A Tattooed Heart

by Deborah Challinor

  She looked so hopeful that Friday was tempted to lie and say yes. It’d be nice to have someone’s wholehearted approval again. ‘Not quite. But I’m not drinking anywhere near as much as I was.’

  It occurred to her then that if she was doing so well drinking only two or three nips a day, managing to work and look after herself and keep out of trouble, then why not carry on having two or three nips? Why stop completely if she didn’t need to?

  ‘Good girl. It shows,’ Elizabeth said. ‘It’s not enough, though, I’m afraid. You still have to stop.’

  Fumbling her tobacco and spilling it on her skirt, Friday stared at Elizabeth. That wasn’t fair, reading someone else’s thoughts.

  ‘I’m sorry, love,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Gil was the same. He’d think he had it under control — three or four whiskies a day — and he would, for a week or two. Everything would be fine. And then he’d erupt and go on a spree and there’d be hell to pay.’

  ‘What would set him off?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing set him off. He just did it. What sets you off?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Friday muttered, flicking shreds of tobacco onto the floor. ‘Anything.’

  ‘Better to abstain altogether, then, don’t you think?’

  Friday wanted to say no, I don’t think that, but couldn’t because she was rapidly running out of anything else she could think. ‘How’s Aria getting on with the books?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask her yourself?’

  ‘We’re not talking.’

  ‘Oh, honestly, Friday. She’s only a few feet down the hall. Go and knock on her door.’

  ‘Why should I? She left me.’

  ‘For a damned good reason. Have you apologised?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not? You embarrassed her, too, you know.’

  In angry, sulky silence Friday shoved tobacco into her pipe hard enough to break the stem. Made of clay and decorated with a pattern of flowers and leaves, it cracked with a very audible, almost musical ‘ping’.

  ‘God, now look what you made me do! This is my favourite pipe!’

  ‘I didn’t make you do anything! That’s the trouble with you, Friday. Nothing’s ever your fault, is it? Well, I’ve got news for you. One way or another everything that happens to us is our own fault, which is why you’ll end up a lonely old woman if you don’t change your ways. Take it from someone who knows.’

  ‘Well, I’m not like you.’

  Elizabeth laughed. ‘You’re exactly like me.’

  Bella’s next note came on a Sunday evening, while Friday was working, so she didn’t see it until she’d finished at midnight.

  18 November 1832

  Friday Woolfe,

  You will no doubt consider this a most unexpected Request, but I believe we established a Rapport of sorts during our last meeting. My time is very near, I cannot tolerate the notion of being attended by Louisa and Becky and I do not wish to Die alone. Also, I have a personal matter I wish to discuss with you.

  I would be grateful if you could come to my house at your soonest convenience. You will appreciate the urgency of this Request. Thank you.

  BS

  The handwriting was terrible: messy, letters written on top of other letters, and the whole message on a distinct slant down the sheet of paper. Had Bella been mashed? And the request itself! How utterly bloody strange, Friday thought, both oddly moved and a little repulsed. Who ever would have imagined it? Once, she would’ve been delighted to see Bella die, but now . . . well, things had changed. For so long she’d been their detested enemy, but lately, for Friday at least, she’d turned into a real, if vastly flawed, person.

  God, what to do? She needed advice.

  The following morning Sarah told her to let the bitch drown in her own poisonous blood, shunned and alone, which would be no more than she deserved. Harrie thought Friday should at least visit: Bella had, after all, been penitent about Rachel.

  One for, and one against. That wasn’t much help.

  Friday returned to the Siren’s Arms, sat at her dressing table debating whether or not to have a drink, decided it would be unwise, and finally summoned the courage to knock on Aria’s door.

  No one answered.

  ‘She’s over next door with Mrs H,’ Ivy said, on her way past with an armful of dirty linen.

  Friday trotted over to the brothel: Aria was indeed in Mrs H’s office.

  ‘Can I talk to you, please?’ Friday asked stiffly.

  ‘I’ll leave you two alone,’ Elizabeth said happily, and bustled out.

  ‘Well?’ Aria’s muscled arms were crossed and her features expressionless.

