“And what of your father, young master?”
There was silence except for Clancy’s muffled sobbing.
“Clean him up as best you can,” the superior voice ordered. “We’ll leave for London as soon as humanly possible and while it’s still dark. If someone should come to fetch the girl tomorrow, there’ll be no sign of her, or any of us. Anyway, one less doxy is of little importance to anyone but an irate pimp.
“When we arrive in London we’ll say my father died while visiting Liverpool, and have a proper burial there. Nobody has to know about any of this. Only the people in this room know what’s happened here. And none of us will talk. Isn’t that right, Clancy?”
“Oh my goodness, oh, of course not. But—but I’ll be haunted, positively haunted, by what I’ve seen here tonight.” Again, Clancy’s voice rose to a breathless squeak. “I can’t look, no, I can’t look any longer.”
“Pull yourself together, Clancy.” Young Master’s voice was thick with annoyance.
“But those dreadful scissors, his face, oh dear, I—yes, I’m going to be sick.”
I felt the floor thud with running footsteps. There was a silence, longer than the first.
And then the confident voice spoke again. “I can trust you to do what must be done, Pompey,” it said calmly. “I don’t want anything left, especially not that cursed hair or the damn trunk. Or anyone who might speak of tonight. Anyone. You understand, don’t you, Pompey?”
“Yes, young master.”
I heard no more voices, but the floor vibrated with a set of heavy steps again, and there was the soft click of a door.
I moved my left arm then, and the movement brought out an unexpected and shocking pain, as if the shears had just now plunged into skin and tendon and muscle. Help me. Somebody, please, I tried to whisper. But my lips wouldn’t move, and besides, there was nobody to help me, my mother gone, a man called Ram caring only about what coins I could bring to his hand. The pungent odor of burning hair filled the air.
“Pompey?” I finally found my voice and whispered into the thick stink that enveloped me but there was no answer and then the dark Mersey moved in, sweetly, and I let myself go to it.
“WHAT WAS THAT?”
Something had brought me back to consciousness. Was it the shout of the voice, muffled, as if by distance or barrier? Or was it a sudden jarring?
I couldn’t see anything, but I also couldn’t tell whether my eyes were open or not. The numbness was still there, holding me in its quietness. I realized I was rocking, gently, as if in a cradle.
The voice came again, closer now. “Gib? Gib, you hear that? Gib!”
There was a grunt, as if someone had been rudely awakened. Next a moan. “I didn’t hear nuthin’. Give us a drink, then, Willy.”
I was cold. Wet. I knew I was on my side.There was a sound, familiar. I strained to recognize it. Oars, small slaps as wood hit water.
“We bin out all night? Near morning, is it then, Willy?”
“No. It’s just gone three by the bells.” The voices came closer, the sound of rowing louder. I grew aware that I was growing wetter. Water was inching into my ear. “I heared a carriage, Gib, and then something hit the water, just over yon. Something heavy.”
A burp echoed. “My missus will skin me alive, so she will. Take me to shore, Willy. I best be off home. If I can get in without waking her, she might not—”
I felt a bump near the top of my head. “By Jesus, you was right, you old bugger. What is it? What is it, Willy?”
Water closed over the side of my face. I felt it on my mouth, felt it snaking through my lips. I could taste it, foul and cold. I tried to swallow, or to spit it out, but could do neither. Nothing—not my mouth or my throat—worked.
“She’s sinking, Gib. Quick, help me pull it up. It’s a box of some kind. Help me haul ’er in, man. Put your elbow into it.”
“It’s too heavy. Here, hook this rope through the handle. We’ll drag it in to shore.”
The water swirled over my face momentarily and then I felt myself lifted. My mouth was now full of water. At the next lurching movement, I grew aware of a heaviness against my back, pressure, something pushing at me.
I was in a box—was it a coffin? Am I dead? The water threatened to choke me, a comfort, for I knew I must be alive. But where was I and what was I doing, moving along the river with something heavy shoving into my back? I heard the bottom of a skiff scraping the rough stones on the water’s edge. Then the box was dragged up on the stones. I felt the vibration of them rolling under me, but still couldn’t move, couldn’t make a sound.
