But the apothecary had assured Monty Hahn that his medicine would make his wife's legs open like a well-oiled swing door.
He slipped the medicine into his poor wife's morning tea. The tea itself was foul stuff, although she insisted on drinking it on the claim that it helped her to keep her figure. Monty couldn't work out who she might be keeping it for.
He brought her tea to her in bed, and returned to the kitchen to find something for breakfast. He settled down at the enormous kitchen table—they had six children themselves, who had gone on to bless them with twenty three grandchildren so far—to enjoy his own cup of tea and the morning newspaper in peace.
After completing the crossword, Monty crept up the stairs to see if his wife had changed her rigid view on copulation. By halfway up, he could hear her gasping. Afraid that she'd started without him, he ran up the rest of the stairs so as not to miss all of the action.
Monty found her lying on the bed, her eyes and mouth wide, and her ample chest heaving. Mistaking this for an act of foreplay, albeit unusual, Monty hurriedly undressed. As he was desperately coaxing his sceptical penis into life, his wife's heart stopped.
Monty never forgave himself, and his hands only ever entered his underwear when he was emptying his bladder. Even in death, his wife managed to dissuade him from one of his favourite pastimes.
22
Harris rolled off the woman, and lay next to her, breathless. He was certainly beginning to feel his age.
The prostitute propped herself up on her elbow, her large breasts dropping to one side. She walked her fingers up Harris' chest.
“Mmmm, that was good,” she said.
Harris lay back and closed his eyes. He was too set in his ways to try something new, he should always stick to what he knew he liked. He hated the sexy talk, the women who pretended they were interested, or turned on. He liked his usual women, the ones that made jokes through it, and left straight afterwards because they knew he needed to rest.
“Want to go again cutie?”
Harris winced. He especially hated the pet names.
“No can do,” he replied. “I'm not as young as I used to be.
The prostitute coughed. The phlegm crackled in her throat. “I bet I can get you going again.”
Harris pushed himself up to sitting with a groan. “I doubt that.”
She coughed again. Harris climbed off the end of the bed. “Are you alright?”
“It's just a cough, nothing to worry about. I took something for it this morning.” She coughed again. It was getting worse.
Harris backed away. “Are you sure?” He grabbed his habit off the floor and pulled it over his head.
She coughed, not even covering her mouth this time. “I'm fine, really. Don't get dressed, come back to bed. You have such a great body.”
Harris laughed. “You get yourself dressed.” He opened his desk drawer and pulled out some credits. He dropped them onto her stomach. “I need something to eat.”
As he pulled the door closed, she started coughing again. She was absolutely hacking, almost vomiting each time. Harris shook his head.
“Better not be bloody contagious,” he muttered.
Harris could still hear her coughing when he was halfway down the corridor. With a bit of luck, if he took his time, she'd be gone by the time he got back.
“Father Harris.” Brother Grant stepped out of the library. “I've been thinking about what you said. About the, erm, reading lessons. For the unfortunate women.”
Harris grinned. “Ready to start lessons?”
“Maybe. I mean, yes.”
“I may have just the student for you. Let me get something to eat first though. Reading lessons always make me hungry. Come on.” Brother Grant trailed behind him. “What made you change your mind?”
“Someone lent me some reading material.” He blushed. “Well, actually, it was mainly pictures.”
Harris laughed. “Piqued your interest, huh?”
“Well, erm, I suppose so. I thought I might like to give it a try.”
“Give it a try,” Harris repeated. “That's as good a reason as any.”
“I just had a few questions.”
The dining room was already busy, and Harris queued for a bowl of what he could only describe as slop. He led Grant to the far end of a table, away from the other monks.
“What did you want to ask?”
Grant pulled a scrap of paper out of his pocket. “Will it hurt?”
“You wrote your questions down?” Harris rolled his eyes. He picked up his spoon in one hand, and rested his head on the other. “No, it won't hurt, unless you want it to.”
“What?”
Harris waved his spoon. “I'm joking. No, it won't hurt.”
“Will she be able to tell that I'm, you know, a virgin?”
Harris shrugged. “She'll know you're inexperienced. But don't worry about that. You own her for that hour or so, let her do all the work.”
“What should I pay her?”
“Whatever you think she's worth. But don't go overboard, we don't want all the girls up here expecting big payouts.”
“Should I woo her? Kiss her?”
“God no!” Harris smiled sheepishly as several heads turned in their direction. “No. Do not fall in love.”
“What if I, you know, make her pregnant?”
“Then pray it's a girl, and you'll be a national hero.” Harris grimaced as he shovelled the slop into his mouth.
“But will I be responsible for her?”
Harris shook his head. “Occupational hazard. She knows the risks. Blame the administration; they pushed contraceptives onto the black market, made them too expensive to buy. Besides, they can make a fortune selling their baby girls.”
“If they're lucky enough to get one.”
Harris pushed his bowl away. “We're the unlucky ones. The men on The Floor don't seem to have any problems in creating girls. Now, why do you think that might be?” Harris stood up.
