The Bottle Stopper (7 page)

“Come on sweetheart. If it tasted nice, it probably wouldn't work. Come on.”

Topley relented, and swallowed the foul water.

“There, that's better. You get some rest now.” Hex eased her back down in the bed. He bent forward and kissed her cheek. He looked up at Gretta.

All of Gretta's reserve had hung on convincing herself that she was worrying over nothing. But when she saw that same look in her husband's eyes, it was more than she could bear. Dropping to her knees, she finally let the tears come, her body heaving them out of her.

Hex knelt beside her, his thick arms holding her tight. But they couldn't protect her, and they couldn't protect Topley. Not this time.

“She'll pull through,” Hex whispered. He lifted Gretta to her feet. “Come on. Lets leave her to rest. That's what she really needs.”

Gretta swept back to the bed and took Topley's hand in hers. She clasped it to her chest.

“I love you darling,” she said.

16

Maeve wandered out of the shop and leaned against the railings. It was three days since the dredging, and the river's stench had lost its sickening potency.

She glanced down at the bakery. Gretta had sent her away yesterday, and this morning, they hadn't even opened the shop. The thin blinds were pulled down over the window, and a small card was taped to the door.

“I hear she's sick,” Lou said, appearing in the doorway.

“Who?”

“The girl next door. Your friend.” He drew the word out, making fun of the concept.

Maeve frowned. “How do you know?”

“Her parents came in for some medicine yesterday. Paid over the odds too.” He grinned.

Maeve pushed herself off from the railings, and ran down to the street. She raced up the bakery's steps, grabbing the door frame with both hands. The card was handwritten, and the hand that had written it had been shaking.

The bakery is closed due to a family bereavement.

We're sorry.

Maeve felt as though her insides had dropped out of her, leaving her body cavernous and echoing. She staggered back, and gripped hold of the railing. But it was jelly in her hand, and she sank to her knees.

Crawling to the door, she leant back against it, and let the tears come. Topley was dead. The only friend she'd ever had. And she'd killed her.

Her face grew hot with anger, with guilt, and she found the strength to stand. She ran back down the steps, and into the apothecary, shoving Lou out of her way. She skidded into the storage room, and grabbed the towel with the hemlock wrapped inside.

“You idiot,” she muttered.

With tears blurring her vision, Maeve ran blindly back to the street, and cut through The Cubes. She bashed into people, ignoring their shouts, and stumbled across the rutted mud. She didn't stop until the freezing water of the Falwere River was wrapping itself around her waist.

She lifted the towel above her head, and threw it, as far as she could. She rubbed at her eyes, and watched the bundle float away.

“No!” she screamed, beating the water with her fists. “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.”

She crouched down, the water running fingers along her jawline. She lifted her feet from the bottom, bobbing in the water like a cork.

Maybe I'll let the river carry me away, she thought.

Maeve had heard stories of people trying to escape Falside by swimming downstream. There were stories of rapids and jagged rocks, bodies pulled from the water with every bone broken. There were stories of sharks, crocodiles, piranhas. Stories of soldiers on the riverbanks that shot people on sight. But the current trickled past her gently, incapable of carrying her anywhere.

Maeve stood up again. She didn't deserve an easy way out. She deserved to look at what she'd done, every day, for the rest of her life. She deserved the guilt, the self loathing. That would be her monument to Topley. A pillar of bitterness, a wreath of hatred, a banner of loneliness.

Balling her sodden skirt into her hands, Maeve waded out of the water, and dragged her feet through the mud. She didn't walk along the wooden walkways, opting instead to perilously find her way through the furrows of mud.

She stood in front of the bakery, and looked up at Topley's bedroom window. She walked slowly up the steps, her need for solace outweighing her desire to suffer. She cursed herself for being so weak willed.

The bakery door was open, but they weren't serving customers. They were packing their belongings.

Maeve stood in the doorway, water pooling around her feet. She hung her head.

“Maeve,” Gretta said. “We're leaving. There's nothing here for us anymore, and there's nothing for you either.” The softness in her voice had gone, replaced by sharp corners. “You should just go home.”

