A Tattooed Heart (32 page)

Then Aria said, ‘When we are inside the house, we do whatever we need to do to take the child —'

‘Do you mean we kill Leary and the woman?' Sarah asked. ‘Because I don't think that's a good idea, not with those soldiers just down the street. And where there's four soldiers there's always a dozen more.'

‘No, we do not kill them,' Aria agreed reluctantly. ‘In Aotearoa I would, but this is not Aotearoa. It would be a good thing to make sure that they cannot follow us, however. When we have Charlotte, we will go straight to the wharf, get in the boats, row out to the
Katipo
and tell Captain Farrell to take us back to Sydney.' She glanced around. ‘Where are those two boys?'

‘Not back yet,' Sarah said, ‘and they bloody well should be.'

‘What if Leary
does
follow us?' Friday asked. ‘'Cos I bet he will.'

‘Then we will have to stop him,' Aria said. ‘But quietly and discreetly, because of the soldiers.'

She and Friday exchanged a glance: if there were to be any serious trouble and the soldiers became involved, they would surely be at the top of their suspect list. They were strangers in town, Sergeant Weir was convinced that they were runaway convicts, and he knew what they looked like.

‘Bloody tall order,' Sarah muttered.

‘I laugh in the face of tall orders,' Aria declared.

Snorting, Sarah said, ‘You know, Aria, sometimes you are so full of shit.'

‘I do not think so. You do not know me well yet, that is all. Are we ready?'

Yes, they were ready. Up Newcomen Street they went again, Aria in the lead. Standing in the sand outside Iris Kellogg's house, she suddenly hissed, ‘Shut up!'

They all froze.

‘Who goes there!' a male voice demanded.

A shape stepped out of the shadows, a soldier with his musket at the ready.

At close to six feet he was uncommonly tall, as skinny as the handle on a yard broom and not one of Weir's men, but still Friday felt her buttocks clench with fear. What do we do? What do we do? Quickly, she purred in her best picking-up-a-customer voice, ‘Evening, sir. We're strangers here, looking for a friend. Er . . .'

‘Elizabeth Hislop,' Sarah said.

‘Yes, Elizabeth Hislop. Do you know her?'

The soldier lowered the muzzle of his musket a few inches. Oh, good, Friday thought, now he'll only shoot our knees. She took several casual steps in an attempt to move the soldier down the street. What a disaster if Leary heard them.

‘Never heard of her. How long've you been in town?'

‘We arrived on the paddlesteamer this evening. We're on our way upriver and thought we'd stop overnight and visit our friend.' Two more steps.

‘I been stationed here for months and I've never heard of no Elizabeth Hislop.'

‘Oh, no,' Harrie said, sounding dismayed and sidling down the street. ‘Don't tell me she's moved on. Oh dear, that's really disappointing. And we've come all this way.'

‘Do you think she's gone upriver already?' Sarah asked Friday.

By now the soldier had been reduced to walking down the hill after them. ‘Stand still, the lot of you.'

They did.

‘What's your business?'

Feeling a little more confident now, Friday said, ‘Like I said, we're looking for our friend.'

‘No, I mean what are your professions?'

Bugger, Friday thought, I've overdone it, he thinks we're whores. ‘Well, Dorcas here's a sempstress, sews hankies and pillowslips and the like,' she said, pulling names out of the air, ‘and Winnie's a jet cutter, you know, for the mourning jewellery, and I'm a brewster. Yes, I know you don't see many actual women brewers, but I've always been interested in ale, ever since I was a little girl.'

‘Is that so?' the soldier said, sounding highly dubious. He turned to Aria. ‘And you? What do you do?'

‘In this country I do not do anything. But in my own, I go to war.'

The soldier squinted at her. ‘You're not one of them natives from New Zealand, where they —?'

‘Yes, where we cook and eat our enemies.'

