Stetson touches my shoulder lightly, trying to stay my trembling. ‘That’s alright, Weed. That’s alright, lad. Lay her down now. Lay her down by the fire.’ He takes my fingers and tries to loosen their grip, but I’m not ready to let go of her yet.
‘Hannah!’ I hear Ruth scream. Someone races over to me and collapses onto my poor dead love but I can’t see them through the tears. My breath is coming in ragged gasps; I gesture blindly down at the body in my arms but my mouth is thick and I cannot form words.
There are more people moving in the room now; someone takes Hannah’s limpness from me. I follow with my eye as a woman touches her bare arms and massages her naked chest. Sometimes the woman looks at me and speaks but there is only a thin high whining sound inside my head and I do not hear her.
I feel someone squeezing my hand hard and I look to see Ruth’s tear stained cheeks. She is speaking and I try to focus. ‘Weed! Weed, what happened?’
I open my mouth and taste salt wetness. ‘She was. We were. In the garden and I– and I–’
Ruth removes her hand from mine and takes a deep breath through her nose, screwing eyes tightly shut. It looks like a practised gesture and it halts her sobbing. I watch as she goes to Hannah, crouching low to examine the body. She speaks falteringly. ‘She’s not been dead for long. Her limbs are supple. But this is strange.’ Ruth inspects her face. ‘Her neck is terribly stiff and this twisted grim smile on her lips. It is frozen.’ She traces her thumb along Hannah’s fine pale chin. ‘Lockjaw.’
Stetson is staring in horror at Hannah’s ashen lips. ‘I’ve seen these symptoms before. There is poison here.’
Ruth looks me dead in the eye and says with a voice that suddenly sounds curiously far away: ‘Strychnine.’
My hand automatically moves to my pocket belt and I feel inside. The seeds are still in their pod and I count them out one, two, three. My fingers move across my hip to a hard lump and I draw out a yellow fruit. I recognise it. It is the yellow fruit of Borrachero. The Strychnine fruit is gone. Realisation blots across my mind in a smear of anguish. I have poisoned her. I have poisoned Hannah dead. My eyes burn red hot, searching for the tears to drown this pain. The thin high whining sound inside my head pitches up a notch and then up a notch further. Darkness threatens in the periphery and all I can see are Ruth’s hard staring eyes until they too disappear behind a curtain of noise and I see white light.
Chapter 26
June, New Moon
A curse on the living world, be it of blood and artery or sap and root. A curse on love and loss. A curse on cares and promises. A curse on Northumberland. Enough of hard choices; I want no part in any of it. I have come to London city to learn about freedom. And my first lesson: the freedom to leave. I call Westminster my home and make my living from the vanity of men. I produce for them fine cosmetics, dishing out pale faces and coloured hair to those who can afford it.
The city of London thrives at the docks by Limehouse and the morning breeze is thick with coal dust as the colliers unload their wares at the quayside. A whiff of that air reminds me of the sharp divide between the town and country. There was a time when the sooty smut would nauseate me, making me beg for the clean air of the field, but no more. Now I rejoice in its pollution: a souvenir of how far I have come from my old life full of burden.
I finger two purses of money in my pocket and watch for my contact among the schooners and barges. Most things can be found in London but there are a few choice ingredients that my customers demand which must be procured from afar. At last I espy him, three boats out and almost mid-way on the mighty Thames. ‘Hola! Mssr. Issa Khadesh.’
A bronze face looks up to the dock and smiles broadly. ‘Ho! Mssr. Weed.’ He waves a large hand. ‘Come to me, my friend!’
Three boats are slung together like a pontoon and I leap from one to the other, dodging the dock workers as they lift and haul their wares. When I reach him at the furthest barge I embrace my long-awaited friend. ‘You took your time!’
‘Weed, I have been travelling in Europe. The wars raging there have brought such commerce! Weapons and soldiers are moved around the continent and every caravan brings goods from as far away as Africa and the Middle East. Which is a good thing for you. Some of your requests had weathered merchants scratching their heads. It is a very good thing that you have money.’
‘Yes, Mssr. Khadesh, London has been kind to me.’
