by Penni Russon
I slither down the side of our house, through the greasy weeds. Andrew’s home already, being sick on the floor.
I moon over my glass globe.
‘It’s called a music box, Clara.’ Andrew barely raises his head to look at it. He’s managed to crawl to his pile and collapsed there, not getting underneath even the top layer. He don’t need it, he’s steaming hot.
‘It aint no box,’ I sneer. ‘It’s round.’
Andrew stirs weakly. ‘That’s what it’s called.’ His voice is dry and coarse, like hands rubbing together.
‘Things should only be called what they are.’
Andrew drifts off again. I’m lonely. I keep fiddling with the key on the box, and then try to prise the whole thing open, but I’m feared of breaking it and that makes my fingers weak and useless. I need tools, but I need more light to use ’em by or I’d just go and lose all the tiny little screws. I’m too jittery to work nohow. But all I can care about is the fairyland. How fresh and bright it is. How alive. It’s like Dolores has cursed me; like she’s put a canker on my eyes and all I can see is how it is horrible here. Everything smells of vomit and piss. Andrew’s being turned inside out by sickness and seeing him like that is worse than being alone. I know these aint the right feelings to have, and they aint even my feelings – not real feelings nohow. But they pluck at me, like the ber-lings, ringing in my head, and I can’t think, I can’t feel, straight.
I prowl round the rooms. I eat, Andrew doesn’t. He sleeps and stirs and moans and sobs and sleeps and sicks.
I lie on my pile and burn a precious candle down to the end of its wick, watching the globe, and the girl inside it. It’s mine. I want to hold it so close it gets inside me. I want my skin to grow over it. I want to eat it like it’s fruit. I want it to be more mine than it ever can be. It makes me feel empty, and full.
Andrew wakes. He looks like melting wax, but he’s awake. ‘I need medicine,’ he rasps. He don’t look at me. He makes his voice stronger in the dark. ‘Clara, can you hear me? I need medicine or I’ll die.’
‘You been sick lots of times,’ I say, cruel-hearted with fear. ‘You been sick and you aint dead. You just got bugs in your stomach is all.’
‘I’ve been sick for days now, Clara. I’m not getting better. This isn’t a usual bug or you’d be sick too. It’s an infection. My kidney or my stomach . . . I need antibiotics. Doctor . . .’
‘Doctor won’t give ’em to me.’
‘He might. He might if it’s for me. I’ll write it down. I’ll work for it. He knows I’m a good worker.’
‘You’re gonna write an I.O.U.?’ My voice is shrill as a cockroach’s in the dark.
‘Please, Clara.’ Andrew collapses back on his pile. ‘Just get paper.’
‘What paper?’
‘The book. The one you brought home the other day. That’ll do.’
‘You’re gonna rip it?’ Andrew don’t rip books nor use ’em to make fire.
‘Clara, do you hear me? I’m going to die if I don’t get medicine.’
I get the book, stomping through the house, making as much noises as possible. I rip out a page myself, choosing so carefully that Andrew snaps me again for being so bloody headed. He writes it with a stub from his pocket. ‘Can you read that?’
On one side is his I.O.U. On the other he’s written a long word, so long the letters jumble together and I can’t separate them out. He sounds it out for me. ‘An-ti-bi-o-tics.’
‘You aint gonna die,’ I say, folding the piece of paper carefully and stashing it. ‘This is stupid cause you aint gonna die. But I’ll go get your antibiotics for you. And you’ll be sorry slaving for Doctor for nothing.’
‘Fine,’ Andrew tells. ‘I’ll be sorry. Thank you, Clara.’
‘It’s dark outside,’ I say, in a different voice. And then, ‘Don’t die. Don’t.’
Andrew’s gone again. The sickness has taken him back.
There’s a moon out, its face as pale and sickly in the grey night as Andrew’s. These streets I know well, but it’s slow going in the pitch of the night and my heart thrums in my chest. As I approach Doctor’s house I hear voices and tinkling and I see glows of light coming from the windows. Doctor’s entertaining.
