Earthly Delights (8 page)

‘Ten dollars,’ I said. ‘Here is your bucket.’ I handed it over. ‘And here is your mop. Get into all the corners.’

I sat down on the stairs and watched someone else mop my floor, a strange experience. The boy put a good deal of effort into it. It was clear, however, that he had never mopped a floor before.

‘No, wring it out,’ I said. ‘You put the string part into that clamp on the top of the bucket and then press the pedal. Yes, like that. The less water the better. Good. That will do. Mop yourself over here.’

He came close and I gave him the ten dollars. ‘And then mop yourself out and empty the bucket in the drain. What’s your name?’ I asked.

He looked up at me from his housewife’s crouch. ‘Jase,’ he said.

‘And who sent you to me?’ I asked, knowing the answer. The boy bridled, which is a difficult thing to do with an armload of mop.

‘No one sent me. I saw you talking to Daniel so I thought you must be all right,’ he said. ‘Thanks for the job.’

He went to the door, emptied the bucket into the drain, rinsed it under the tap and put the bucket and the mop inside.

‘If you come back tomorrow you can do it again,’ I said, rather surprising myself. This kid was going straight out to spend that ten dollars of my hard-earned cash on drugs. I had seen the scars on his arms. Jase squinted up at me from the door. He may have nodded. But then he closed the door and was gone.

I dropped a duster on the floor, slid across on it and locked and bolted my doors. Jase might be a charity case, or he might have been checking out the locks. With that bolt, all the lock picking in the world was not going to let him in to my bakery.

Oddly cheered, I went upstairs for my bath. Lily of the valley today. And when I ascended to the bower with Horatio to drink my gin and tonic, Mrs Pemberthy and her rotten little dog were not there. In fact, the roof was empty.

No little dogs, no starlings, and—regrettably—no Daniel. I took a little stroll around the garden, noticing that Trudi, the retired gardener of 8A, who gets a contribution from all of us to care for our little piece of Eden, had already put in lots of bulbs for spring. Little spears were starting through the earth in the raised terracotta tubs. The roses were blowing and Trudi’s own import, the linden tree, was growing well. A few more years and we would be Unter Den Linden.

Horatio strolled nonchalantly ahead of me, sniffing at the occasional bloom in the condescending manner of a lord mayor at a local flower show. One almost looked for the elaborate gold chain around his furry neck. While he was deciding to give Trudi a second prize for her impatiens, I perched on a wicker chair and looked at the city.

I have always loved Melbourne, except for the times when I have hated it (mostly at four am). The towers have never grown exceedingly tall, not like Hong Kong or Los Angeles, where walking on the street is like being a forest dweller in a huge planting of sterile trees. I hate that feeling of scurrying about under those monstrous structures, with me mouse-sized by comparison and feeling, obscurely, that I ought to watch out for a plummeting hawk. Only a few parts of Melbourne are like that. Mostly, it is still a city built by humans on a human scale.
Frequent over-building and consequent bankruptcies and crashes do help to keep the builders in check. Mother Nature’s little way of keeping her balance among the capitalists.

To celebrate I made myself another gin and tonic and raised my glass to a poor office peon who was staring at me with his tongue hanging out. Make your own destiny, I said to him. Even if it leads you into very strange places.

He, of course, did not reply. Presently the sun went in and Horatio and I descended to our apartment. It was only four, so I decided to go down and ask the Professor if he needed me to bring him some dinner and—oh, yes—I had to visit Mistress Dread to report. Or else she might visit me and that was not a nice thought.

Just as I was leaving the garden I found that someone had augmented one of Trudi’s painted pots with a slogan. I had to stoop to read it. This one said: ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’

I stood for a moment looking at it. I fought down the urge to wash it off or cover it up. The handwriting might be identifiable. There might even be fingerprints. Perhaps they could test the paint. It was in the same red as the ‘Whore of Babylon’ on Mistress Dread’s shop, and the same sort of unformed childish hand.

I found a tarpaulin which Trudi must have left and draped it artlessly over the legend. This was bad. This was very bad. I had to see Mistress Dread and add this to her police report and that seemed to be the most sensible thing to do first, after I warned Meroe that she had an enemy and he had access to our building.

I returned Horatio to our apartment, checked my own locks, and dived down to the Sibyl’s Cave. Meroe was still sitting there in silence and I lost my patience.

‘Someone has painted an anti-witch slogan in the roof garden,’ I said angrily. ‘Meroe? Snap out of it, this is important.’

‘Is it? They slaughtered us in droves in the Burning Times and witchcraft survived,’ she said in a dreamy voice. I could have shaken her. I fear that my vibrations were all of a jangle.

‘I don’t care about whether witchcraft survives,’ I snapped. ‘I care about whether a certain witch survives. Pay attention! What are you going to do?’

‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I have locks and wards. There is no shortage of madmen who want to burn any woman with skill and intelligence—even now. He’ll have to get in, and then …’ She looked up at me and her eyes were bleak. ‘Then he’ll be sorry.’

‘I’d rather find out who he is and get him sent to a nice safe loony-bin,’ I said. ‘Did you get the scarlet woman letter?’

