Then damaged pride stirred. Damn him! Why should she?
How dare he treat her so? Was that what he expected – what he wanted? That she would crawl to him – beg him ? Freezing cold, curled tense as a steel spring beneath the damp bedclothes that seemed themselves to radiate cold rather than heat, she clenched her hands, bruising her palms with her fingernails. She would not. She bloody well would not. She’d die first.
She drifted in and out of sleep. Once she woke to a far-away crackle of gunfire, and then silence. She was a little warmer, but her feet were frozen and her back was cold. She was aware of a faint worm of hunger. Her eyes and her head ached. She took a long breath, staring into darkness. Tomorrow she would go to him. Sober, he would be more rational. His brutality this evening, his physical savagery, had obviously been brought on by drink. She would not beg, nor would she cry. She would explain to him, and the man she knew, the kind, sensitive, joyous Jem she knew would understand.
She went to sleep a little comforted and woke to broad daylight, a dead fire, frost-rimed windows and a tentative tapping on the door.
Jem. He had come back. Of course.
She scrambled from bed, pushed her arms into the cold sleeves of the greatcoat that she had been using as an extra blanket and ran to the door, smiling. He would be contrite, and hung-over and very very sorry for himself of course. And she would not forgive him straight away—
Lily Daltrey stood at the door, thinner than Kitty remembered her, the heavy hair untidy, blue shadows beneath the cat-like eyes. She gave no greeting as Kitty stood, gawping in astonishment. ‘That fifteen ’undred francs still on offer?’ she asked, flatly.
(iii)
Lottie was alive and so were both the children: at least, Lily said, sourly cynical, they had been the day before. What had happened since was none of her business.
‘Came beggin’,’ she said, succinctly. ‘Looked in a bad way.’
‘And the children?’
She shrugged. ‘Didn’t see ’em. But Lot said they was both still with ’er.’ Her eyes slid about the small apartment, probing, calculating. ‘Comfortable enough ’ere, ain’t yer?’
‘Where are they?’ Kitty asked.
In answer a long, flat palm was held out.
Kitty hesitated. Then she walked to the kitchen door and opened it. ‘Would you mind waiting in here?’
Unconcernedly, eyes everywhere, the girl sauntered at her own pace through the open door. Kitty shut it sharply behind her and ran to the suitcase that stood in the corner behind the door. With cold, clumsy fingers she pulled out the white cotton petticoat and ripped at Pol’s firm, neat stitching. A few minutes later she opened the kitchen door. Lily was standing with her back to her, looking out of the window.
As she turned Kitty saw with a twinge of irritation that she had rifled the precious stores and was nibbling a small, sweet biscuit she had taken from a tin that lay open on the table. The sheer gall of the girl almost took Kitty’s breath away.
‘You got it?’ Lily asked, unconcernedly helping herself to another biscuit. ‘Gawd, ’ow in ’ell’s name did yer got ’old o’ these?’
‘Where are they?’
‘Over the river. The Left Bank.’ The hand extended again and the wide eyes watched expectantly.
Kitty hesitated for only one second longer. She had to trust the unlovable Miss Daltrey – she had no alternative. She pulled the money from her pocket and put it in the long white hand. ‘Where?’
‘Rue Devine. Off the Boulevard St Germain. Across the Pont St Michel, towards the university—’
‘Yes. Yes, I know where it is—’ Kitty’s heart was thumping erratically, and the sickness of excitement stirred her empty stomach.
‘’Ere.’ Lily handed her a slip of paper. ‘That’s the address. I wrote it down. Bet yer didn’t think I could write, eh? Comes of me ’igh class connections.’ She took another biscuit, put it in her pocket, then pushed past Kitty into the other room.
Kitty caught her arm as she passed. ‘You didn’t tell her?’
Lily shook her lovely head. ‘Nah. None o’ my business, is it?’
‘No. It isn’t.’ Kitty opened the outside door for her. A surprised Louise stood, key poised.
‘Mornin’,’ Lily said, pleasantly. ‘An’ ta—’ she added to Kitty, tapping her pocket, ‘Ta very much. That’ll see me through fer a bit—’
‘They’d better be there,’ Kitty said. ‘Or the police will hear something of it.’
