‘Maybe,’ replied Angelo, his leather trousers squeaking as he adjusted his weight.
‘Anything you want,’ Davy went on. ‘Go on — name what you want. Love? That what you want? Well, look around at these squishy fillies here. You could buy seven — they’re here to sell themselves.’
‘They’re selling their souls,’ said Angelo accusingly, eyebrows arched.
‘Pah. They all have souls to spare, my friend, and it’s only a bit of fun. You don’t have to marry them, but by God, I would have a harem. I would sell my soul for a harem …’
‘More is not the answer, Davy.’
‘Nonsense. The more the merrier!’
In frustration, Angelo grabbed Davy’s lapel and pulled him to face him. ‘The idea is not to have many women but to love one well.’ He himself could not conceive of settling for anything less than the perfection of his mermaid. A thousand women would never equal one mermaid.
‘Each to his own,’ quipped Davy. All very well for him, he thought soberly. ‘Sure, I’d like a woman to want me more than anyone, but it’s not really on the cards for me, and you don’t see me moping about what is not my fate. You should take a leaf out of my book and just be merry. What harm could it possibly do? Eh? You need to lose your virginity forthwith!’ Davy gave Angelo’s face a light slap.
Angelo coloured, his scalp sweated. Appalled at himself, he pushed Davy’s hand away angrily and tried to hide his face.
Davy jigged from foot to foot. ‘Oh aye, oh aye, we need to get you bedded and tonight. Hell, we’re like pigs in clover!’
He held his eyes closed in a not-up-for-discussion way and flapped his hands at Angelo. Angelo flapped back and started to grin, and Davy threw his arm around his friend in a wrestling embrace. ‘That’s my lad. Now, cast your eye over our menagerie an’ choose yourself a pretty birdie.’ Davy’s voice was that of a side-show man at a fair. It didn’t matter in that moment whether the women individually were fair or ugly, for all looked edible.
‘Doves and swans,’ said Angelo, laughing. ‘I want to mate for life, not for the night.’ He meant it, but his eyes drifted over the plush fabrics clinging and swinging around the women. They looked so nice to touch, if slightly dirty: deep crimson velvets, black lace. Corsets showcasing tiny waists, folds of flesh rolled at the top. Others wore more modern fashions of see-through layers of muslin, highwaisted and short, showcasing ankles and the slant of the shin. Some had jewels in their tiny ears that sparkled when they moved, and chokers like slave shackles around their necks.
Angelo’s eyes drifted to their creamy breasts, pushed up like dough in their bodices, and their illicitly swaying hips. He noted their lovely hair piled high on their heads, little wisps around their napes, and thought how nice it would be to take the pins out and catch the cascade on his face. He had no real understanding of the mechanics of intercourse — he just wanted to touch them.
‘They smell like heaven,’ whispered Davy, like a devil on his shoulder. ‘Angels on Jacob’s ladder.’
His mother was the only woman Angelo had ever known, and he cherished her memory. And of course the tapestry nymph, on whom he had set his heart. She was in a class all her own, not like these women — these exuberantly colourful women.
In the centre of the room three women set up a jig. They kicked their legs in a flurry of undergarments, their feet taptap-tapping, elbows bent and pumping, heads thrown back in the frenzy of the dance. They winked and laughed at the men clapping and egging them on, surrounding them as at a cockfight.
Davy was entranced, his drunken face gleaming like a sticky toffee apple. Angelo, too, was taken by the clever little steps; he had never seen anything like it. His foot began to tap.
To the side of the group a petite girl appraised the dancers contemptuously, her eyes small black coals. She wore a deep purple gown fastened high to the throat with a row of small buttons like children’s teeth. Her hair hung loose about her shoulders, treacle toned and falling in curls. Her companion was older, maybe twenty. She wore black, her dusty hair pulled tight from her face in a bun, her equine features both striking and common. She was taller and skinnier but slouched in order to disguise her height or lack of command. Her face was impassive.
The dancers finished their piece to applause and gave sweeping bows from the waist, whereupon they were engulfed by the surrounding men.