“It’s a trunk. One of them big traveling ones. Let’s get her open, Willy. Could be somethin’ right valuable.”
“I’m trying.”
“Is there a lock?”
“No. But the latches are right tight. That’s a good sign. Maybe there wasn’t a chance for too much water to get in. Here, I got the last one, and—Jesus have mercy!”
There was a rush of freezing air and silence. I knew now that my eyes were closed; I could see nothing.
“It’s two girls,” the softer voice, the one I knew was Willy, finally said.
“I can see that, can’t I? Lookit how they’s layin’. Like spoons. And what’s all them jars? They’re empty. Not even lids.”
“I don’t know, do I? Jesus, Gib. What are we to do?”
“They’re dead for sure, ain’t they, Willy?”
“Must be. Lying so still like that.” I heard the rustle of clothing and the softer voice came almost in my face. “Although they ain’t dead by drowning; only half their heads is underwater.” I smelled the beery stench of his breath.
“You’re right. That front one looks about the age of your youngest, Willy.” There was a tug on my shoulder. “Stabbed. Right in the heart, from what I can see.”
“Same with the other?”
More rustling, more movement, this time the weight behind me shifting.
“Nope. This one has her throat cut. Maybe there’s something of value on the bodies.”
“Not likely. Nobody’d go to the bother of killing ’em and throwing ’em in the river without first taking any valuables.”
“Hey, Willy, maybe we could sell ’em to them sawbones up at the infirmary.”
The second voice grew loud. “I ain’t about to get messed up with no body snatching.”
“Keep yer voice down, Willy. We ain’t takin’ ’em from the graveyard. They come floatin’ to us, fair and square.”
“No, I won’t do it. I ain’t selling these girls to them with bloodied hands so they can do their dirty work. Bad business, that is, cuttin’ up the dead for their own learnin’. And we’ve got nothin’ to wrap ’em in, and nothing to haul ’em in. No. I won’t do it, Gib,” he repeated.
I heard a soft rasp that might have been a hand scrubbing over a stubbled face. “Could be you’re right. If we was to get caught with two dead girls . . .” A sigh. Now I heard the skiff rubbing on the stones in the kissing lift and fall of the shallow water on the bank. “But them dresses might fetch us somethin’, Willy.” The voice rose hopefully.
“There’s a lot of blood. And it looks like the green one is cut down the front.”
“But the blood is fresh. It would wash out easy. And my good woman is right handy with a needle and thread. We could sell ’em down at the market. That flowery one looks pricy. It might bring in a shilling or two. And the trunk itself, well, surely it would fetch a good price. Go ahead, Willy. Start on the green one. I’ll get this one off. And throw out the goddamn jars.”
There were rough, jerking movements behind me, the sound of glass breaking.
“I’m a Christian man, Gib, and a father. It don’t feel right, stripping these girls and throwing them back into the river. Don’t set right with me at all.”
“Don’t think about yer own girls now, Willy. I bet this dress alone—” There was a low whistle. “This ain’t no girl after all. Look here.”
; Silence. Then, “You’re right, by Jesus. What’s he doin’ all trumped up like that?”
I was pulled up again. “Who knows? And who cares? But this front one here is. I can tell, even with her hair all chopped off.”
“She’s so small.”
“Stop thinkin’ about it, Willy. They’s dead and in no need of their clothes, whether they’s boys or girls, young or old. A dress is a dress.”
I’m not dead. Can’t you see? I’m not dead.
The movements behind me continued. “Quit starin’ like you seen a spook,” the rougher voice said, and there was a rush of cold air as the body behind me was pulled away. I knew now that it was Clancy. “Lookit this throat, would you? Ear to ear. Like a big red smile, it is.”
There was a small splash and then the thud as Clancy’s body was dropped back behind me. “Here. Give the dress a good shake, then take it to the edge and wash that blood out.”
My arm was grabbed, and two jars that must have been caught in the folds of my skirt clanged together. “Why you just standin’ there, Willy? Do wot I says. If you haven’t the stomach for it, I’ll look after it all. But the dresses is mine, then.” I was pulled up, but in the next second dropped back. “She don’t feel like the other one,” the man called Gib said. “Not as cold. Willy? I’m not sure this one’s dead.”
