The Bottle Stopper (6 page)

“Aha, I see.” His voice was further away now. “Cause what exactly? Diarrhoea? Sickness? Or was it more hallucinations and visions?”

“Actually, death,” Maeve called out.

There was no reply.

“Hello?”

Maeve stepped towards a mound of books, peering in behind it. She jumped as he spoke right behind her.

“And what would a nice girl like you want with a book on poisons?” He had a small book in his hand.

“Just curious really. I wouldn't want to accidentally poison someone.”

“Perhaps a simple cookbook would be more appropriate.”

“Well, it's best to be sure.”

Maeve reached out for the book, but he folded his arms, slipping it out of sight.

“And what would you be willing to pay for such a book?” he asked. “There are no credits for books. We wouldn't want you women getting dangerous ideas.”

Maeve slipped her hand into her pocket. “I have a luxury credit.”

He held out his hand. Maeve pulled out her bundle of credits and leafed through them. She pulled out the luxury one and placed it in his palm.

He looked at it, and back up at her. “And what do you suppose would happen to me if the administration knew that I sold a book about poisonous plants to a girl from The Floor? And that I took a luxury credit as payment. A credit issued in Haverhead. How exactly does a slum girl come across such a thing?”

Maeve took a step back towards the door. “Maybe a cookbook would be more appropriate after all.” She took another step back. If he reported her, she'd be arrested. Maybe even killed.

He broke into a smile, stepping forward to catch her arm. “I'm sorry, I'm joking, really. Come on, I'll sell you the book.” His smile faltered. “But if anyone ever asks, it didn't come from me.”

Maeve nodded. “Sure.”

He handed her the book. “And if you ever need anything else, maybe on torture techniques, or how to commit the perfect murder, just come back to The Paper Duchess, and Denver will sort you out.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “That's me by the way.”

“Sure.” Maeve slipped the small book into her pocket and stepped back, glancing around to locate the door.

“Hey, really, I'm sorry about all that. I read too many spy novels, and fancy myself as something I'm not.” He grinned again. “Really, you're safe here.”

“Thanks for the book.” Maeve backed to the door, pulled it open, and scurried away.

11

Kerise dropped from the rafters, landing on the floor without a sound. She reached out and clamped her hand onto Denver's shoulder.

He spun around, clutching his heart. “Don't do that!”

Kerise glanced at the door. “Was that her?”

Denver nodded. “That was her.”

12

Hemlock had been easy enough to find. It grew plentifully among the tall grasses at the far end of The Floor, and its red-spattered stems were distinctive. Maeve had been careful to keep it separate from the other plants, which would be destined for the medicine bottles.

She put the basket of cuttings on the kitchen floor, and pulled out the hemlock, constantly reminding herself not to touch her face before washing her hands. She removed the leaves, and wrapped the stems and clusters of white flowers into an old towel. According to the book, the leaves would do the job.

Crossing to the sink, she scrubbed her hands until they were red. She grabbed a loaf from the worktop, took some old sliced ham from the fridge, and pulled out the small jar of mustard she'd bought on The Hope. The book said hemlock tasted foul, and she hoped the mustard would be enough to disguise its flavour.

Maeve carried everything to the table. She spread the bread with generous amounts of mustard, wincing at the smell. She layered in two slices of ham, and then looked at the hemlock. Could she really do this?

Lou strode into the kitchen and peered at the half-made sandwich.

“I made you lunch,” Maeve said, as casually as she could manage.

Lou raised an eyebrow. “Lunch?” He folded his arms. “When do you ever make me lunch? It's not poisoned, is it?” He laughed at his own joke.

Maeve's heart beat like a drum. She was sure he'd hear it.

“It's a peace offering,” she said quickly, stepping away from him. “An apology.”

“That mustard stinks. And what's that?” He pointed at the hemlock leaves.

“Parsley,” Maeve said with a smile.

Lou snorted. He grabbed the mustard-covered knife, and swept the leaves onto the floor.

“Rabbit food,” he said. He closed the sandwich and walked back to the shop.

