“Ma?” The strangers were lifting my brother and sisters from their beds, carrying them like sacks of spuds over their shoulders. I tried to turn my head to see where they were being taken, but Mister Pérouse’s fingers were bands of iron around my jaw.
“Elle est malade, chérie—she has come down very sick,” he said. And then I heard her groans through the wall between our rooms. Her head knocking against the plaster. The bedsprings squeaking as she thrashed. Her cries, muffled, turning to whimpers. A man’s rumbling voice, deep and close, strained as though struggling to speak. “Attends,” I think he said, I think he growled. “Hold still and take it,” he said, and other things I couldn’t quite understand.
My confusion must have been obvious. “I’ve summoned a doctor to inspect her,” Mister Pérouse said. “He’ll see to her, ne t’inquiète pas.”
The words didn’t sound right, but he was so earnest I couldn’t not believe him.
“It’s a miracle you haven’t fallen ill, Ada.” He released my chin, pulled back the covers. Immediately I started shivering. “The children are all afflicted, though nowhere near as badly as your mother.” I straightened my thin cotton shift while he smiled down at me. His gaze lingered as I searched for my slippers. “There’s hope for them yet, but I’ll need your help.”
“I gots to piss,” I said, though it wasn’t strictly true. My bloods were coming; I could feel their arrival as a pain in my lower back, a warm ache in my belly. I wanted to check they hadn’t started yet.
“No time,” he replied. “Come along, quickly.”
I followed him past Ma’s room—dead quiet now—to the lounge. Weird light streamed through the windows and the open front door, casting odd shadows across the room, tricking my eyes into seeing headstones instead of dining chairs, coffins instead of empty couches. Most times I’d find at least one or two of the neighbours snoring there come morning, sleeping off the bourbon and gin I could still smell in the air. But either they’d had less to drink, or they’d been called home early; either way, the only ones left that evening were Mister Pérouse and his gang.
“I’m gonna fetch my coat,” I said. Mister Pérouse shook his head. “Take nothing with you, ma chère. We don’t know what’s contaminated.” He pulled me behind him, offering reassurances that things would be better tomorrow. Outside, the high-beams of his black four-wheel drive, his companions’ sedans and pickup trucks, illuminated the house in a way I hadn’t seen before. My home looked so small, so forlorn in that artificial glare. Crouched in the spotlight, it cowered from menacing night.
If only Harl was awake, I thought, watching as he was buckled into the vehicle’s back seat. He always talks about riding in cars.
“Get in the front,” Mister Pérouse said, opening the door for me. The seats were leather, so cold they felt slimy, and the interior smelled of smoke and plastic. The odour was suffocating. I wanted to open a window but couldn’t figure out how to work the controls. Mister Pérouse walked around to the driver’s side while giving his friends orders, strobing the headlights with his movements.
“He’s not a ghost,” I said to Harl, who couldn’t care less, wrapped as he was in the ignorance of sleep. Directly behind me, Nellie and Ike Porter were huddled beneath a blanket, their rosy-cheeked faces now blank with illness. Like Harl, the flax farmer’s kids were unconscious, their necks smeared with red.
Mister Pérouse slid into the cab beside me and closed the door. “Ain’t no one healthy no more?” I asked. He ignored the question, rolled down his window with ease, and spoke to the tall splotchy-faced man waiting in the driveway.
“Jacques, drop by the farmstead two kilometres north. See who’s there then meet Théo at—” He turned to me, “What is the name of that couple, Ada? The ones who dip the chandelles for your mother?”
“Allambee.”
“Ah, oui.” He directed his attention back out the window and pointed at the squat, bald man who still cradled Bethany in his arms. “Join Théo at the Allambee farm. I’ll see you back at the Haven before dawn.”
Without a word, they accepted his directions and got into their cars. “Arianne,” Mister Pérouse continued, “go inside and collect the doctor. He’s done all he can for tonight.”
The old woman nodded. As her head bobbed up and down, the light played across her features: one moment she was wrinkled, the next smooth. A half-smirking, half-frowning Janus face that gave me chills as it glared first at me, then at Miah in the sedan’s passenger seat.
