The Angel Makers

by Jessica Gregson

  She never used to be this jumpy, but she drops the bundle of cloth on the ground, thereby preventing a swift escape.She doesn’t look at Judit but drops straight to her knees and starts gathering them up, and much to her consternation, Judit drops to her knees beside her, puts a finger under Sari’s chin, and turns her face. Sari keeps her eyes resolutely down, but feels herself flushing, knowing that Judit is taking in the new, shiny bruise, the dark smudges of old bruises, the cuts and scratches.

  ‘Oh, Sari,’ she says.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Sari says quickly, snatching the rest of the sheets from Judit and springing to her feet. Judit’s face is almost more than she can bear; she’s never seen her looking so upset before, and very faintly, at the back of her mind, Sari feels something, some emotion that she can’t afford to let in.

  ‘If you need me, you know where I am,’ Judit says gruffly, but Sari has already turned her back on her, and is striding resolutely towards home.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The first time Sari is sick, she doesn’t think anything of it. Ferenc kicked her hard in the stomach the day before, and when she finds herself retching over a bowl the next morning, she assumes that it’s simply the aftermath, and that it will pass.

  The next time she is sick, it is harder to ignore. Already the knowledge is tickling at the edge of her consciousness, but she pushes it back; impossible to think about that now. She hides it as best she can, making sure she is never ill in front of Ferenc, staying away from foods that make her feel queasy. When her time comes, she binds herself up with rags as usual, and Ferenc doesn’t question anything – after all, he’s not the one to do the washing, so he’s not to know that the rags are clean rather than bloody by the end of the day. It is just the stress, she tells herself. Plenty of women skip their period when they are worried, or if they haven’t been eating enough, both of which definitely apply to her. Things should be back to normal soon.

  A few nights later, they are in bed. Ferenc has just fucked her, and she is naked, unusually – often he is happy just to push her skirts above her waist to gain access – and as he eases himself off her, she notices that he is looking at her strangely.

  ‘You look different,’ he says, eyes narrowed, slightly accusatory.

  ‘Different how?’ she asks, and he puts a hand on her breast.

  ‘Different here.’

  She pushes herself up onto her elbows and looks down at herself. Her breasts are bigger, undeniably, and her nipples stand out, pinker and larger than they did before. Of course she hasn’t forgotten everything she learnt during her four years with Judit, and again there is a subtle click in the back of her mind, a shift in knowledge, but she is not ready to accept it.

  ‘I suppose I’m growing up at last,’ she says. He looks at her suspiciously, but says nothing more. It is two more weeks before he confronts her with it, when she is standing at mirror, brushing her hair before bed, and he comes up beside her, places a hand on her stomach, slightly swollen below the waist of her skirt.

  ‘You’re pregnant,’ he says.

  Click.

  ‘Yes,’ she replies. She puts down the brush and turns to him; he is biting his bottom lip, his hands curled into light fists.

  ‘Is it mine?’ he asks.

  She knows she should lie. She knows that she should just tell him what he wants to hear, that his knowledge of women’s bodies is such that he would believe her if she said that she has some arcane way of knowing who the father of her baby is, because he wants to believe it. Instead, she is honest.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She’s prepared for the slap, and the punch that follows it and knocks her to the floor. She’s prepared for the kick in the ribs, and the kick in the stomach.

  She’s not prepared for the bitter, violent rage that fills her with that kick. It rushes through her with a speed that is dizzying. She hasn’t felt a real emotion in weeks, and she probably should have weaned herself back onto them with something light and bearable – concern, perhaps, or sympathy. In her condition, this murderous fury has a similar effect on her that a full, rich meal would have on a starving man; she’s almost maddened with it. Ghost-Sari is gone, and real, flesh-and-blood Sari is back, together with a primeval urge to protect the tiny life coiled inside her, the life that Ferenc is setting out to destroy. As he pulls back his leg to kick her again, she rolls backward, out of his range, and he flails, comically, as his foot connects with empty air. It gives her the time that she needs to get to her feet. As he staggers backwards, trying to regain his balance, she casts around for a weapon, anything that will stop him from coming at her again. She is between him and the mirror, and swiftly, instinctively, she drives her elbow into it. It shatters. She seizes a dagger-shaped shard, oblivious to it cutting into her fingers, and holds it in front of her.