‘Weed, please, call me Issa. Now, what have I got here for you? Konini from Morocco you asked for, and here is it. Chinese Hibiscus, dried. Purple Loosestrife; now that one was expensive. We had this in Egypt when I was a boy; good for lightening the skin – although you are so pasty and white I feel that you would become quite the ghost if you touched it. Solomon’s Seal? There you have it! Finest Kohl and Henna from Jordan. And this.’ He holds up a bottle filled with greenish liquid. ‘Everywhere you go in France it is being consumed in great quantities. They call it Absinthe! The Green Fairy. I warn you, it is strong.’
’I am familiar with the liquor. And how much do I owe you.’ I take the purse of silver from my pocket and weigh it in my hand.
He snatches it up with a laugh. ‘Now that ought to do it.’ When I first arrived in London the value of money was new to me, but after these few weeks I understand how to drive a bargain. Issa, however, is the best man to find the unfindable, so I let the purse go happily.
‘Take it. There’s more where that came from.’
‘These rich lords and ladies will part with anything if they believe it will improve their complexions. Dainty white cheeks and red lips. The figure of beauty in this poor sickly country is so strange. Back in my home, when I was a child, we would spread olive oil on our skins to capture the sun’s rays and make us grow darker.’ He looks up at the cloudy sky. ‘Here it rains every day, so why bother with olive oil?’
‘I merely follow the fashion, Issa.’
‘No, Weed! You create the fashions! And just look at you now. Such a fine waistcoat and, my man, you have succumbed to breeches and tights! Still I am pleased that you do without ruffles and wig. There should be limits to what a man will wear.’
‘You are a man of the world, Issa. How long are you in London for this time?’
‘For as long as it takes me to spend your coin.’
‘So you will have time to pay me a visit then.’
‘Indeed I will. 58 South Molton Street! Are you still there, sir?’
‘I am. I expect to hear from you. Indeed I will be holding a ball in a fortnight. You must come.’
‘Two weeks. That should give me enough time to slake my appetite. It is hard for man to be on the road and at sea for so long at a time.’
‘Do you head to the bordellos of Covent Garden?’
‘A whorehouse? Weed, girls aren’t a problem. It’s food I’m after. There’s a war in Europe and the poor people are eating sawdust and leather. God save us when we are reduced to drab London for slop and tuck but times are tough and here we are.’ Issa offers his hand with a grin. We shake and I take my leave, carrying with me a bag of good new herbs.
I cross back to the harbourside and look up at mighty St Anne’s Church, observing that the time is not yet nine o’clock. I am early for my next appointment and I am close enough to Pennyfields to visit old Cao. His customers are late risers but I know that he will be awake to deal with me. The streets hereabouts are no place for the well-heeled, but if you are looking for rare goods then there is no better place on earth.
As I walk the crowded lanes and byways of East London I am gratified to be among the hewn stone and forged brick of people. Men and women crowd around me but with money in my pocket I may use them as I please and scorn them at my leisure. Their chatter is dishonest and subtle but I am without obligation to listen. I round a corner and see old Cao. He is in his courtyard performing the peculiar exercises he calls T’ai Chi in his own tongue. The raggedy local children watch him with curiosity, hiding their giggles behind their hands. They kno
w enough not to show disrespect to Cao. An old man dancing slowly in pyjamas he may appear, but he owns these streets and he moves quickly if he needs to.
‘Old Cao. I greet you.’ His face is filled with concentration. Every movement of arm and leg is balanced in tense harmony.
‘Green-eyed Weed! Watch the subtle movements of T’ai Chi Chu’an, ‘Boundless Fist’ in my language.’ Cao once explained to me that the challenge of T’ai Chi is the challenge not to strike. To contain the energy within.
‘It does not look so boundless to me. Have you ever heard of a telegraphed punch? You must be fast to win a fight in this part of town.’ His arms curve silently through the air around him in great arches and his knees bend and straighten with grace.
‘You westerners are like rabid dogs when you fight. My people were living in cities bigger than this 1000 years ago – you should listen to us. Fighting, just like everything else, is about balance. The suspension of movement. Force and counter-force perfectly poised.’ The smoggy air seems to curl and ripple around him. ‘Europeans are animals. Slaves to your violent extremes. And this city is worse than most. It is a great loss of potential.’