“I don't know.” Grant stood. “Diet perhaps? The air? Something in the water?”
Harris cocked his head. “Come on. If she's still hanging around, I can introduce you to your first student.”
As Harris took hold of his door handle, he could still hear her inside. Rummaging through his drawers or something. She wouldn't find anything of any value, he'd had enough prostitutes in his bedroom to know better than that.
He swung the door open. She was still naked on the bed. There was vomit on the floor. She was violently convulsing, causing the bed's headboard to bang against the wall.
“Oh my God!” Grant's hands flew to his mouth. “What do we do?”
“Shut the goddamn door,” Harris snapped. He grabbed the woman's legs, trying to hold her still. “Now grab her arms,” he ordered.
Grant hesitated.
“Grab them,” Harris said again.
Grant took hold of her flailing arms, pinning them to the bed. “We need to get help.”
Harris looked him in the eye. “What we need is to pray no one heard her.”
“We're not going to do anything?”
“What do you suggest? I have a convulsing, naked woman in my bed. I'm a monk.”
The woman's convulsing slowed, and stopped. Her eyes flew open, looking wildly around her.
“Where is it?” she slurred. “You stole it. You stole it from me.” More vomit dribbled from the corner of her mouth.
Harris stepped back, and ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “Oh God.”
The woman began gasping for breath. Her eyes wheeled around, filled with panic. She clawed at her throat.
“She can't breathe,” whispered Grant. He stepped towards her, his hand outstretched.
“Don't touch her,” said Harris.
“She's dying.”
“And do you want to risk catching whatever it is from her? I just hope it wasn't sexually transmitted.”
Grant pulled his hand back.
Harris leaned agai
nst the wall. “Oh God.”
She had stopped moving. Her flesh was beginning to grey.
“What are we going to do with her?” Grant asked.
Harris glanced at the window. “Go out in the garden. I'll pass her out to you. We can bury her in the graveyard.”
Grant scuttled out of the door.
Harris pulled his wardrobe open and tugged out one of his spare habits. He dragged the woman up to sitting, resting her cool body on his shoulder as he tugged the habit over her head. He dropped her back down and lifted her hips to pull it down over her legs. He covered her face with the hood.
He leaned over and opened the window. “Grant?” he hissed.
Grant appeared. “I'm sorry, I didn't know which one was yours.”
Harris grunted as he lifted the woman up, resting her shoulders on the window ledge. “Ready?” He heaved her hips up onto his shoulder and pushed her through the gap.
Grant made an effort to grab her, but ended up on the ground, with her body draped over him. The habit had ridden up to reveal her buttocks.
Harris leaned out of the window. “There's your first lesson.”
Grant pushed her off him. “How can you joke about this?”
“Wait there, I'm coming around.”
Digging the grave was hard going, far harder than either of them had expected. Once they had dug sufficiently deep that the body wouldn't be exposed by the next heavy rainstorm, Harris rolled her in.
He picked up his shovel, but Grant grabbed his wrist.
“We should say something.”
Harris raised his eyebrows. “Really? The ground's consecrated, what more do you want?”
“This was someone's daughter, someone's sister. Perhaps even someone's mother.”
Harris looked down at her. She couldn't have been much more than eighteen. He spoke quickly. “I commend you, my dear sister, to almighty God, and entrust you to your creator. May you return to him who formed you from the dust of the earth.” He looked at Grant, who gestured for him to continue. “May he forgive you of all your sins and set you among those whom he has chosen. May you see your redeemer face to face and enjoy the vision of God forever.” He looked back at Grant. “Happy?”
“It'll do. She deserved that at least.”
They covered the body, and Harris stomped over the loosened earth to compress it. Grant frowned.
“What do you want from me?” Harris asked.
“A little respect.”
“She was a hooker. She's probably not the only one buried here.”
Grant crouched down, tickling his fingers over the dirt. “She was the first woman I ever saw naked. And then she was the first dead body I ever saw. Ever touched. I thought that would be the most awful thing I'd ever see.” He looked up at Harris, his eyes full of tears. “But to see you treat her with such dismissal. As a problem to be hidden. A dirty secret.” He stood up. “I came into this position to make a difference, to do some good in the world.”
Harris put his hand on Grant's shoulder. “So did I. But there's too much poison in Falside. You can't escape it.”
“But I can shade others from it.”
Harris shook his head. “It's too corrupt. It's too damn late for any of us.” He rubbed his nose. “I'm sorry I can't give you any hope.” He turned away and walked back across the garden.
23
Maeve sat on the stairs and listened to Uncle Lou haggling with a customer. She'd heard reports of a few strange deaths, but no one was near to making a connection yet. It was being put down to food poisoning, or illness. That was the trouble; everyone taking the medicine was already sick.
She stretched out her legs and leaned back, staring at the redundant ceiling rose above her. The bell in the shop chimed as the customer left.
