“Just stay out of my way,” Maeve said. She pulled the door to the hall open, and stepped through it. She backed up, and looked at his hunched stature.
“Actually, no, let's have this out.” She took a step towards him. This man she had feared for most of her life. “How could you do it? How could you hand over your own sister? My mother. You took her away from me.” She was shouting now. “How could you? Answer me!”
Maeve launched herself at Lou, punching his chest, tearing at his neck. He lifted his hand and swiftly hit her. His knuckles slammed into her cheek bone, and the impact threw her to the floor.
She rolled over and looked back at him. She recognised his expression; this was the Uncle Lou she knew.
He dropped his knees onto her arms, and she recognised the pain of her shoulder dislocating. Lou's long fingers wrapped around her neck. Maeve lay still, staring straight into his eyes.
“Do it,” she croaked. “Do it!”
“I will!” He tightened his fingers. “I'll bloody kill you, and no one will even miss you, Selene!”
He let go, rolling back onto his heels. He stared at Maeve, and then down at his hands.
“Look what you made me do,” he said. He rose to his feet, turned and walked into the hall. Maeve heard him stomp up the stairs.
She coughed, and swallowed down the taste of blood. She rubbed at her aching neck, and cradled her dislocated arm as she battled to sit up. She coughed again, and pain shot through her shoulder.
Bending her knees up to her chest, Maeve slowly lifted her arms to wrap around her legs, and laced her fingers together. She cried out as she leaned backwards, but her shoulder popped back into place. She gently shook it out, and struggled to her feet.
She wandered over to the counter and sat on the chair behind it. He had called her by her mother's name. Had he once had his hands around her neck?
She looked down at the newspaper.
'Death to Door Salesman: Merchant arrested for string of poison hemlock murders'.
Maeve quickly read through the first few paragraphs. They had linked a number of deaths to the merchant, even deaths from The Floor. They had the wrong man, and they wouldn't be looking for the right one. According to the families, justice had been done. There had been celebrations over his capture, protests calling for the death sentence. That's why she'd seen bunting strung up in the slums.
Roscoe Cross. How did this man get so tangled up in this?
Maeve looked around the shop. She needed to increase production. She had to bring the finger of suspicion here, and there had to be no doubt about it.
30
Lacey had been at the monastery for three days, and Harris had failed to find the red-headed woman.
He knew Lacey was getting anxious. Her pimp would have expected her back, and it wouldn't take him too long to come looking for her. Harris kept feeding her, nursing her, sleeping on the floor. But they were both aware that this was just a reprise, an intermission. Sooner or later, Harris would need to find her a way out of the city, or she would have to go back to her pimp.
Harris couldn't let her end up dead. Not Lacey.
He glanced towards the window. Maybe there was a way. But he'd need Brother Grant's help again.
Grant wiped his forehead with his sleeve. He dug his shovel into the ground and leaned against it.
“So, a few days ago, we buried her, and now we're digging her back up?”
Harris crouched by the open grave. The smell was unbearable. He reached in and pulled back the habit's hood, turning the girl's face towards Grant.
“Does she look familiar?”
Grant took a hesitant glance, before taking a closer look. He looked away. “Alright, she looks like Lacey.”
“All the girls I choose do. She's the woman I want more than anyone, and the only one I won't touch. Can't touch. She's a goddess.”
“But will her pimp be fooled?”
Harris looked up at Grant. “When I've finished with her, there'll only be one way to identify her as Lacey.”
Grant held up his hands and took a step back.
“It's alright,” Harris said. “This is my mess. You don't have to stay for this.”
He looked back down at the body. He pulled a scalpel from his pocket, and placed it beside the shallow grave. Climbing down on top of her, he positioned his thumbs on the eyelid, and began to push.
Harris found one of the old hearse carts in the back storage shed. It had a large, central pair of wheels, and a set of handles at either end. The steps down to The Floor would be hard-going, but this would be easier than carrying her.
Lacey collected herbs, flowers, and other fragrant plant cuttings from the garden, and laid them around the body to try to disguise the stench a little.
Grant walked in front, his back turned to the body. It was covered with a sheet, and laid with plants, but the stink was still terrible. Grant didn't deserve to be facing it. Harris was amazed he'd talked the novice monk into helping at all.
They stood at the top of the steps and looked down. They'd waited until dusk, so that they had fewer witnesses, but the deepness of the shadows on the uneven steps could prove fatal for them both.
“We'll just have to take it really slowly,” Harris said. “Feel each step before you tread down to it. Maybe I should go first.”
Grant looked at the body. “No, I'll be fine.” He picked up the front of the hearse and, gingerly, stepped down the first step. He slipped down the next. “Don't push!” he snapped.
“I'm sorry,” said Harris.
Grant continued, pausing before stepping down each step.
Progress was frustratingly slow, and they stopped every few steps to roll their aching shoulder joints, and stretch out their cramping hands. Harris' knuckles were already bruised and sore from beating the corpse.
“We're going to be here all night,” Grant grumbled.
“I really appreciate you doing this,” Harris said. “Thank you.”