The girl shrugged nonchalantly. ‘They’ll be there. They won’t be in good shape, but they’ll be there.’
She knew how perverse it was to decide not to tell Jem, but in the cold light of day his behaviour of the night before rankled badly, and hurt pride and feelings did not dictate prudence. Why should she run to him now, as if she could not do without him? There was faint, bitter satisfaction in the thought of succeeding alone where they had failed together. If – when – he came back to apologize, as he surely would, what triumph to have Michael here, hers again—
Kitty feverishly threw on layers of heavy clothing – fashion and elegance had long ago given way before the onslaught of the dreadful weather – issuing instructions to the bemused Louise as she did so. ‘Louise – I have to go out. I won’t be long, I hope. I want you to light a small fire in – oh, about an hour or so. I know we haven’t much fuel, but light it anyway. There’s some of that packing case left, and if it comes to the worst we can do without that rickety chest of drawers in the bedroom. There’s nothing in it anyway. I want a fire, a warm fire, to come home to. You understand?’
‘Yes, Mam’selle.’ Clearly Louise did not. It had been many days since they had allowed themselves the luxury of a fire in the morning.
Kitty headed off the inevitable questions. ‘My hat. Where’s my hat?’
‘In the bedroom, Mam’selle.’ The girl brought it, watched as Kitty slapped it on her hastily pinned-up hair. ‘Mam’selle?’
Raging to go, Kitty stopped. ‘Yes?’
‘If M’sieu Jem comes—?’
‘Tell him—’ Hand on the door, Kitty paused. Then, ‘Tell him nothing,’ she said, grimly.
* * *
As she hurried through the city it seemed to Kitty, even in her distracted state, that the smell of defeat hung about the streets as the winter mists, clinging and cold, hung low above the river. The setbacks of the past few days had been the worst of the siege – if the much vaunted Great Sortie had failed, what now could save Paris from the barbarians? With the battle over, the population had once more emerged onto the streets to pursue their own endless battle for survival; there were queues everywhere, long, sullen, straggling lines of people who stood in numbed silence or muttered, aggressively ill-tempered, of profiteers and the inequality of suffering. She crossed the Pont St Michel against a flow of wounded coming into the city, those that could walk supported by their fellows or staggering on improvised crutches, those who could not carried ashen-faced on makeshift stretchers. Their filthy bandages were blood- and pus-stained; empty sleeves and trouser legs flapped in the biting wind like the clothes of scarecrows. The faces were grim and grey and filled with a despair that chilled her heart as the wind chilled her body. Suddenly and brutally the memory of Jem’s terrible distress came back to her, but obstinately, as she turned her face from the pathetic procession and pushed on past the barricades across the bridge, she turned her mind from any softening towards Jem. No matter what he had suffered, no matter what he had seen, his treatment of her had been unforgivable. She would not think of him. She was going to find her son.
The Rue Devine was, as Lily had said, a small side road off the Boulevard St Germain. It was narrow as a canyon and straight as a ruled line, the buildings tall on either side. People hurried past, their collars turned up against the arctic weather – surely, Kitty thought bitterly, remembering Inspector MacAdam’s righteous, Presbyterian tirade against the hedonistic sins of the glittering, opulent Paris that now seemed a lifetime removed
from the suffering city of today, the odious man must have been right in his opinion that God must be on the Prussian side, for after the hottest summer in living memory had followed the most punishing winter. She counted the houses. Stopped. Number twelve. She glanced at the piece of paper. Number twelve, Rue Devine. Her heart had taken up an awful erratic, sickly thumping; worse, much worse than any stage fright she had ever known. Blindly she stepped towards the door and was almost bowled over by a uniformed figure in the scarlet and blue of the National Guard as she stepped heedlessly in front of him. The man stumbled and cursed.
‘Pardon!’ she gasped, startled. ‘Pardon!’
The man scowled and snarled a curse. His uniform was motley – a worker’s shirt beneath the uniform jacket, a bright, if filthy, canary-yellow cummerbund gathering in the voluminous waistband of trousers made for a man several sizes larger than he. He strode on, scowling.
With slightly trembling hand Kitty jerked on the ancient bell-pull of number twelve.
Nothing happened.