“Can’t we say goodbye ’fore we go? Ma’ll flip her top if she don’t know where we gone.”
“Non.” Mister Pérouse rolled up his window, cutting off the fresh breeze that was helping to clear my head. Reaching over, he patted my knee. My stomach cramped, and I felt a dampness, a slickness in my knickers. “It’s best if we leave her alone. But tomorrow.” He stopped, sniffed the air, stared at my legs, my hands fidgeting in my lap. “Tomorrow,” he repeated, “things will be different.”
Tears welled in my eyes as the pain in my belly increased. I looked down and two salty drops plinked onto my nightie. I hoped I hadn’t stained the seat with my blood—how could I hide leather upholstery? I hoped it hadn’t spread beyond my shift, beyond my skin. Ma would be so disappointed.
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled.
Again, Mister Pérouse patted my knee. Patted and patted, the motion fervent and hypnotic. He licked his lips, and tore his gaze away with visible effort.
Things changed the next morning, but not for the better.
The sun was inching over the horizon by the time we arrived at Mister Pérouse’s compound. There were no houses around, no farmsteads. The land here was untilled, untenable: skeletons of crops long gone to seed stretched as far as I could see, dotted here and there with sentinel trees and shacks even hobos would disdain. Anyone with a mind for survival long ago followed the highway, arrow-straight and pointing the only way out of here. A wall rose ten metres high and ran a jagged loop around the property, too long for me to judge its distance at this early hour. Layers of grime outlined its rough sandstone surface, the lower half shadowed further with soot. The gatehouse, smooth white plaster cornered with chunky yellow bricks, was dingy with dirt. Rows of barred and blackened windows perforated the walls, bracketing a tall set of arched double doors.
I knuckled my eyes as Mister Pérouse hefted Harley over his shoulder, leaving the Porter kids in the backseat for the moment. Grit and sleep blurred my sight as I followed him into the dark gatehouse, then beyond into a courtyard that smelled dank with an undertone of manure. Inside, peak-roofed walkways connected a series of wooden buildings, all bleached pale grey and pocked with patches of silver-green lichen. I could see the bottom half of an old barn, empty of horses, slumping close on our left; three large pens to our right, in which dozens of hogs lolled, grunting as they slept; five or six little shacks a few hundred metres away, their windows dark and chimneys cold. Pigeons cooed from the rafters overhead, dropping feathers and dead spiders as we passed beneath. I kept my head low, and prayed we wouldn’t emerge covered in droppings. At the far end of the promenade down which Mister Pérouse led us, the first storey of the largest mansion—or warehouse? I couldn’t tell which—I had ever seen blocked my view of anything else.
I stepped off the path and into the yard as dawn licked red streaks across the building. Caught a glimpse of three or four more hulking storeys; rectangular windows boarded up; a crooked weathervane squeaking a slow circle above a gable—then Mister Pérouse hauled me back into the shadows.
“I weren’t dallying,” I said, but he silenced me with a glance. Behind us, the gatehouse door opened and I could hear that Arianne woman as she spoke to the doctor; her voice grating like grit across my soul. I was almost overwhelmed by an urge to hide behind Mister Pérouse’s thick cloak. Instead, I patted Harley’s back to reassure him everything was fine; straightened my shoulders as the
great door clanged shut. The sound of iron bolts shunting into place rang across the courtyard.
I swallowed tears and dust. My neck was stiff from sleeping upright, my heart stiffer at the thought of Ma sick and alone at home.
“It’s rude to linger in doorways,” Mister Pérouse said, striding past. “Come.”
Eventually I got used to the command in his tone, but right then it came as a surprise. As long as I’d known him he’d always been, if not jolly, at least pleasant. Friendly in that way adults are with children who aren’t their own: familiar and a little bit fake. His presence used to set us at ease—we knew he’d make Ma happy.
But this Mister Pérouse was different. This version showed an interest that demanded attention. He made my stomach roil.
