The Bottle Stopper (3 page)

“I'm from next door. My uncle owns the apothecary.”

“Ah, of course.” The woman extended her hand for shaking. “I'm Gretta.”

Maeve slipped her hand into Gretta's, allowing it to be shaken up and down. “Maeve.”

Gretta stepped back to the counter, grabbing a chocolate éclair from the rack. “It's a little floppy, but it'll taste just as good.” She slipped a napkin around it and held it out.

Maeve stepped back. “I don't have any money.”

“It's free. Whatever isn't sold gets wasted anyway. Take it.”

Maeve took the offered pastry in both hands. She knew the names of all the delights bakeries sold, but she'd never tasted any of them. Not that she could remember, at least. Uncle Lou's diet was mostly liquid, so he never stocked more food than the absolute barest of essentials.

The moist chocolate topping clung to Maeve's teeth as she sunk them into the light, air-filled pastry. Soft cream slipped over her fingers, and she let the taste sit on her tongue for some time before swallowing it down.

“So, is it just you and your uncle?” Gretta's question brought Maeve back to the room.

She nodded, licking cream from her lips.

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“You're only two years younger than my daughter.”

Maeve nodded again, speaking with her mouth full. “I didn't see her when you arrived.”

“She came along after. I believe the last tenant drew quite a crowd when she left.”

Maeve shrugged. “Not a lot happens around here. Gossiping and delighting over others' misfortune are the favourite pastimes.”

Gretta laughed. “Don't worry, I've lived on The Floor long enough to know all about gossip.”

Maeve sucked her fingers, her eyes wandering over the remaining cakes.

“Don't get to eat cakes often?” Gretta asked.

Maeve shook her head.

“How about another? I have these cakes topped with mint chocolate. They're not a huge seller, but they're my daughter's favourite.”

Maeve took a step back and gestured towards the door. “I should get going.”

“Is your uncle waiting for you?”

“He's out for the night, but...” Maeve looked at the floor.

“My daughter's out with her dad. They've popped back to our old shop in The Squeeze to pick up the last of our stuff. They won't be long. You could wait to meet them if you like. I could put the kettle on? Better than going back to an empty house.”

Gretta and Maeve quickly made their way through a large pot of coffee and half a tub of biscuits. Maeve's cheeks ached from laughing, and this carefree happiness was a feeling she wanted to keep hold of. But she knew the shadow of reality wasn't far away.

The bell above the door jingled, and cold air from outside rushed in. Gretta put down her mug and hurried over to relieve her daughter of a large box. Behind the box was the same contagious smile as Gretta's, the same eyes. Maeve smiled back instinctively.

“This is my husband, Hex, and our daughter, Topley,” said Gretta, placing the box on the counter. “This is Maeve. She lives next door.”

Topley was slim and athletic, her hair cut short. She wore a hooded jumper and jeans turned up at the bottom. Maeve had only seen a handful of women in trousers, and all of those had been manual workers. Topley wasn't just unconventional, she was defiant. Maeve liked her instantly.

Hex shuffled across the floor, balancing his box on one huge forearm while he shook Maeve's hand. His fingers were thick and hairy, his palm rough.

Topley skipped across the floor and pulled Maeve into an unexpected embrace. “Welcome to the family,” she whispered in Maeve's ear.

Slipping her hand into Maeve's, she led her out of the shop and into the hall behind. The house was an identical layout to Uncle Lou's, but it was brighter here, fresher, happier. It felt like what Maeve had always imagined a home should feel like.

They tumbled onto Topley's bed and giggled.

“Can you stay over?” Topley asked, propping herself up on one elbow.

“I have to be in bed before my uncle gets home.”

“Where's he gone?”

Maeve knotted her fingers behind her head and sighed. “He calls it his 'rhythmic exercise'.” She rolled her eyes. “He's at the brothels.”

“Well, don't you worry, you'll always have a safe place here. I just know we're going to be great friends.”

Although Maeve didn't dare say it aloud, somewhere in the ball of warmth growing in her stomach, she knew it too.

