The Bottle Stopper

by Angeline Trevena

  Two more women were lifted into the truck, one little more than a child. The back doors were locked, the man climbed into the cab, and the truck lurched forward. Harris stepped into the street as he watched it rumble away. He could see the lights of the checkpoint bleeding orange into the sky.

  He kept his eyes on that glow.

  “I haven't been the best disciple,” he whispered. “I haven't obeyed, or honoured your word. I've sinned, and I've lied, and I've let people down. But I'm ready to make up for that. And if you ever grant me anything, grant me this. Keep that truck safe. Keep Lacey and her baby safe. And I will be the greatest monk this world has ever seen.” He pushed his hand into his pocket and twisted his prayer beads around his fingers. “Please.”

  Gunfire echoed against the cliffs, the sound bouncing around like rubber. Harris started running.

  As he approached the scene, he saw the bodies of the two men lying on the ground. The three women clung to one another.

  Harris raised his hands. “Please, please stop,” he called out.

  He felt the heat of the torches turned on him, and watched the guns wheel around to focus on his body. Harris slowed and stopped.

  “Please, I beg of you, stop.”

  “It's a monk,” a soldier said.

  “Lower your guns.”

  “This doesn't concern you, Father.”

  “Please, don't kill them. Please, no more bloodshed,” Harris said.

  A soldier approached, placing his gloved hand on Harris' chest. “This doesn't concern you,” he said forcefully.

  “I'm just asking for innocent lives to be saved.”

  “They are traitors to the administration.”

  Harris opened his mouth again, but his voice was drowned out by the gunfire. He screwed his eyes shut as he saw Lacey's body convulse from the impact.

  34

  While Maeve was curled up in the corner of her room, Harris was on his knees on the rocky road off Second Stair.

  There was no solace for either of them.

  35

  Avery Aguilar was a well-respected man on The Floor. He was the dock master, responsible for ensuring any deliveries by boat were delivered, intact and untouched, to The Hope. It wasn't an easy job, but his reputation for being a fair man, while taking no bullshit, allowed him to be authoritative without attracting bitterness from his subordinates. He was also the only person on The Floor who carried an administration-issued gun.

  Avery was the embodiment of professional cool-headedness while on the job, but his home life was surprisingly turbulent.

  Those who knew Avery through his work would be surprised by the quick-tempered, irrational man he became when he came home and locked his front door each evening.

  Avery's youngest son was nothing but a disappointment to him. On the cusp of his thirties, Willis lived in his parent's home with his wife and their constantly screaming baby.

  Willis was one of those people who always claimed circumstances were against them. Any misfortune in his life was due to other people and their actions, and he never attributed it to his own poor decisions. Avery knew better.

  Willis had started life well enough. He became a farmer's apprentice, learning how to raise cattle, how to milk, calve, and graze them. He was an impressive apprentice with a bright future ahead of him. Avery had been so proud, happy to support Willis however he could, even when it meant an evening of studying books on agriculture together.

  The opportunity arose for Willis to purchase some grazing land, and he set his heart on it. In those days, when Willis wanted something, he put his entire soul into it. He worked hard, saved hard, and went to the land auction with, what he thought, was plenty of money to purchase the land. A bidding war ensued, and he lost out. Over the next month he spent all of the money—which could have bought him another equally suitable piece of land—on gambling, alcohol, and prostitutes.

  That's how he met his wife, Lucille. He got her pregnant, and nine months later, she knocked on his door with a baby in her arms, and a very angry pimp. Avery was forced to buy the woman for his son. Of course, this baby came with no solid proof that it was actually Willis' child.

  For the last few days, Lucille had been sick. She was confused, feverish, plagued with headaches. The baby had caught whatever virus it was, and its tiny body was too weak to fight it. They had buried it behind the house just last night. Desperate to save his wife, to salvage something of the life he had grown accustomed to, Willis found himself in the apothecary shop, handing money to Jean Louis Benedict Ricard.