Maeve looked down at the scattered hemlock leaves. Several of them had dropped into the basket with the other cuttings. She knelt down, scooping up the leaves from the floor. Then she set about inspecting each and every cutting, removing anything that looked even remotely like hemlock. But without their distinctive stalks, it wasn't a simple task.

When she'd finished, she wrapped the leaves with the rest of the hemlock and stashed it in the storage room. Maybe, if she found the courage, she'd try again.

13

Maeve woke as Uncle Lou wrenched her thin mattress onto the floor. She rolled onto the floorboards, her nightdress hitching up to her hips.

He placed his boot on her arm, and looked down at her.

“The shop is only half stocked. Why are you sleeping?”

“We're low on water.”

“Then I'll go and get some more.”

“You can't. It's dredging day. You have to let the river settle first.”

He pressed his boot down harder. “I know that. But there's flu going around on Lynstock. I need a full shop.”

“There's just not much we can do until the river settles. You'll kill everyone if you use that water.”

Lou removed his boot, and crouched down. He placed a finger on Maeve's knee and ran it up her thigh. “Well, if we can't open the shop, I'll have to find another way to occupy my time.”

“I'll finish up with the water I've got. I'll use small bottles.”

“Just make sure they're cheap bottles. The Lynstock lot are cheapskates.”

He roamed his eyes over Maeve's bare legs before standing, and sauntering out of the room.

Maeve quickly dressed and hurried downstairs. Lou was in the storage room, peering critically into the barrel of water.

“I'll eke it out,” Maeve said.

“Looks like you're low on bottles and cuttings too.”

“I'll get some.”

“I want that shop fully stocked by lunchtime.”

“Of course.” Maeve grabbed her cardigan from a hook in the kitchen, and pushed her hands into its deep pockets.

She stumbled across the mud that had baked hard into ridges and trenches, and stepped onto the wooden planks. The Wall was almost empty today. Almost everyone on The Floor was down at the riverbank, waiting, in hope, for treasures to be unearthed by the dredgers.

“Maeve!”

Maeve looked up to see Topley perched on the railings outside the bakery. She dismounted and hurried down the steps.

“I was just watching all the commotion at the river. I think they may have found something.”

“Well, let's just hope it's not cholera.”

Topley coughed, bending double to spit out phlegm.

“Are you alright?” asked Maeve. “I was just joking about the cholera.”

Topley waved her hand before slowly straightening up. “It's just the stench of the dredging, it's really getting to me today.”

“Six months worth of God knows what.”

“Yeah, and six months between dredges is just long enough to forget how bad it is.”

“But the vultures are still there, hoping to strike gold.”

Topley closed her eyes for a moment, breathing deeply. “Anyway, where are you off to?”

“To find more bottles. Easy pickings when everyone's preoccupied at the river. Are you up to coming along?”

Topley nodded, but her cheeks were pale.

“We'll take it slowly then,” Maeve said, offering her bent arm for Topley to link hers into.

“Have you ever been down on dredging day?” Topley asked.

“When I was a kid. I remember going with my mum a couple of times. I used to love hitching my skirt up, wading out into the water. I liked the way the mud sucked at my feet. I found an amazing brooch once, just unearthed it with my toes. But Uncle Lou pawned it years ago.”

“Can I ask what happened with your mum?”

Maeve stopped and stared at the floor. “I don't even know, not really. One day a group of officers came for her. Uncle Lou was there, and he didn't do a thing. Just watched them take away his sister. He held onto me so tightly. I tried to get to her, but I couldn't do anything other than scream.”

“But the administration has no authority on The Floor.”

“Technically, they do, they just don't really care. Just let us get on with it. I don't know why they wanted Mum. I used to ask Uncle Lou about it, but he'd always tell me to shut up.”

“Do you think she's still alive.”

“I'm sure it's just vain hope, but something has always told me that she is. I feel like, if she died, I'd just know somehow.”

Topley nodded thoughtfully.

“Let's go and find some bottles.”

As they entered The Squeeze, Topley stopped again, gripping her stomach.

“Are you alright?” Maeve asked.

Topley braced herself against a wall as she bent over, vomiting into the mud. Maeve watched helplessly. Topley slowly straightened up, still gripping the wall for balance.

“I better get you home,” Maeve said, taking hold of her arm.