  ‘If you come closer, I will kill you,’ she says. Her tone is matter-of-fact. ‘You can hurt me all you want, but you will not hurt this child.’

  He looks from her face to the shard and back again. She knows that he could probably overpower her. Her main weapon against him is surprise, and she doesn’t know how long that will last. She takes a step towards him, and he moves back sharply, sitting down on the bed.

  ‘Get out,’ he says hoarsely. ‘Get out.’

  She goes.

  As she runs, she feels as if the last weeks are catching up with her – emotions that she avoided at the time battering against her body in quick succession. Grief for Marco – poor, heroic, naïve, idiotic Marco – and pain and humiliation and anger for herself. How can she have let this happen? It is unthinkable. She, who has always castigated herself for a surfeit of pride, rather than a lack of it – how could she have let someone treat her like this? It’s as if her real self has been on holiday for a few weeks, and is horrified to see the destruction wrought in her absence. It’s all right, she says to her sad little shadow-self that has been holding the fort, I’m back now. It’s going to be all right.

  Despite the hour, Judit answers the doors surprisingly swiftly – perhaps it’s from her habit of dealing with medical emergencies, or perhaps she’s been expecting this knock on her door since she saw Sari by the river that day. Either way, she shows no surprise to see Sari standing there, but simply steps back from the door, letting Sari past. Sari looks around the familiar room, soft, worn wood, and comfortably tatty furniture, and is hit by the contrast between when she was last standing there – worried, certainly, but strong, intelligent, independent – and the way she must seem now, in her torn, tattered night dress, bare feet bloody, hair tangled, face bruised, clutching a shard of mirror in bleeding fingers.

  Wordlessly, Judit extends a hand and places it on Sari’s convex belly – oh, of course she knows, you can’t have dealt with as many pregnant women as Judit has without knowing something like this – and a shiver of ice pours through Sari, as she notices for the first time a damp feeling on the inside of her thighs, and a red, ominous stain on the front of her night dress.

  ‘He kicked me in the stomach,’ she says. Her voice is very small. ‘He was trying to kill it.’

  She starts to cry. She can’t remember the last time she wept, and it’s a painful, wrenching experience, as she puts her face into her hands and weeps for Marco, for her baby, for herself, even a little for the man Ferenc had been. Judit holds her with an unexpected lack of awkwardness, but it doesn’t last long – she’s so unused to this that her tears dry up in minutes, leaving her with a bone-deep sadness and a brittle, burning rage.

  When she lifts her head, Judit leads her into the bedroom, and automatically Sari climbs up onto the bed, lifting her night dress and spreading her legs. She’s watched Judit do this so many times before, but still she’s taken aback by Judit’s gentleness as she examines Sari.

  After a few anxious moments, Judit withdraws her hand. ‘I think it will be all right,’ she says. ‘It was a hard kick that he gave you, but you’re tough, and you’re still pregnant.’

 
‘But the blood …’

  ‘Pregnant women sometimes bleed, you know that, and often it means nothing. You’ll need to be careful over the next couple of days, but I think it will be all right.’

  Sari nods, coasting on a flood of relief. She’s amazed at how much she wants this baby, and how quickly that desire has seized her. The baby only became a reality when Ferenc’s foot connected with her abdomen, only – what? Half an hour ago? But it’s already wielding a disproportionate influence over her choices, as it seems to have taken over as the most important thing in her life.

  ‘Do you know whose it is?’ Judit asks.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you care?’

  Again, Sari shakes her head, surprised to find that she is being honest. She feels no less fiercely protective of this child when imagining Ferenc to be the father than when imagining it is Marco’s. It’s hers – that’s all that matters.

  ‘And Ferenc?’ Judit asks. Sari’s not sure quite what the question is, but she answers the one in her own head.

  ‘I’m going to kill him. I’ll do it whether or not you help me, but if you help me I’ll have less chance of getting caught.’

  For a moment Judit says nothing, and then she gives a curt nod.