Grant looked out towards the river. “Despite everything, Father Harris, I still look up to you. And while you may be selfish, and weak to sin, there's a good heart inside you.”
Harris nodded. “Thank you, Grant. That means a lot.”
Grant wrapped his hands around the hearse's handles. “Let's head on.”
When they reached the bottom of the steps, they heaved the hearse onto one of the wooden planks.
“Which way?” Grant asked.
“Straight on, we'll take her down through The Cubes. The Slip is full of brothels and bars. It'll be busy there.”
Half way down The Cubes, they ran out of walkways, and had to heave the hearse over the peaks and troughs of the mud. Harris shoved the hearse forward, and the jolt sent Grant flailing to the ground.
“Are you alright? Grant?”
The novice monk slowly rose to his knees, and then pushed up to his feet. He turned around. His habit was smeared with mud and dust from top to bottom.
Harris stifled a laugh, and emitted a tight grunt. He waved his hands at Grant. “I'm sorry,” he squeaked.
Grant looked down at himself and grinned. “Camouflage,” he said.
Harris let his laugh loose, grabbing his belly and howling. Grant braced himself against the hearse as he shook with laughter.
“Come on,” spluttered Harris. “Just a few more feet to go.”
When they reached the edge of the river, Harris dragged the body from the hearse, and positioned her, face down, in the wet mud. Her white skin shone in the moonlight, like a beacon announcing Harris' sin.
He crouched down, and pulled her damp hair back from her face.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “I'm sorry for all this.” He looked up at Grant. “She'll be found soon enough. Let's get out of here.”
31
Harris gave a long sigh as he recognised her voice. He leaned forward, and peered through the grille that separated them.
“Forget all that, I'll pardon you everything if you help me.”
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The red-headed woman leaned back, hiding her face from him.
“What can I do for you Father?”
“I need to get a woman out of the city. Can you help me?”
There was a silence. “What you're speaking of is impossible, Father, and treasonous. I don't know why you would think I could help you,” she said flatly.
“I promise, this isn't a trick to catch you out. Please, I'm desperate, and I don't know anyone else I can ask. Some of the things you've told me here, it gave me the impression you knew people.”
She leaned forward again, but kept her eyes fixed forward. “Perhaps I do,” she whispered.
“Will you come and meet her?”
The woman nodded and rose to her feet. Harris stood, pulled back the red curtain, and stepped out of the confessional. A quick scan of the church told him it was empty.
“Follow me.” He walked swiftly, and the woman followed closely behind. He checked the corridor before opening his bedroom door.
The woman swept across the room and took Lacey's hands in hers. She turned them over and inspected the tattoo on her wrist.
“A slum girl,” she said. “That makes things a little easier. No scanners to pick up her movements.” She stroked Lacey's hair back. “And pregnant too? Your pimp, I'll bet.”
“How do you know?” Lacey asked.
The woman simply tapped her head with her forefinger.
“I'll do what I can, but you only get one shot at this. I will contact you with a time and a place. If you're not there, they will not wait for you. I will also give you a password. Without it, you won't get a ride. This could happen at any time, but you'll only get an hour or so notice, so be prepared.” She looked up at Harris. “Keep her safe.”
“Where will they take her?” Harris asked.
The woman shrugged. “A safe-house somewhere.” She looked back at Lacey. “But after that, you're on your own. Are you ready to do this? You have a little one to care for.”
“If I stay here, he will kill me. I don't have a choice.”
The woman leaned forward and kissed Lacey's cheek. “None of us do.” She stood and smoothed down her dress.
Harris led her back into the corridor. “Thank you, thank you so much.”
“Do not tell anyone about this, or we're all dead.”
“I understand. Can I get in contact with you in the future?”
She looked up at him. “No.”
“Can I at least know your name?”
“No.”
She walked quickly, retracing their steps back to the church. She stopped by the altar. “If you need me again, write to Asteria.”
“What is that?” he called after her. But she didn't turn around.
32
Two weeks had passed and Maeve hadn't heard of any other poison cases. A prostitute had been found by the water, but she appeared to have been beaten to death. Half the shop was stocked with poison, but business had been slow, putting Uncle Lou in a particularly dark mood. Maeve opted to simply stay out of his way.
Maeve leaned on the railings outside, watching the delicatessen shutting up for the evening. Now and again, she glanced up at Topley's window. Topley had been like a sister, and Gretta and Hex like replacement parents. But now they were all gone.
She twisted her hair around her fingers. It had grown considerably since Gretta cut it. She'd be able to plait it again soon.
Maeve wandered back into the shop. She heard Uncle Lou stumbling down the stairs. He staggered across the hall and bumped into the door frame as he came into the shop. He stared at Maeve, his eyes unfocused.
Gripping hold of the shelves, he lurched to the front door.
“Goodbye,” he slurred, and waved his hand at her.
She listened to his feet clatter down the stairs outside, praying that he'd fall and break his neck.
Uncle Lou was never drunk before going out. He didn't keep alcohol at home. This was not a good sign.
