drop off the medicine, he set off to his job at The Burnt Scroll. He was the chef there, and today there was a wedding party, so he really didn't need the added complication of a toilet trip every ten minutes. Plus, he didn't want his boss finding out. Weddings meant good tips, and she'd be sure to send him home if she knew he was ill. She usually sorted her staff out with medicines from her sister. But he needed a quick-fix today.
Shortly after arriving at work, the stomach ache began. He shrugged it off as a by-product of his loose bowel, and put it down to a good sign that the foul medicine was doing its job.
But then he found himself running to the bathroom to vomit, and as he pulled the chain, Jody realised that his hand was shaking. In fact, his whole body was shaking. His legs, unable to support him any longer, gave way, and he fell to the floor, convulsing in a pool of his own shit and piss.
Luckily for Jody, he was unconscious when his lungs and heart gave up working.
Unluckily for Faith Wallace, the young barmaid, she was the next person into the toilet. As the stench of Jody's emptied bowels hit her, she vomited on the floor. Little did she know at the time, but this was the beginning of a long, and vicious spell of morning sickness that would, eventually, force her to leave her job.
In addition, the happy couple getting married that day were left with no party, and nothing to feed their guests. There was no refund given. They went their separate ways five years later, although that can't be attributed to this particular event.
Meanwhile, at the other end of The Floor, Mayra Hahn's husband had just bought her a bottle of medicine. Mayra didn't have anything wrong with her, other than an acute case of frigidity, brought on by her husband's lack of romantic tendencies. To him, a proposition of sex consisted of grabbing her crotch and winking at her. This was often done while she was otherwise engaged; cooking, cleaning, redressing after a trip to the toilet. No one could blame the poor woman for being less than willing.
The Bottle Stopper Page 6