The gap where they had been did not immediately fill. The pianist made tinkling noises on the piano, feeling his way into a tune. Into the space – now treated like a stage – stepped the young woman in the purple dress, ignoring the stalling hand of her companion on her wrist. With closed eyes she began to move, slowly, as if tuning in not to the music but to herself. Then she started to dance with graceful abandon: her body swayed and wove, her back arched, her arms twirled and swept about, as hypnotic and compelling as the dance of the seven veils. The room hushed. She was a sprite in the woods — free and captivating, strong yet vulnerable. Her elfin face lit by lanterns made her seem no more than a child, yet her sensuous movements spoke of womanhood.
The pianist modulated his playing to her moves. Time stood still; not one man was in any doubt about how her body must undulate and writhe beneath an experienced hand. When she opened her eyes they were milky with her private ardour, glazed and unseeing, as if she were invisible and not being watched by every pair of eyes in the room. Including Angelo’s.
He felt he was watching a flower in the very act of blooming. For a flicker her eyes connected with his and he saw in them a spark of triumph that both perplexed and angered him. The spell of the dance was broken; she wound it down to a believable end, making it seem the whole had been choreographed to finish at that moment.
Angie did not bow, but slowly turned around, eyeing everyone from the centre of her circle. She knew every male was enamoured of her. Then she broke into a grin and the crowd whistled and clapped. Angie clicked her heels and left the floor. A trio of women took the stage, but no one was interested. The last dance had been a show-stopper.
Men inched towards Angie; edged their way, treating her as too special to be approached directly. Dangerous men were suddenly shy and wary, for rejection was certain.
Her companion, Mrs Faullen, cast worried looks about the room, like a soldier in enemy territory, as she pushed and shoved her charge towards the door. Miss Angela Swan languidly allowed herself to be steered, all the while her chin high, smirking.
‘Jesus,’ breathed Davy, ‘she’s coming over here!’
Angelo failed to notice the exact point at which Davy fell in love. Meanwhile Mrs Faullen was fending off the outstretched paws of the aroused men, who were distraught at Angie’s leaving.
Within arm’s reach of Angelo and Davy, one of the women who had danced in the trio, a spongy-hipped girl who had never known what it was to be pretty, stepped into Angie’s path and spat in her face. An ‘Oooh!’ went up in the room.
Angie’s lip curled with distaste, her back stiffened in indignation and she stood her ground, bestowing on the woman a look of amusement: aristocratic, haughty.
Everyone held their breath.
The two women glared at each other.
Someone yelled, ‘Catfight!’
Mrs Faullen’s face was a mask, unemotional, but her hands fretted about like beetles.
‘You think you’re too good for us lot, don’t ya, Miss Angie?’
‘Indeed, I most certainly do,’ Angie said in her refined voice.
‘Shit!’ said Davy, and threw himself between Angie and her aggressor, jutting the angry whore out of the way with his rump. And, like a cannonball firing, a brawl exploded in the bar with the gaiety of a wedding.
Angelo dived in to assist Davy, whose long hair was being scragged by the jigger, its unfashionable queue skewwhiff. Angelo did not know where to touch the woman and ended up tickling her under the arms until she squirmed, hissing threats at Angie: ‘I’m going to have your guts for garters; you’re born, missy, but you’re not burie
d.’ Then the whore let go and was absorbed by the scuffle.
The four of them launched themselves in a ball at the door, tumbling into the street as if fleeing from a burning building, destruction in their wake.
‘Thank you,’ said Angie and thrust her hand at Angelo. ‘Miss Angela Swan. This is my governess, Mrs Orchid Faullen. We are in debt to you for your kindness. How may I repay you?’
Angelo had the uncomfortable feeling he was being tricked. He did not take her hand but looked instead to Davy, who was confused and felt obsolete.
‘It was a pleasure, Miss Swan,’ said Davy, shoving his grubby hand into hers and putting himself between Angelo and Angie.
Angie glanced briefly at him, making him feel an impostor and a pest, but, having a second thought, she smiled. ‘And you are?’
‘Mr Davy Mills, at your service.’ He bowed deeply, showing his balding head and the rat’s tail of his dishevelled queue at the nape of his neck.
