Things I Did for Money

by Meg Mundell

  Scribe Publications

  THINGS I DID FOR MONEY

  Born in New Zealand and based in Melbourne, Meg Mundell has been published widely in Australian newspapers, journals and magazines. Her debut novel, Black Glass, was highly commended in the 2012 Barbara Jefferis Award and the 2012 Norma K. Hemming Award; and was shortlisted for the 2011 Aurealis Awards (in two categories) and the 2012 Chronos Awards. Meg has worked as a journalist, university lecturer, magazine editor, researcher and government advisor.

  For Andi

  CONTENTS

  Nightshade

  The Tower

  Soft Landing

  The Chamber

  Vermilion

  Narcosis

  The Cone Machine

  Small Change

  Acknowledgements

  NIGHTSHADE

  Until that night, when I rowed him across, I’d never been troubled by seasickness or guilt. I didn’t have the heart to cover him up. Such a sweet sleeper: stashed at my feet like a sack of grain, the moon tracing out his shape in the dark. Even as the sea slapped him to and fro, he had a special dignity most others lacked. I’ve seen many men unconscious. But this one was different.

  Bless the Belladonna: a vessel so narrow you’d barely notice her, an ageing lady with slime on her belly and a slow leak somewhere near her centre. God forgive me — her owner is also past her prime, and no stranger to rot and hunger herself.

  Excuses are easy to make. The truth is I’ve played this dark game half a year now. Stealth has become a part of me. It’s been hell on my shoulders hauling this boat back and forth, but it’s made me strong. I know how to row without making a splash. And him, this young one: I rowed him across just like all the others, but his face has haunted me ever since.

  No one denies these are cruel times, but only a few have witnessed their true depths. You must have seen their faces — the lost and the fallen, those women who’ve run out of choices. But is your head full of stumbling men, quick shadows in a hallway; sly things done with smiles and force, bruises blooming one atop the other? Skinny horses chopping past a laneway, the driver nodding polite to the law — while behind the flimsy curtain, a finger searches for a pulse in some sleeper’s neck? A man wakes groggy at the wrong moment; a quick struggle, a deft blow. A woman sits alone at dawn, madly counting coins to ward off sleep … I hope for your sake you have been spared these nightmare pictures.

  But I ask myself: in times like these, what do the men have here ashore but hardship and ruin, lack of hope? Digging ditches if they’re lucky, heading north to skin rabbits for pennies. Who says the sea won’t deliver them a kinder fate? If they can make it to first port, that is, with their faculties intact and their legs adjusted to a tilting deck. I judge my doses carefully and always add a measure of ginger, but some are bound to lack the stomach for the sea.

  One peck of henbane, two of mandrake, one half-bushel of black hyoscyamus. Measure the portions with great care, for errors cannot be reversed.

  That evening the swell was sulky, the water dark as ink. My dreams are strange enough so I seldom watch the sleepers — most times I cover them up with sacks — but this one had me hypnotised: the simple loveliness of youth, a babe rocking in the cold lap of the sea. Eighteen, he was, or thereabouts. Did he have a sweetheart? For sure he had loved ones somewhere, as most people do.

  It was a tranquil scene for a woman well used to vigilance — just the two of us out on the water, the seabirds dipping silent through the night air above our boat. The young man’s knees pointing starward, his hair like dark feathers about his face. And my gaze kept returning to his mouth: an upward curve, a sweet anchor. Idly, I wondered how he spoke, and whether that private smile was a mark of his nature or just an accident of design.

  But we soon had company. Down the far end of the docks glowed the gas lamp of the night watchman — or so he calls himself, the lazy-eyed liar, for it takes no more than a coin to make him look the other way. No, the watchman has never been my worry.

  As the pier loomed up, I saw that outline set against the stars: my Monday-night broker. How I hate this shark of a man, who has dragged so many through the heads of Port Phillip Bay, and taken a sick pleasure in it, I swear. A dirt-hearted man, whose smirk sours the start of every week. But don’t be fooled by my disdain — I know full well that I am no better. As I dragged my boat to a stop the broker leaned over the water and hissed my name: ‘Port-Wine Annie.’ Words in the night, the sound of men traded in darkness for sums I don’t care to disclose.