  He couldn't have said how much he parted with, he had stopped at several bars along the way. But the bottle was a pretty pale blue, with a long, slender neck, and it reminded him of Lucille. Or rather, his romanticised, intoxicated image of her.

  Had he been sober enough to look, to remember his apprenticeship training, he would have instantly recognised the plant inside the bottle as poison hemlock. And had Avery not been so relieved to see the end of his unwelcome daughter-in-law, he would have checked the bottle himself.

  Willis buried his wife next to his baby. Within a year, he would be dead himself, having left a gambling debt foolishly unpaid.

  36

  After three days, hunger drove Maeve from her bedroom. Before removing the bed from the doorway, she sat and listened intently to the house. It was silent.

  She eased her bed back, creaking inch by creaking inch, until there was enough gap for her to slip through. She didn't need much room.

  She stood on the landing, one hand wrapped around the door handle. Her bedroom was her life raft, and she was about to swim into unknown waters.

  She crept across the floor, and stopped at the top of the stairs. She looked down them, not sure what she felt when she saw Uncle Lou wasn't still lying there. Equal parts disappointment, relief, and fear.

  She listened again, but still, the house stood silent.

  Maeve crept down the stairs, slowly, both feet on each step, stopping to listen each time. The door into the shop was open, and Maeve could see the glitter of broken glass covering the floor. Wherever Lou was, he wasn't open for business.

  Maeve scampered down to the kitchen. She glanced into the storage room as she passed. In the kitchen she found two apples, some bread, a jar of peaches in syrup, and half a bag of raisins. Gathering the supplies into her arms, she returned to her bedroom. She laid the provisions on her bed, and was going to climb over it back into her room when curiosity got the better of her.

  It beckoned her towards the stairs up to Lou's room. It coaxed her up them, step at a time, and invited her to peer around the door frame.

  Uncle Lou was lying on his bed, fully-clothed. A wine bottle had slipped from his dangling hand. His feet hung off the end of the mattress, his head was tilted back with his mouth wide open.

  Maeve tip toed across the floor. She brushed his forehead with her hand. He was cold, but still too warm to be dead. She took a step back. Another. Another. She reached her hand behind her and took hold of the door frame.

  “Don't go,” said Uncle Lou.

  After three days of silence, the sound of a voice seemed unfamiliar, and it took a moment for Maeve to decipher the words.

  “You know I have to,” she replied, testing her own vocals.

  He turned his face to her, his swollen, crooked nose blackened with bruises. “Look at me.”

  “It's nothing less than you deserve.”

  “And what do you deserve?” He smiled, revealing a gap in his front teeth.

  “Better than this.”

  Lou laughed a strangled, gurgling laugh. “You're a slum girl. The daughter of an illegal, unregistered psychic. Your mother was shunned by her entire community, and you will be too. Everyone knows who you are. Everyone will wonder if you have it too. You think you're so above everyone, but you are as far down the heap as it's possible to be. You're tainted, soiled. You aren't worth anything to anyone. Except, maybe, the administration. Perhaps I'll hand you in and see wha
t they want to do with you. Cut open your brain, perhaps.”

  “So what if I walk straight out of the front door then?”

  Lou shrugged and rolled onto his back. “And go where? Daddy doesn't want you either.”

  Maeve looked at the floor. She knew he was right.

  “I need a doctor,” Lou said. “I need someone to fix this nose you broke. And reset my fingers.” He lifted up the other hand. His fingers were sticking out at awkward angles, twisted like a hawthorn tree. “Get me a doctor, or I'll hand you over to the administration.”

  Maeve turned and went back down to her bedroom. She sat on her bed, and watched the door while she ate. When she had finished, she went down to the shop and swept up the broken glass, and mopped up the water and sodden plant cuttings. Only then did she go to find a doctor.