Mrs Faullen had had enough. She put her hands firmly on Angie’s shoulders, snappily turned her around and went to push her down the street.
Angie laughed and shrugged her companion off. She turned back to Angelo. ‘And you are, sir?’
Davy, bewildered, looked from Angie to Angelo. He wanted to click his fingers or wave a hand between them. Then he wanted to tackle Angelo to the ground and punch him hard in the stomach, to wrap his arms around Angie and crush her until she had no breath left. ‘That’s Angelo,’ he said flatly.
‘Angelo? Oh là là — you and I are two angels, then, aren’t we?’ Angie clapped her hands rapidly, her eyes intimate.
‘You dance like an angel,’ Angelo said, his face in a pained expression. He didn’t like her. He didn’t like her at all.
Angie’s eyes flashed as though she were fighting, not exchanging pleasantries, and she laughed, throwing her head forward and then back. Her long white throat was exposed. Angelo wanted to put his hands there and squeeze. They twitched at his side.
Mrs Faullen was at her wits’ end. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, make haste. Good evening, gentlemen.’ Without further ado or a backward glance, she succeeded in leading Angie away.
Davy and Angelo, each winded in his own way, watched them make their way down the street until they were small shadows.
‘Well,’ said Davy, ‘there’s the swan you requested,’ and in that instant he resolved to let Angelo have her. He knew he could never hope to secure the affections of such a woman. Not with his body lumpy, like the work of an amateur potter. The realisation sobered and saddened him. He looked at Angelo’s stricken face and hated him fully and wholeheartedly; then, quite as quickly, it dissipated. He put his hand on Angelo’s shoulder.
Angelo spun around, disgusted at himself for being aroused by anyone other than his mermaid, and yelled: ‘They’re all hussies who have no regard for their own souls, and I will not sully myself by succumbing to their impure motives.’
They became aware of eyes on them, and out stepped Jake. He grinned in an affable way, and as he approached, four other raggedy sailors shadowed behind. Angelo recognised them all from the Unicorn.
‘Angie’s a wild one all right,’ drawled Jake, ‘a perfect match for you, Angelo. Two angels, like she says. Tasty treat, ain’t she?’ He put his weight on one leg, casually tipping his hat. He wore a cutaway tailcoat decorated with military-style braids and cords, and a top hat. Charisma burned off him.
Davy, standing behind Angelo, piped over his shoulder, ‘Oh aye, and what would you know?’ His body wired to pounce.
‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ Jake laughed hollowly; the posse behind him rustled. ‘I know she’s rich, I know her parents died by shipwreck, I know she stood on their drowning heads to save herself, and I know how her cunt tastes.’ He kissed the tips of his fingers. ‘What do you know about her?’ He circled them menacingly, the other men following suit.
‘I know she wouldn’t go near the likes of you,’ spat Davy, deeply insulted on Miss Swan’s behalf. Tears stung his eyes and he began to shake. He turned defensively, trying to avoid having his back to any of them, but it was impossible. They were surrounded.
‘She sits on my face — that’s how close she comes to me,’ Jake taunted.
‘You shouldn’t speak about a lady in that manner. It’s indecent.’ As Angelo spoke, his arm shot out and punched Jake hard in the jaw. Suddenly Angelo bounced on the balls of his feet like a boxer, fists at the ready, prancing. He laid another one on Jake’s nose and a third in his ribcage.
Jake snarled, and at the flick of his head the other men laid into Davy and Angelo who, full of sexual tension, let it all rise up in violence. The crunch of flesh grinding against teeth, of bone on bone, the oomphs and umphs of knuckles in kidneys drew a small crowd to watch.
Jake punched with measured, well-timed strokes and an economical technique. Angelo’s punches were loose and wild, with plenty of force when they hit the mark, but when they didn’t his whole body swung with the momentum. Then he would stagger and trip over his feet, roaring as he struck out. By luck he managed to wind two of the men.
Davy’s punches were more defensive and he was beaten down in a gale of fists and then kicks, until he lay whimpering and cradled his head, knees tucked up.
Angelo thrust the palm of his hand up against the underside of Jake’s nose, setting him off balance, and turned to rescue his friend. He came up behind Davy’s attackers and, with a quick duck and about turn, he banged the two thugs’ heads together with a loud crack. The sound stopped the fight.
