A Gluttony of Plutocrats (The Respite Trilogy Book 1)

by Ella Swift Arbok

  Once we were seated again, Linnet put a hand on my arm. “Lemuel, with Bandstorm and Bile, you seem to have attracted the attention of some unpleasant people, corrupt and powerful.” She reached into a bag and extracted a notepad. “Do you mind if I jot as we talk?”

  What had begun as a friendly drive had taken on a darker air. “I don’t even know what you want to discuss with me.” Had I come unscathed through an encounter with Ronnie Bile to be interrogated by friends?

  Linnet held the pad closed. “I’ll take a few notes, if you don’t mind. I’ll give all the pages to you. By that time, they will be in my memory.”

  We drove on.

  She asked about my time with Draco. She didn’t ask if I had agreed to any special favors for the chairman. Her questions implied that I had, and that knowledge could have come only from Sy.

  “They work in subtle ways,” Linnet said. “Little favors, rewards for whomever they are targeting. One day, you wake up and you are part of the network. The favors become greater, and once they become illegal, seriously illegal, the rewards become immense. That’s how wealth and power are controlled in this happy land.”

  When it had come, less than three weeks after I completed training, it had been a small thing, a telephone call from the chairman’s secretary, Fifi Pikowood. “Take a note, Mr. Oneway. Destroy the note when the job is done.” It was a simple change to the accounts system, adding four account codes to an embedded list.

  I hadn’t sold my soul to the devil, but I felt uneasy. Some of Bandstorm’s company’s money would be diverted to his friends. What harm? Linnet’s words made me wonder how far I had already committed myself.

  We drove along the coast road. Linnet pointed out to sea. “See there, the four-master. Burl Blitzen’s humble home, when he’s not doing temple work.”

  “Burl Blitzen?”

  “Yes, the lord high templar, on his way to bless the people of Cragglemouth. Why would he need such luxury? Why would he want isolation on the sea?”

  I didn’t ask. But from her tone, I assumed Blitzen was another target of Linnet’s campaign.

  When I had answered Linnet’s questions to her satisfaction, she settled back. For a few minutes, we traveled in silence, then she gripped my hand.

  In one way, she didn’t resemble her sister. I had known her a few minutes, and already we were on hand-holding terms.

  She spoke, a voice that could have been Sy’s but a smidgeon deeper, without looking at me. “Once, Lemuel, just before I moved to Barford, I found myself in sole charge of a girl. How this came about isn’t important. The consequences defined my life from that moment. That child had been sexually abused for years, by many men.

  “Her safety mattered to me more than thoughts of justice or revenge. How could I best protect her? I couldn’t keep her hidden forever. The obvious solution was to have charges brought against the men responsible. When she felt brave enough, I took her to the Cragglemouth police station to tell her story.”

  She brushed the back of her hand against her eyes. Her jaw was clenched. How had Dick described her? A powerful campaigner.

  “The police were kind. I would have preferred a female officer to take her statement, but I accepted the necessity of working with the duty roster. Imagine, such naïveté. But I was young and knew little of the law. I had no right to sit with her, no status of guardianship, but they let me stay. Each time I think of the horrors she choked out, I shake. Am I shaking now, Lemuel? I know I am.”

  Her body shook. Her voice shook. She rolled down the car’s window, letting a warm wind blow against her face.

  “The child didn’t always see her abuser’s face. Some wore hoods. Some remained behind her throughout the abuse. Some held her head under water. She had to repeat that last part several times before the recording officer fully understood. Strapped to a device that pushed her head into a bath of water when forced down, she was in no position to object, even if she had dared.”

  Linnet’s voice drifted into the background of my mind. I had lost the power to listen. All I could think about was another child, my own child, whose torment echoed through Linnet’s words. A coincidence, surely. My Lillibeth hadn’t suffered in that way. But Linnet had done no more than reinforce my worst fears. I would never know the truth behind my daughter’s death, but I felt as though I had been dragged screaming one step closer to that awful knowledge. I closed my eyes.

  Linnet released her grip on my hand. “Lemuel, you’re shaking too.”

