The Bottle Stopper (11 page)

It had not been a comfortable night on the floor. Harris had borrowed extra blankets, but his joints complained as he sat up. Lacey was still asleep in his bed, her breathing heavy and regular. He watched her sleep, and knew he had to find some way to get her out of Falside.

But that wouldn't be an easy task. The entrances to the city were heavily guarded, and delivery vans were searched on both entry and exit. They wouldn't let any women leave, even if they were just slum hookers. Many women had been shot while trying to escape, and those who succeeded were on their own against the roaming gangs that would relish the opportunity to enslave them.

But there were also stories of refuges, safe houses, whole communities of women living freely. There were stories of cities where women were equal to men, where birth rates were steady, cities that weren't governed with such a heavy hand. Was the possibility worth the risk?

Harris sighed. If he could find a way out, if he could have assurances, maybe he could get Maeve out too.

There was a woman who might know. But Harris had never even seen her face. He'd spoken to her several times in the confessional, and he'd watched her walk away. Although with her long, red hair, she shouldn't be too hard to find. It was just a question of where to look.

Harris dressed quietly, and bent to gently kiss Lacey's forehead. She was warm, and stirred, emitting a gentle moan. He hoped she had found some peace in her dreams.

Harris found Brother Grant in the library, his usual stack of books surrounding him.

“Still looking for answers?” Harris asked.

“It gives me a purpose, which is more than you have,” Grant replied without looking up.

Harris sat down. “I'm sorry. I know things have been awkward between us since—” He cleared his throat. “I want to put things right, pay it back. But I need you to help me.”

Grant placed his pen on the table and turned to Harris. “Haven't I helped you enough?”

“There's a woman in my room. I want to help her, but I need to go and find someone who might be able to get her out of the city. Her name's Lacey, and she's very dear to me. While I'm gone, I need you to look after her. Bring her food, water, anything she wants. Talk to her. Reassure her.”

Grant lowered his voice. “You're going to get her out of the city?”

“Yes. If I can.”

29

Maeve dragged her feet up the steps to the apothecary. She hadn't been back in two days, having found unexpected hospitality in the brothels at The Slip. Madam Lemaire had fed her, and given her a warm bed. But that place was full of men with too few morals, and too many hands. It was a constant stream of Uncle Lous. And despite Madam Lemaire's promise that Maeve would only ever be a waitress, never one of the girls upstairs, she knew she couldn't stay. And there was only one other place she could go.

Maeve looked up at the sign above the door. The wooden bottle swung gently back and forth, hanging from the bracket by its cork. She'd spent most of her life in the servitude of her uncle, and she had few memories from before it.

She pushed the door open, and stepped inside.

Uncle Lou was sat behind the counter, bent over a newspaper. He looked up, and his face paled.

“You're back,” he said quietly.

“You have your friend Madam Lemaire to thank for that,” Maeve said. She wanted him to know it wasn't her choice to return.

“So what now?” Lou asked.

Maeve somehow hated him even more for his meekness, his embarrassment at getting caught. She certainly wasn't about to name it guilt. At least when he was lashing out at her, she could hate him from a physical, instinctual place. But to see him so pathetic, asking her for decisions, she had to actively choose to hate him.

“Just stay out of my way,” Maeve said. She pulled the door to the hall open, and stepped through it. She backed up, and looked at his hunched stature.

“Actually, no, let's have this out.” She took a step towards him. This man she had feared for most of her life. “How could you do it? How could you hand over your own sister? My mother. You took her away from me.” She was shouting now. “How could you? Answer me!”

Maeve launched herself at Lou, punching his chest, tearing at his neck. He lifted his hand and swiftly hit her. His knuckles slammed into her cheek bone, and the impact threw her to the floor.

She rolled over and looked back at him. She recognised his expression; this was the Uncle Lou she knew.

He dropped his knees onto her arms, and she recognised the pain of her shoulder dislocating. Lou's long fingers wrapped around her neck. Maeve lay still, staring straight into his eyes.

“Do it,” she croaked. “Do it!”

