by Various
“I can’t get work.”
“And Kate?”
“Dead.”
The mattress sinks even farther as I sit beside her. She moves away.
“When?” Then, “How?”
“A week ago. We moved in with a family in Croxteth. The woman was sick that day so Kate went to work in her place. She got her sleeve caught in a roller. It took her arm. They were too slow tying the stump off. She bled to death.”
Sally’s matter-of-fact. Her lip doesn’t quiver. Her eyes are dry.
“I’m sorry.” Words clog my throat. “Where’s Lolly?”
“At home, where else?” She’s glad of an excuse to be angry. “What sort do you think I am, to bring a child here?”
“The best sort.” I try and soothe her.
Kate’s dead. I wish I’d gone back to their terrace sooner but posthumous offers of help mean nothing to the dead.
“I’m the best sort, am I? Is that why you think you can buy me with a few coins? You men are all loathsome.”
I’m angry too. I want to shut her up. I grip her head and cover her mouth with mine. She pulls away.
“Don’t kiss me with your eyes shut and pretend I’m Kate. Fuck me for my own sake.”
I don’t relent. I’m too busy kissing Sally to correct her. The tension in her is like a wire.
We lie down. She’s thin, a skeleton wrapped in skin. I’m not much better, but I take the weight of my large frame on my knees and elbows.
“This doesn’t mean anything. Understand?”
She’s wrong. It means everything.
“You’re crying,” she says.
“So are you.”
She undoes my trousers and puts her hand between my legs. No one’s ever touched me there before.
“Oh,” she says. Then louder, “Oh.”
I feel the wire snap, and her whole body relaxes. She kisses me, finally yielding. My whole life’s been leading to this moment of sex and solace.
I want to say, Thank you, thank you, thank you, but I’m too breathless to speak.
* * *
Sally’s head is on my chest. Sleep slows her breathing. My trousers are around my thighs, my shirt’s undone. Her petticoat’s rucked up around her waist. I don’t move for fear of disturbing this lovely girl. The sudden roar from Anfield carries over the rooftops and into the room. It masks the quiet click of the door opening and closing.
Jessop stands at the end of the bed, chuckling. I leap up, struggling with my trousers.
“So Tom,” he says, sarcastic. “Who’s your pretty friend?”
I do up my fly. Sally retrieves her blouse from the floor and pulls it over her head. Jessop’s sly look scares me. He takes off his jacket.
“We’ve all afternoon. Why don’t you both lie down again?”
I go at him like a cornered dog. Dad used to say, Fight if you’re cornered. I stick him in the throat with my pocket knife. Bubbles of blood mark the wound. I put my hand over his mouth to stop him crying out. He grips my wrist and twists. Sally’s fishing about under the bed and I wonder what the hell she’s doing, then I see the docker’s hook. It’s the weapon of choice in Liverpool. The handle sits snug in the palm, the hook protruding between the first and second fingers. She comes around behind him and plants it in his skull.
Jessop pitches into my arms. I lower him to the floor.
“Hold his legs.”
I grab them to stop his boot heels from hammering on the floor. Sally helps. How he clings to life. It seems like forever before he’s still.
“Are you okay, Sal?” A woman’s voice.
“Fine.”
“Sure?”
Sally gets up. I wipe the blood spray from her face. She goes to the door and opens it a crack. She whispers something and the woman laughs. Then Sally locks the door.
“Who was he?”
“A special.”
“Jesus. We’ll both swing.”
She’s right. We’ll go straight from the law courts to the noose in Victoria Square. But before that there’ll be long days and nights in a cell with Jessop’s friends queued outside.
I’d rather die.
“What did he want with you?”
“He was looking for Kate. They think she can lead them to trade unionists.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Sally, we’ve not got much time. I’ll deal with this. You need to go.”
“No. We stay together.”