I crouch and peep in. The smell of their drinks is as stomach-churning as the Raiders, though they hold their glasses dainty as though they contain something fine. I see Doctor, red-faced and plump. He is the only one of them who is plump. But they need him, Andrew tells, so he fills his belly first and gets the best pickings. Most of ’em look blurry, like what they’re drinking is making ’em soft and pulpy. Those closest to him look a little feared.
I stand. What am I hiding for? I need to be seen, need to talk to Doctor. And I aint feared. I aint never been feared.
Someone grabs my arm. ‘C’mon you,’ he tells. ‘This aint no fancy do for the likes of you.’
I twist my arm, but he holds tight, his fingers digging through muscle into bone. ‘I gotta see Doctor.’
Man laughs. ‘Doctor don’t wanna see you, boy. Then again,’ he wheezes sulphur breath in my face, ‘he might. He likes ’em small.’
‘I’m no boy!’
‘A girl, are ya?’ He grabs my chin and pushes my face towards the light. ‘For sure he don’t wanna see you. An’ who would? You is skankier than a bag of rats’ balls. He likes ’em clean.’
‘I aint come to be looked at. It’s this he wants to see,’ I say, waving the piece of paper.
‘What’s that then?’
I snatch it away. ‘It aint for the likes of you. It’s business.’
‘Oh ho. Business, izzit? What business does a squeak like you got for a Boss like him?’
‘It aint me got business. ’Nother Boss sent me.’
‘Sent a little girl in the middle of the night? With the Raiders out?’ His lip curls like river dog’s, but he got less teeth.
I sigh and shake my head. ‘He don’t care about no Raiders. He’s cruel, my Boss.’
‘Must be.’ Man flicks me away. ‘All right. You go see Doctor or don’t, it’s same same to me. But don’t tell him I saw you or nothin’. I could break you into bits if I want.’
I slink inside, keeping close to the walls. Doctor is talking large. I aint feared of nothing, but if I were, I’d be feared of Doctor. Andrew don’t tell much about him, but I know Doctor knows how to hurt as well as to heal, how to make pain last. As much as I want to I can’t disappear – I can’t. I step out into the room. Hardly no one notices me at first. Then three of ’em, two men, one lady, peer down at me.
‘Look at this,’ one man tells. He is exceptional tall. ‘Isn’t it a tiny, dirty thing?’
‘It came from the shadows.’ The other man leans towards me.
‘Is it made of shadows?’ asks the first.
‘Is it real?’ asks the second, his eyes bright but empty. ‘Is it pretend?’
‘Hush, Duguld, Brown. It’s a little stray child. It’s scared. Come here. Are you a boy or a girl? Oh, a little girl!’ She is wearing something red and furry and rumpled, soft lookin’, and so clean it could be from the fairyland. I want to touch it. I clutch my fingers behind me. ‘Do you like it?’ the lady strokes her coat. ‘It’s called velvet. You can touch it if you want.’ The Velvet Lady draws me closer. With one finger I touch her coat. One way smooth, the other way rough.
‘I aint stray,’ I say. ‘And I aint feared.’
‘Now, now.’ The Velvet Lady laughs, as though I please her in some way. ‘Manners. Even in times like these there is always cause for manners.’
‘I need to see Doctor.’
‘Come now,’ the lady insists, amused. ‘Let me walk you out. One of these gentlemen – this is Brown, and this is Duguld – will escort us. They are more effective than they appear.’
‘I need to see Doctor,’ I say sulky, and cause I know what manners means, I add, ‘Please.’
‘You need not to see the Doctor,’ the man Duguld tells, ‘is what you need.’
‘Andrew’s sick. He needs medicine.’
‘Doctor’s boy?’ Brown asks. His face goes sharp.
I nod, though it sicks my insides to call Andrew ‘Doctor’s’. Andrew’s mine. Not anyone else’s.
The lady and the men look at each other. ‘I’ll take her.’ The lady isn’t teasing no more. ‘Come on. What’s your name?’
‘Clara.’
‘I’ll introduce you, Clara. I warn you, he won’t like you being here tonight. And do remember your manners. He likes a clean tongue. Pity there’s nothing we can do about your face. But he’s fond of Andrew. In his way.’ She’s holding my elbow, guiding me through the party. People step away from us and mutter. ‘Horace, this is Clara,’ Velvet Lady tells, softly. ‘She’s here to see you about . . .’
