The Bottle Stopper

by Angeline Trevena

  She spun around as someone knocked on her bedroom door.

  “Maeve! Maeve!” It was Uncle Lou.

  “What?” she shouted back.

  “They're trying to get in. What do we do?”

  “They threw something at the door, they're not trying to get in.” She glanced back out of the window. The crowd was growing. People liked to be part of something, to belong to a group, even if they didn't fully understand, or care, what that group was about.

  She crossed the room, slid back the bolt, and opened her door.

  Uncle Lou was a shadow. Even thinner than he was before, and his face still displayed the final yellows of the bruises. His eyes were sunken, his stature hunched. Maeve almost felt sorry for the man. Almost.

  “We need to leave,” she said. “We need to get to the monastery. Harris will protect us.”

  Lou marched into the room. “If I go out there, they'll tear me limb from limb.”

  “We need to go now before it gets to that.”

  “I'm not leaving.”

  “Then we're just sitting ducks, waiting for them to come in and get us. So, you stay here if you want, I'm leaving.”

  She moved towards the door, but Lou grabbed her wrist and tugged her back. She stumbled, and fell backwards. Lou kept hold of her wrist, and her head snapped back, and slammed into the floor. Her vision flashed.

  She heard Lou shifting around, she heard him leave the room, climb the stairs, pull his bed in front of the door. And then her attention shifted to the people outside.

  She could almost feel the emotions of each of them, her mind reaching out like fingers. They were angry, scared, grief-stricken, excited. She could feel their intentions.

  Maeve lay flat on her back on the hard floor. Maeve's eyes were closed. Maeve's mouth was smiling.

  48

  Tale leaned against the worktop and sipped her fresh coffee. Denver and Kerise were still studying the diary. They had written several sheets of notes, interpretations, trying to patch snippets together to build a picture.

  “Look at this,” said Kerise, passing the diary to Denver. She pointed to the page. “Is that what I think it is?”

  Denver frowned as he read it. He nodded.

  “Now can we get her out of there?” Kerise asked.

  Tale stepped forward. “What is it?”

  “It's a prophecy,” Kerise said, “of Maeve's death.”

  49

  Maeve felt the hoard decide. She felt them start to move. Before they began smashing at the front door, she knew they were coming.

  She heard the door splinter, she heard it surrender, and the feet and the hands clawed the wooden shards out of their way. She heard the bottles breaking in the shop, the counter being overturned.

  They moved into the kitchen, pulling everything apart, and smashing furniture to arm themselves. They found knives, and skewers. And then, curled into a bucket, they found the murder weapon. They overturned the barrel in the storage room and smashed the empty bottles. They found the hemlock.

  “Here it is!” they yelled triumphantly, as if they had still wanted proof before carrying out what they had in mind. They threw it to the floor and ground it beneath their boots.

  Then they started up the stairs.

  They tore the bathroom apart, smashed the porcelain, and sent jets of water into the air. They peered into Maeve's bedroom, but didn't spot the skinny, bruised legs sticking out from behind the bed.

  They continued upstairs.

  They pushed against Lou's bedroom door, they hammered, they yelled.

  “We'll get you, you murderous bastard!”

  “You won't get the chance to kill any more innocent people!”

  “You'll get just what you deserve!”

  Maeve heard the bedroom door splinter, and she heard furniture being pushed out of the way.

  “String him up! String the bastard up!”

  “The hangman's jig!”

  “Please, please, I didn't do anything. It's just dirty water. I'm a fraud, but I'm not a murderer. I don't know anything about the hemlock, I don't even know what it looks like. Please.”

  Maeve reached out with her mind. She could feel the rope, wound around into a noose, taut, expectant. She felt it around Lou's neck, heavy and rough. It chafed his skin as the hoard pulled him this way and that. Cats playing with their prey.

  “Please. It wasn't me. It was the girl. She bottled the medicine. She gathered the plants. It was the girl! The girl!”

  The bed squealed across the floor as Uncle Lou was tossed from the window. When the bed frame hit the wall, the rope pulled taut. His body slammed into the front of the building, his leg banging against Maeve's window frame. She squealed.

  And then the hoard had a new intention.

  “Where's the girl?”

  Maeve struggled to her feet, her head spinning. She staggered to the door, but they were already down the stairs. She slammed it shut, her fingers fumbling over the bolt. She slipped, tried again, and finally slid it closed. She stumbled backwards as hands slammed into the wood, feet, shoulders, improvised clubs and battering rams.

  The wood began to splinter, like a mouth grinning across the door. The mouth widened, bearing its wooden teeth.

  Maeve looked around the bare room desperately. Her face ran with sweat, her hands slipped from everything she touched.