  Faced with such a frosty reception, Friday suddenly didn’t feel like talking to her any more. ‘Well, what?’

  ‘Have you come to apologise?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘If you do not know, I am not going to tell you.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll go then.’

  ‘Good.’

  Friday marched across the room and yanked open the door. In the hallway Elizabeth barked, ‘Get back in there. Neither of you are going anywhere till you’ve sorted yourselves out.’

  Friday shut the door again and stood staring at the knob. Then she turned. ‘I’m sorry, Aria. I’m truly very sorry.’

  Aria’s hands dropped to her lap and her face softened. ‘Thank you. I accept your apology.’

  ‘I’ve missed you.’

  ‘I have missed you, too. But . . .’

  ‘I know,’ Friday said. Aria wouldn’t be coming back.

  ‘There has not been enough change,’ she said.

  Friday nodded, because there hadn’t. She took Bella’s latest letter from her pocket and dropped it on the desk. Aria read it.

  ‘You will not go?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It may be a trick. She is evil. If she truly is close to death, she may plan to take you with her.’

  ‘Why the hell would she do that?’ Though, now that Aria had mentioned it, it did sound like the sort of thing Bella might do. Friday shivered slightly.

  ‘She may be in love with you.’

  ‘Bollocks. She hates my guts.’

  ‘That would also be a good reason.’

  Friday said nothing.

  ‘Do you trust her?’

  ‘’Course I don’t.’

  ‘Then do not go.’

  ‘What about the personal matter?’ Friday pointed at the letter. ‘I can’t sort out a personal matter for her if she’s killed me, can I?’

  ‘That may also be a ruse. What is there to stop Becky and Louisa seeing to it? They work for her.’

  ‘Because she doesn’t trust them as far as she can spit. And they’re useless.’

  ‘Do not go, Friday.’

  It was now one for, two against.

  ‘All right, I won’t.’ Friday grinned. ‘But at least we’re talking again.’

  Friday thought about what Aria had said, and Sarah, but Harrie had also been right. She recalled, too, the hollow loneliness in Bella’s voice when she’d talked about her ten years living as a woman, years overflowing with financial and material success but bereft of company and love, the two things she’d wanted, and needed, most: things Friday had desired so desperately herself, until she’d met Aria.

  And she decided she couldn’t let Bella die alone.

  Without telling anyone where she was going, she set off for north Cumberland Street just after one o’clock that afternoon. When she arrived it seemed she (or someone) was expected as the dogs were nowhere to be seen. Warily, just in case they were hiding, she slipped through the tall front gates and hurried down the carriageway to the rear of the house.

  She heard them before she saw them, barking the moment they smelt her, secured on long chains beside the carriage house. Giving them a wide berth, she stepped onto the verandah and banged on the glass of the French doors.

  Louisa appeared immediately and let her in. ‘Trust you to upset them.’

  �
��Isn’t that what they’re for?’

  ‘Always the smartarse. Hurry up, she hasn’t got much time left.’

  Louisa led her straight past the stairs.

  ‘Aren’t we going up to her room?’

  ‘She’s down here now. Wouldn’t use the po, had to go out to the bog but couldn’t manage the bloody stairs, so we brought her down. Doesn’t matter now, of course, the reeking old tart.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  Louisa opened a door and stood back.

  Friday went into the gloomy room and nearly gagged. The stink was shocking, like a vat of stale piss at the alum works. She looked back at a smirking Louisa. ‘All right, you can go now.’

  Louisa shrugged and disappeared.

  Friday ventured closer to the big bed. Bella was flat on her back, her eyes open, apparently staring at the ceiling. Her face was little more than a mask of dry skin dusted with clots of white powder stretched over a skull, and she was without her wig, kohl and rouge. Friday thought she’d seen better-looking corpses.

  ‘Is that you, Friday?’ Bella croaked.

  ‘Yes. I got your letter.’

  ‘I can hardly see you. My sight’s nearly gone.’

  Friday didn’t know what to say. Somehow this seemed the most awful thing of all. Bella blind — the woman who’d seen and taken advantage of everything. ‘It smells terrible in here.’

  ‘I know, but I’m not having those two harpies cleaning me.’