“Get Lolly. Wait at The Baltic Fleet. Don’t speak to anyone but Mrs Tsang. Tell her I sent you. You can trust her.” It kills me to say this. I want to be a coward and say, Yes, stay. Never leave my side.
She kisses me. Why did I ever think her hard?
“I’m sorry that I got you involved with this.” I usher her out. “Go on now, quickly.”Once she’s gone, I splash cold water on my face and button up my jacket to hide my bloodied shirt.
All the while I’m thinking of Sally. Of how my parting words were I’m sorry that I got you involved with this, when what I meant was I’m sorry that you think I love Kate more.
* * *
I roll Jessop under the bed and pull the rug over the stained floorboards. I’m thankful for the room’s violent colour as it hides the blood sprayed across the walls.
The specials must be going house to house. I’m on the stairs when I hear outraged shouts from the room below. A pair of them come up the narrow stairs. I grapple with the first one and he knocks me down. The other tries to hold my thrashing legs. Like Jessop, I struggle against the inevitable.
A third clambers over us, pretty tangle that we are, and checks the rooms. There’s a pause, then a hoarse shout. Jessop’s been found.
“Take the bastard outside.”
They’ve cleared the street. Faces peer from the window. Someone kicks my legs from under me. I land on my knees.
“Mike, remember what Makin said.” The man holding my arm is young and nervous.
Mike, who’s looking down on me, pauses, but then he decides I’m worth it. He kicks me in the chest. I feel the wind go out of me.
“Bugger Makin. He killed Jessop.”
I curl up on the floor, hands over my head. My view’s of the boots as they pile in. It doesn’t matter. I’ve had a kicking before.
* * *
I’m in Makin’s office. The clock sounds muffled and voices are distant. The hearing in my left ear’s gone. The vision in my right eye’s reduced to a slit. Breathing hurts.
Makin’s furious.
“Get out.”
“Sir, the man’s a murderer,” Mike whines.
“I gave specific orders. Tom wasn’t to be harmed under any circumstances. You were to bring him straight to me if anything happened.”
“Sir, Jessop…”
“Are you still here? Go before I have you posted to Seaforth.”
Mike flees at the threat of Merseyside’s hinterlands. Makin fetches a pair of glasses and a decanter. He pours out the port. It looks like molten rubies.
“Drink this. It’ll steady you. I’ve called for a doctor.”
I drain the glass, not tasting the contents. His sits, untouched.
“You’re in serious trouble, Tom. I want to help you.” The chair’s legs scrape the floor as he pulls it closer and sits down. “Did you kill him?”
I nod. Then I start to cry.
“It happened so fast. He burst in. I was with a girl.” I’m babbling. A stream of snot, tears and despair. “I’m not a trade unionist.”
“Who was the girl?”
“Not Kate Harper, if that’s what you’re thinking. Jessop didn’t do his job very well. She’s dead. He should’ve checked the register.”
“He did. The body didn’t match the sample you gave me for her.” Makin tips his head. “You have to trust me. Is Kate really dead or were you with her?”
“No. All I know is that she’s dead.”
“Who did the sample belong to? Was it the woman you were with?”
“Does it matter?” H
e looks down at his hands. Ink stains his fingers. “More than you think.”
He tops up my glass.
“Let’s suppose Lord Peel’s keen to find this woman, whoever it is. Let’s say Lady Peel needs medical attention that requires a little blood or perhaps a bit of skin. It would be a wealth for this woman and a reward to whoever helps me find her.” He lets this sink in. “Suppose Jessop got himself into a spot of bother with some girl. He played rough from what I’ve heard. There’s no proof. The girl’s long gone. An unsolved case.”
My nose starts to bleed. Makin hands me his handkerchief. Blood stains the fine linen.
“You could do that?”
“I’ll do what’s necessary.” Makin, not afraid to scramble.
“I want somewhere away from Liverpool. Out in the country. A farm with cows and chickens where nobody can bother me,” I blurt out. “And I want to take a woman and child with me.”