My waist was kicked with the toe of a boot, and at the sudden rough movement I involuntarily emitted a watery gasp as the stinking Mersey trickled out of my mouth.
“Damn. She’s alive, all right,” Gib said. “But from the looks of her she’ll be gone soon. She’ll never miss her dress.” He pulled it off my shoulder.
“Gib. No,” Willy said.
“Wot?”
“You heard me, Gib. Leave her be.”
“Wot you talking about? Willy?”
I felt hands under my arms, pulling me out of the trunk. The jars that were still on my dress crashed onto the slimy stones. Something warm and soft pressed against my breast. “Cold water likely slowed the bleeding,” the softer voice said. “Could be the water that was to kill her saved her instead. Who’d a done this?”
I gagged suddenly and with the wretching movement brought up more watery saliva. It was as if it cleared my throat. “Pompey,” I murmured. It must have been Pompey, following orders to throw me into the Mersey. And he thought I was already dead, so there was no reason to slit my throat, as he had Clancy’s.
“Calling for her father,” Willy said. “She’s wanting her pappy.” And then I was roughly dragged over the stones, and the pain in my breast returned, as did the blessed darkness.
Chapter Six
I WAS ROUGHLY SHAKEN.
“Wake up, girl. It’s time you were awake. Come on now.”
The shaking brought on such an exquisite pain that I cried out, opening my eyes and looking into the drawn face of a middle-age woman.
The pain was everywhere. I couldn’t move, pinned in place by the pounding in my temples and the terrible pain in my chest.
“Rise yerself, now. You bin lyin’ here the full clock round.”
“Please,” I whispered, trying to lick my lips. “Drink. A drink, please.”
The woman appeared not to hear me. She wore a gray shift that made her look like one long, thin slice of gray—her hair, skin, and covering. “The surgeon’s been in and stitched you up.” She had to shout over the screams and curses and prayers that filled the air. “Get dressed; there are others wot need the bed. You’ll go through that door, there,” she said, pointing to one side of the long room. She dropped my boots onto the floor, then threw the green dress, stiff with blood and stinking of foul dampness, onto the edge of the bed. There was a moth-eaten brown woolen scarf stuck on the blood of the bodice. “You had nowt else with you, although the boots are a damn sight more than many we see of a night. Now move yerself.”
“Surgeon?” I whispered, for the first time looking around here. “Where am I?”
“Wot?” the woman said, leaning closer.
“What is this place?” I asked again, a slow dread coming to me.
“It’s the Fever Hospital of the Brownlow Hill Workhouse.”
I raised my head at this, even though that movement brought a fresh wave of pain. “No one comes out of hospital alive. Am I going to die?”
The woman shook her head. “Idjit. The only reason your sort believe you die if you come to a hospital is because none come but those a breath away from dead. It’s not our fault if they’re too far gone to be helped. You was lucky. Some kind soul took it upon himself to drop you in front of the door with your wound bound up in that scarf. Otherwise you’d have bled to death. Hurry up now, girl. If you’ve no home go on up to the workhouse. You’ll be assigned a job there when you’re able.” And then she turned and left.
I lay still, trying to breathe around the pain, trying to stop the swirling in my head, trying to remember.
The horror of what had passed came back to me as if I’d been struck. “No,” I said, closing my eyes again. “No.” The room, with its sweet stink. I could remember lying on the rug in the house on Rodney Street, surrounded by the smell of burning hair. The hair, and the shears. And the man . . . the man I’d killed. That I’d murdered. Was I to be found out, hauled off to jail, and eventually hanged, my body thrown into a pit of quicklime with other murderers?
What had happened after that? Another memory. It was dark, and I was wet. Was it just the dream again, the dream of my mother floating under the surface of the Mersey? But I had been cold, so cold, and now I remember thinking Mother? Is that you, Mother? I had felt the watery push and sway of someone floating behind me. Not Mother. Clancy. The voices of the men called Gib and Willy. It was Willy who had saved my life, who had brought me here.