  “Yes.”

  “Isn’t it dreadful? But it was many years ago now. This child, chosen perhaps because of her youth and innocence, received a level of cruelty that no creature of Darken deserves. I still believed in Darken, in those distant days.

  “For a couple of hours, she worked through books of photographs—known rapists, known pedophiles—without success. The policeman listened patiently, but when he heard the only man she could name was her father, it became clear to me that she had lost his sympathy.

  “I hardly slept for weeks, and I had only listened to her tale. She had lived through it. I bought a gun, afraid her abuser might try to silence her forever. I know now he had nothing to fear, but in those days…I showed her how to use it for the times when I couldn’t be with her. Wasn’t that stupid? But she didn’t use it against herself. More courage than me, that showed.”

  Linnet took a handkerchief from her pocket. She closed her eyes and pressed it against her face, folded and pocketed it, and forced a smile. “A month later, a senior officer came to take her back to the station. I got my coat, but he held up a hand. ‘You stay here, Ms. Throse. It’s better to talk to the child alone.’ She came in as he was speaking. When she heard his voice, she screamed. I knew then I couldn’t let her go with him.

  “I checked in my pocket for the gun, but I didn’t withdraw it. I let the policeman continue. ‘Listen, Miss, if she doesn’t come, I’m going to assume the charges are imagined or, even worse, malicious. And there’s still the matter of wasting police time.’ In those days I was simple enough to take his threat seriously.”

  She rolled up her window.

  “That was it; the police case abandoned. What choice did I have? A month later, I took the story to the Daily Globe, Cragglemouth’s only daily newspaper. I met a reporter—young and enthusiastic, good looking if a little on the short side, mostly sober in those days—by the name of Richard Ovid. I had a few names to add to the story, people she had seen in the papers or on television, but no evidence beyond the child’s own words. Dick told me what I already knew. Such a story, without solid evidence, couldn’t be published. But he promised to make enquiries.”

  We crossed Revelation Bridge and turned westward.

  “We’ve worked out quite a few names since then. Ronnie Bile wasn’t one of them. He prefers boys. But he’s part of the same network. Some are senators now. Some were senators then. Senior businessmen. Entertainers. Law enforcers. High templars. But knowing is one thing. Proving, another. I’m trying to build a case, but evidence has a way of disappearing whenever I approach it.”

  I had hardly noticed our surroundings as I listened to Linnet’s story. “If there’s ever anything I can do… Do you still see this child?”

  “Sometimes. Not a child now, but we keep in touch.”

  Dick pulled up outside the Cragglemouth Restaurant. “You two need to lighten up. It’s Sy’s birthday.”

  The restaurant had been built long before the Northern Canal, when the river still formed part of Eden’s north-south trade route. An old, framed drawing behind the bar showed the river bustling with barges and pleasure boats, several of which were clustered around the frontage of the restaurant.

  Greatly expanded since those days, it had adapted well, concentrating on excellence of quality for the local trade. It had its own pier and a steamboat where private parties could indulge private passions. I knew it by reputation alone.

  A waiter led us to a window table—space for eight but set for fi
ve. “Ms. Heyho is waiting. A pleasure to see you again, Ms. Throse.”

  “Thank you, Wethersby. I’m so pleased your gout is better.”

  Sy stood to greet us. In a pale-blue floor-length gown that clung to her body more closely than I had ever done, she blew away the lingering gloom Linnet’s story had brought to me. Her hair, usually held back in a ponytail, or doing whatever it chose on her morning runs, framed her face, a curl on either side.

  She smiled at me. “It’s rude to stare, Lemuel.”

  “It’s difficult not to. You are stunning.”

  “More so than usual, do you mean?”

  Linnet laughed. “Don’t answer, Lemuel. There’s no safe way.”

  Wethersby handed us menus. I let mine fall to the table. “Are we not waiting for the others?”

  Sy raised her eyebrows. “Sunday night is audition night at the Silversmith Café, and the girls have gone to support your friend Beau. What about Newton?”

  I picked up my menu. “He’s giving a ballet class.”