“That’s a lot, just for information.”
“It’s more than that. Peel will be pleased. It’ll make up for that day when he made his speech. But promise me first, that we have a deal.”
Makin looks at me with narrowed eyes.
“A deal then, as long as you deliver her.”
We shake hands.
“The sample’s mine.”
“That’s not funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
He stares at me.
“Test me again and you’ll see.” I’m an odd-looking woman, but I make a passable man. I’m too big, too ungainly, too flat chested and broad shouldered. My hips narrow and features coarse. “I’m not trying to make a fool of you. I live this way.”
“Why?”
“Sarah, my mother, got me when she was cornered on the factory floor by men who resented a woman who could work a metal press better than them. She swore she’d never go back. She became Saul after I was born.”
Rag and bone men. We’re free, Tom. Never subject to the tyranny of the clock. The dull terrors of the production lines. No man will use us as he pleases.
“What’s your real name?”
“Tom.” It’s the only name I’ve ever had. “Do we still have a deal?”
“Yes. The girl you were with when you killed Jessop. Is she the one you want to take with you?”
His face is smooth now, hiding disgust or disappointment.
“Yes.”
“I’ll need to know who she is and where to find her if I’m going to get her out of Liverpool.”
I tell him. When I say Sally’s name he takes a deep breath but doesn’t ask anything else.
I want to ask, What do the Peels want from me? But then I decide it’s better not to know.
* * *
I’ve never been on a boat. I’ve never seen Liverpool from the sea. My stinking, teeming city’s beautiful. I’ve never loved her more than I do now. I love the monumental Liver birds, even though they’re indifferent to the suffering below. The colonnades and warehouses. Cathedrals and crack houses. The pubs and street lamps glowing in the fog. Workers, washerwomen, beggars, priests and princes. Rag and bone men. Liverpool is multitudes.
The boat’s pitch and roll makes me sick. A guard follows me to the rail. He’s not concerned about my health. He’s scared I’ll jump. I get a whiff of the Irish Sea proper. Land’s a strip in the distance.
We don’t moor at Southport but somewhere nearby. I’m marched down the rattling gangplank and onto a narrow jetty. Miles of dunes roll out before us. It’s clean and empty. I’ve never known such quiet. There’s only wind and shifting sands. I wonder if it’s hell or paradise.
The dunes become long grass and then packed brown earth. I’ve never seen so many trees. Their fallen leaves are needles underfoot, faded from rich green to brown.
There’s a hatch buried in the ground. One of my guards opens it and clambers down, waiting at the bottom.
“You next.”
The corridor leads downwards. Our boots shed sand and needles on the tiles. There’s the acrid smell of antiseptic.
“In here.” One of them touches my arm.
The other’s busy talking to someone I can’t see because of the angle of an adjoining door. I catch the words, “Makin sent her this way. She’ll need time to heal.”
“Take your clothes off and put them in the bin. Turn this and water will come out here. Get clean under it.” My guard’s talking to me like I’m a child. “Soap’s here. Towel’s there. Put on this gown after.”
I’m mortified, thinking they’re going to watch, but they’re keen to be away. I drop my clothes into the bin. I can still smell Sally on me but she doesn’t stand a chance against the stream of hot water and rich suds.
A woman’s leaning against the far wall, watching. I pull the towel about me and try to get dry. She looks like a china doll, with high, round cheeks and blue eyes. Her long yellow hair swings as she walks.
“Sit there.”
She tuts as she touches my cheek where the skin’s split. Then she checks my eyes and teeth. A needle punctures my vein. Blood works its way along a tube into a bottle. She takes scrapings from the inside of my mouth.
“Disrobe.”
I stand up and let the towel drop to a puddle at my feet. I stare ahead of me. She walks around me like a carter considering a new horse. Her hand floats across the plane of my back, around the garland of yellow and purple bruises that run from back to front. She touches my breasts, my stomach, my thighs. From the steadfast way she avoids my gaze, I know there’s more chance that the Liver birds will fly than of me leaving here.