“I could come with you,” Maeve whispered.

Gretta picked up the basket she had been packing. She looked around the shop. “That's everything. Let's go.”

Gretta pushed past Maeve, with Hex following silently behind. As they descended the steps, he turned and looked back at her.

Maeve sat down on a box, a stack of rubbish was piled behind it. Maeve ran her eyes over it, looking for something familiar; a memory, a souvenir. Something that would keep Topley close to her.

And there it was. The thick, round neck of a bottle. She pulled it out and looked at it. A sprig of lavender stood inside it, and in the bottom, a thick layer of brown sludge slowly shifted. Maeve stared hard at it.

She pushed herself to her feet and ran down the steps, and up to the apothecary. She marched down to the storage room, grabbed the rim of the barrel, and toppled it, water washing over the floor. Behind it came the sludge. Thick, sickly, suffocating.

This water could have only been collected on dredging day.

And her uncle had collected it.

17

Harris knew exactly where to find Lou. They'd frequented the brothels in The Slip together for years. He knew Lou's type, and his type was cheap.

Harris gingerly made his way down the steps to The Floor. He hadn't been down here for several years, and the steps were more perilous than he remembered. At least his habit gave him right of way wherever the steps were too narrow for two people to pass.

When he reached the ground, Harris looked up The Wall. Maeve wasn't far away. It would be so easy to walk to the apothecary, and knock on the door. Physically easy, at least. Instead, he turned the other way and picked his way down to The Slip.

The girls leaned out of doorways as he approached, whistling, calling out to him. He would be a fetish to them, a story to tell, a badge of honour.

“Have you seen Louis?” he asked one girl.

“Not tonight, baby,” she replied, her drunk tongue struggling over the words. “But I got something I want to confess to you.”

Harris ignored her, and walked on. By the time he reached the end of the row, word had already spread.

“You can come see my Louis,” one girl called out, lifting her skirt.

“I can show you heaven tonight,” said another.

“Come here, I've got a sin I'd like you to look at.”

Harris rolled his eyes.

“Harris.”

He stopped at the sound of his name. The woman in the doorway was much older than the other girls. She was covered up, and could almost pass for a proper lady.

Harris moved closer, struggling to see her face in the approaching darkness. He frowned, searching through his memory for a name to attach to it.

“Bloody hell,” he said, “is that Niblet?”

She winced. “No one calls me that anymore. It's Madam Lemaire these days.” She gestured to the building behind her. “I'm a business woman now.”

“Very impressive,” said Harris.

Madam Lemaire picked at his habit. “No need to ask what became of you then. You were my best customer too. But maybe we can talk exclusivity deals, if you have some time. I can send all my finest girls to the monastery.”

“Actually, I was looking for Louis.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, he's in. Want to wait for him? We could have that conversation.”

Harris sighed.

“Come on, for old times,” she urged.

“Alright. I'm pretty sure I got lice from the last one I was with.”

“All my girls are clean,” Madam Lemaire called over her shoulder as she led him inside.

By the time Lou was brought down to the bar, Harris was drunk, with a girl lounging on either side of him. He'd lost his habit somewhere along the way, left sitting in nothing but his long underwear. The girls stroked his chest, whispered in his ears, wrapped their toes around his ankles.

He pushed himself to his feet, and the girls tumbled from him.

“Lou, at last.” He clambered over tangled legs and pulled Lou into an unrequited embrace. “Get me out of here,” he whispered in Lou's ear. “God knows how big a debt I've already run up.”

“Where are your clothes?” Lou asked.

“Never mind them, just get me out of here.”

As they staggered out, they passed Madam Lemaire. “See you soon,” she said with a grin.

“You're a good businesswoman,” Harris mumbled.

“You're telling me,” replied Lou.

They wandered, stumbling together, along The Edge, the stinking river eager to swallow them if they fell. Lou tripped, and dropped Harris, his chin bouncing off the edge of the walkway. His inebriation dulled the pain, and Harris rolled onto his back, howling with laughter. Lou eased himself down to sit on an empty crate.