She waited a moment, then pushed the tall, peeling door tentatively. Protesting a little it opened halfway and then stuck. She slid through the gap and found herself in an open courtyard, the cobblestones littered and dirty, an uncovered drain running down its centre. Flakes of snow were beginning to drift, whirling, down the tall shaft of buildings beneath which the yard lay, lightless and cheerless. On each side of the courtyard steep flights of wooden steps ran in the open from landing to landing. From a floor high above a voice called and a door slammed. She stood for a moment, nonplussed; the place was a warren. Then, determinedly, she made for the nearest flight of steps. If she had to break down every damned door in the place she would find Lottie Smith.
Her sharp knock on the door of the first floor landing produced no results at all. The sound echoed emptily. From nowhere a small child had sidled up behind her. She glanced at him sharply. Dirty face, sly grey eyes, tow-coloured hair. Catching her eye he stuck his tongue out and made an obscenely filthy gesture. He was, she estimated, all of five years old.
She set off up the next flight of ramshackle stairs.
A woman answered her knock this time, a slattern with a gaggle of half-clothed children at her ragged skirts and an infant at suck at her lined and sagging breast. She stared vacantly at Kitty’s stumbling questions, shook her head, shut the door in Kitty’s face.
Several more urchins had now joined the filthy, tow-headed child – as she set off for the third landing Kitty reflected with grim humour that she made a strange Pied Piper and had perhaps better keep a weather eye out for rats. In this place there certainly did not look to be any shortage— she stopped dead.
Sitting on the stair above her, watching her solemnly, sat a small figure, raggedly dressed, sturdily built. His jet-black hair was shaggily unkempt as a pony’s mane, his dark eyes, wide and warily interested, showed no sign of recognition whatsoever. He had a very dirty thumb in his mouth.
Michael.
She knew it was he; there was no doubt. She opened her mouth to speak his name, and could not. She cleared her throat. ‘Michael?’
At the sound of her soft voice the velvet-dark eyes widened a little, but the thumb stayed put and the child did not move.
She took a tentative step towards him, held out her hand. Like a small animal he was off the step and scampering away in one movement, disappearing through the door behind him, lost in the darkness beyond.
One of the children behind her giggled, another sniffed noisily and cuffed his nose. She turned and stamped a foot. ‘Shoo!’
They retreated two steps then stopped, watching her with interested, rapacious small eyes.
She took a breath and walked to the door through which Michael had disappeared. It opened at her touch. She stepped into the darkness that made the dismal stairwell seem as bright as a summer’s day and for a moment completely blinded her. Then, as her eyes adjusted, she discovered herself to be standing alone in an all but empty room. In one corner, on the floor, lay a large, dirty mattress. There was a small, stained table and a wooden chair. The fireplace was empty and cold, and the place smelled of damp and of decay. On the floor near the mattress, abandoned and oddly pathetic, a tattered rag doll stared at her with one wide blue eye. The walls were running water, the ceiling stained and peeling. There was no sign of Michael.
‘Hello?’ she called, sharply. ‘Hello – is anyone there? Lottie—?’
There was a door in the wall opposite. Kitty watched it. ‘Hello?’ she called again, insistently.
Cold air blew through the open door at her back.
Very slowly then, the door she was watching opened. Framed in it stood a woman with two children clinging to her skirts. Michael’s thumb was still in his mouth. The little girl, who must be Poppy, her frail and delicate beauty obvious even beneath the ragged clothes, the ingrained dirt, the sores about her mouth, nervously clung to her mother’s heavy skirt with both hands. Lottie Smith – emaciated, haggard-faced, no longer beautiful – stared at Kitty in weary defiance edged with implacable hatred. In her hand she held a long, vicious-looking knife.
‘Get out,’ she said.
Kitty shook her head.
The woman took a step forward. The change in her was shocking; the bones stood from her face like a death’s head, the skin was sallow and covered in sores. Even from where Kitty stood she could see the woman’s deathly struggle for every breath. ‘Get out,’ she said again, harshly, ‘or I’ll stick yer, I swear it.’ The words ended on a cough, half-suppressed.