  ‘Get in close,’ he ordered, and I cursed the man’s impatience. Of my three brokers, this Monday man has won the least of my favour — expecting events to unfold exactly as he wishes, haggling bitter as they come, and never missing a chance to hint in slippery words at the lowness of my character. The world takes on a malignant note in his presence: gleaming teeth, the slap of greasy water, that hissing voice: ‘Got me a fit one there, woman?’

  ‘Luck of the lost,’ I replied. ‘You get what you gamble on.’ I looked down at my young cargo, tucked asleep in the Belladonna’s bow. That’s when I felt it: a dizzy spell, a queasiness that swelled and slipped away in cadence with the heaving sea. Sickness, that’s what I felt, as the boat bumped against the pier and Monday whispered from above: ‘Fresh as a daisy. Pull in by the ladder and help me drag him up.’

  The boy’s body was lighter than most. This task is always a partnership of heave and tug, moving as fast and as quiet as we can, half a mind on the job and the other listening closely to the dark. We always use a rope to guard against slips, for a drowned man has no value. I have become skilled at shoving a sleeping body upward and the brokers are experts in lifting. Monday is a bastard, but he can lift; Wednesday is tolerable, but somewhat weedy in build, which has often tested my patience with him. And Friday, a sad-faced bear of a man born for heavy loads, never lets a skull crack against the ladder on the way up. Not like some.

  Those three men, my uneasy partners. Together we set our sleepers on their journeys, from rowdy bar to silent ship, then out beyond the headlands to a life that might bloom, or dwindle, or be snuffed out violently. To a fate that plays out in some other realm, over the horizon. ‘Hard work and sea air never harmed a man,’ Wednesday said once, but neither of us laughed.

  I can’t say for sure when the idea came upon me. Perhaps halfway up the ladder, between push and pull, when I smelled Monday’s hair oil and the nausea rose again in my throat. The boy hung between us, limp and trusting. Before we’d reached the top my decision was made. Or so I told myself.

  Slow boil the ingredients in two gallons of clean water for three hours, or until liquid comes to measure one half-pint. Cool and strain.

  One night, it was months ago now, I fought with my Friday broker, who until that evening had seemed built to withstand whatever the world might fling at him. The quarrel began as we wrestled a sleeper up the ladder. Friday was irrational, I became reckless and by the time we reached the top we were screaming at each other on the dark wharf, not caring who heard. This was a grave mistake. It could have cost us our lives, but it seemed we had gone beyond caring.

  Our spat began over my lateness, but its seeds lay far deeper — in whispers and glances, our own private nightmares, that constant undertow of exhaustion and fear, night after night. It seized us both at once: a madness born of looking over your shoulder every waking moment, of navigating through a darkness that hides you well at times, but never quite makes you invisible.

  Drink was in us both that night and I believe a knife was mentioned. But then in one motion Friday crumpled and began to s
ob, to pour out hopeless words. Such a terrible sound — swallowed quick enough, but hard to forget. Our fight fell away and we sat close to each other, looking into the dark while our man slept in his ropes beside us. From that night on, though he said almost nothing, Friday spoke to me softly and became my favourite.

  Yes, money’s at the root of all this. But isn’t life made up of the search for tolerable bargains? We’ve all drawn breath on one side or the other of these deals. Women give up certain dignities for sleep: wash a son’s sheets, clear a husband’s plate, laugh prettily. Mind her manners and bite her tongue. Keep the truth hidden, undress in a lovely way. Stare at nothing over a heaving shoulder.

  And men. Have you ever watched one sleeping and wondered where his dreams, and his wages, might lead him? Fathers, brothers, lovers … good as their hearts may be, they’re all drawn from the same pool, and the world grants them licence for all manner of misdeeds. Kind men fall prey to strange desires. Decent men look away when bad things happen. Not one of us is innocent.

