by Amy Cross
“Ah, Ms. Culper,” Mr. Shawyer says, and I turn to see that he's stepping into the room, “and how are we on this fine morning? Did the night pass without any undue disturbance?”
“Uh, yeah,” I reply, a little taken aback by his formality. “Yeah, no undue disturbance.”
He stops behind me and looks over my shoulder as I set the quill down. I wait for him to make a comment about how I'm doing, and to be honest I'm worried that I might not have done well enough. After all, a few of the words are a little sloppy and I can definitely see several areas where I could improve.
“Excellent,” he says finally, reaching over and pulling out the other pages I completed. “Yes, this is very good. And you are sure that there are no errors?”
“Absolutely.”
“Did you have to abandon any sheets?”
“Just one.”
“And you took it to the furnace?”
“I did.”
“Immediately?”
“Sure.”
He stares at me, as if he's not entirely sure that I'm telling the truth.
“Uh, I promise,” I add, hoping to put his mind at rest.
“Very good, Ms. Culper. Very good.” He looks at the pages for a moment longer, still leaning over my shoulder. “I must admit, I was initially a little concerned by your youth. Most of our transcribers have traditionally been rather older, but perhaps youth is the way to go. I trust you are happy with the arrangement, and that you intend to return tonight?”
“Sure,” I reply. “I'd love to.”
“Now let me count this out,” he says, walking around the desk and then stopping to take some money from his pocket.
My eyes widen a little as I see a huge stack of cash in his hands. There must be thousands and thousands, enough to pay for hundreds of cat operations.
“Two hundred,” he says, setting a clutch of twenty pound notes on the desk before putting the rest of the money back into his pocket. “As we agreed. And another two hundred tomorrow morning, upon the successful completion of another night's work.”
“Thank you so much,” I stammer, taking the money and quickly slipping it away. “I really appreciate the opportunity you've given me. I promise I won't let you down.”
“That remains to be seen,” he replies, as he takes my sheets from the night and examines them once again. “For now, I must bid you a good day. I imagine you need to go home and sleep, but I will see you back here tonight shortly before eleven. And please, whatever you do, do not be late. We are sticklers for punctuality and attention to detail.”
“I'll be here,” I say as I get up and head over to grab my jacket.
Once I'm ready to leave, I walk to the doorway, although after a moment I stop and glance back toward the desk. Mr. Shawyer seems lost in his work, examining my fresh pages in minute detail, but my gaze quickly turns to the cabinet. I can't help thinking about those leather gloves, and how they seemed to move all by themselves during the night, and I still haven't quite managed to convince myself that I moved them myself. At the same time, the last thing I want right now is to cause a fuss, so I force myself to keep my mouth shut and just focus on the job.
I do, however, have one burning question.
“Can I ask what happens when I'm done?” I ask.
“Mmm?” He stares at the pages for a moment longer, before turning to me. “Did you say something?”
“I just wondered what happens when I'm done,” I continue. “I mean, when I've finished copying the entire book, what will you do with it?”
“Do with it?”
“What's the point?”
“The point?” He pauses, and I swear I see a flicker of concern on his face. Maybe fear. “Ms. Fabricci left detailed instructions,” he says finally, “and we are duty bound, and honor bound, to follow those instructions to the letter. As to the nature of those instructions, I'm afraid that I cannot at present enlighten you. You have your job, Ms. Culper, and I trust that you will not ask too many questions. Please do not fall into that youthful trap of boundless curiosity. Some things you simply do not need to know.”
“Sure,” I reply. “Totally. Sorry. I'll see you tonight.”
“Indeed.”
With that, he turns back to the pages, and I realize it's definitely time now for me to leave. I turn and walk out across the landing, but I've got to admit that I'm still feeling a little puzzled as I make my way down the staircase. As I reach the halfway point, however, I'm distracted by a brushing sound, and when I get to the bottom I see that Salvatore is sweeping the floor near the front door.
I reach up and tuck a curl of hair behind my ear, just to make myself look a little more presentable. Then again, I probably look exhausted, and as I head toward the door Salvatore doesn't even glance at me.
“Morning,” I say with a tentative smile.
“Morning,” he mumbles, still not looking at me as I walk past him.
So much for that, then.
Opening the door, I step out into the narrow alley, and I squint as little as I'm momentarily blinded by the bright light of morning. The noise of London seems to roar back at me in a flash, after I spent the night cocooned in this silent old house, and it's almost as if I've stepped back out into another world. I feel a little startled, but that sensation quickly passes and I reach back to pull the front door shut.
Suddenly something bumps against me, and as I start to turn something pushes me into the wall.
I gasp as I see that Salvatore has followed me out, and now he's staring at me with an intense expression.
“Don't come back,” he whispers urgently. “Do you hear me? Leave now and never come back here. Don't even look back.”
“Why?” I ask.
He glances back into the hallway, as if he's worried that we'll be overheard, and then he turns to me again.
“Just stay away,” he says. “Be glad that I'm warning you. Don't question what I'm telling you, just trust me. I'm telling you to stay away, so stay away!”