There was quite a long silence. Eventually, the soldier shouldered his musket. ‘I'll bid you good night. There's a steamer leaving from the wharf for Maitland tomorrow morning at nine.' Then he turned and marched smartly off into the darkness.

‘Do you really?' Harrie asked.

‘Only now and then.'

They waited a good fifteen minutes to make sure the soldier didn't come back, then returned to the Kellogg woman's house.

Hoisting their skirts, they stepped over the picket fence and crossed the short front yard to avoid walking on the path, whose loose gravel might give away their approach.

Friday peeked through the window, then reported back.

‘They're still at the table.'

‘Why?' Sarah said. ‘It must be after midnight by now.'

‘Maybe Charlotte's kept them up.'

‘Can you see her?' Harrie asked.

Friday nodded. ‘That woman's still holding her. I think we should just barge in without even knocking.'

At the door they paused to gather themselves, then Aria rapped, ignoring Friday's advice that they just charge in, which would be somewhat self-defeating if the door was locked.

Nothing for a few seconds, then they heard low muttering and the scrape of a chair across floorboards, followed by heavy footsteps. The door
was
locked, as they could hear whoever was on the other side sliding back a bolt. Then, slowly, it creaked open.

Aria went first, followed immediately by Friday, shoving back whoever was behind the door. It was Leary: he grunted and threw his weight against it, trying to close it again, but Aria and Friday pushed hard and burst through, knocking Leary flat on the floor. Friday actually stood on him as she barged into the little room and staggered into a table, knocking over a bottle and tumbler. The woman leapt off her chair and ran with Charlotte — now awake and crying — into another room and kicked the door shut.

Harrie, through the front door a second after Friday and Aria, ran over the top of Leary and headed straight for the closed door. Rattling the knob madly, she swore as she realised the woman had locked it.

Leary, up again, took a swing at Friday, who ducked and kicked out at his groin, missing and striking him in the thigh. ‘Tell her to bring Charlotte out!' she demanded.

‘Not until that one tells me where me brother is!' he said, gesturing wildly at Harrie.

‘Christ, you're stupid.' Friday crab-walked around him, one eye on Aria, who'd moved behind him, her knife in her hand. ‘She doesn't fucking well know!'

‘She does!'

‘Think about it. If she did know, she would've just said. Why wouldn't she? She doesn't give a fuck about your brother!'

‘She gives a fuck about me treasure!'

What treasure? Friday risked a glance at the bedroom door, where Sarah was picking the lock with the point of her knife. She gave the knob a rattle, then the door a brisk kick, and it flew open, revealing Iris Kellogg holding a red-faced, bawling Charlotte. Harrie snatched the child off her, then punched Iris in the face as she tried to wrench her back.

‘You bitch!' Iris barked. ‘How dare you? That's Jonah's child!'

‘She is not, she's mine! I legally adopted her. Her name's Charlotte Rachel Downey and that arsehole there,' Harrie pointed at Leary, ‘stole her four days ago from my house in Sydney and we're here to take her
back.'

‘No,'
Iris wailed, dabbing at her bleeding nose, ‘her mother's dying. That's why Jonah brought her here. That's why I'm looking after her.'

Sarah shook her head. ‘Sorry, love, you've been taken for a ride. Both of Charlotte's parents are long dead. Jesus, what a prick you are, Leary.'

‘Shut up,' Leary said.

Iris's face was white. ‘Is this true, Jonah?'

‘Don't listen to them. Mad fucking cows, the lot of them.'

‘Jonah?' Iris Kellogg's voice was suddenly little more than a whisper. ‘You made that up, didn't you, about picking me?'

Leary suddenly lunged for Harrie, tore Charlotte out of her arms and made for the door. Aria was after him straight away, but
Iris was even faster. She darted around the upended table, snatched a cast-iron frying pan from the hearth and took an almighty swing at the back of Leary's head. It connected with a dull thud: Leary dropped like a sack of flour, spilling Charlotte onto the floor. She landed on her hands and knees and scampered towards Harrie like a startled wombat.