  A cool breeze hit her, chilling her damp skin. She spun around. A hand reached out to her, and she instinctively took it. She was whisked out of the window and onto the roof.

  “They were going to kill me too,” she whispered as she was carried over the rooftops.

  50

  When Maeve woke, she was dry and warm. Her head ached, but at least she could see straight. She was lying on a mat, covered with a blanket. She looked up at the vaulted ceiling above her.

  She could hear people moving around, talking in hushed voices.

  Maeve pushed herself upright, her head protesting. Her mouth was dry, her muscles were tired. She smiled. The pain meant that she was alive.

  She tested her legs, and they seemed willing to support her. She wandered out of the room and into a corridor. Following the sound of the voices, and the smell of coffee, she shuffled along, running one hand along the wall.

  She stopped at an open doorway and looked in. One woman sat at a computer, another was lounging in a chair next to her. Another was sat cross-legged on the worktop.

  “You're up.” The woman climbed down from the worktop in a smooth motion. Cat-like. “How are you feeling?”

  “Aching. And a little confused,” Maeve said. She cleared her throat.

  “Then have some coffee, because we have a lot of explaining to do.”

  “Where am I?”

  “You're safe. You're in The Paper Duchess.”

  The woman pulled out a chair, and urged Maeve to sit.

  She gestured to herself. “I'm Kerise.” To the woman at the computer. “That's Tale.” And to the third woman. “And Freda. You'll meet Denver later.”

  Kerise handed Maeve a mug, and Maeve wrapped her hands around it; the warm drink an instant comfort.

  “You saved me?” Maeve asked.

  Kerise nodded. “I did.”

  “How did you know?”

  Kerise smiled. “Your mother told us.”

  EPILOGUE

  Harris stepped back and shielded his eyes against the sun. He watched the man unhook the apothecary sign, and pass it down to his colleague. His colleague passed him the new sign and he latched it onto the bracket. He turned to Harris, who nodded his approval. The man descended the ladder.

  “That's us done,” he said. “You're all ready to open up shop.”

  “Thank you,” Harris said. He counted out the agreed credits and handed them over.

  Harris stepped towards the new front door, painted a sunny yellow, and stepped inside. The apothecary shop, once lined with shelves and bottles of stinking water, was now a bright café. Tables were dotted around, each boast
ing three chairs and a yellow table cloth. Flowers adorned the window ledges and the counter.

  On the wall behind the counter, sweeping black letters spelled out a re-purposed motto. It read; 'Our duty is friendship. Our role is love. This is your freedom.'

  Harris wandered back to the kitchen. He looked into the storeroom, now decked with shelves and filled with food, blankets, clothing. The kitchen was clean and airy, filled with the scent of lemons.

  Upstairs, Maeve's bedroom had a line of beds, each one neatly made, awaiting guests. The bathroom was crisp and white. Lou's bedroom also boasted several beds. Each one had a small cot beside it. The walls were painted white, and the room was filled with sunshine.

  Harris smiled, and fought back the tears. It was exactly what she would have wanted, and the perfect memorial.

  Harris walked back downstairs. The women had arrived, and the kitchen was filled with chatter, laughter, and the happy clanging of pots and pans.

  He walked back through the café and out into the warm air. He looked up at the sign as it swung gently back and forth.

  Lacey's House.

  A sanctuary for the women of Falside.

  ABOUT ANGELINE TREVENA

  Angeline Trevena was born and bred in a rural corner of Devon, but now lives among the breweries and canals of central England with her husband, son, and a rather neurotic cat. She is a horror and fantasy writer, poet, and journalist.

  In 2003 she graduated from Edge Hill University, Lancashire, with a BA Hons Degree in Drama and Writing. During this time she decided that her future lay in writing words rather than performing them.

  Some years ago she worked at an antique auction house and religiously checked every wardrobe that came in to see if Narnia was in the back of it. She's still not given up looking for it.

  Find out more at

  www.angelinetrevena.co.uk

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I want to thank my family for their unconditional support and endless patience. My husband who seems to believe in me more than I do, our son whose long afternoon naps have granted me the time to write. My very talented brother, Ben, who knows me well enough to smash the design brief first time to produce a cover I am immeasurably proud of. My sister, Heidi, for her critical eye, even when it faltered in the face of a gripping story. My wonderful and invaluable beta readers; Anthony Redden, Tony Benson, and Pixie Peigh; for their time, their kind words, and their honest ones too. Louise Yoxall who allowed me to borrow her likeness and character traits for Topley. My fellow writers who have supported and championed me, and given me endless amounts of their time and knowledge. Everyone who has believed in me, and supported me on this journey, even in ways they don't realise. This wouldn't have been possible without them.