“But why?” I ask. “You can't just -”
“You heard me,” he adds, letting go of me and heading back inside, to where his broom is resting against the side of the staircase. He stops and turns to me, and for a moment he seems poised to say something else before, finally, he simply swings the front door shut.
“Why?” I ask again, but it's too late.
What a jerk.
He might be hot, but that Salvatore guy seems like a real asshole. As I adjust my collar after it was so rudely grabbed, I figure that Salvatore's probably just jealous that I've landed the two-hundred-pounds-a-night desk job while he's stuck sweeping floors. I'm sure that sucks for him, but it's not my problem if he's never managed to rise above the level of being a glorified cleaner. If he'd given me some reason why I should stay away, I'd definitely have listened, but there's no way I'm going to just accept an order without any explanation. Screw him.
Turning, I start making my way sideways along the narrow alley, back toward the busy London street ahead. I need to get home and eat, and then I need to catch some sleep. Because in about sixteen hours, I'll be right back here at 224 Barnhope Gardens for another shift at that desk. Whether Salvatore likes it or not.
Six
“Hey Myrtle,” I say wearily as I step into my bedroom. “Sorry Mummy was away all night.”
Meowing, Myrtle gets up from her comfortable spot at the foot of the bed and slinks over to greet me. I'm sure she was worried about me not coming home, but hopefully she understands on some level that I'm doing all of this for her. Sitting down, I stroke her back as she presses herself against my leg, and then I see the large, swollen cyst still hanging from her chest.
“I'm gonna get that operation for you real soon,” I tell her, wincing slightly as I see that the cyst looks redder and more sore than ever. “I finally got a proper job and soon I'll be able to afford to sort it out. Just hang on for one more week, baby, and then Mummy will look after you. I promise.”
She m
eows again, and I kiss the top of her head before getting to my feet and heading over to my bookshelf. I'm exhausted and I need to boil some noodles, but first I take my two hundred pounds from my pocket and open the lid of my money tin, and then I look inside.
And then I freeze as I see that the tin is empty.
“What the hell?” I whisper, before a slow sense of boiling anger starts running through my chest. “Mum...”
Turning, I storm out of the room and through to the lounge, where Mum's already ensconced in her TV chair with some godawful morning news show booming from the new seventy inch flat-screen she bought last month.
“Where's my money?” I ask, shaking with fury as I stop in the doorway.
I wait, but she doesn't even react to my presence.
“Where's my money?” I ask again, stomping across the room and switching the TV off at the plug, before turning to her again. “The money's gone from my tin!”
“I needed it,” she replies drowsily. “Now turn that back on.”
“It's my money!” I hiss. “I had a hundred and twenty pounds in there from those leaflet jobs I did last week. It's mine, so give it back!”
“I needed it,” she says, sounding a little more irritated now. “Mia, stop being annoying and turn the TV back on. Martin called and told me he'd got a job-lot of baccy, but he had someone else who was interested. I had to give him cash, and he was already on his way over.”
“That wasn't your money!”
“You live here rent-free, don't you?”
“I give you fifty pounds a week!” I remind her.
“That's for the room. You need to start contributing something to the bills too.”
“That was my money!” I snap. “You had no right to go into my room and take it like that!”
“Don't stress,” she replies with a big yawn. “You're gonna pop a blood vessel one of these days. I pay the heating and the water and the council tax and the internet. You don't think you should put in for that? You need to learn some responsibility, Mia. You're fifteen years old. That's old enough to pay your way. Just be grateful that I let you off the bills until now.”
“Oh, I'm grateful alright,” I say through gritted teeth. “Thanks a lot, Mum. Now it'll take even longer to fix Myrtle's operation!”
With that, I turn and storm out of the room.
“You could always call your father for some money!” she shouts. “I'm sure he must've earned a few quid in prison by now!”
“Go to hell!” I mutter, slamming my bedroom door shut and then slumping down onto the bed with my hands over my face.
For a moment, I feel myself still trembling with anger, but I quickly manage to get that under control. After all, I've never managed to get through to Mum about anything, and I don't have the time or energy to yell at her right now. A moment later Myrtle comes over and meows at me again, before rubbing her face against my cheek, and when I turn to her she immediately starts licking my forehead.
“It's okay,” I tell her, as I feel tears welling in my eyes. “I won't let her find any more of what I earn. I'm sick of working part-time jobs after school just to top up that woman's wine and cigarette budget. After I've paid for your operation, I'm going to start saving so we can get our own place. As soon as I turn sixteen next month, Myrtle, we're out of here.”
Seven
“Alright, love,” a man says in a dark doorway as I hurry along the street, “wanna make some quick cash on the side? We run a nice safe club here, a girl like you could fit right in.”
I keep walking, taking care to not even make eye-contact with the guy.
“Stuck-up bitch!” he calls after me, and then he adds a few choice curse words to really ram home his point.
“Whatever,” I reply as I duck into the shop on the corner.
Reaching into my pocket, I take out a five pound as I head to the counter.
“Can I have a five pound top-up, please?” I ask the man. “My network's -”
“No five pound top-ups,” he replies in broken English. “Only ten.”