Harrie snatched her up.

Iris touched Harrie's sleeve. ‘I'm sorry. I didn't know.'

‘It's all right. I know you didn't.'

Peering down at Leary for signs of life, Friday said, ‘Come on, we have to go. Now.'

‘Is he dead?' Sarah asked.

‘No. He is breathing. Sadly,' Aria confirmed.

‘You'd better go,' Iris said. ‘And quickly. He'll be roaring when he wakes up. He's got a filthy temper on him. And a pistol.'

‘Will you be all right?' Friday asked. She had a fair idea what would happen to Iris Kellogg once they left.

Iris shrugged.

They went out one by one, stepping over Leary lying in the doorway, Aria in the rear. She didn't even look down, so got a hell of a fright when his hand closed around her ankle.

Crying out, she kicked out and almost lost her balance when he tried to pull her down by her skirts. Friday darted back and stamped on his arm with the heel of her boot, freeing her, then all five, Charlotte bouncing in Harrie's arms, tore down Newcomen Street. Veering across an open plot, they crossed onto Watt Street and headed towards the wharf.

‘Is he coming?' Harrie panted, trying to look back behind her.

‘Here, give me Charlotte,' Friday said. ‘Fuck
me
!'

A horrible, imp-like figure had launched itself at them out of the dark.

It was Robbie. ‘Stop! You're going the wrong way. The boats are over on the ocean side. Follow me.'

Sarah grabbed his arm. ‘Hang on. What?'

‘The boats, they're on the ocean side. Come on.'

‘I have just seen Leary behind us,' Aria warned. ‘We must go.'

Robbie said, ‘Is he after you? Fucking hell.'

They all took off after Robbie, who led them in a wide half-circle past shadowy buildings and across what felt like endless sand dunes. They slipped and slid, fell over outright and swore their way closer and closer to the ocean proper, all the while looking over their shoulders for Leary. They saw him twice, once ducking around the side of a building, and the second time silhouetted at the top of a dune.

‘Where's Walter?' Friday gasped.

‘Down on the beach with the others.'

‘What others?'

‘The captain and them.'

Friday was more than confused, but there wasn't time to hear the full story now. Her lungs were burning, the muscles in her poor legs were cramping like mad, and Charlotte felt as though she were made of lead. But there wasn't far to go now. They were nearly down onto the hard sand and she could see the pair of boats sitting just in the shallows.

And then it came — a pistol shot. The lunatic was shooting at them. They pounded along the sand towards the boats. The captain was there in one with the big black man, and the man called Hawk and the English tar and Walter were in the other.

As Sarah, Harrie and Robbie piled in with the captain, Friday handed Charlotte to Aria. ‘Get in, I'll push us off.'

Aria flipped herself over the gunwale of Hawk's boat, keeping her head down as another shot rang out. Hawk made to get out to push off but Friday waved him away. ‘Fuck off, no time. I'll do it.'

She set her palms against the transom and gave an almighty shove with the last of her strength. The keel ground against the
sand, moved a few inches, got some water under it, lifted and floated. At the bow, Sharkey put his back into the oars.

‘Get in. Get in!' Aria urged.

Friday yanked up her skirts, waded into the knee-deep water, hoisted herself up and over the transom, then collapsed face first into the boat, shot in the head.

Carrying a sleeping Charlotte in her arms, Harrie trudged down the carriageway, Robbie trailing after her. It was getting towards midday and the sun overhead was hot, but she was so tired she barely noticed. She was dirty, her legs ached horribly from running over sand, and she'd scraped her arm scrambling into the rowboat, but none of that mattered because she had Charlotte back.

The front door flew open and James tore out, looking deranged. ‘Where the
hell
have you been? I've been worried
sick!'

Charlotte woke up and started to cry.

Harrie could only just summon the energy to answer him. ‘We went to Newcastle, to get Charlotte back.'