5

Lou picked his way along the wooden walkways, tentatively making his way down to The Edge, where the Falwere River sucked at the slums like a hard-boiled sweet. The stench was almost unbearable and Lou pulled his handkerchief from his pocket to cover his nose.

He'd been born in the wet silt of the river, the son of a clam digger who thought nothing of how his fingers reeked. It was only through Lou's quick tongue that he found his status improved to live along The Wall. It wasn't easy to make a move like that; a man's past could cling to him stronger than the mud here. Drag him down.

But he always found himself back here, walking the horribly familiar route down to the brothels of The Slip. The women there were ugly and gristly, but they were cheap, and up for anything. And they treated Lou like a king.

“Louis!” came a shout from ahead.

He stopped, raising a hand to shade his eyes from the glare of the lit doorway.

“Who's that?” He stepped closer, and his face broke into a grin. “Lilly,” he sung.

She leaned against the doorway, her dress barely covering the bits he paid for.

“I missed you, Louis.” She stepped forward, running her hands down the lapels of his jacket.

“Is that right?”

Hooking her fingers between the buttons on his waistcoat, she pulled him against her, gazing up at him. She smiled, revealing a few gaps where teeth should have been.

“I've missed you so, so much.” Her breath stank of fish and beer. “Are you coming in?”

Lou nodded and allowed Lilly to lead him inside.

6

Father Harris sat in his small room staring at the papers in front of him. The names and dates had blurred together some time ago. He rubbed his eyes and leaned back, reaching out for his wine.

“Crap,” he said, as the glass tipped, staining the papers pink. He snatched them up and shook them, drops of wine dripping from them like blood. “Oh crap.”

Laying the papers out to dry, Father Harris shifted his chair to the window. As one of the longer-serving monks, he was honoured with a view of the monastery's walled garden.

It was by far the largest garden on The Hope, and it was reserved exclusively for the small population of monks. The high walls ensured that barely anyone even knew it existed. It was a true oasis.

It was beautifully landscaped, and enjoyed an exotic array of trees, shrubs, and flowers that seemed to have been specifically chosen for their fragrant quality. Harris could enjoy it without needing to leave his room. The far corner held a small cemetery for monks who had passed on over the last century or so. The monastic lifestyle did seem to be one that afforded its members an unnaturally long life. Perhaps it was something in the water.

Harris pushed himself to standing and wandered over to his wardrobe. He pulled the door open and knelt down. He pushed the habits aside and felt the back for the loose panel. Easing it out, he laid it aside and reached into the gap. He removed a large, brown bottle, cradling it carefully.

“There you are.” He eased out the cork, and lifted the bottle to his lips.

The home-made brew was brutally strong, and Harris had barely drunk half before his arms refused to lift the bottle anymore. Leaning back against the cold wall, Harris fell asleep, snoring loudly.

A knock at the door woke him. His body ached from the cold, and his joints retaliated with pain as he rolled onto all fours and crawled towards his bed.

“Father Harris?” came a voice through the door.

“Go away!” he yelled, wincing as the sound pounded his brain. He eased himself up onto his modest mattress, and sat with his head dangling limply.

After a moment, the voice came again, more hesitantly this time. “Father Harris?”

Huffing, Harris forced himself to his feet, and stumbled to the door. He pulled it open. “What?” he snapped.

Brother Grant jumped back. He was young, still wearing the pale grey habit of a novice. “I'm sorry, I—I—I just...” He gestured helplessly down the corridor.

Harris held up his hand. “My apologies. I had some bad brew.” He attempted a smile, but it didn't soften the fear on the novice's face. “I guess it's all bad brew really.”

Brother Grant smiled warily. “I guess so.”

“What can I do for you?”

“There's someone asking for you. A woman. A lady. You know, a—” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Prostitute.”

Harris nodded, keeping his face serious. “Yes. Yes. She's probably here for a reading lesson.”

Brother Grant shot his eyes to the ceiling. “Probably.”

Harris stepped into the corridor and closed his bedroom door. “You need to relax a little. Why don't I see if she has a friend who you can teach to read?”

“No, no, thank you.”

“Maybe she can teach you to read.” Harris laughed, walking away towards the church.