“But -”
“Only ten!”
“I just need five. I always used to -”
“You can have a five pound top-up,” he replies, interrupting me. “But you've got to buy two at once.”
“Forget it,” I say, turning and hurrying back out of the shop. I only wanted to have enough credit on my phone in case there's an emergency tonight, but I guess that's not strictly necessary. I should probably save the money, anyway. Right now, phone credit's a luxury I can't afford, not while Myrtle's waiting for her operation.
***
Standing sideways in the alley, in the little pool of light allowed by the gas lamp above, I wait for the front door to open. I can already hear footsteps coming down the staircase, and a moment later the various locks are opened on the door's other side.
Mr. Shawyer sure does like to keep this place secure. Then again, I guess there must be some really valuable items in an old place like this, and it's not difficult to imagine that the house might be targeted by thieves. As I wait to be let inside, I take my phone out and type a message to Myrtle, although when I try to send the message I get an error message telling me that I have insufficient credit.
Maybe that's a good thing.
Texting a cat might just be a little weird.
Suddenly the door swings open, and I step through into the hallway. Checking my watch, I see that it's about quarter to eleven, which means I made it here with time to spare despite all the problems with the buses. Before I can turn to Mr. Shawyer, however, I spot Salvatore sweeping the floor over by the basement door, and when our eyes meet he scowls at me with barely suppressed anger.
I guess he doesn't like the fact that I ignored his warning.
Good.
“Welcome back, Ms. Culper,” Mr. Shawyer says behind me, as he shuts the door. “I'm so glad that you're happy to continue your work with us.”
“I'm very happy,” I reply, watching Salvatore for a moment before he suddenly turns away and focuses on his broom, at which point Mr. Shawyer walks past me and heads to the hat rack in the far corner. “Thank you again for giving me this job,” I continue. “It really means a lot to me, and I promise I won't let you down.”
“One hopes not,” Mr. Shawyer says, slipping into his coat. “Just continue to work the way you worked last night, Ms. Culper, and I rather think all parties can be satisfied.” He stares at me for a moment, with just a hint of trepidation in his eyes. “Good beginnings are remarkably easy to achieve,” he adds finally, almost as if he's trying to warn me, “but maintaining them is another matter entirely. There is no need to hurry. Merely to do the job well. I pray that you remember that, Ms. Culper.”
With that, he turns and heads over to the door, and a moment later Salvatore follows him out into the alley. They both turn to look back at me as I stand in the hallway, and I honestly don't know what makes me feel more uneasy: Mr. Shawyer's calm stare, or the scowl on Salvatore's face.
“Good night,” Mr. Shawyer says, before reaching out and pulling the door shut.
I hear him putting a key into the lock on the other side. It occurs to me that maybe I should slide the bolt across, but suddenly the bolt moves into position without my help, as the various locks are engaged to seal the house. After that, I hear faint voices outside, receding into the distance as Mr. Shawyer and Salvatore wander away along the alley.
“Good night,” I whisper, before swallowing hard as I turn and look up toward the top of the staircase.
How is it possible that this house is so silent? It's as if all the sounds of London have been completely blocked, leaving me standing here with only the sound of my own breath for company. I almost feel intimidated, as if it would be wrong of me to make even the slightest noise, but finally I make my way to the foot of the staircase and start climbing up, while regretting each and every creak of the boards. By the time I get up to the landing, the silence somehow seems even stronger and it take
s me a good few seconds to remind myself that I need to keep from freaking out.
I wait for a moment, trying to hear some hint of noise from beyond the house's walls, and then I head through to the room where the desk and the book await.
For the next few minutes, I settle myself at the desk and generally try to gather my thoughts. I need to clear my mind and try to focus on the task at hand. Speaking of hands, however, I glance down at my right hand and see that there's some kind of dark smudge on the index finger. I try to wipe it away, and when that doesn't work I try to use some spit, only to find that the smudge seems to be stuck pretty fast. I peer closer, and now it's clear that the supposed smudge is actually slightly beneath the surface of the skin. I try to scratch it away, but of course that doesn't work. Instead, I peer at what appear to be tiny dark threads that are spreading out from a black central point.
I press the fingertip against another and feel a brief, uncomfortable flicker of pain.
“Huh,” I mutter, before figuring that it must just be a bruise.
Resolving to worry about the strange mark if it's still there in a day or two, I lean back and tell myself to keep my head focused on my job. I close my eyes for a moment and then I take a deep breath. Sure, I'm wasting valuable time, but these few precious seconds might actually help me to work better as the night goes on. If I manage to avoid ruining a page, then this moment of semi-mediation might actually turn out to be a great idea.
I sit in complete silence for a short while, and then slowly I start to realize that I can hear a very faint scratching sound. Opening my eyes, I look around, and I tilt my head slightly as it becomes apparent that the sound seems to be coming from somewhere near the book. Glancing over, I see the book resting in its usual place, and I begin to realize that the sound is actually coming from somewhere inside the cabinet. I hesitate for a moment, worried that maybe there's a rat or a mouse on the loose, and then I slowly get to my feet and head over to take a closer look.