‘For God's
sake
, Harrie! Is she all right? Are you?'

‘I think she is. I'm fine.'

‘Well, get inside, right now. Robbie, tell Daisy to prepare a bath. Why did you let this happen? You should have stopped her.'

Robbie looked astounded. ‘Me? Stop her and her mates?'

Propelling Harrie into the house as though she were a misbehaving five-year-old, James ranted on, venting his worry and anger, but she ceased listening to him. She was just too tired. In the parlour he extricated Charlotte from her arms and carefully looked her over.

‘Tired, Dada,' she whined. ‘Iris hit the bad man.'

James asked, ‘Who's Iris?'

‘Hang on.' Harrie rang the bell. When Elsa appeared she said, ‘Take Charlotte, will you? Then she can get in the bath with me.'

It took her a good ten or so minutes to explain all that had happened in Newcastle. James was deeply shocked to hear that Friday had been badly hurt. ‘Is she at the Siren?'

Harrie nodded.

‘I'll call on her shortly. It sounds as though she'll certainly need stitches. A head wound like that can be very serious. I'm very surprised she didn't . . . well, I'll call on her.'

‘You're surprised she's not dead?'

‘Yes.'

‘There was a lot of blood, and she didn't wake up till we were on the ship.'

James sat beside Harrie on the sofa, then burst out angrily, ‘Why didn't you tell me what you were planning to do?'

‘If I had, would you have let me go?'

‘No.'

‘But you weren't going to go and get her, were you?'

James started to speak but Harrie pressed her fingers over his mouth.

‘I know you wanted to, but you couldn't. It's all right, I know you couldn't. How would it have looked, a Sydney doctor, a retired naval surgeon, running around the colony after someone like Leary and fighting over a baby girl? If it went wrong, everyone would know and you've got a lot more to lose than I have, James. Don't forget I'm just a convict girl lucky enough to marry miles above my station. If I fall, I haven't got far to go at all. But if you do . . .'

James gazed at her for a moment, his eyes filling with tears, then pulled her into a fierce embrace. ‘Harrie, my
dearest
love, you're so much more than just a convict girl. You're the bravest, most loyal, loving, determined and stubborn person I've ever met. And I love you for it and I always will.'

‘Does this mean you're not angry at me any more?'

‘No, it doesn't.'

‘Oh.'

Sarah stood in the doorway of Friday's room. The curtains had been drawn against the daylight, shrouding the chamber in gloom. An enormous floral arrangement stood in a vase on the dressing table, the scent of carnations, freesias, lily of the valley and sweetpeas perfuming the air. Somewhere, probably behind the curtain, a trapped fly buzzed. Friday lay on the bed, a smooth white sheet pulled up to her chest, eyes closed, her hands crossed on her belly. She was as still and as pale as marble.

Sarah watched her for a long time, a lump the size of an apple jammed in her throat. But she would not cry. This was bad, but there had been worse things. Just.

After a while, Friday's eyes opened. ‘Christ, my head hurts.'

Sarah went in and sat on the chair beside the bed. ‘Can I get you anything? Water? A damp facecloth?'

‘You can take those flowers out. The smell's making me sick. I think Lucian sent them. But don't tell him. And some more laudanum wouldn't go amiss.'

‘How much did James say you could have?'

‘As much as I like.'

Sarah bet he didn't but she wasn't going to argue: Friday's wound was pretty unpleasant and must hurt like hell. The ball from the pistol had struck the top of her head and ploughed a furrow along her scalp half an inch wide and six inches long, and down to the bone. James had sewn it up and said she would be all right as long as no infection set in. There would be a scar, but with luck it would look like a wide parting in her hair. He'd also said that if the ball had hit just quarter of an inch lower it would have taken the top off her skull and she'd have had no chance.