  ‘Of course I’ll help you, as much as I can. But first, you need to sleep. We can talk about things in the morning.’

  ‘If you think that I’m just saying this because I’m tired and upset, if you think that I’ll change my mind after a bit of sleep, you’re wrong.’ Sari’s voice is sharp and cold.

  Judit shakes her head. ‘I don’t think that at all. But if you’re going to do this properly, you need to pay very careful attention to me, and I don’t think you’re in a state to do that, do you?’

  Sari agrees, but is still reluctant. ‘I won’t sleep. I feel wide awake.’

  ‘Try it, at least. If you’re not asleep in half an hour tell me, and I’ll give you something to help you relax.’ Sari still looks dubious, and Judit adds: ‘The baby needs you to rest, you know.’

  That decides it. Sari lies down, wriggling under the blankets, and Judit turns down the lamp. There’s a shadow of light patterning the walls, but nothing more. Sari closes her eyes, still certain that she’s too overwrought to sleep, but within minutes, wave after wave of tiredness breaks over her and she slips eagerly into darkness.

  When she wakes it’s very early. The night is not quite properly over, but there’s a hint of pink at the window. She can’t have slept for long, but she feels refreshed and full of energy. In a way, she has been sleeping for the past few weeks, so it’s no wonder that just a few hours are enough for her now.

  There’s no forgetfulness when she wakes, no period of blankness in which she doesn’t remember the events of the night before: she wakes into perfect awareness, and a comforting clarity of purpose. As she swings her legs out of bed, she checks herself quickly and is relieved to find that there’s no more blood on her thighs; moreover, she feels an early twinge of nausea that makes her uncommonly cheerful. She still feels pregnant, at least.

  Judit is sitting at the table, still dressed as she was the previous night. She hasn’t been to bed, and is looking exhausted. Sari feels a spasm of guilt – at Judit’s age she doesn’t need this sort of excitement, fleeing women and attempted murder – but despite the tired lines on her face, Judit’s grin is as animated as ever.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Better,’ Sari says, sitting down gingerly. ‘The bleeding’s stopped, and I think everything is still all right – in that department, anyway. Thank you.’

  ‘Fine, fine,’ Judit says dismissively. ‘No bother, you know that. As for the other thing, though – do you remember what you said?’

  Sari nods. ‘I still mean it. But it’s unfair of me to ask you to help me. I would understand if you refused.’

  Judit shrugs. ‘You were right, though. You have a better chance of getting away with it if I help you. And I’m happy to do that. You know,’ she adds, contemplative, ‘it’s a funny thing about getting old – you start to care less and less about things that used to matter, things like morals and ethics.’ She gives her characteristic cackle. ‘Or maybe that’s just me, I don’t know. I’ve always been rather lacking in concern for my immortal soul, and that’s certainly not changed, the older I’ve got.’

  Judit gets to her feet, and picks up a small bowl that’s sitting on the counter behind her, setting it on the table in front of Sari. When Sari looks inside, she sees that it contains a neat little rounded pyramid of powder.

  ‘What is that?’

  Judit holds up a hand. ‘Before we go any further, I want to be sure that this is what you want to do.’

  ‘It’s the only thing I can do,’ replies Sari fervently, but Judit shakes her head.

  ‘You know I don’t believe that. Remember what I told you about choices? It might be that this is the best choice, but I need to be sure that you’ve at least considered the others. Have you thought about leaving?’

  ‘He said, the night that Marco – you do know that he killed Marco, don’t you?’

  ‘I knew he’d died. They’re telling some story down at the camp, but I guessed what had happened. I’m sorry.’

  ‘He said that night that if I tried to leave, his family know enough people around here that I would be found, that he wouldn’t give up until he found me, and when he found me he would kill me.’ Judit just looks at her. ‘I believe him, Judit. If it hadn’t been for the baby, I might have given it a try, but now … I’m not going to risk it. I can’t.’

  Judit shrugs. ‘All right. And you wouldn’t even be talking to me now if you still thought that staying with him is an option, am I right?’

  ‘He’ll kill the baby,’ Sari says flatly. ‘I can’t let him do that.’