“I will!” He tightened his fingers. “I'll bloody kill you, and no one will even miss you, Selene!”

He let go, rolling back onto his heels. He stared at Maeve, and then down at his hands.

“Look what you made me do,” he said. He rose to his feet, turned and walked into the hall. Maeve heard him stomp up the stairs.

She coughed, and swallowed down the taste of blood. She rubbed at her aching neck, and cradled her dislocated arm as she battled to sit up. She coughed again, and pain shot through her shoulder.

Bending her knees up to her chest, Maeve slowly lifted her arms to wrap around her legs, and laced her fingers together. She cried out as she leaned backwards, but her shoulder popped back into place. She gently shook it out, and struggled to her feet.

She wandered over to the counter and sat on the chair behind it. He had called her by her mother's name. Had he once had his hands around her neck?

She looked down at the newspaper.

'Death to Door Salesman: Merchant arrested for string of poison hemlock murders'.

Maeve quickly read through the first few paragraphs. They had linked a number of deaths to the merchant, even deaths from The Floor. They had the wrong man, and they wouldn't be looking for the right one. According to the families, justice had been done. There had been celebrations over his capture, protests calling for the death sentence. That's why she'd seen bunting strung up in the slums.

Roscoe Cross. How did this man get so tangled up in this?

Maeve looked around the shop. She needed to increase production. She had to bring the finger of suspicion here, and there had to be no doubt about it.

30

Lacey had been at the monastery for three days, and Harris had failed to find the red-headed woman.

He knew Lacey was getting anxious. Her pimp would have expected her back, and it wouldn't take him too long to come looking for her. Harris kept feeding her, nursing her, sleeping on the floor. But they were both aware that this was just a reprise, an intermission. Sooner or later, Harris would need to find her a way out of the city, or she would have to go back to her pimp.

Harris couldn't let her end up dead. Not Lacey.

He glanced towards the window. Maybe there was a way. But he'd need Brother Grant's help again.

Grant wiped his forehead with his sleeve. He dug his shovel into the ground and leaned against it.

“So, a few days ago, we buried her, and now we're digging her back up?”

Harris crouched by the open grave. The smell was unbearable. He reached in and pulled back the habit's hood, turning the girl's face towards Grant.

“Does she look familiar?”

Grant took a hesitant glance, before taking a closer look. He looked away. “Alright, she looks like Lacey.”

“All the girls I choose do. She's the woman I want more than anyone, and the only one I won't touch. Can't touch. She's a goddess.”

“But will her pimp be fooled?”

Harris looked up at Grant. “When I've finished with her, there'll only be one way to identify her as Lacey.”

Grant held up his hands and took a step back.

“It's alright,” Harris said. “This is my mess. You don't have to stay for this.”

He looked back down at the body. He pulled a scalpel from his pocket, and placed it beside the shallow grave. Climbing down on top of her, he positioned his thumbs on the eyelid, and began to push.

Harris found one of the old hearse carts in the back storage shed. It had a large, central pair of wheels, and a set of handles at either end. The steps down to The Floor would be hard-going, but this would be easier than carrying her.

Lacey collected herbs, flowers, and other fragrant plant cuttings from the garden, and laid them around the body to try to disguise the stench a little.

Grant walked in front, his back turned to the body. It was covered with a sheet, and laid with plants, but the stink was still terrible. Grant didn't deserve to be facing it. Harris was amazed he'd talked the novice monk into helping at all.

They stood at the top of the steps and looked down. They'd waited until dusk, so that they had fewer witnesses, but the deepness of the shadows on the uneven steps could prove fatal for them both.

“We'll just have to take it really slowly,” Harris said. “Feel each step before you tread down to it. Maybe I should go first.”

Grant looked at the body. “No, I'll be fine.” He picked up the front of the hearse and, gingerly, stepped down the first step. He slipped down the next. “Don't push!” he snapped.

“I'm sorry,” said Harris.

Grant continued down, feeling for the edge of each step before committing his weight to it.

Progress was frustratingly slow, and they stopped every few steps to roll their aching shoulder joints, and stretch out their cramping hands. Harris' knuckles were already bruised and sore from beating the corpse.