Inside the hallway stretched from left to right, describing the Haven’s perimeter instead of plunging straight into its heart. We crossed it in no more than ten steps, the sound of our footfalls petering out before reaching its ends. Mister Pérouse took me by the hand. Led me into a room resounding with the whisperings of children.
Large enough to house at least three barns end to end, it nevertheless felt claustrophobic as soon as Mister Pérouse closed the doors behind us. Columns ran in arches around its border, dividing the space into cloisters. Single beds with woollen blankets and plain pillows were tucked behind these pillars, placed in orderly lines against the chocolate brown walls, leaving the larger, central part of the room free. All around us snippets of sound murmured up to the ceiling, four storeys above our heads. Shuttered galleries climbed the walls, gazed blindly down on the two long refectory tables running lengthwise down the middle of the hardwood floor. Skylights perforating the ceiling would have brightened the place enormously had they not been covered in cardboard. Instead, dim light issued from oil lamps dangling from chains and dotting the tabletops.
At the back, three groups of school desks, a dozen at least, were arranged in rough circles. A stern-looking man slipped into the room and, with a nod from Mister Pérouse, locked the door. He crossed to consult a young girl who’d obviously been supervising the students in his absence; his tweed jacket, matching pants, and bowler hat could’ve easily been rented at Ma’s shop. One by one, the kids sitting or standing there noticed our entrance. Conversations hushed. Pencils and books hung forgotten in hands that had stopped tidying up. Pink irises shone as they all openly stared.
“Good morning, children.” Mister Pérouse waited until he had everyone’s attention. “How go the lessons? Diction? Vocabulary? Memory-drills? I trust you’ve all had a productive night.”
A babble of replies, all positive, filled our ears. At the sound of so many voices, Harley lifted his head, and looked blearily at our surroundings.
“Ma?” he croaked.
I reached up and absentmindedly patted my brother’s cheek while trying not to goggle at the other kids. Bright eyes ringed with dark circles were worn all around; hair slicked colourless with grease; skin the hue of old lard. To someone accustomed to unique outfits, bright fabrics, elaborate headwear, the sameness of their features, the sloppiness of their clothes, was breathtaking. Here it was dull tartan dresses for the girls, short pants and collared shirts for the boys. On the far wall, boxy jackets hung neglected on hooks, dust lying thick across their shoulders. No jewellery to speak of. No hats.
“Good,” Mister Pérouse continued, his breath fogging in the chill air. “We’ve been blessed with six new souls today—and if all goes well Jacques and Théo should return with more. For now, Dr. Jeffries, I’ll trust you to amend your lessons to accommodate our five extra pupils. Initiate them quickly: these children have been unschooled for far too long.”
“I know what I’m doing, Anton.”
Mister Pérouse conceded the point with a tilt of his head, but still he proceeded with his instructions. “No field trips until they are made familiar with the curriculum, d’accord? Bon. Now, as for the rest of you, allow me to introduce Harold et Adelaide.”
My heart stopped at the names. I was sure he knew us better than that.
“Excuse me, sir,” I said, shivering with more than cold. Ma taught me always to "be polite, especially when correcting someone’s mistake. “That’s Harley and I’m Ada.”
Mister Pérouse’s only reaction was to adjust his hold on Harl, and place a heavy hand on my shoulder. “The sun is well up, children. Help get Harold ready for bed. The Haven is his home now: make him welcome. Adelaide, this way.”
My feet were rooted to the floor as Harl was passed from Mister Pérouse to a boy a year or two older than me. Everything about him was lanky: limbs, earlobes, unkempt fringe. He carried my brother in arms that looked like bone sheathed in tissue, too weak even for such a light burden. But when he smiled his teeth were overly long. Sharp and white. The cleanest things in the room.
A panel stood open in the far wall, not so much a door as a breach in the room’s symmetry. Mister Pérouse drew me through it, then I was led down a narrow hallway. Small electric lights nestled in wall sconces, illuminating little but a series of old photographs—all depicting my guide standing proudly beside class after class of the Haven’s students. His steps were assured even in the darkness between lamps; I knew he could run these corridors blindfolded, if necessary. I stumbled in the black, and was pathetically grateful for the bulbs’ small haloes. I needed their comfort.