  Friday wondered why, if she hated them so much, she hadn’t got rid of them. She opened the door and bellowed, ‘Louisa! Becky! Come here!’

  Reluctantly, they shuffled into the hall.

  ‘Get some clean bed linen, soap, towels, and a bowl of hot water.’

  ‘What for?’ Becky grumbled.

  ‘What the fuck do you think? I’m cleaning up your mistress, you useless pair of sluts.’

  They stared at her as though she were mad, then wandered off.

  ‘And bloody hurry up!’

  In the room, Bella was coughing her guts up. As Friday watched, a big blob of something red and grey flew out of her mouth straight up into the air, then fell onto her chin with a splat. Lifting Bella into a sitting position, she propped her up with pillows and wiped her face with a cloth. Beneath the white powder an angry red rash marked her jaw, chin and neck.

  Outside, the dogs erupted in a fit of wild barking again, then abruptly ceased.

  ‘Do I need to get a doctor?’

  ‘No point,’ Bella gasped. ‘Won’t be long now.’

  ‘What’s this?’ Friday touched Bella’s bony jaw. Smooth as a baby’s bum. ‘You’ve got a rash. Or is it a burn?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘Are you still taking the hair off? You stupid tart. What does it matter now?’

  ‘It will always matter.’

  Becky arrived carrying a bowl of water, her tongue poking out as she concentrated on not spilling it, which she did anyway. Louisa followed, bearing a towel, soap and clean sheets.

  ‘Thanks,’ Friday said tersely. ‘Don’t come in unless I call, all right?’

  Louisa shrugged, but as she and Becky went out, the door was left very slightly, and deliberately, ajar.

  Friday drew the bedclothes off Bella, almost vomiting at the smell, and lifted her — which she could have done with one arm — into a chair, then stripped the bed. Hauling back the heavy drapes and opening the window, she threw the reeking, soggy and yellow-stained sheets outside. The mattress was also soiled, but she couldn’t do much about that. She spread a rug from a chaise over the worst of the mess, then put on the fresh linen.

  ‘Will I bathe you?’ she asked.

  ‘No. I’ll do it,’ Bella said. ‘Don’t look.’

  So Friday didn’t. She wandered around fiddling with things as she listened to Bella weakly trying to clean herself. At least the smell in the room had improved. Opening the window had helped.

  ‘I need to lie down,’ Bella said.

  ‘Have you got a clean shift?’

  ‘In the drawers.’

  Once she’d struggled into it, Friday put her back in bed. She lay for some minutes, breathing shallowly, eyes closed.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said eventually.

  ‘Welcome.’

  ‘I won’t see nightfall.’

  ‘You might,’ Friday said, though she very much doubted it. She drew a chair closer to the bedside and sat down.

  Bella opened her eyes. ‘I won’t and I don’t want to. I’ve had enough.’

  She extended her hand across the bedcover, her expensive gemset rings hanging loose on her skeletal fingers.

  Friday looked at the paper-thin skin, the warts creeping across the palm and up the skinny blue-veined wrist, and suppressed a shudder. Then she took it in her own. Bella closed her eyes again.

  They sat like that for ages, the only sound the rasp of Bella’s breath labouring in and out of her lungs. Friday wondered if she was dying now.

  Eventually Bella’s eyelids fluttered. ‘Top drawer, by the bed, some papers.’

  Friday looked. ‘Tied with a red ribbon?’

  ‘My will.’

  Shite. ‘Is this the personal matter?’

  Bella nodded.

  Bloody hell, Friday thought. How the hell did this happen? She didn’t want to be dragged into all this.

  ‘I want you to send it to my mother in Liverpool. I’m leaving everything I have to her.’

  ‘Can’t Becky or Louisa do that?’

  Bella demonstrated her opinion of that notion by screwing up her face, straining until her deathly white skin turned a deep shade of puce, then forcing out a single, strangled fart.

  ‘No?’

  ‘I don’t trust them,’ Bella panted, exhausted by her efforts. ‘They think I owe them. She’d never get it.’

  ‘So all I have to do is put it in the post?’