  The Floor had two doctors. Dr Stein had a smart surgery on The Wall, where he proudly displayed his framed certificates. Dr Fischer lived in Hole Street, and performed surgery on his kitchen table. This was where Maeve headed.

  37

  While Uncle Lou recovered in bed, licking his wounds and wailing self pity, Maeve restocked the shop and greeted customers with a friendly smile.

  One of those customers was Cora Larson. Cora was a self-taught, naturally talented, unregistered herbologist who had a penchant for study and research.

  Among her trusted circle of friends and acquaintances, mostly introduced to her by her sister, she concocted and sold salves, pastes, scrubs, creams, and teas that, unlike Lou's medicines, had a proven track record of curing most things. Her customers were regular, loyal, and fiercely protective of her.

  Curious to check out her competition, Cora browsed the shelves of the apothecary shop, and she quickly saw Lou's medicines for what they were. Unable to believe the unabashed fraud, she purchased a cheap bottle to study in more detail when she got home.

  On returning to her small kitchen, she uncorked the bottle and found her suspicions to be correct. River water. She plucked the plant cutting out, and her eyes widened as she promptly dropped it.

  She poured the river water down the drain, and spent the next hour scrubbing both her kitchen, and herself, until both were shining.

  Jonas York had met his wife Fay when he was fifteen years old. He went home and told his parents that he had met the woman he was going to marry. They laughed, knowing how quickly passion can fade when you're young. But Jonas never looked at another girl again. They were married three years later and, although their efforts to have children never resulted in any, they were blissfully happy. Jonas worked hard, went for a regular drink after work, and returned home eager to see his wife.

  Things began to go awry when Fay's mother got ill. It wasn't something that medicine would fix; something went wrong in the woman's soul. She became paranoid, agoraphobic, a severe hypochondriac. She became germ-phobic, scrubbing her hands until they bled. Jonas and Fay sold their own house and moved in with her.

  One morning, Fay came downstairs to find her mother sat at the kitchen table. She had slit her wrists open and sat patiently while she bled to death.

  Fay slipped into a deep state of depression, blaming herself for her mother's death. And then, she herself, began to show the same symptoms; paranoia, agoraphobia, hypochondria. She was convinced it was genetic, and simply gave into her fate, but Jonas wasn't so fatalistic. He believed that guilt had driven her to adopt her mother's persona, in an effort to keep her alive somehow.

  Jonas worked hard all day at the tannery, and went to night school to study psychiatry, determined to find a cure. He paid a girl to take care of his wife, although his heart ached at not being able to take care of her himself. He told himself to focus on the end goal, and he kept looking forward.

  Fay had inherited some money from her mother, and she used it to bribe the girl to buy her medicine for a whole range of illnesses she didn't have. The girl dutifully did so, and kept this secret from Jonas.

  Tonight, Jonas returned from night school as usual. He walked into his home, and made himself a strong cup of tea. And then he went upstairs to kiss his wife.

  The girl wasn't by her bedside. The girl wasn't in the house.

  He walked to Fay's bed, and pulled back the plastic curtains that she insisted surrounded her. There was vomit on her pillow, and the bed stank of urine. He touched her cheek, but he already knew she was dead.

  That was the moment Jonas York's life lost all meaning. He climbed into bed with Fay, wrapped his arms around her cold body, and willed himself to die.

  He may have, had his boss not come to find out why his most reliable employee hadn't shown up for work for two days running.

  Once Jonas had some sense talked into him, and agreed for Fay's body to be removed for cremation, he found a new purpose. He would find that girl and make her suffer as Fay had.

  Drunk, Jonas hammered on the girl's front door, and her confession sent him to another door. That of Jean Louis Benedict Ricard.

  38

  It was only Lou's second day out of bed. His face throbbed, and his right eye was still swollen half shut. His hand had been crudely strapped by some charlatan of a doctor, and Lou could tell the blood supply wasn't getting through to his third finger. He looked a mess, but he was upright.