It’s weird how, in moments of panic, our minds focus on absurdities. Though my pulse raced and my throat cramped from holding back tears, I found myself wondering why they’d used plastic lights shaped like candlesticks; why they’d topped them with glass flames. Why not use real candles? And if they could see fine without them, why turn the things on? Except to allow black-and-white children, their faces so like the ones I’d just met they could have been one and the same, to follow me with their eyes as we sped past. They watched, expressionless, organized and catalogued in their wooden frames, as my feet were dragged along grooves their soles had worn in the floor.
Mister Pérouse’s apartments were at the far end of the manse. Up three flights of stairs, along the hall, and back down so many steps we might have ended up in the basement. My legs were shaking by the time we arrived; blood dripped down my thighs. A receiving room, a study, a chamber maid’s cupboard, and a master bedroom with modern en suite were all barricaded behind a thick oak door, secured with a brass deadbolt. The costumes he’d worn to Ma’s parties spilled from a wardrobe, littered his bed. Their fine fabric chafed my skin when he threw me upon them. When he showed me, in no uncertain terms, what my role was to be in this household.
I flailed and kicked. My screams, half-formed and breathless; wrists trapped in the vice of his hands. I butted my head against his until my skull ached, but he simply leaned back, waited for me to tire. He used the advantage years of practice had given him, pinning me down with his torso. Hungry saliva dripped on my cheek, trickled down my neck.
“Mama, Mama, Mama,” I cried, as he shoved my nightie up, pulled my drawers down, revealed the mess of blood between my legs. He wriggled more firmly on top of me, pressed my arcing back flat with his weight, then slid down my body until his face was in line with my crotch.
“Your mother is dead,” he said, matter-of-factly. His tongue, rough as a cat’s, began to rasp along my inner thighs.
No. The fight, the life went out of me. She can’t be. I’d squeezed my eyes shut, but now they flew open. My mind was blank, my mind raced. I looked up, not down. Ma’s voice rang in my ears, telling Harley tales. The cinnamon smell of her breakfast oatmeal filled my nostrils—not sweat, not blood, not Mister Pérouse’s lamb-carcass breath. In my mouth, raspberry cordial laced with brandy; the drink Ma gave me the first time I’d hidden my blood-soaked rags. No, no, no. I looked up, stared up. A watermark shaped like our state stained the ceiling. I tried to pinpoint the county where I grew up—a splotch of mould covered it. Covered Ma. I cried out—
>
Not dead.
I didn’t look down; wouldn’t. In my mind I saw Mister Pérouse’s chin drip with my blood. Saw his teeth lengthen, glistening and red. Felt them pierce. The prod of his tongue. Sucking, drinking deep. Taking his fill.
Everything was silent.
A tornado howled through the room.
Face contorted, mouth shaped words. Expression evangelical, like Bible-bashers Ma sent from our door each Sunday. Still wearing the cowboy coat she’d made, he slithered back on top. Nicked the tip of his penis. Smeared his blood. Mixed it with mine.
Searing pain to dull throb. Breath whooshed out. In and out.
In and out.
His body preached at mine: I didn’t hear a thing. I looked at the county lines overhead, traced their borders with my eyes.
No.
He grew stronger, stronger. Licked my jugular. Moaned. Didn’t bite.
Numb, I watched us from the settee on the opposite side of the room. Looked at the spectacle we made on my mother’s costumes. My legs like slabs of ham on the mattress. His hips twitching, plunging. My hands clenching, unclenching, clenching. Intent and inert.
Waited for him to finish. Waited for my spirit to return. Waited to feel.
Not dead.
I didn’t see Harley or the girls for days afterwards, and I was too tired to be scared for any of us.
Mister Pérouse kept me in his bedroom until my menses stopped flowing. Nightmares plagued me all day, then came to life at dusk. For five nights he drank his fill, reopened the thin cut on his cock, climbed on top of me. Humming all the while about a child born of blood. He rubbed my belly before pulling out, for luck or to mark his territory, or both.
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