She stood up and gently opened the door to the shop. Uncle Lou looked up at her.
“What do you want?” he snapped. The customer must have argued the price down considerably.
“Just checking stock levels. Is there anything we need?”
Lou stepped out from behind the desk and gripped her wrist, wrenching her arm above her head. “If we need anything, I'll tell you.”
“You look a little short on the more expensive bottles.”
Lou bent down, bringing his nose level with hers. “I haven't seen anyone from Haverhead or Newstone in weeks. If I need anything, it's big, cheap bottles. Stop trying to be clever, it doesn't suit you at all.” He thrust her arm loose.
“Big, cheap bottles it is then.” Maeve rubbed her aching arm. “I'll take a wander down The Squeeze.”
“Good. Maybe I can get some bloody peace.”
As Maeve pulled the front door shut behind her, something hit the inside of it. Probably Lou's shoe. Now he'd be annoyed at having to retrieve it.
Maeve wandered down the steps to the street, and looked up at the bakery. It had already become a delicatessen. The sign swapped for another, the window filled with different products. As if erasing the memory of a whole life were as easy as window dressing.
Maeve wandered along The Wall and stopped at the opening to The Squeeze. She stared down the tightening alley, her hands clenched into fists. She took a few more steps, until she could see the spot where Topley had been sick. There was a bucket there now; a viciously morbid reminder. If only people knew. She wanted to grab them as they passed by, get them to stop, to look, to remove their hats and cast their eyes downward. But while Topley had been everything to Maeve, she was nothing to them.
Maeve turned back to The Wall. Among the usual current of people, the monk's black robe caught her eye. His hood was up, covering his face.
Curious, she followed at a distance. Watched him stop outside the apothecary, watched him climb the stairs, and hesitate before pushing the door open. She heard the bell announce his arrival.
Then she heard Uncle Lou. “Get out! What the hell are you doing coming here?”
Maeve crept up the stairs, crouched past the shop window, and leaned against the door frame. The door was ajar, and she could see the monk reflected in the shelved bottles.
“I just want to see her,” the monk said.
“Why? To ease your own conscience?”
“I have every right to see her. And she has a right to know who I am.”
“Seventeen years ago, you decided you didn't want to be part of her life—”
“How could I have been?” the monk interjected.
“How convenient.”
“As if you even care, Louis Richards. You took the girl in to save yourself from eviction. To give yourself a sob story, to act the martyr. You have never cared about her.”
“At least she knows who I am.”
“Don't you want to atone for what we did? Or do you not have any conscience at all?”
“We did nothing wrong!” Lou slammed his hand down on the counter. “We followed the law.”
The monk stepped forward, and his reflection disappeared. “So there is some guilt in you after all.”
“Maeve does not need you stirring up the past. Just let it lie.”
“For whose sake?”
“You think she's going to thank you?”
“I'd like the chance to explain.”
“You're an idiot. She'll hate you when she finds out what you did. What we did.”
They were silent for a moment.
“Do you think she's still alive?” the monk asked.
“Just get out of here,” Lou said quickly. “I don't want Maeve seeing you and asking questions.”
“Just tell her I came for some medicine.”
There was a shuffling of feet, a clink of bottles.
“Here,” Lou said. “Take this one. With my compliments. Now get out of here, and don't you ever come back. Maeve does not need to know our part in her mother's arrest.”
Maeve stepped into the doorway. “Yes she does,” she said.
24
Maeve stood by the water, watching the leaves drift their way downst
ream. Her toes were wet, but she barely noticed. She wiped away another tear.
“I'm so sorry,” Harris said. “That is not how I wanted you to find out.”
Maeve rolled her eyes. “You really think that's going to mend everything? Clichés?”
“I don't know what else to say.”
“Well then, neither do I.”
“It's the law, Maeve.”
Maeve spun around, jabbing her finger into Harris' chest. “She was Uncle Lou's sister, the mother of your child. You should have protected her, not handed her over. They don't care about us down here, they would never have known about her.”
“We can't know that.”
“What I do know is that I remember every second of that day. I remember Uncle Lou holding onto my shoulders, her damp hand being pulled from mine. I remember crying for weeks, and Uncle Lou beating me for it. You came here to confess to ease your guilt, he hits me to ease his own. That's what you left me to.”
“I couldn't exactly take you back to the monastery.”
“No. You could have done a lot more than that.”
Harris took hold of Maeve's shoulder. “I just wanted you to know the truth.”
“It's eleven years too late for that.”
He dropped his hand to his side. “I know. But I thought Lou would care for you. I thought you'd be safe.”
“You were childhood friends, right? So you knew what kind of man he was.”
Harris looked out across the water, twisting his cord belt around his fingers. “Yes, I knew. He was known for getting rough with the working girls.” He nodded slowly. “I knew.”
“But you left me with him anyway. That man, who's taken away everyone I've ever loved.”
“You're his niece. I thought, I thought that maybe you would change him.”
The Bottle Stopper Page 7