‘Yes. But it is the excesses and vices of the west that I come to you about.’ Cao brings his limbs to himself and in a moment of focus breaks the dance.
He looks at me. ‘Ah yes, Weed. Come with me into my salon.’
‘With pleasure, sir.’
Cao turns on his bare heel and we enter an unmarked wooden door off the courtyard. ‘Welcome to the Palace of Pain.’
It is dank and dark on the inside of Cao’s salon and there are emaciated bodies lost in various states of repose in each corner. Although men, they bear little resemblance to those who walk the streets outside. Their eyes are dead and their lips are burned. They lie on rough rush matting; many are half naked. Pipes and candles smoke thickly and the atmosphere is heavy and oppressive. Cao’s great opium haunt is always open to the addict so long as they have money. ‘Speaking of rabid dogs and animals.’ Cao gestures at his customers. ‘Follow me.’
At the back of the salon are wooden steps that lead to Cao’s own sleeping chamber. It doubles as his counting house and an ancient abacus stands on a writing desk covered in papers. There are locked boxes and crates stacked high to the ceiling behind it. ‘What do you keep in those trunks?’
‘Records. Administrative tools. Time moves sleepy slow in this house. I must keep track of my customers. It is business. And what business do you have for me today.’
‘Cao, I seek my usual poison.’
He takes a seat behind his desk and draws out a fresh sheet of paper, a pot of ink and brush. He begins to paint the strange figures and glyphs of his language. ‘Observe, Sir Weed. The art of calligraphy. The prize of my culture and the ultimate expression of yin-yang. Balance and measure just like T’ai Chi Chu’an.’ He holds the brush loosely with his fingers. ‘Diligent preparation and sure execution. The discipline of calligraphy is a fair lesson for life, Weed.’
From a drawer in his desk Cao fishes a large package. He takes a knife and cuts the twine of its binding to reveal the white paste of refined and concentrated Opium. With an elongated nail he scoops a small quantity into a pipe lying idly by. He lights a taper from a burning candle, holds it to the bowl and inhales shallowly.
‘It is most potent.’ He says through a glassy smile and offers the pipe to me. I take it from him and inhale deeply, allowing the drug to seize me. A familiar liquid sensation calms my mind and soothes my body.
‘Measure my portion, old Cao.’ I take a second linen purse from my pocket and throw it on the table. He lifts it and inspects the contents of silver.
‘I am satisfied.’
‘Keep your poppies in bloom and I will continue my custom. And now, I will take my leave of you, Cao. It is still early and I must be about my day’s business.’
‘Indeed you will. Kick the curs out of the way if they block your passage. I will have their souls for another month with this grade of Opium. Leave now.’ Cao’s salon is a corner of men’s dreams and nightmares surgically excised from the world. It never sees the sun and the cycle of day and night are meaningless here. A house of lost souls: it is one of my favourite places in London.
My head is swimming as I step out into the street and yet my feet are sure on the cobbled path as I head north. From here in Pennyfields it is a short walk to Bow Market and my last appointment of the morning. I buy opium from Cao as I grow no garden of my own in the city. I have withdrawn from the growing world and I avoid what few parks and woodlands can be found in London. Some small, choked Green voices still gasp from between the stone slabs at my feet but with a little effort and a little opium they may be ignored; my ears are dead to them.
As I reach Bow church a light drizzle has begun to fall. The rain in this city can hardly be called cleansing; the filth and rot is merely redistributed under its spit and spray. Long before I reach the famous Green Goose Fair I can hear it and smell it. One can buy anything, more or less, amongst these stalls. Food and fine linens to be tailored, books, musical and medical instruments. Gossip of course, love affairs, and news from every corner of the world. I enter through the print quarter and everywhere I look ink-stained young men crowd the alleyways, broadcasting their services.
‘Mysteries from the New World! Read the latest pamphlet from the Literary and Philosophical Society of Newcastle. From Australia a colossal new species of beaver arrives on these shores. One that in defiance of nature lays eggs and bites with venom.’ A tall, pale man proclaims, wearing a waxy suit of rumpled cloth and stinking of fish.