  The waiter hovered.

  I turned the menu. “I…the roast goat looks good. With seasonals. And I’d like to contribute a bottle of wine, if that’s acceptable. According to my papers at least, August 23 is also my birthday.”

  I needed to get Linnet’s tale out of my head. Maybe a little alcohol would help me relax.

  We spoke about many things: Dick’s life as a reporter, Linnet’s support for the Misfortunates Trust, Sy’s hopes for the Winter Games, my day with Ronnie Bile.

  Dick laughed when I told him about Briggs. “Just Briggs? Oh, what a charmer. Justin has certainly stopped a few punches in his career and landed many more. A great fighter, but not the easiest man to interview.”

  I sipped the wine, my first in many years. It made me light headed at first, but by the time the bill arrived, I had almost emptied the glass. Dick had finished half the bottle when we all refused a second glass. He had also made a couple of trips to the bar.

  Sy paid the bill, refusing to let me pay for more than the wine I had ordered. “That’s the way we do it here. I’m the birthday girl.”

  We walked together to Dick’s car, Sy’s arm around mine. Linnet held a hand toward Dick. He gave her his keys.

  The contrast between my two journeys of the day could hardly be greater—to Barford in luxury and silent company, and back to Cragglemouth with Linnet’s somber tale.

  A memory nagged at my mind—something I had said that startled Briggs. Dick settled into the passenger seat.

  I tapped on the window. “Dick, before you go.”

  He rolled the window down, peered at me, and blinked a couple of times. “Talk.”

  “Are there sinister connotations to the word fruit?”

  Dick’s sleepy eyes grew wide. He stared at me openmouthed, then turned to Sy.

  She gasped, let go of my arm, and pushed herself from me. She set off along the canal path, a rapid walk.

  The driver’s door flew open. Linnet stepped out and glared at me as I turned to follow Sy. “Stay!”

  Her single word, not loud but emphasized by the glare, sent a clear message.

  Sy started to run. Linnet chased her.

  Twice in one day, I had driven Sy to a state of nervous shock.

  Dick got out of the car. He pointed along the road. “Bar, that way.”

  “Shouldn’t we tell the women?”

  He gave me a look that questioned my sanity. “This is how they’ll think. ‘Oh, Dick’s not here. Where’s the nearest bar?’”

  Settled by a window seat, I contemplated my lemonade. The evening sun colored the sky.

  Dick raised his spirit glass, sipped, frowned at it, and put it down. “Lemuel, has Sy ever mentioned her father?”

  “Her father? I thought he was dead.”

  “No. Her mother died long ago, which is why she has her father’s name. But Dayton Heyho is as alive as the day he was born. Ridiculous sentence, but you know what I mean.”

  Dayton Heyho? It had a familiar sound. “Senator for justice?”

  Dick finished his drink. “You asked about fruit. In some circles, the word is used to refer to children. Not the children you see playing in the streets or stimming on a swing, although it may be them. Not the children whose bedtime story sends them to sleep. It will rarely be one of those. I mean children as sexual objects—shared, traded for favors, hopelessly abused, helpless, with little expectation of pleasure or longevity. I don’t know you well, Lemuel, but I don’t believe you have the taste for this fruit. Others might. Be very careful.”

  He picked up his glass. It was still empty. “I set myself a daily limit.”

  “Oh. Was that it?”

  “No, the one before last was it.” He signaled to the barman for another. “It wasn’t your fault. You weren’t to know, but that doesn’t mean she’ll forgive you.”

  I stared out the window, not certain what Dick had said, not brave enough to ask. A flight of amphibious bats swooped through the darkening sky. Two women, tall and slim, in animated conversation, approached. I pointed.

  Dick nodded. “Go.”

  Linnet put an arm around me and whispered. “Be gentle.” She had known me six hours and still felt such advice necessary.

  After their car turned on to Revelation Bridge, I took Sy’s hand. We ambled over the same bridge, turning right toward her houseboat.

  I was afraid to speak. Even apologizing seemed wrong. I had meant no harm. But I had hurt her.

  We strolled along the riverbank.

