She’d had a strange dream, vivid and haunting. She’d been a giant, or a monster, or some kind of beast, roaming through a forest. The forest folk were small, wiry Africans with blue-black skin. They had run from her in fear of their lives. She had wanted to eat them, she remembered that. She had been so hungry, and they’d looked so tasty. But they had been too fast, scampering away into the undergrowth. She’d tried to follow them but had become tangled in a bush of violet roses, the thorns anchoring themselves in her flesh like a hundred tiny knives, twisting into her skin. The thorns had twisted outward, erupting from her skin as a black outer-skeleton that covered her from head to toe. She had stumbled into a clearing where three little pigs huddled inside a house made of straw. The pigs were afraid of the big black widow spider. They were afraid of her.
She had no idea how long she’d been asleep. She felt no hunger, but her mouth was parched. She reached out to grasp the glass of water by the bedside, but her arm was swollen and puffy. The two red scratches on her skin throbbed angrily. Her clumsy fingers spilled the water, and the glass shattered when it struck the floor. “Damn it,” she croaked. Her dry tongue scraped against the roof of her mouth like sandpaper.
What had happened to her? Her sickness had started that night in the Tremé when the man with the long fingernails had gouged her flesh. The eyes of the man who had scratched her arm had been filled with yellow, just like hers were now. But he had been a monster, not a man.
“I am not a monster,” she said aloud.
The door to the bedroom opened, and her father peered around. When he saw her awake, he pushed the door wide open and came inside. The bright light from the hallway felt like a knife stabbing Ida’s eyes and she raised an arm to block it. “Oh, hey, sorry,” her father said, closing the door behind him. He came over to the bedside, stepping around the broken glass. “You’re awake,” he said. “How do you feel?”
“Thirsty.”
“I’ll get you another glass.” He returned a minute later with some fresh water. “Here, drink this.”
Ida pushed herself up just enough to take a sip of the drink. It felt harsh against her dry throat, but she swallowed it down.
“I’m not surprised you’re thirsty,” her father said. “You’ve been out of it for days.”
“Days? What do you mean, days?”
“You were unconscious right through Christmas, princess. Do you remember what happened?”
Ida remembered her father arriving on Christmas Eve. She remembered the room swirling around her, the furniture and the floor seeming to turn themselves upside down. Since then, she remembered nothing except the dreams. There was something important that she needed to remember though. She couldn’t think what it was. “Have I been unconscious all that time?”
“Pretty much,” her father said. “You woke up a couple of times, but you were delirious. You seemed to think I was a little pig, or a pygmy.”
“How long?” Ida asked. She had no idea what day it was.
“About five days. You had me worried. Your flesh was on fire, too.”
“Five days? I’ve been unconscious for five days? Why didn’t you call the doctor?”
“They don’t work over Christmas. Anyway, I was looking after you. He reached for the thermometer by Ida’s bedside. “Here, stick this under your tongue.”
Ida did as she was told. It was peculiar. She didn’t remember her father ever being that attentive when she’d been a child. Was there a chance he was finally growing up? Then she remembered the important thing. “Daddy, you shouldn’t be here,” she said. “You were supposed to hand yourself over to the constables.” The thermometer in her mouth made the words slow and slurred. Dehydration wasn’t helping either.
He left the thermometer where it was. “Yeah, but who would have taken care of you then? And who would have looked after the boy?”
“Wilguens! Where is he?” How could she have forgotten him, too? Her brain was like a sieve. Hardly surprising since she’d had nothing to drink for five days. By rights she ought to be dead.
He took the thermometer from under her tongue and examined it. “Temperature’s almost normal. And the youngster’s doing fine too. In fact, me and him had a great Christmas together. Pity you weren’t around to enjoy it.”
Ida narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “What did you do?”
“Cooked a turkey and all the trimmings—dressing, cranberry sauce, sweet potato pie. The boy said he’d never eaten nothing like it. They don’t have that kind of thing back in Haiti, he says. Poor little brother, I don’t reckon he’s had much of anything good in his life.”
“What about work?”
“Don’t worry about that. It’s taken care of.”
“Taken care of? How?”
“Some guy stopped by to ask why you hadn’t turned up to work on Christmas Eve. Rude bastard. I had to tell him where to go stick his head.”
Ida’s heart sank. “What did you say to him?”
“I told him you was half-dead, and you wouldn’t be back at work for at least a week. Oh, and some big fella name of Dabney Espion came by, too. I told him the same thing.”
“I need to send a telegraph to work as soon as possible and explain.” Ida swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat up. Immediately her head started swimming.
“Whoa. Hold on. There’s broken glass down there. And you ain’t in no condition to start walking about.” Her father lowered her carefully back into bed. “Don’t reckon you’ll be going nowhere for a while yet.”
Ida allowed him to maneuver her back under the covers. “I’ll just take another day off,” she conceded. “Then I’ll have to get back to work. They’re desperate for manpower at the moment.”