‘Bones of deadly Leviathan found in the great Western Desert of America! New evidence from the Royal Society of London! The beast of the deep walked on legs! Bishop of London declares Heresy!’ A hunched man with spectacles vies with his mate for custom.
As I pass the latter he blinks up at me. ‘Sir, a man dressed in such finery. Perhaps you are lost? Can I interest you in a copy of Fanny Hill, freshly inked by my hand and artfully bound within this Book of Hours? It’ll keep you up for many a good night.’
I wend my way through the narrow lanes hung with coloured awnings to where produce is sold. Barley is the bulk good on offer. Next is fruit and vegetables, poor sick things by comparison to their like without the city. Finally the stinking animal fair: pigs, hens, geese and goats all mill around in thatched pens, ready for slaughter. Better butcher markets are to the west at Smithfield but a bargain can be found here for those who don’t mind their stock lingering between life and death. Yet I have come to Bow to visit a very specific stall, set into a terrace of brick houses almost lost at the back of the marketplace. It is Mme. Bell’s spice bazaar and it is conspicuous by its quiet and non-descript frontage. Here one comes if one wishes to trade rare herbs and other less salubrious concoctions. Beneath a dun canopy lie aromatic bales overflowing with dried Tea and Hyssop, Valerian Root, Morning Glory, Myrtle Root, Ginger and Passion flower.
On my arrival a lady of impressive girth pushes through the awning and greets me: ‘Blimey! Weed. You give me such a fright in your posh clothes. I thought you was one of them Justice of the Peace come to shut me down!’
‘Fear not, Mme. Bell. I have merely come to show you some of the goods I procured from the Limehouse brigs.’
‘Don’t you Mme. Bell me. Call me Nessa. You’ve passed by here enough times to know that. Seeing young Issa, have you been? I could do with that fair sight myself. Strong thighs and legs on that one.
A broad chest and skin like toast. It makes my heart flutter to think on it. So what have you got then?’
‘Look here,’ I show her the Kohl and Henna.
‘All the way from Africa. Let me smell it.’ Nessa takes the dark lumps in her fat fingers. ‘Oh yes. It smells like camel. Reminds me of when I was a girl. You know I am blessed to have grown up in warmer climes than this. You’re not selling I suppose?’
‘Sorry, no, good lady.’
‘I
could do with some Kohl. There are a few dainty youths come from the wars who pass by this stall and I’d get ’em if I had some good paint for my face. Offer them a sip of Ditatree Bark and let nature take its course if you know what I mean.’
I pinch off a piece of Kohl and Henna and offer them to the great lady. ‘Here, Nessa. On the house.’
‘Oh, you charmer! Nothing’s free in the market. I’ll have to pay you back in trade. I know you once had a fine garden but now you’ve got to rely on me. What’ll it be today? Safflower, Goat’s Rue, Fragrant Bedstraw, Evening Primrose for your perfumes and pastes?’
‘No, thank you. We are quite well stocked for now.’
‘Then I expect you’ll be wanting to see what specials I’ve got stacked at the back. Come in. And don’t try and nick anything; I’ve grown eyes in the back of my head working here for so many years.’
‘Oh yes, mother!’ I follow dutifully behind.
‘And don’t you mother me! I’m not a day over ’nundred and forty.’
Nessa lives in the hidden rooms at the back of the stall and she shares her home with deadly guests. ‘Here you’ve got your Henbane, Belladonna, Mandrake, Cup of Gold. Best poisons and aphrodisiacs. I do a thriving trade, Weed, and here of course is the most precious good of all.’
There is a rumble of movement at the back of the shop and up from behind a bale of Parsimmon Hazel shoots a small hand. It takes aim at me and fires an imaginary gunpowder pistol. ‘Pow!’
‘Ruth, my dear! You haven’t been giving mother Bell any trouble have you?’
Chapter 27
June, Waxing Quarter Moon
It has been several weeks since our arrival in London and Ruth and I are quite happy in our apartment in the heart of London’s West End. The child has seen much pain for one so young and yet she is resilient. After so long without a voice and youthful company she lacks the untrained chatter of her peers and her observations are wise, beyond typical. Tonight we attend a ball held at Manchester House for the Lady Seymour-Conway. A good party it should be and a good opportunity for business too.
Weed: The Poison Diaries Page 16