Davy was bawling. Angelo helped him up and held him protectively around the shoulders. Both of them, panting and sweaty, faced Jake who, apart from the blood on his nose and a devilish ripped shirt, appeared as if he had exerted no energy at all in the fracas.
Jake chuckled, as though entertaining guests before dinner. Then there was an unexpected and oddly charming sound as he dramatically withdrew a knife from his belt. The crowd crowed. Angelo and Davy instinctively stepped back. Jake spat on the blade and rubbed the spit with his finger. His sigh implied it had all been a harmless game. He held the knife up to his own throat and his face went horribly blank as he slid the tip along his neck. A small stripe of blood followed the blade. Angelo sprang at him and grabbed the knife.
‘Jesus,’ said Davy under his breath.
‘No harm done, boys. Why, don’t be alarmed. I’m touched you care,’ said Jake.
‘He’s a lunatic,’ said Davy, tugging at Angelo’s sleeve.
Jake let them take a few steps before snatching back his knife and returning it to its sheath on his belt. Then he said, conversationally, ‘Why is it, do you think, that people don’t eat swans? Is it true they are meant only for royalty? I think a swan would be nice, plucked of all her pretty feathers, gored and pegged with a stick up her arse and turned over a fire, with the blood spitting on the sparks. Aye, doesn’t that sound good enough to eat? I might blackbird her — wouldn’t Miss Angie make a nice slave?’ He cackled, winked, and swaggered off into the Qualm’s Arms.
The mob followed him to see what would happen next.
It began to drizzle.
‘Do you think he has bedded her?’ asked Davy.
‘I do not know or care,’ said Angelo, but an image of a half-undressed Angie, white throat, Jake on top, came unbidden to his mind, along with a feeling he had not experienced since he was a boy. The sensation he had when he heard Magdalene and Pierre in the bedroom; a sensation he could not put a name to, didn’t want to put a name to.
Later, after the town had quietened and Davy snored in his hammock, Angelo snuck out of his and tiptoed along the deck, balancing himself against the sway and creak of the Unicorn as she rocked in the harbour. He made his way past the steering-house and over the coils of rope. The sails wafted like ghosts. The drizzle had ceased but the deck was slick and slippery with it. A large drop of water went splat on Angelo’s head and he looked up accusingly at the ropes crisscrossed above his head like finger-knitti
ng. He looked at the silver sliver of the moon. The night was very cold.
He needed to touch the mermaid. He shimmied his way to the prow of the ship and employed all his agility to winch himself onto her hips. He stared up at her vacant eyes.
‘I won’t forget you,’ he muttered, like a rosary prayer. ‘I know you’re out there and I will never cease my quest for you. I will seek you even if it takes all my time on this earth, for I live only for you. We are meant to be together.’ He fell silent. His words did not ring true — he felt he had betrayed her. He wept like a child.
He clung to her wooden body and wished with all his heart that she could be made flesh, with blood in her veins. Within his heart he called out to her. He called her.
Further out to sea a mermaid swam, her hair snaking behind her on the current. She dipped and wove in the swell, and when her face broke the surface she sang joyously and flipped her tail, delighting at the play of the descending moonlight on her fish scales, for mermaids are very vain.
She lay on her back and admired the glory of the sun, new born on the horizon. The sky was awash with pretty pastel that tinged her pale arms the dawn’s colours, glistening on her skin. She laughed and sang louder.
She caught sight of the fifty-odd ships moored in the bay, so far away they appeared miniature. Then a mournful lament struck her, like a gong through her ears. Her heart stilled: surely it was the soul call for which she had waited over 200 years — her invitation to mortality.
The mermaid stopped to listen. She knew she shouldn’t sing so close to ships, for her song was deadly. But she simply had to respond, so she whispered back a wordless, beckoning sound. Cooee. She paused for a response but heard only her echo. Her body tingled. How long had she waited for this very call? How often had she met human men on the ocean, fishermen and sailors, each time hoping this would be the one who would love her more than he loved anyone else, and thus fulfil her destiny to love and be loved?
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