  Stumbling around the kitchen he'd found half a box of oxycodone. They were a little out of date, but Lou washed one down anyway.

  He was halfway up the stairs when the hammering on the door started, slicing through his brain.

  He staggered to the door, yanked back the bolt, and pulled it open. The man on the other side almost tumbled in on him. He was red-faced, his fists were clenched, and he already had a foot inside the door. This was not going to be a good morning.

  Lou stepped back and switched into life-preservation mode. It was his most comfortable state when it came to confrontation. He raised his hands and shrunk back.

  “You killed her!” the man was yelling. “You killed my wife!”

  It was far too early in the morning for this kind of riddle.

  “I don't even know your wife.” Lou's pleading voice was a well practised one. He bent his knees and blocked his face with his arms, as if he expected to be hit. It worked on thugs that weren't entirely intent on hitting him.

  “Your medicine, your medicine killed her! She wasn't even ill. It was all in her head.” The man began slapping his hands against Lou's forearms.

  Lou relaxed. The man was angry, but he was little danger. Lou straightened up and easily pushed the man away. He staggered backwards, collapsing onto the window seat. He began to sob.

  “I loved her, and you took her away.”

  Lou sat down next to him, and slipped easily into his role as the great French mediciner. “I'm sorry for your loss, but it must have been something other than my medicines. What was wrong with your wife?”

  “Nothing. It was all in her head. It was grief.”

  “Perhaps she just gave up.”

  The man looked up at him, his cheeks wet. “No. She wouldn't. You had a hand in this, and I'll see that you pay for it.” He stood up, straightened his jacket, and left.

  Lou shrugged. What could one crying man do?

  39

  Disappointed, and unsatisfied, Jonas walked to his favourite bar; The Burnt Scroll. The landlady knew him well, and he often got extra drinks on the house, or a bowl of fried potatoes from the kitchen.

  He sat at his favourite table, and spread his meagre funds out in front of him.

  Reva, the landlady, laid her slender hand on his shoulder. He looked up at her, and her red lips smiled. She was always glamorous; like one of the women from the old movies they showed sometimes. Back when romance was still a concept people believed in. But while Jonas could appreciate the effort that went into her manicured nails, and the rolls and curls of her hair, he had never lusted after her. Not once.

  “The usual?” she asked.

  He pushed a few coins around the table.

  “On the house,”
she said. “And something to eat, you're all skin and bone.”

  Reva disappeared and Jonas stared at his wedding ring. He twisted it around his finger. In a few days, Fay's ashes would be delivered to him in a box. He'd sign for them, as if she were a delivery of tools, or food, and he would store her away. And what is that to show for the happy years she brought him?

  Reva placed his drink in front of him. He looked up and forced a smile.

  “Talk to me,” she said.

  “I have nothing but regrets to offer you.”

  “Then give me those. Maybe I can carry some for you.” She placed her hand over his. It felt peculiar to have another woman touch him, but he didn't pull away.

  “Why wasn't I there? Why couldn't I save her? Why did she keep secrets from me?”

  “What secrets did she have?”

  “The girl was buying her medicine. Medicines she didn't even need.”

  “I wouldn't have imagined it. I know how solid you two were.”

  Jonas nodded. “I think that's what killed her. I'm certain of it. But what can I do? I can't prove it.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “When I asked our girl she said that, within hours of drinking the medicine, she got ill. She vomited, grew delirious, convulsed. She could barely breathe at the end, and eventually, she stopped altogether. It took half an hour at most. Surely, only a potent poison could do that.”

  Reva tapped her finger against her chin. “I don't want to alarm you, Jonas, but that sounds very similar to how my chef died. You know, Jody. He was found in the toilets just an hour after he'd arrived for work. His bruised hands and knees suggested that he'd been convulsing in there. And there were—” she cleared her throat “—bodily fluids everywhere. Maybe I should ask my sister. She might have some insight.”