Moaning involuntarily, I managed to sit up on the mattress, stained deep brown from an ancient combination of blood and vomit and urine and feces. Drawing deep breaths, I tried to quell the nausea that the pain brought on. I awkwardly pulled off the gray, threadbare shift someone had put on me, pursing my lips with the effort, not caring that the old woman in the bed less than a foot from mine was studying me with clouded eyes. There was a thick strip of blood-soaked flannel wrapped around my chest. Getting into the dress seemed an impossibility but there was no one to help. I knew the woman who had spoken to me would have been one from the workhouse herself, her face showing no flicker of compassion.
I eventually managed to get myself dressed, partly due to the torn bodice. The old woman reached out and, with a thickened yellow fingernail, touched my green silk skirt, smiling toothlessly and muttering something incomprehensible. I dropped the brown scarf onto her bed and she snatched it up, sniffing at it and patting it as if it were a small animal. I shoved my feet into my sodden boots, leaving them undone, and stumbled through the long room of groaning, piteous men and women, stumbled as if still in the nightmare. I had to pass through a number of sections of the building, unconsciously reading the names of the wards: Insane, with its padlocked splintered doors that didn’t block the desperate shrieks and garbled voices; Scald and Itch, with low moans and muffled weeping; Smallpox, which was eerily silent, and finally, somehow worse than the screams and heavy silence, was the cacophony of lonely sounds that poured through the doors of the ward simply marked Children.
Stepping out into the misty gray of morning, I avoided the workhouse to the left of the hospital, taking the path that led down to the main road. I walked and walked, knowing that if I fell I would be hauled back to the workhouse. I walked as the mist blew away and a watery sun threw pale shafts. As I neared Vauxhall Road and the locks of the Leeds-Liverpool Canal, I dully noticed the early morning crowd of spectators in Lock Fields. They were watching two young men who would likely be fighting over some all-night argument in one of the many public houses that lined the area.
I walked in my heavy boots and spoiled dress, at times bent over nearly double as I struggled around the pain. People parted in front of me. I felt as old as the cro
ne waiting to die in the next bed in the Fever Hospital, the crone who loved green.
RAM’S MOUTH OPENED when I finally fell through the door.
“Wot—” he started, but I pushed myself to my feet and wove across the floor and lowered myself onto my pallet. The pain made it impossible to lie in any position but on my back. I plucked at my blanket but couldn’t get it over me. I lay with my eyes open, and Ram came to look down at me. “Wot’s happened to you?” he asked, his eyes taking in the torn dress and the dirty flannel wrapped around me, my shorn hair. I saw the familiar look of growing anger around his jaw. “I thought you’d run off on me when I went round yesterday and nobody answered my knocking. Look at the state o’ you. Would you not do as you were told for the gentlemen? Did they have to punish you?”
I closed my eyes.
“I should punish you as well. That dress cost me a right pretty penny,” he said. “You’ll have to stitch it up as best you can and sponge out the blood.” His voice rose, but there was a wavering to it, a tone I hadn’t heard before, as if it was an effort for him to sound angry. “They’ll never take you back at the bookbindery if you lose more than a few days. And I’m out of pocket for any night work I could get you, as well, at least for a while. If you didn’t look such a God-awful mess—what the hell happened to your hair?—I’d clout you one for all the trouble you’ve brought. Useless cunt,” he growled. And then, a minute later, his voice dropped and the blanket fell over me. “Best lay still for a while,” he said, and then it was his hard palm at the back of my head, lifting it, and the rim of a cup touched my lips, and when I opened my mouth cool water flowed down my throat.
I swallowed and swallowed, but made no sound. If I had been a crying sort of girl, I surely would have wept then.
EVENTUALLY THE FESTERING and oozing around the dirty sutures on my breast abated and the delirium stopped. I knew it had been some time that I’d tossed in my bed, perhaps a week or even two; all had faded into periods of pain and thirst and light and Ram with spoonfuls of watery gruel and lifting me onto the chamber pot, all mixed in with deep blackness. But that morning, an unidentifiable length of time after what I would forever call the nightmare, I sat on the edge of my pallet and looked around. I was alone, lightheaded yet strangely more alert than I could ever remember. My mind was clear, tight and sure, focused. I was coming fourteen, and I knew now I was old enough to make a choice. There were two of them: I could stay or I could leave.
The Linnet Bird: A Novel Page 6