  ‘Fine,’ Judit says. ‘So that leaves us here.’ She taps the side of the bowl lightly in illustration.

  ‘So, what—’

  ‘Arsenic,’ Judit says. ‘Fairly easy to get hold of. You just boil off a few of those—’ she waves her hands at a couple of tattered old flypapers, flapping, dejected, at the windows – ‘and there it is. Very effective. Or so I gather. I prepared this a couple of weeks ago – had an idea that I might be needing it.’

  Sari can’t help but laugh. ‘I was expecting something a little bit more … subtle, Judit.’

  Judit grins, unperturbed. ‘I didn’t get where I am by being subtle, Sari. Anyway, we’re trying to kill a man, not give him a touch of nausea. This will do the trick.’ She snorts. ‘Surely you weren’t hoping I could provide a nice, simple curse so that you could keep your hands clean?’

  Sari flushes, not wanting to admit that part of her had been hoping for just that, but Judit, as usual, sees straight through her.

  ‘Sari! You’ve worked with me for four years now; I thought you knew better. You’re not some naïve housewife from the plain …’

  And her words trip something in Sari’s memory. Suddenly she’s taken back to a night four years ago, soon after she’d moved in with Judit, when a strained-looking woman sat with Judit in the half-light, and she knows, suddenly, as surely as she’s ever known anything, that Judit has done this sort of thing before.

  They look at one another for a long moment. Sari’s heart is hammering, but Judit looks as cool as ever eyes bright and watchful, before Sari takes a shallow breath:

  ‘You—’

  ‘Sari,’ Judit says, and her voice is gentle. ‘Don’t ask me if you don’t want me to tell you the truth.’

  There is a silence as long as a heartbeat, and then: ‘All right,’ Sari says, looking down at the unassuming bowl of powder.

  Part of her feels relieved – she’s not naturally squeamish by nature, but the idea of killing someone discomfits her, and bar any quick and clean curses that Judit obviously doesn’t know, poison is far preferable than any number of unpleasantly real and fleshy methods of murder that she’d dreaded Judit suggesting; she’d had all sorts
of horrible visions of having to hack Ferenc to pieces and bury him in the woods, or push him down the stairs. But with poison – just a little bit slipped in his food – and he’ll get ill and die; the only blood on her hands will be metaphorical. Easy.

  ‘So how do I do it?’ she asks.

  ‘You don’t want to kill him outright. It needs to look like a natural death, the result of an illness. No, no—’ as Sari starts to protest – ‘you said that you want to get away with this, and this is how you’re going to do it. I know you’re worried about him doing more damage, causing more problems if you don’t finish him off right away, but I promise you, Sari, I know men and illness. Just a touch of pain and discomfort and he’ll take to his bed, desperate to be mothered by you. All you need to do is just be a bit nice to him and I guarantee that he won’t lay a hand on you.

  ‘Now, you’re in luck. I remember you mentioning, when Ferenc first came home, that he was having some sort of stomach trouble – maybe the result of tension, or maybe some fever he picked up on the battlefield. Do you remember telling me that?’

  Sari frowns. When …? ‘Oh yes!’ she exclaims. She gets a sudden, vivid image of the conversation in question, standing in this Judit’s kitchen. She’d been trying to keep her voice down, not wanting to embarrass Ferenc, but Matild Nagy had been sitting at the table, waiting for a headache treatment, and just as Sari was leaving, had said in unctuous tones: ‘Do give my best to Ferenc – I hope he feels better soon.’

  ‘You remember?’ Judit presses, and Sari nods again. ‘Good. That’s going to be a helpful way of deflecting suspicion. It’s also useful that Ferenc’s been seen so little around the village since he’s been back. We can let people believe that it’s because he’s been ill. And you’ve been seen out so little because you’ve been nursing him.’

  She shrugs. ‘Whether people will believe that or not I don’t know. Rumours have been flying about since Marco was killed – you know what this place is like – but the point is that they are just rumours, nobody really knows what’s been going on, and if your story is plausible enough, well, people may not necessarily believe it, but they can’t disprove it, and that’s all that matters.’