Doctor don’t even look. ‘Put it away. It’s not wanted here.’
‘It’s about your boy, Andrew.’ The Velvet Lady’s voice is almost a whisper.
‘Please,’ I tell. ‘He wanted me to give you this.’ I hold up the piece of paper.
‘Andrew?’ He gazes round the room. He’s putting on a show. ‘Tell him he’s fired. I can’t have my workers taking days off whenever it suits them.’
‘He’s sick. He’s real sick. He needs medicine. Anti . . . antibiotics. Else he’ll die.’
I see something in Doctor’s face. Lady’s right. He is fond of Andrew. In his way.
‘I got an I.O.U.,’ I push. ‘He’ll work for nothing, as long as you want him to.’
Everyone’s stopped their muttering and is watching instead. His face hardens to bone. ‘And if I give him medicine and he dies anyway? What good is this contract to me if he’s dead?’
He won’t take the paper from my hand. And I realise what a mistake I’ve made. If he’d been alone, maybe he would’ve done it. Maybe. But not with an audience he won’t. Now when he’s entertaining.
‘You can have me,’ I say.
He laughs. ‘And what use would you be?’
‘And Groom.’ I apologise to Groom in my head. ‘I can get Groom. He’ll help. If I ask him, he’ll work for you too.’ I am sure this weren’t true, but I have nothing else to offer.
‘Who or what is Groom?’ Doctor’s playing with me, like river dog plays with river rat, tossing it into the air, rattling its bones to break its neck.
‘He’s Boss. He’s Boss like you.’ The lie slithers off my tongue. ‘Boss of market. Boss of the Zone.’
‘A dead man, a soiled girl-infant and market scum? This is all you have to offer?’
Laughter ripples round the room.
‘Do you know what some of these people have paid me? Do you know what the going rate is for a simple cough elixir, let alone antibiotics? Do you know nothing about the nature of the world in which you reside?’
‘Please. Please. It’s Andrew I’m asking for.’ I nearly choke. ‘Your boy.’
Doctor looks at me again, as if I’m a rat on a plate. ‘So you’re the little thing he goes home to every night. Can’t say I see the appeal myself.’ He holds out his empty glass and a man quickly fills it with firewater. ‘He ever tell you that I asked him to live here, with me?’
I nod.
‘Think about that then. If he were here, he’d have a doctor on call twenty-four hours a day. Fresh fruit and vegetables. Clean water. He’d never get sick.’ He sips his nasty drink. ‘Seems to me the one who has signed his death certificate, child, is you.’
The Velvet Lady is quick to grab at my arms, but I’m quicker. I use her to hold my weight as I kick as high as I can with both legs, propelling him backwards. My foot connects with his nose and there’s a satisfying crack. Blood spurts. His face twists with rage. I spit at him and scream and fight, trying to get at him, but he’s got protection – two men descend and I’m dragged out of the Lady’s arms, towards the door.
‘He aint your boy!’ I shout, and I know Doctor’s listening. So’s everyone at the party. ‘He aint your boy. He’s mine and you know it. You want him, but I got him. I’m family. You’re nothing to him! You want to think you’re something, but you’re nothing. That’s why he aint here.’
They throw me down and kick me with boots and leave me broken in the road, but not dead. I hold my head, even after they’ve gone. I don’t feel nothing in my bones or skin, but inside I’m howling at that watery moon like the fiercest river dog. When I open my eyes, Brown, Duguld and the Velvet Lady are standing over me. The Velvet Lady bends over and plucks the I.O.U. from my hand.
‘Pretty words,’ she tells, reading it. ‘What a shame. I do like Andrew.’
‘Do you still want to keep it?’ Brown asks, bored, touching me with his foot.
‘It’s broken.’ Duguld’s face is sour.
‘She’s dangerous,’ the Velvet Lady tells. She sighs, as though she really had been planning to keep me. ‘She’d get me into trouble.’
‘What’s it going to do?’ asks Brown.
‘Horace won’t help her now, that’s for certain. She’ll have to look somewhere else.’
‘Is there anywhere else?’ asks Duguld.
‘Where do you think Horace gets his medicine from? Marketeers and Raiders and traffickers and traders.’