Lacey was stood by the altar, her face tilted up to the impressive cross that hung above it. Her blonde hair was illuminated in shades of pink and green as the sunlight caught it through the stained glass window. If it wasn't for her low-cut dress and her bare thigh, she would have almost looked angelic.

Harris crept across the flagstones, keen not to disturb her moment of peace. He wanted to remember her like this. As he sat down on the front pew, the wood beneath him creaked, and she turned. The image was lost.

Lacey smiled and settled herself next to Harris. He reached up to touch her face, but she shied away.

“It's too dark in here for sunglasses,” Harris said, reaching out again.

Relenting, Lacey let him remove her glasses. They were too big for her; designed for a man.

Her eyelid was sunk over the empty socket, a crescent of red flesh showing beneath it. Harris ran his hand gently over her cheek. He would never forget seeing her at his bedroom door, her face unrecognisable; swollen and bloody. He had scooped her up, run through the monastery, paced the room while Father Benson carefully removed her eye. And he would never forgive himself for it.

But she had never complained, or cried. She had sat quietly as Father Benson cleaned her wounds, and strapped her broken fingers. When he had finished, Lacey had thanked him for his mercy.

Harris had no doubt that she had said the same to her pimp after he disfigured her.

“Come on.” Harris stood and held out his hand. Lacey slipped her calloused hand into his. She stood, and followed him to his bedroom.

“Sit down,” Harris said, gesturing to the bed. “Are you warm enough?”

She nodded.

“Let me get you some food.”

When Harris opened the door, Brother Grant was stood outside, his face guilty.

“Eavesdropping?” Harris asked.

Grant's face flushed, his mouth opening and closing uselessly.

“Walk with me.” Harris set off towards the kitchen, leaving Grant to skip a few steps to catch up. “You've been here long enough to know what's going on. That church out there is a front, a mask, a lie. All this is a lie.” He gestured to the building around them. “All this is a lie.” He plucked at his habit. “We stand there every week and tell the good citizens what not to do, and then we do it all. We perform marriages with terrified brides, brides forced to marry a man they don't, and probably will never, love. Do you know how many of them I've seen on a Sunday hiding bruises? Because us men, despite the uniforms we wear, despite the titles we have, we do as we please. In this city, we are kings. And those women, they're nothing but our property.” He stopped, and turned to Grant. “Did you know that I have a daughter?”

“I didn't,” Grant stammered.

“I'm not the only one.” He started walking again. “Falside is a pit, a drain, a latrine, full of immorality and sin, and this is the centre of it all. We're the source of the virus, and we're spreading it everywhere.”

“Are we talking about syphilis?”

Harris sighed. “We're talking about everything. Look, I may be drunk, but I can promise you this: whatever reasons led you to the monastic life won't mean shit in a year's time. You'll have forgotten them. I haven't a clue why I joined.”

“It's not all corrupt.” Grant stopped walking, and looked up at Harris. “Is it?”

“We're put here by the administration, and they—well, you're better off not knowing what they're doing.” He patted Grant on the shoulder. “But there's always hope.”

Harris nudged his door open with his hip, and hurried across the room to relieve his hands of the hot bowl of stew. He set it down on his desk, laying a knob of bread next to it.

He turned, and found Lacey asleep on his bed. He sat down on the edge, and brushed her hair back from her face. She stirred, and slipped her hand into his.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you,” Harris said.

“Don't worry, I wanted to speak to you.”

“Eat first.” Harris passed her the food and watched her eat as if it were her first meal in a week.

“You're too kind to me,” she said between mouthfuls.

“Nonsense. I wish you'd let me do more for you.”

“You know you can't. He'd never let me go.”

“So what are you going to do? Just wait for him to kill you?”

Lacey lifted the bowl to her lips and drained it. She wiped her mouth with her sleeve. She looked down at the floor.

“I'm pregnant.”

Harris opened his mouth. He scrabbled for something to say—something supportive, something positive—but he knew what this meant for her. A one-eyed prostitute was a curious oddity, maybe even a fetish. But a pregnant one was a financial liability.

“I need money so that I can fix this,” she said. “I don't have anyone else to ask.”

“Does he know yet?”

Lacey screwed her hands together.