“That's going to hurt in the morning,” Lou said.

Harris looked up at him. “You're right about that.”

“So, how is it that Father Harris finds himself slumming it with the rest of us?”

Harris frowned. Somewhere in the fog of his brain, he remembered having a purpose. “I was looking for you.”

“Why?”

Harris twisted around, managing to sit up against the shack behind him. “I can't remember.” He laughed.

“It must have been important for you to come down here.”

“Yes!” Harris cried with a flash of inspiration. “The girl.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, I saw her. In fact, we bumped into each other.” Harris leaned his head back against the shack, trying to slow the spinning. “She looks just like her mother. I thought I was seeing a ghost.”

“Every day I have to look into that face,” Lou said. “It's like looking at my sister. Some days I'm sure there's something accusatory in her eyes, like she knows my part in it all. Every day, she's a reminder.”

“How is she?”

“Like a thorn in my side.”

“I was wondering if, maybe, sometime, I might come and see her.”

Lou snorted. “And tell her what? 'Hi, I'm your dad, and me and your uncle sold your mum to the administration. Then we spent the money on beer and hookers.' What a touching reunion that would be.”

“Maybe you're right.” Harris looked down at his socks, white in the moonlight. “Where are my clothes?”

18

Maeve unloaded the filled bottles onto the kitchen table. She had cleaned up the storage room, washed out the barrel, and paid a boy to fetch her more water. Uncle Lou had no idea she knew what he'd done. That was an advantage she was keen to keep hold of.

Glancing up the corridor, she could see straight outside; the door from the hall to the shop was open, as was the front door beyond. She wandered through.

Uncle Lou was leaning on the railings, looking down the street. The air was full of shouting and screaming, with people running past to involve themselves in whatever was happening.

Maeve balled her hands into tight fists and stepped up next to Lou. Every part of her wanted to scream, to tear him apart with her bare hands. But she simply swallowed, and forced her voice into a neutral tone.

“What's going on?” she asked.

Lou pointed down the street to a tight crowd of people. “They caught some guy who raped and killed his wife. Been battering her for years apparently.”

Maeve peered down the road. She could see the accused man, his face covered in blood, being dragged along. He was screaming, kicking his legs out, fighting for his life.

“What will they do to him?”

Lou shrugged. “Kill him. Maybe drown him, or just kick him to death.”

“Won't the administration try him first?”

“The administration don't care about what we do. They're never going to come and investigate the death of a slum woman. It's mob justice down here. No trials, no appeals, just the death penalty. What do the administration care if another cockroach dies?”

Maeve looked back at the crowd.

“Mind the shop, I'm going to watch. You don't often get entertainment this good.”

Maeve watched him clatter down the steps. Slowly, she relaxed her aching hands, and rubbed at the deep fingernail imprints in her palms.

19

Maeve settled herself onto her rag cushion, and pulled over her basket of fresh plant cuttings. She unwrapped the hemlock, and stared at it. With its clusters of small white flowers, and its feathery leaves, even its mottled stem, it looked so innocent. No one would guess what it was capable of.

She looked down at her hands. Was she capable? Able to kill indiscriminately? To take innocent lives to save her own?

She picked up her knife and chopped the hemlock down, mixing it among the other plants. If she didn't look, if she didn't know which bottles contained the lethal plant, then she wasn't choosing who would die. That was destiny's job. She may be putting the gun in its hand, but destiny would be pulling the trigger.

Maeve picked up a bottle, and held it tightly. She put it back on the pile, picked it up again.

“Here goes,” she said, dunking it into the barrel of water. She listened to the bubbles fight their way from the bottle, waited for them to cease, and lifted the full bottle out. She reached behind her, and blindly grabbed a cutting from the basket. Screwing her eyes closed, she stuffed the plant into the bottle.

She opened her eyes, and inspected the medicine. No hemlock. She sighed. This wasn't going to work. Sitting the bottle on the floor, Maeve stood and wandered to the doorway. She looked back at the plant cuttings.