After losing John Scobell, they could hardly afford for Ida to be off sick, too. But should she really go back to work in her state? She’d seen for herself the effects of the yellow-eye sickness. Perhaps she’d be safer locked in a cell than out on the street. And yet she felt fine, apart from the dehydration. She was nothing like that principal or the madman in the Tremé. She was not a monster. And if she started getting weird thoughts, she would simply ask a colleague to cuff her and put her in a cell. That reminded her. “And you’ll be coming to the station with me,” she told her father. “Don’t think all this good-guy act has gotten you off the hook.”
He shrugged. “If that’s what you want, princess. I said I would. But you really ought to think about the boy.”
“What about him?”
“He’s a nice boy. Only a scrawny little thing, but tough. Don’t speak much English, but we’ve been getting along pretty good, me and him. While you was, you know, out of the picture.”
“Yes? And?” Ida said.
“I been to Haiti a couple of times, with my… business, to the place he’s from. Had to drop off a load and pick up some crates.”
“What’s your point, Daddy?” Ida could feel the conversation wearing her down. Her patience would run out soon, and she’d say or do something she’d regret.
“Just saying that there’s nothing for that boy back in Haiti but crime because he’s an orphan. All his folks are dead. We’re his family now.”
“We?”
“Well, you, at least. You’re his mama now, ain’t you? And that must make me his granddaddy.”
“Oh, don’t think you can twist me around your finger like that. Wilguens needs a stable family, not someone who’s going to run off at the drop of a hat.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s my point, see. How are you gonna look after a child when you’ve got a full-time job? With me around to help, it would be much easier. I’ve been in the sky a long time. It’s a hard life, you know? And now my airship’s gone, I don’t really have a job anymore. I got some money put away. I could stick around here and help, if you want me to.”
“You must be joking. You barely managed to take care of me when I was a child. Don’t think that I’m going to leave you in charge of Wilguens. You’re going straight to th
e constabulary with me, and you’re going to tell them exactly what you did.”
He threw up his hands in submission. “All right, princess. If that’s what you want. But I think it’ll be tough on the boy.”
“No,” Ida said. “Stop twisting this. You’re trying to make this my fault again. It’s what you always do. I won’t have it!” She was shouting at him now, and baring her teeth.
The door to the room creaked open again and Wilguens appeared, his brown eyes wide in the dim light. When he saw Ida awake, he ran to her and threw his arms around her neck. “You awake!” he shouted with glee. “You alive!” He turned to her father and hugged him too. “She back, Pépé James!”
“Reckon so, son,” her father said, ruffling Wilguens’s afro. “But it looks like I’ll be heading off soon. For good.”
Wilguens’s face fell. “No! Dat’s not fair!”
“I don’t want to, believe me. I’d rather stay here and be with you. But it’s up to your mama. I mean, Ida, here.”
They both turned to look at her. “Tell Pépé James to stay!” Wilguens demanded.
Pépé James? Suddenly Ida felt the fight go out of her. She had no strength for the argument. “He can stay, for now,” she conceded.
Wilguens gave a cheer and hugged them both again. There was a brightness in his expression that had been absent before. Somehow, in just a few days, her father had managed to lift the boy’s spirits and form a real bond with him. He’d been a useless father to her. Did he really have what it took to be a grandfather to Wilguens? And how would that work if he was sent to prison? She wondered if she could really do a good job of parenting Wilguens if left on her own.
One thought bothered her above all others. What would happen to Wilguens if she turned into a monster? What then? One thing was certain. She needed her father, however much she resented the fact.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Ida tried to get out of bed the next day, but she was still too weak to stand. She tried again the following morning, and that time she found the strength to walk. But she still had no appetite. Her father brought her toast and marmalade in bed, and cups of tea. She drank the tea, but returned the toast untouched. At least the fever had gone, and with it, the strange dreams. The daylight poking its way between the curtains still felt uncomfortable, but no longer burned her eyes. Perhaps the yellow-eye sickness would vanish as quickly as it had appeared. She dozed the rest of that morning and afternoon, then, as evening came, she felt strong enough to bathe and dress for the first time.
When she emerged from the bath, a smell from her childhood assaulted her senses. Fried liver and onions. It had been over ten years since she had smelled that smell, and it transported her back instantly. The day after her mother had taken her life, her father had cooked liver and onions. He’d cooked it every day for the following month, washing it down with beer and sometimes whiskey. She hated that smell and the memories it disturbed.
And yet…
She followed her nose through to the kitchen, where her father was serving great portions of food for himself and Wilguens at the table. She grabbed a clean plate from the draining board and sat down. “I’ll have some of that, if there’s any to spare.” For some bizarre reason, fried liver was just what her stomach suddenly craved.
Her father treated her to a large helping and a grin. “I bought it from the butcher’s shop around the corner,” he said.
Ida tore into the food eagerly. “I can’t believe I’m eating this. I always hated liver.”
“Good source of iron,” her father said. “It’ll put hairs on your chest. I got some boudin noir, too. The butcher said he can get me a pig’s head if I put in an order.”
Ida tried to think of a retort, but her mouth was too full to speak, and in any case a pig’s head sounded surprisingly tempting.