‘No.’ Kitty felt oddly calm. Her eyes were on Michael, who stared back at her with eyes still heartbreakingly devoid of recognition. ‘I’ve come for Michael. Nothing else. I won’t harm you.’
‘No!’ The woman reached for the boy and dragged him fiercely to her. ‘No!’
‘He’s my son.’
A skeletal, red-rough hand grasped the boy’s shoulder possessively. ‘Luke’s son,’ Lottie said. ‘Never yours. He’ll thank me. You see. I saved him for him—’
Kitty stared at her. ‘Lottie!’ She heard the tiny sound behind her at the very moment that Lottie, her glance flicking past Kitty, brought the knife up swift as a flash, her face contorted.
‘So – that’s it, is it? All right. I’ll take on the both of yer—’
Kitty turned – and for a moment it seemed that her wits had deserted her entirely.
There was a long, tense silence.
‘Spider!’ Kitty said, faintly.
He did not look at or acknowledge her. ‘’Ello, Lot,’ he said, and the two words, softly rasped, were infinitely threatening. Kitty felt the small hairs on her neck rise.
Lottie said nothing.
‘Bin lookin’ for yer,’ Spider said, gently.
Kitty stepped forward. ‘Spider – what are you doing here? How did you find this place?’
For a moment the little man’s eyes flicked to her and then away, warily back to Lottie and her knife. ‘Bin follerin’ yer. Reckoned sooner or later yer’d run ’er down.’
‘But – why?’
‘I’m gonna break ’er bleedin’ neck,’ he said, unemotionally.
Lottie moved a little. The knife glittered wickedly in the half-light. ‘Try it,’ she said.
He nodded. ‘I will.’
Kitty looked from one to the other. Too late she saw her foolishness in coming here alone. ‘Spider—’
Spider, ignoring her, lifted a wizened hand and levelled a small, pointed, brown-stained finger at Lottie. ‘You killed my Guv’nor,’ he said, his voice utterly calm and the more threatening for that. ‘You ain’t gettin’ away with that.’
The effect of the words was astonishing. Lottie, who had been crouched defensively, the knife held before her, very slowly and in the manner of one dazed by a blow straightened up, staring at Spider, the hand holding the knife dropping to her side. Her sallow face had taken on the colour of the dead ashes that lay in the hearth. ‘What d’yer mean?’
In th
e silence, Poppy caught her breath in a small sob.
‘Luke?’ Lottie asked, faintly, and then again, ‘Luke?’ And then Kitty knew for certain what she had begun to suspect a moment before Spider’s unexpected entrance; Lottie Smith had not known, had never discovered, that her madness had caused her lover’s death.
‘He died in the fire,’ Kitty said, quietly, ‘trying – he thought – to rescue Michael.’
Lottie shook her head. ‘No! Oh – no!’ Still moving in that odd, frozen manner she brought her two hands to her face. ‘Oh, no!’ she said again. She still held the knife, forgotten in her hand. Its blade gleamed lethally against the death-mask of her emaciated face.
Poppy had begun openly to cry. Michael, uncertainly, had moved closer to the little girl and had gathered a handful of her dirty dress in his small fist. His thumb was still in his mouth.
‘Luke,’ Lottie whispered, and the pain in the single word was so terrible that despite herself Kitty felt the beginnings of pity stir within her.
Not so Spider. ‘Luke Peveral.’ He stepped forward, crouching menacingly, hands crooked. ‘The best cracksman, and the greatest gentleman that ever drew breath. The best Guv’nor a man could ask for. An’ you done fer ’im, you stinkin’ little bitch. Like I’m gonna do fer you.’ And still the total absence of any obvious emotion in his voice added strange and threatening emphasis to his words.
Lottie had begun to tremble uncontrollably. The knife clattered to the floor. She wrapped her arms about her own thin body, shaking her head in despair and grief. ‘Not Luke, oh not Luke – I didn’t know – didn’t know ’e was there—’
Spider lunged. Lottie made no attempt to defend herself. Kitty, sensing the man’s move, had no opportunity to shield Lottie – Poppy, screaming in terror, was between the snarling Spider and her mother. Kitty threw herself forward and grabbed the child, hauling her out of the way as Spider and Lottie crashed to the floor, Spider’s hands locked about the woman’s thin throat.
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