Sarah poured out a nip of laudanum, gave it to Friday, then put the flowers out in the hallway. Then she went over to the brothel to talk to Elizabeth. She wasn't a big consumer of spirits, but after the events of late, and the terrible telling-off Adam had given her when they'd returned from Newcastle yesterday, she decided she could do with some fortification when Elizabeth offered her a brandy.

‘Aria said the captain had taken the rowboats,' Elizabeth said, refilling her own tumbler. ‘I have to say I'm not entirely sure why.'

‘He did. As soon as they'd got out of the cabin — which wasn't difficult because that little cove, Pierre, just climbed out the porthole, same as we did — he upped anchor and sailed upriver to the town —'

‘But Aria said he wouldn't bring
you
upriver, because it was too dangerous in low light.'

‘Apparently low light doesn't matter when you're really angry. Two of the crew swam ashore and found the boats, and even though Captain Farrell had a good mind to sail back to Sydney and leave us there, he decided he'd better stay and make sure we were safe, because of his contract with you.'

‘Who told you that?'

‘He did.'

‘Really? Well, he can't have been happy with how well he'd delivered on it because half the money I paid him was returned to me this morning.'

Sarah shrugged. Rian Farrell's money wasn't any of her affair. ‘So anyway, he thought we'd be better off avoiding the soldiers, or maybe
he
wanted to, I'm not sure. I think he might have had some involvement with contraband going into Newcastle. I think he has quite a
lot
to do with contraband, actually, our Captain Farrell.' Sarah took a sip of her brandy. ‘So he moved the rowboats to the ocean side of the town rather than the river side. Poor Robbie and Walter. They nearly died when they went back for them and they'd gone. It's bloody lucky the captain and his men
were
there, though,
in the end. We could never have rowed all the way back to the
Katipo
, not after running away from Leary like that. We were completely knackered. And with Friday . . .'

‘My poor beautiful girl,' Elizabeth said.

They shared a moment of silence, both contemplating what life would be like without Friday in it. Peaceful, predictable, quiet, dull, lonely, colourless.

‘Still, she'll be back to normal soon,' Sarah said.

‘Unfortunately.'

‘Providing there's no infection, and there might not be. Hawk swears by that disgusting bear grease he put on her wound. God, it stank. I nearly spewed. It was like . . . I really don't know what it was like. Where's Aria?'

‘Gone to the chemist for more laudanum. Friday's knocking it back as if it was gin.'

‘She'll turn into a laudanum inebriate next.'

‘Probably. At least she's not had a drink for days. It's a start.'

‘I suppose.'

‘Do you think Aria's all right?' Elizabeth asked.

‘No, I don't, actually.' Sarah stared into her brandy. ‘Something happened while we were in Newcastle. They disappeared for about an hour and I think it happened then. I haven't been able to ask Friday and, well, Aria's not very approachable, is she?'

‘She seems subdued and . . . angry.'

‘I think I'd be angry, too, if my lover had been shot.'

‘It's more than that. It feels deeper.'

Sarah nodded. ‘I know what you mean. Why don't you ask her?'

‘Frankly, dear, I'm too scared to.'

Sarah laughed. ‘I'll have a talk to Friday then, now she's back in the land of the living.'

‘Do you think Leary will have another go at Charlotte?'

‘Oh God, I hope not. I mean, what would be the point? Harrie'll never let her out of her sight again.'

Jack stuck his head round the door. ‘Sorry, ladies, mind if I interrupt?' He stepped in and placed two guineas on Elizabeth's desk. ‘Just been down the market. That trunk of Molly's? That's all I could get from the second-hand dealer. Better than nothing, though, eh?'

Elizabeth scooped up the coins. ‘Thanks, Jack.'

‘What will you do about the flogging room while Friday's recovering?' Sarah asked.

‘Suspend the service, I suppose,' Elizabeth replied gloomily. ‘None of my other girls can handle a whip. I only hope she isn't out of action too long. All her clients will move to Mrs Thompson's. That'd be a bugger.'