Wilguens watched her eat with admiration. “You are better now?” he asked.
“I think so. If I can keep this down, I’ll be ready to go back to work.”
Her father frowned. “You’ve been in a damn coma for nearly a week. Gotta build your strength up before you go back.”
“Hardly a coma,” Ida said, holding her plate out for second helpings. “And I’ll go back to work when I say I will.”
She was right about that, at least. The next day she devoured a plate of boudin noir and rice, then sent a telegraph to the station to say she was fit to work. They messaged her back with orders to report for duty at six o’clock the following evening. It would be New Year’s Eve and they needed every officer they could get.
She still hadn’t decided what to do about her father, though. He seemed to have done a good job looking after Wilguens and holding the place together while she’d been ill. It was tempting to say that they were becoming a family of sorts. And yet, her father was wanted for multiple murders. If someone discovered him there, she would lose her job for certain. The situation was impossible.
She was dimly aware that the longer she put off making a decision, the less choice she actually had. But it was hard to think straight.
One step at a time. For now, it was enough to be out of bed and going back to work.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
New Year’s Eve, 12pm noon, full moon.
Freda surfaced slowly, rising up through tangled layers of sleep, each one seeking to drag her back down into the depths of unconsciousness. She fought against them and pushed upward. Eventually she broke through and felt daylight brush her eyelids. She opened her heavy eyes and stared at the white ceiling.
The room came gradually into focus. She struggled to fix her attention on details. Her eyes caught the line of the crack in the ceiling cornice and she followed it to where the hairy black spider made its web. The fly it had caught was gone now, and the spider waited patiently for its next victim.
Freda had learned patience herself those past few days. Days or weeks, who could tell? Daylight had slipped into the gloom of evening and the dark of night and back again to cold day, and she had lost count of how many times.
She had never been a patient person. As a child she’d been perpetually bored. She had driven her sister Erica to the brink of madness with her constant need for attention and stimulation. Even as an adult she was bored unless she was at a party or with one of her men, or out shopping for some expensive luxury. Even sex could be boring with some men. She’d joked with Erica that if her job didn’t get her killed, then boredom would finish her instead.
Strangely, being tied up and held prisoner by a lunatic was one of the most stimulating things that had happened to her. And the drugs he was feeding her made time just slip past. Honestly, she had known worse.
He hadn’t beaten her again since that first day. The wound where he’d struck her with the cudgel seemed to have healed somewhat. She’d had a splitting headache for the first few days, or weeks, but the drugs had helped with that too. Now she hardly felt a thing.
The man returned to her regularly, perhaps three or four times a day. He was quite attentive really. He let her use the bathroom and even brought her food and drink if he was in a good mood. He kept hold of his knife at all times though, and its blade was never far from her throat.
She heard the key turn in the lock. Feeding time again, she thought. Unless this time he really was going to kill her.
“Awake are you?” a familiar voice said. “Time you had something else to drink then.”
He carried a tray with a metal cup and a straw, and a bowl of something, probably soup, with a wooden spoon. All mealtimes were the same. He seemed to think she was only capable of eating baby food. Erica would probably have said that it was some kind of control thing.
“Hungry?” The man asked. “Thirsty?”
Freda nodded politely. She’d already learned the hard way that if she didn’t, he would take the food and drink away again.
He placed the tray on the floor and untied the gag from her mouth, using the tip of the knife to loosen the cloth. He showed her the blade aga
in in case she’d forgotten. “Don’t say a word or I’ll cut out your tongue. Understand?”
Freda nodded again, feeling her tongue begin to loosen in her dry throat. She moved it up and down, left and right, trying to get some feeling back.
“If you shout or scream, I’ll slice you open,” he said. “Eviscerate you.”
Freda managed a weak smile. She knew the script by heart now.
The man frowned at her. “Think that’s funny, do you?” he said, placing the knife against her throat. “Want me to do it?”
She shook her head a fraction, afraid to move. He breathed heavily, pressing the blade into her soft skin. He held it there a moment longer before removing it. “Sit up,” he commanded. He stuffed a pillow behind her head to raise her up a little, but left her hands and feet tied to the metal posts of the bed. He reached for the tray and grabbed the cup first, holding the wooden straw to her parched, cracked lips.
She sucked greedily, feeling the life-giving fluid trickle down her throat. The liquid had a salty tang of dissolved minerals. The taste probably helped mask the sedatives he was giving her. Whatever was in the drink, she slurped it down until she sucked on air.
The soup came next, some kind of pureed vegetable, and this he spooned into her mouth just like feeding an infant. She was beyond caring about that, and swallowed each mouthful gratefully. He said nothing while he fed her, just watched her through narrowed eyes, as if he expected her to somehow burst free from her restraints. His eyes moved around the room in a disconcerting way.
When she’d finished, he wiped her mouth and chin with a damp cloth then put everything back on the tray.
“I need to use the bathroom,” Freda said. Her voice sounded hoarse and muffled. Everything sounded muffled. That was probably the drugs too.
Gunsmoke Blues Page 21