“We're going to be here all night,” Grant grumbled.

“I really appreciate you doing this,” Harris said. “Thank you.”

Grant looked out towards the river. “Despite everything, Father Harris, I still look up to you. And while you may be selfish, and weak to sin, there's a good heart inside you.”

Harris nodded. “Thank you, Grant. That means a lot.”

Grant wrapped his hands around the hearse's handles. “Let's head on.”

When they reached the bottom of the steps, they heaved the hearse onto one of the wooden planks.

“Which way?” Grant asked.

“Straight on, we'll take her down through The Cubes. The Slip is full of brothels and bars. It'll be busy there.”

Half way down The Cubes, they ran out of walkways, and had to heave the hearse over the peaks and troughs of the mud. Harris shoved the hearse forward, and the jolt sent Grant flailing to the ground.

“Are you alright? Grant?”

The novice monk slowly rose to his knees, and then pushed up to his feet. He turned around. His habit was smeared with mud and dust from top to bottom.

Harris stifled a laugh, and emitted a tight grunt. He waved his hands at Grant. “I'm sorry,” he squeaked.

Grant looked down at himself and grinned. “Camouflage,” he said.

Harris let his laugh loose, grabbing his belly and howling. Grant braced himself against the hearse as he shook with laughter.

“Come on,” spluttered Harris. “Just a few more feet to go.”

When they reached the edge of the river, Harris dragged the body from the hearse, and positioned her, face down, in the wet mud. Her white skin shone in the moonlight, like a beacon announcing Harris' sin.

He crouched down, and pulled her damp hair back from her face.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “I'm sorry for all this.” He looked up at Grant. “She'll be found soon enough. Let's get out of here.”

31

Harris gave a long sigh as he recognised her voice. He leaned forward, and peered through the grille that separated them.

“Forget all that, I'll pardon you everything if you help me.”

The red-headed woman leaned back, hiding her face from him.

“What can I do for you Father?”

“I need to get a woman out of the city. Can you help me?”

There was a silence. “What you're speaking of is impossible, Father, and treasonous. I don't know why you would think I could help you,” she said flatly.

“I promise, this isn't a trick to catch you out. Please, I'm desperate, and I don't know anyone else I can ask. Some of the things you've told me here, it gave me the impression you knew people.”

She leaned forward again, but kept her eyes fixed forward. “Perhaps I do,” she whispered.

“Will you come and meet her?”

The woman nodded and rose to her feet. Harris stood, pulled back the red curtain, and stepped out of the confessional. A quick scan of the church told him it was empty.

“Follow me.” He walked swiftly, and the woman followed closely behind. He checked the corridor before opening his bedroom door.

The woman swept across the room and took Lacey's hands in hers. She turned them over and inspected the tattoo on her wrist.

“A slum girl,” she said. “That makes things a little easier. No scanners to pick up her movements.” She stroked Lacey's hair back. “And pregnant too? Your pimp, I'll bet.”

“How do you know?” Lacey asked.

The woman simply tapped her head with her forefinger.

“I'll do what I can, but you only get one shot at this. I will contact you with a time and a place. If you're not there, they will not wait for you. I will also give you a password. Without it, you won't get a ride. This could happen at any time, but you'll only get an hour or so notice, so be prepared.” She looked up at Harris. “Keep her safe.”

“Where will they take her?” Harris asked.

The woman shrugged. “A safe-house somewhere.” She looked back at Lacey. “But after that, you're on your own. Are you ready to do this? You have a little one to care for.”

“If I stay here, he will kill me. I don't have a choice.”

The woman leaned forward and kissed Lacey's cheek. “None of us do.” She stood and smoothed down her dress.

Harris led her back into the corridor. “Thank you, thank you so much.”

“Do not tell anyone about this, or we're all dead.”

“I understand. Can I get in contact with you in the future?”

She looked up at him. “No.”

“Can I at least know your name?”

“No.”

She walked quickly, retracing their steps back to the church. She stopped by the altar. “If you need me again, write to Asteria.”