Maeve was still awake when she heard Lou came home. She had been listening out for him, too scared to fall asleep. She listened to him banging about in the shop below, breaking glass. Lots of breaking glass. This was purposeful vandalism, not a drunk man stumbling about.
She crept down the stairs, and lowered herself onto a step halfway down. She could see Lou flailing his arms around the shop, his ravings largely incoherent, peppered with curse words. They were clear enough.
He appeared in the doorway, his head wheeling around, his eyes unable to focus on anything.
He waved a finger in her direction. “You!” he yelled. “You did this.”
Maeve clung to the banister. “Did what?”
“You. You made me lose. You're a bad omen.” He took a few steps towards the stairs, his body moving faster than his feet. “You and your crazy mother.” He sat heavily on the bottom stair, and dropped his head into his hands.
Maeve couldn't make out what he muttered.
He lifted his head and looked up at her again. “I've lost everything,” he said.
Maeve shifted up to the next step.
“Don't you move!” Lou slammed his hand down onto a stair. He twisted, and turned over onto all fours. “I had such bad luck tonight, that I lost every credit I had.” He crept up the stairs towards her. “You are a bad omen. You and your hinky jinky genetics. You probably made me lose, you little witch.”
Lou snapped out his hand and wrapped it around Maeve's leg. Maeve grabbed hold of the banister as he began to pull. She screamed, kicking out at him with her free leg. She kicked the banister, hard, forcing her big toe out sideways.
Instinctively, she brought her foot back into her body, and grabbed hold of it with both hands. Lou tugged her down the stairs. He crawled over her, pinning her down with one knee as he fumbled to unbutton his trousers.
Maeve kicked out again, clawing at his face. He loosened his hold on her, and she managed to twist over onto her stomach.
He pinned her down with his whole body, and with his mouth in her ear he whispered “I don't care which side it goes in.”
Maeve grabbed hold of the banister and heaved herself out from under him, pain ripping through her shoulder. He reached out, and grabbed her thigh, his fingers driving into her flesh. He pushed up her nightie and moved up the stairs again.
She hauled herself further up and kicked out once more. This time her foot made contact with his face, and she felt his nose give. He grabbed her again, pushing his hand up between her legs.
Maeve grabbed the last rung of the banister and pulled herself away. Lou was up on his knees, rising up to grab her. Maeve kicked out, her heel slamming into his shoulder.
She watched his face change to panic as he lost his balance. He scrabbled for the banister, but he was already falling. Maeve didn't wait to watch him hit the bottom.
She hobbled across the landing and into her bedroom. She heaved her bed across the bare floor, and jammed it under the door handle. She took the blanket from it, and nested herself in the far corner of the room, her heart pounding.
Cuddling her throbbing foot, she curled as small as she could. And she wished that she could just die there.
33
Harris bustled Lacey out of the monastery. He'd considered disguising her as a monk, but had settled for some demure clothes from the charity donation box. He'd put some extra in a bag for her, along with food, water, and a fistful of credits, also from the donation box.
A little less than two hours ago, a man had entered the church and asked for Father Harris. He had said three words to him: midnight, Second Stair, Hestia. He had then turned, and walked out of the church.
Harris tugged the hood of Lacey's coat up. She bowed her head and they hurried through the darkness. They turned into Second Stair and looked up the empty street.
“Where do we need to be?” Lacey whispered. “At the actual steps, further up the street?”
“At the exit, I presume.”
Falside had few roads going in or out of it. T
he majority of its supplies came via the river, with several slum workers receiving generous pay packets to see deliveries safely up the steps. One road cut through the cliff from Second Stair on the Hope. Another, on the other side of the city, from Haverhead. There were several routes in and out of The Head, but that level was not open to the general population. It allowed the administration to tightly control what came in, or went out of the city.
Harris had heard the stories of people attempting to escape. If they were caught, they were gunned down. Men, women, children, even babies had been killed. The law was rigid; if you tried to leave, you were committing treason, and the punishment for that was death. No exceptions.
They scuttled along the street, keeping close to the buildings where the shadows were at their darkest. Ahead of them, the road narrowed, and they could hear the low rattle of an engine idling.
“Come on,” Harris whispered, and took hold of Lacey's hand.
They kept close to the buildings until the end of the row. Harris stepped forward. One man was loading boxes into the back of the old, battered truck, and Harris could see the reflection of the driver in the wing mirror.
He nodded to the man. “Hestia,” he said.
For a moment the man didn't react, and Harris wondered if he had the wrong truck. But then he squinted into the darkness, and beckoned Lacey forward. Without another word he lifted her into the truck as if she were just another box. He gestured for her to move forward, towards the cab.
Harris' hand was still outstretched, and the sense of her hand in his lingered.
The man bumped against him. “You better go,” he said.
Harris retreated, but he didn't go far. He wanted to see her out of the city, he wanted to know she was safe. His chest ached from the loss of her, but he had to get her to safety. Maybe this small act would redress the mistakes he'd made. With Lacey, with Selene, with Maeve.
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