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. This is obviously more than just the smell.”

“I'm sure it's just a bug. I just need some sleep.”

Maeve attempted a smile. “Just don't take any of my Uncle Lou's bogus medicine.”

The following day, the stench of the river still hung thick over The Floor. Maeve wandered downstairs, her mood darkening as she heard Lou already opening the shop. She enjoyed the mornings he slept late. They were her hours, and the only time she didn't need to be alert, or watchful.

She crept down towards the storage room, keen for him not to hear her. She glanced at the barrel, stopped, and went back for a closer look. It was full. And it absolutely reeked.

Against her instincts, Maeve walked up to the shop and stepped through the door. Lou was sat behind the counter with his arms folded across its polished surface. His head was rested on his arms, his eyes closed.

“Uncle Lou, did you get more water?”

Lou lifted his head and sneered at her. “You asked for more, and I delivered. Now you have no excuses.”

“But it's dredged water.”

“No. It's clean. I got it this morning. While you were still tucked up in your bed dreaming about daisies. I live to serve.”

“It's definitely this morning's water? You didn't get it yesterday?”

Lou rose to his feet. “Can I say it more clearly for you?” He stepped forward and took hold of Maeve's hair in his fist. With each word, he gave it a hard tug. “Yes, it is this morning's water.” He pulled her head back, forcing her to look up at him. “Are we understanding now.”

“Yes, Uncle Lou.”

He pushed her back into the hall. “Then get back to work.”

Maeve sat on her sacking cushion and picked up a bottle. She dunked it into the water and held it up to the light. Maybe it wasn't dirtier than usual. She grabbed a plant cutting, and carefully inspected it. She couldn't risk slipping poison hemlock into the bottles.

14

Lou opened his eyes as the bell above the shop door jingled. He sat up, and smoothed down his hair. He didn't bother standing up. Not for customers from The Floor.

“Jean Louis Benedict Ricard at your service,” he said, the fake French accent coming automatically. “How can I help you today?”

“Our daughter has a fever,” the woman said. “I'm sure it's nothing serious, but she's a little delirious, and I'd like something to help her sleep it off.”

The man she was with began browsing the shelves. Picking up the odd bottle, putting it back, picking up another. The constant chinking of the bottles grated Lou's headache, but the man was enormous, with arms like tree trunks, so he wasn't about to argue.

“Well then, I have just the thing.” Lou pushed himself to his feet and wandered over to the shelves. He made a show of checking the bottles, as if they contained different things.

He chose a plain, average-sized bottle. Nothing special. Nothing expensive.

“Credits or cash?”

The woman dug into her pockets. “Credits.” Her voice cracked. It was a sign Lou knew well; the sign of a desperate mother. He played close attention to his customers' body language, the tone of their voice, the look in their eyes. Not because he cared, but because he knew desperate people would pay a higher price.

“Two luxury, or six standard.”

The man shifted his weight, and for a moment, Lou thought he might have a haggler on his hands. He had neither the energy, nor the inclination to haggle. Let them name their price. But the woman handed over six credits without argument.

Lou wrapped the bottle in a paper bag and passed it to her.

“I hope she feels better soon.”

“Thank you,” the man said.

Lou frowned as they turned to leave. “Excuse me,” he said. “Are you from the bakery just next door?”

“Yes we are,” the woman replied.

15

Gretta wrung a cool cloth into the bucket by Topley's bed and laid it, gently, over her daughter's forehead. Topley groaned in her sleep, her eyelids fluttering. Gretta touched her hot cheek.

“Maeve came to see you, darling. I sent her away. Maybe you'll be well enough to see her tomorrow.” Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat.

Gretta heard Hex's heavy boots on the stairs, and quickly wiped her eyes. She turned to the door with as much of a smile as she could manage.

“How's the patient?” Hex asked.

Gretta shrugged. She didn't trust her voice not to betray her.

“Maybe a bit more medicine.”

Gretta moved off the bed and let Hex take her place. He put his hands under Topley's arms and hefted her up to sitting. Her eyes flicked open, but they didn't focus. Hex poured some medicine into a small cup, and held it to Topley's mouth. She turned away, but he moved the cup, and pushed it between her lips.