  Sy said nothing until we reached her boat. “Lemuel, I’ve taken charge of my life. Running is my life. It’s the means by which I achieve some trivial sense of worth. When I was eight, I joined the Barford Athletics Club.”

  Barford Athletics Club? Barford? The word thudded into my consciousness like the bloodred streaks in the monochrome movie Psycho. When did she live in Barford? Linnet had moved there soon after she took charge of the abused child. I knew then with absolute certainty that the suspicion I had been denying beyond reason was true. The child Linnet had protected was Sy, her sister.

  Chapter 10

  On the deck of Respite’s Respite, with our backs against the cabin, we sat shoulder to shoulder as we had that morning. It could have been a lifetime ago.

  Sy had her arms around her knees. Were we both rocking, or was it the motion of the Craggle against the hull?

  The moon had set. Scant streaks of crimson in the west, what remained of the sunset, told me I shouldn’t risk Godbest Park. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except Sy and her peace of mind. I reached for her hand.

  She sighed and shook her head. “Lemuel, how much do you know?”

  I brushed the back of a hand against her face. There was moisture. I put it to my lips. Salty. “I know you’ve been hurt. Tell me, if you want me to know. Don’t, if you don’t.”

  She pushed herself to her feet. “I’ll get the kettle on. Stay here. I need open air.”

  During almost eight weeks on the planet, my fortunes had taken a few turns. I had friends and a regular income that I could live on. I’d been threatened but not physically harmed. I had hopes of financial comfort, from the land consortium or from my knowledge of Earth’s technology, and an ambiguous relationship with a powerful man. But what was it all for?

  Who would I share my life with? Who would I risk my life for? On Earth, I had answers to those questions. I had failed, but my intents had been clear.

  The cabin light went on. Swaths of light reached the deck, making me visible to any creatures of the night, while leaving them unseen to me. The thought made me smile. No beast dangerous to mankind would approach the town so close, at least not in the summer.

  Sy returned with coffee, which she set on the deck. She sat down, wrapped her arms around her knees again, and rested her chin against them. “This isn’t easy, Lemuel.”

  “And it isn’t necessary. Up to you.”

  Sy took a deep breath. “My father raped me many times. Ju
st a special friendship, he said. Should I have told you earlier? Perhaps.” She began to rock almost imperceptibly. “He let his friends, powerful friends, do the same. He didn’t permit brutality, and I loved him for that.

  “Slapping was allowed, of course. Every healthy man loves to smack a girl’s buttocks—and maybe slap her face and punch and kick to encourage instant obedience. But he forbade tearing of the flesh. Wasn’t that kind? I used to think it was because he loved me, but I know now it was more about the traveling power of screams. We had no basement in those days.”

  My body shook. “How did you survive?”

  “One afternoon Linnet came to the house. She looked at me, crouched at the top of the stairs, and at the man descending. I won’t name him now. No words were spoken. What had she seen in my face? She beckoned to me and took me to her home with just the shirt I was wearing. Neither of us has spoken to our father since.”

  A gust of wind curled into our faces. The distant hooting of an owl faded into clock bells. Eleven o’clock chimed from a distant source.

  The rape of the disposables horrified me. Linnet’s tale sickened me. I promised I would help her if I could. But as I sat beside Sy, with the knowledge that Linnet’s tale had been Sy’s tale, any lack of purpose I felt on Respite vanished. Whatever the future held for the two of us, my life would be lived in support of Linnet’s campaign, not just for Sy’s sake but for the sake of others like her.

  Yet what was I? Just one man, not powerful, not godlike. And not—dare I even face the thought?—not always as brave as I wished.

  Across the water, a sturdy bench would keep me safe for the night, but the evening was warm. “Sy, do you mind if I sleep on the deck?”

  Sy leaned toward me, still clutching her knees. “Linnet took me to Barford as soon as she could. I rebuilt my life there, as a runner, losing myself in training, in command of my body. Not all at once, but bit by bit, I regained control. There is still one area where the hurt was deepest, where I know I haven’t taken charge.”

  I covered her hand with mine.