  Lives change in a moment. Once, I watched a coin flip, a merchant’s fortune and mine whistling through the air of a harmless afternoon. Heads, I rented a portion of myself: one familiar hour of smoke rings, practised smiles, then staring up at my old friend the ceiling while counting backward slowly from thirty.

  Tails, I would be offered another fortune altogether. Of course I obeyed that coin. When the odds finally shift your way, intoxication swiftly sets in, and a person with nothing to lose is easily convinced. Brains, education, past deeds — it all counts for nothing once you are a fallen woman. And this city has stolen my best parts for itself. Did anyone lift a hand in my defence?

  Now men whisper my name in dread-filled tones. In tones that fast forget the trade in women that they enjoy, or ignore, as if it were a natural thing.

  I’ve been blessed with unremarkable features: pleasant enough, but designed to be forgotten. No doubt the lack of paint makes it easier to play the ghost, for men who once looked twice — and did more than look, believe me — now pass without a glance. Many know the night-time name I’ve earned for myself, but very few can marry it with my face, and those who can are criminals themselves, their pockets lined with the same tainted currency. Our names may pull us places like the tide, but we cling hard to the notion that we are free to fight the current.

  Monday and I dragged the boy onto the wharf and stood there catching our separate breaths. He stood wheezing over the young one, staring down at his body in that hungry way of his, when I pulled a particular flask from my coat and affected a healthy swig. The broker sidled in and sniffed — I knew he had a taste for the booze. ‘What’s that you’re sinking?’ he breathed. ‘Brandy,’ I replied, performing another swallow. ‘Soothes the heart, for those that have one.’ And offered him the flask.

  His hand flew up in greed, then hesitated. Something crossed his face, and there was a brief struggle there. Then he fixed on my eyes and made a hard sound like a laugh. He knew I was only famous for one thing. ‘Only a fool drinks with the devil,’ he said. ‘Let’s get this business done.’

  Pour the tincture in a glass or earthenware jar. Seal the lid firmly and store in a cool, dark place.

  The young ones with strong limbs fetch the best prices. Don’t think these sleepers are innocent; a predator lurks in each of their hearts. Why else do they prowl the bars of whorehouses, lurk in opium dens where women in fine dresses step carefully through the smoke? Flesh and money will never be friends, and when they meet in back rooms there is often violence. The things sold in these places cannot be replaced, and there is no shortage of demand. Asleep he may be innocent, but in his waking hours a man can cause great harm.

  But this one — I wondered if the sea deserved him. The girl who had drugged him told the brothel owner she’d never seen his face before: perhaps this had been his first visit? When the house lackeys smuggled his sleeping form out the back door into the laneway, the boss emerged to haggle for a higher price. Afraid of witnesses, he slipped into the carriage beside me. ‘Look at his shoulders,’ he declared. ‘Decades of work in them yet.’ Our bargaining was short and fierce, but we settled the deal fairly.

  As I stood on the pier with the boy at my feet, something tugged at me. A tenderness filled my throat and made it hard to speak. I wanted to set a price well beyond Monday’s reach, provoke an argument, toss some dark threats and row the boy back to shore. Leave him in a doorway, to wake and continue his life as it had been. I would lose money on the deal, but perhaps gain something too. A sense, perhaps, that things can be reversed, if the fancy takes us.

  ‘Two pound,’ said Monday in an impatient tone.

  ‘Eight,’ I replied without thinking, and he swore.

  ‘What are you saying, woman?’ he snapped. ‘This pup’s worth no more than three at best. Look at those girlish wrists. They’d snap in the wind like twigs.’

  We argued back and forth, and I felt it begin: the hard pull of money entering my blood, chasing out the sentimental notion that I could walk away. I remembered the lighted windows of the brothel where I’d collected the young man. The coins in the owner’s palm, the stench of rubbish in the laneway, and over the months and years, all the men flocking to these places like moths in the dark. The rustle of dresses and the bitter smell of opium burning; the sound of a girl sobbing quietly in an empty room. The boy was not blameless in all this.