I try and stay calm. I was dead from the moment Jessop opened the door of the red room. From the moment I put the sampler to my arm. It’s either this or a jig at the end of a rope. There’s no point in me going cold into the warm ground to rot when I can help Sally and Lolly. I hope they’ll remember to take Gabriel with them.
Ink-fingered Makin, the artful scrambler, making his calculations. The possibility I’ve got him wrong is a cold, greasy knife in my belly. If I have, I’ve served up Sally, Lolly and Mrs Tsang into the constabulary’s hands.
The woman seems satisfied. I want to say, Look at me. Look me in the eye. I’m a person, not a piece of meat, but then I realise I just might as well be. A piece of meat. Rag and bone.
Copyright (C) 2013 by Priya Sharma
Art copyright (C) 2013 by John Jude Palencar
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Begin Reading
Ninety-nine out of a hundred missing kid alarms are meant for Boris, whose poet’s soul wearies with the stresses of running museum security.
He carries a walkie, a fistful of terrifying keys and passcards, a belt-holstered Taser, handcuffs, and—most important—a pocket pack of tissues for the inevitable crying teaching assistant or volunteer field-trip aide or parent when the hysterics set in. The museum quietly shuts all its doors, has the local police do a perimeter check, and usually in the next fifteen to twenty minutes, someone rustles the little shit out of a stairwell or from a hiding place somewhere behind a section marked CLOSED FOR INSTALLATION.
The one other missing kid is a whole different story.
That other missing kid is Lane’s problem.
* * *
It’s a Thursday in September and the museum is lousy with school groups. Even if nobody gets lost and nothing gets shoplifted out of the museum st
ore, there’s still the emotional stability of the docents and tour guides to consider. Autumn weekdays are relentless battles in the worksheet gore of the Impressionist galleries, Lane knows.
They’ve already had two spills, one kid groping a statue—Catholic schools, Lane and Boris agreed in disgust—and a pair of teenagers necking in a restricted area heaving with Spanish early medieval panels. Lane thinks that if you can be surrounded by that much creepy dead Jesus and still want to lead off of second base with a date, you’ve probably earned your petting, but museum administration disagrees. It’s barely 1:00 p.m., an hour ripe with possibilities of disaster catalyzed by the post-lunch/post-recess platoons of elementary-age kids.
* * *
The TV in the employee break room is—either though science or magic—permanently locked on to PBS, and so Boris and Lane are parked around it, watching the second season of Downton Abbey for the millionth time when the alarms go off.
“Have fun with that,” Lane says to Boris, not looking away from the mesmerizing perfection of Dowager Countess McGonagall, distributing shade to all and sundry.
“Sorry to break it to you, Lane,” comes a voice from the doorway, “but this is one of yours.”
Boris punches a fist into the air, victorious, and says something foul in Russian, barely glancing away from the television screen. Lane, on the other hand, gets to swivel around with resigned unhappiness to face Eugenie Dixon’s wincing expression of apology. Eugenie is five-two on a tall day, usually dressed in a two-sizes-too-large cardigan, and she’s responsible for Lane’s least favorite gallery in the museum.
“Please tell me it’s not that stupid painting again,” Lane pleads.
She flushes and, sounding extremely remorseful, says, “I’ve already asked for them to move it out of the reach of patrons five times.”
“And yet here we are.” Lane sighs, heaving himself out of his chair. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go find some antique francs.”
* * *
When Lane accidentally graduated from Tulane with a degree in art history after a decade of military school and a lifetime’s practical education with Southern good manners, he’d considered himself professionally FUBARed.
And then he’d gone to the museum to sulk and watched a kid fall into a Dalí, slipping elbows over toes and casting a shadow over the DO NOT TOUCH sign mounted along the bottom of the gilded frame.