As it happened, Friday was up and about in a week. Her wound healed remarkably quickly — far sooner than anyone, especially James, expected. Privately he'd harboured grave fears that her scalp would degenerate into a suppurating mass of pus, the source of an infection that would ultimately kill her, but no such thing eventuated. He wondered if the absence of infection was due to the evil-smelling concoction Captain Farrell's Red Indian crewman had slathered all over the wound, and which had been exceedingly difficult to remove. In fact, he hadn't been able to get it all off, and some still remained, to Friday's annoyance. James had told her that if the grease was the reason she hadn't developed an infection, she shouldn't complain about a little bit of stickiness and odour. He would very much have liked to discuss the matter with the crewman — he believed his name was Hawk or something similar — but the ship had sailed the day after the girls had returned from Newcastle, so he would have to wait until next time they were in port.

As for Friday, the first thing she did when her headache subsided and she could get about without feeling dizzy was visit the Bird-in-Hand and drink six gins in a row. It felt wonderful, like the two
halves of herself sliding together again and making her whole. The smell of dirty bar rags, alcohol and stale smoke when she walked into the pub felt just like coming home, and she wondered why she'd ever thought it was a good idea to get off the booze. She'd not had a single drink for well over a week so it was pretty clear to her she could stop whenever she felt like it, and obviously folk who could stop for that long, like herself, really weren't inebriates.
And
she was indestructible: she must be. How many people got shot in the head and survived? It had to be an omen. But to be on the safe side, just to make sure things didn't get out of hand like they could sometimes — all right, quite often — she'd stick to six or seven drinks at a time. She especially didn't want to annoy Aria. Or Mrs H, or Sarah or Harrie. In fact, maybe she wouldn't tell them she'd started again. They wouldn't understand that everything was under control.

No, best she keep it to herself.

Maryjane Saltmarsh picked dispiritedly through the junk on the dealer's table. There wasn't much here, which she supposed wasn't that unexpected for a Monday. She usually came to the George Street market on Saturdays and Sundays, when the best stuff was for sale, but she'd been laid up with her bad legs for nearly a week. And they were still bad, ulcerated and weeping, but she had to eat.

She was forty-three and looked twenty years older, a convict transported for seven years for stealing a coat one snowy London winter, who'd long since served her sentence. But while some emancipated convicts made successful lives for themselves in New South Wales, Maryjane hadn't. Her marriage had failed, she hadn't seen her children in years, her health was poor, she drank, and above all she was bitter. The best she could do to support herself was to buy up second-hand goods, then mend, clean and resell them.

She stood contemplating a ladder-back chair with two rungs missing, not just broken. She couldn't do much with that. Clothing
was best but furniture was all right, too, though you had to be quick. There were used-furniture merchants who'd kick the legs right out from under you to get at a good chair or side table. Anything bigger than that, of course, and she couldn't get it home. She sniffed, wiped her nose on her sleeve and moved on.

‘Morning, Maryjane. How're you?'

John Penny. A decent, church-going man who always took pity on her and knocked a little bit off his prices.

‘Not so good, John. Me legs,' Maryjane replied, exaggerating her limp.

‘Sorry to hear that.'

‘I'll get by. Got anything for me today?'

‘I might at that.' He bent down and hauled a trunk out from beneath his cart. ‘Been saving this for you. Thought you'd be along yesterday or Saturday but I didn't see you.'

‘Been laid up. What is it?'

‘Trunk of clothes, mainly. Women's. Nothing special but I thought you could clean them up.'

‘Ooh.'

John lifted the lid. ‘See?'

Maryjane dug through the contents. He was right — the clothing wasn't anything special, but there was also a pair of boots and one of shoes, two shawls, several hats, a reticule and a few grooming items. Quite a haul, really. Could she afford it?

‘How much do you want?'

‘Well, I won't lie. I only paid two guineas for the lot, but I do need to make a profit.'