  ‘He’s soft,’ Monday argued, grabbing the boy’s hand and twisting the palm toward me, showing its pale surface in the dark. ‘Soft as a woman,’ he scoffed, throwing the arm down like a dirty rag. ‘Only a drunkard or a fool would argue a price like that for soft meat.’

  ‘He’s young and he’s strong,’ I replied, ‘and you’re the only drunken fool on this dock tonight. You can come to your senses and finish this deal before we’re caught here. Or I’ll gladly row him back ashore.’

  It was then that the boy made a sound — a wet gasp, like a creature coming up for air. The two of us froze, watching him, and I fancied I saw a shudder run through that limp body. We listened hard in the darkness, reading the rhythm of his breath.

  Mix fifteen drops of the tincture with seven scruples of laudanum. Slip this draught into a glass of port wine and stir well.

  Since that night, without fail, sleep has delivered me the same picture: a bright morning, the city beginning to stir. My young man is walking through the streets, a bunch of yellow flowers in his hands. That private smile is on his lips, the name of a girl in his head. In the dream I do not know her name, but I understand he is turning the word over and over in his mind, like a beautiful stone. His face seems lit from within by a calm light. He does not see me standing in a doorway.

  Then I find myself on an empty dock, where the Belladonna is moored. The sharp stink of kerosene fills the air; the water is sleek as a mirror. My boat hangs suspended on the surface, a sliver of cracked wood and flaking paint. I strike a match, light a rag and throw the burning thing down into her belly. Doused in fuel, she catches alight in moments. Flames dance in the sunlight, slight as ghosts. Turning my back on the sea, I leave my vessel to her fate — to burn clean and slow, blackening right to the waterline, until only her bones remain afloat.

  One average-sized man in good health should sleep six to ten hours. Take care that young children do not discover the liquid and drink it.

  The boy made no further sound, but this we knew: once a sleeper begins to stir, the night’s business must conclude with haste. Monday swore again, and there was hatred in it. But then he sucked at his teeth and made a final offer: ‘Six pounds, no more. And don’t expect to swindle me this way again. Consider it a bribe to get you out of my sight.’

  And I held out my hand. The coins, I recall, were warm from the heat of his skin. I don’t remember descending the ladder, but rowing back alone I felt nothing but a cold, mute anger and a nauseous swirl in my gut. All pi
ty had vanished. Just as the line between medicine and poison is often no more than a matter of degree, tenderness and its opposite are closer than we like to think.

  Belladonna cut through the water almost soundless, as if she knew her way. The tide did its best to drag us seaward, but I set my shoulders and rowed hard toward the land. Through the very worst of times my body has served me well. Its finest days may be behind it, but there’s decades of work in it yet.

  THE TOWER

  She found us a week ago, in the arts section of the newspaper. Or to be honest — and really, at this stage, what’s the point in lying? — we found her.

  ‘Listen to this, Helena!’ Marianne’s voice pricked a sharp hole through my sleepy Sunday afternoon. She read aloud from the paper: ‘However you phrase it — disabled sculptor, artist with a disability — they’re pointless labels. I am a sculptor. My physicality is irrelevant. Why automatically insert it, before the art itself is appraised?’

  The journalist had used the word defiant, Marianne reported, but I thought the artist, whoever they were, had a point. Eyes half shut, I stroked the cat and waited for Marianne to finish her dramatic pause. I am interested in art, but the feeling is not mutual. Marianne is impasto, thick reds and dark greens and tobacco golds; I am the water in which the brush is rinsed.

  She read on: ‘But Alice Rowe’s upbeat, assured personality may well have a darker side, if her art in any way reflects her life.’

  I opened my eyes. Marianne stared at me over the newspaper and a sneaking unease crept between us. I tried to keep my voice neutral.

  ‘I’d heard she had become successful. How much space did she get?’ I asked.

  ‘Half a page. That should piss her off. Extra space because she’s a sculptor with a disability and an attitude.’ Marianne doesn’t really mean it when she talks like this; she does it when she’s frightened.