‘Us?’
‘We can’t help her. Not now. It would mean strife.’
‘War,’ tells Brown, glum.
‘She’ll have to find another way. It will cost her though. She’ll need to be cannier than she was with Horace. Not just sharp tongued. She’ll need to be sharp all over.’
‘That little dusty thing? It’s got no hope.’
The Velvet Lady stares down at me and I can’t tell by her face what she’s thinking. She tells Brown and Duguld, ‘Come on, then. I think it’s time you took me home.’
‘Is the party over?’ asks Duguld.
‘I’ve had enough of Horace for one night.’ The Velvet Lady leans down. ‘Good night, Clara girl,’ she tells, tucking the I.O.U. into my hand. ‘Here. Take these pretty, careless words. Someone needs to teach you two the art of drawing up a contract. The trick is, be specific.’
I stir. ‘Thank you,’ I murmur.
‘Good girl. That’s what you need. Manners. You’ll go a long way with manners.’ She looks at me and pulls something out from inside her velvet. It’s a little gold stick. She uncaps it and twists the end. It’s for painting lips, there’s ones what sell ’em at market. She leans down and swirls it on my forehead. I reach up to touch. ‘Leave it,’ she tells. ‘I can’t help you with what you’re looking for, but this will show you have my protection. You’ll be left alone tonight.’
I pull myself upright. My bones are sore and my skin is torn. I ache all over, but I’ve had worse. I’m ready to keep moving. I’m closer to market than home and, after Doctor, aint nothing afears me, ’cept going home without medicine, to watch Andrew die. And someone at market might have what I need. If anyone knows, Groom does. So I’m gonna go to market. I’m gonna find Groom.
Groom’s right. Night markets is different. There’s an oily stench to it. I can feel it seeping into my skin. There’s little lights all over, in between great spreading patches of dark. Night markets has a noise too, drumming. It’s hard and fast and it makes my heart beat faster to match, makes me edgier, makes the darkness jump out at me.
There’s knots of people making their swaps, though what’s selling and what’s buying aint clear, nothing’s laid out, as far as I can see. There’s not the twitter of daytime tattling, there’s not the thrum and the jostle. It’s serious. It’s business.
Not everyone’s making sales though. There’s little circles of people
all over with metal pipes, sticking ’em into little pots of fires and breathing up the smoke. Some of ’em slump over straight away, some stare into the flames. They twitch and giggle, or cry, or grind their jaws, their eyes dancing flames. I can see they aint gonna be no use to me.
I go up to a woman. She’s sitting at a table with a lamp on it, that’s all. She’s gazing into the darkness, and she don’t seem to have nothing to sell. ‘Where’s Groom?’ I ask her.
‘Who is this Groom when he’s at home? You aint the first what’s asked me today. Oh, it’s you again.’
It’s Dolores, the one what swapped me the globe. The one what’s got my name in her creeping claw.
‘Come to pay up already? No, no. Not yet. Soon. But here, girl, how’s about a fortune. Cross my palm with silver.’
‘I aint got no silver,’ I snap. I don’t want no hocus fortune.
‘Don’t want to know what the future’s gonna bring? My old mother back there, in the tent, she knows everything. Don’t you, Mum? She told me all about you.’
I hear an ancient voice creaking in the darkness, even older than Dolores, almost all used up. ‘Hard to enthuse on recent efforts. Mixing form and proving hard to follow. Bled during race. Look to others. Wait until she shows more.’
‘Come on now, a fortune. On the house for a loyal customer.’
‘No.’ I force myself to add, ‘Thank you,’ remembering my manners like the Velvet Lady told me.
‘Oh very nice, milktongue.’ She squints at me. ‘I see you got ’er mark. We aint friends, ’er and me. But you’ll be needing it tonight.’
‘Look to others,’ the tent-voice creaks.
‘Yes, Mum, you said that one already. I’ll see you, Clara girl. See you again before mornin’, no doubt.’
I follow the sound of the drums. It’s getting louder and faster and people are shouting. When I get closer there’s a shape looming in the darkness, a huge makeshift structure made of wood and cloth, and there’s men at the gaping door – screws – taking tickets and roughing up those that try and sneak through without one.