  ‘As soon as I’m dead. Request that it be sent on the first ship to Liverpool.’ Bella paused, her breathing slowing again and becoming more and more shallow until Friday thought that maybe this was it. Then: ‘One more thing. Make sure I’m buried as a woman. That’s all I ask.’

  Friday waited, but nothing else came. She tucked the papers, which were addressed to Mrs Ansilla Leary, into her bodice and settled down to wait, her hand over Bella’s. The clock on the mantle above the fireplace said half past two.

  At ten past three, Bella said, reasonably clearly, ‘If I could have my life over, I’d do some things differently. But not others.’

  By a quarter to four Friday’s arse was completely numb. Bella’s hands were ice cold and her hoarse breathing had been replaced by a wet rattling sound. Friday had heard it before and knew it wouldn’t be long. Bella’s mouth had fallen open, revealing shrunken gums bereft of back teeth. Her sharp nose jutted out of her face like a fin and, in her illness, her Adam’s apple was glaringly prominent. Friday rummaged in a drawer, found a pretty silk scarf and arranged it around her throat.

  At half past four, Bella took a deep breath, rattled it out, was utterly still for over a minute, then took in another breath followed by nothing at all. Friday watched her for some time, then fetched a hand glass and held it to her mouth: no misting, nothing. She’d gone.

  Exhausted, she sat down again and rested her head in her hands. Her neck and back ached and, for some reason she didn’t understand, she felt quite sad. Poor unloved Bella. What a way to end up. Idly, she looked at her hand, wondering if she’d catch Bella’s warts.

  The door creaked open. ‘Is she dead yet?’ Becky asked as she and Louisa edged in.

  ‘About fifteen minutes ago.’

  ‘Right, then,’ Louisa said.

  ‘Give us it here.’

  ‘Give you what?’

  ‘Her will. We know you’ve got it. We been listening at the door all bloody afternoon.’

  Friday stood, aware trouble was looming. ‘It’s nothing to do with you. It’s to go to her m
other.’

  ‘Like hell. She owes us.’

  Glad she’d shoved the papers well down her front, Friday replied, ‘Does she? She paid you, didn’t she?’

  ‘Yeah, but she were a right bloody harridan to work for,’ Becky complained. ‘Always bitching and carping. We’re due extra money or something for that. And a lot of it.’

  ‘You could have gone back to the Factory when Clarence died. It was him you were assigned to, not her,’ Friday pointed out.

  ‘No,’ Louisa said adamantly. ‘We been loyal to her. We kept her secrets. She owes us.’

  What secrets, exactly? Friday wondered. ‘Loyal how?’

  ‘We knew all about them Maori heads, eh, Louisa?’ Becky declared. ‘And her other shady business deals.’

  Louisa whacked her on the arm. ‘Will you shut up? All we want is the will. We’ll just change it a bit and Bella’s dear old ma can have what’s left.’

  ‘No,’ Friday said. ‘She didn’t want you to have anything, so you can bugger off, the pair of you.’ She eyed the door, but realised she couldn’t just run away and leave Bella’s body to these two, not if they didn’t already know about what she’d been hiding.

  Louisa’s already joyless face hardened further. ‘You bugger off. Go on. Just give us the will and you’re free to go.’

  Sensing Becky slipping behind her, Friday tensed. Could she take them both on? Hearing a stealthy scraping noise, she turned to see Becky reaching into the bedside drawer for Bella’s pistol.

  It was then that Louisa hit her over the head with a heavy silver candlestick, and everything went sparkly then very blurry as she slumped to the floor.

  Louisa bent over her and dug furiously through her pockets. ‘Where the hell’s she put it?’

  ‘I think you’ve killed her,’ Becky said. ‘Her head’s bleeding.’

  ‘Not yet I haven’t.’

  Becky gave an almighty shriek.

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ Louisa snapped, ‘it’s only blood.’

  Then she looked up and let out her own scream: the most terrifying apparition was crouching on the windowsill, glaring in at them.

  It was wearing some sort of thigh-length shift, had bared teeth, rolling eyes, naked limbs and long, tangled black hair, and was thoroughly splattered with bright, fresh blood. In one hand it gripped a short, wicked-looking blade.