‘Yes,’ she said. Some of the ice was melting in her manner.

‘So did I,’ I said. ‘So did Goss and Kylie. So did Mistress Dread and they’ve painted “Whore of Babylon” on her shop. This isn’t just aimed at you. But the slogan on the garden pot says “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live”.’

‘Exodus 22:18,’ she said helpfully.

‘And I’m going to the cops,’ I continued.

‘No. Not on my account,’ said Meroe firmly. Now she was definitely with me.

‘No, on my own, and for the girls,’ I said loudly. ‘Who were you cursing this morning? Don’t tell me you weren’t, I know a curse when I hear one.’

‘Not a curse,’ she said. ‘I was preparing a … learning experience.’

‘A learning experience? What was he going to learn? Dying for beginners? I saw your face when you were making that
potion and you looked like you came straight from Endor with an armload of wolfsbane and a direct line to Hecate.’

She almost smiled and began to explain, gesturing me to a seat. I noticed Belladonna in her usual posture, working her way through the underlay.

‘The only circumstance in which a good Wiccan is allowed to use strong methods against someone is if the person will learn something life-enhancing from the experience,’ she told me in her normal voice. ‘If, for instance, their habits are set or their mind is clouded. And they need, say, a shock. To jolt them into a more harmonious mode of thought.’

‘Harmonious,’ I said.

Meroe nodded. She had shed the black shawl and her wrap was of scarlet, a little too close to the colour of blood.

‘So they aren’t going to wake up without legs, or find that their mouth has healed up overnight?’ I asked. ‘Or be transformed into a toad?’

‘Not unless that would be educational,’ said Meroe sweetly.

‘And you have designed this educational experience for whom?’

‘The man who sent the letter, and the one who wrote the slogan. They may be the same person, of course. I went up to the garden early this morning,’ she said. ‘I saw it then. I don’t like witch-burners.’

I pounced on the one piece of information she had given me.

‘So it’s a man?’

‘Pendulum never lies,’ she said complacently. I could have argued with that, but we had an agreement.

‘So how shall we know this guy?’ I asked. ‘Will he turn conveniently blue or go bald or something?’

‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘But all that he does will go amiss. That was a good spell, that one. My mother taught it to me, to be used against burners. I can already feel it working.’

‘Oh, good.’ I felt strangely at a loss for words. I promised more herb rolls for tomorrow if she could sell me some more herbs and left with my highly scented parcel.

Sometimes, I admit, my friend Meroe gives me the creeps. So it was a bit of a relief to find Senior Constable Lepidoptera White talking to Mistress Dread when I went into her shop.

I had never been inside before. I had expected the usual sex shop stuff, but it looked like the salon of a very expensive designer, all cream leather and gold brocade curtains. The only sign of the Mistress’s preoccupation was a stack of books, like pattern books, on a low glass coffee table.

‘Hello,’ I said to the senior constable. ‘I’m afraid I’ve found another slogan.’

‘Did you ask the Lone Gunmen about the letter?’ asked Mistress Dread.

‘Yes, they said the layout was lousy, that it was done in Calypso on an IMAC with a laser printer and that any schoolchild could do better. So we look for someone over twenty-five, and that isn’t very helpful.’

‘Another painted slogan?’ asked the police officer. She looked neat today, and tired as well. Perhaps that was how she always looked. One thing. She was not at all fazed by sitting on a very low leather couch with a person of indeterminate sex, who was wearing a red leather corset and smoking a cigar in a holder. That took style.

‘Yes, I’ll show you, if you like,’ I said. Ms White heaved herself to her feet.

‘You may have the offensive words removed,’ she told
Mistress Dread. ‘We have photographed them and tested the paint. It’s spray paint, as you might have guessed. If you find a spray can lying around, bag it. It might have fingerprints. Now, Ms Chapman. Show me your graffiti.’

I led her up to the roof garden and removed the tarpaulin. She sat down on her heels to examine it.

‘Exodus 22:18,’ I told her.

‘Looks like the same paint,’ she said. ‘Same biblical obsession too. Have you spoken to your friend the witch?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘She’s put a curse on him.’

Ms White actually cracked a smile. A tired one, as might be expected.

‘That might be better than anything I can do. How did he get up here? Isn’t there a security code on the main door lock?’

‘Yes, but there are people in and out all day—nurses and cleaners and people delivering things. If anyone rings the bell someone in the building will usually buzz them in if they say it’s a delivery.’

Ms White tutted. ‘This close to the station, you ought to have a doorman. Still, that’s people for you. Give them the best lock in the business and they’ll leave the door open. This looks like the same loony. Same paint, same religious problems, same writing. Look at those weak loops! He’s probably left-handed and he might have paint on his sleeve—’ she pointed to a smear —‘but apart from that he could be anyone. This porous surface will never take a fingerprint. Have you noticed anything else lately?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘But ever since the junkie nearly died on my grate it’s been all go.’

‘You be careful of that Daniel Cohen,’ she told me, straightening up.

‘Why?’ I asked. Daniel seemed to be the nicest thing that had happened to me in … well, ever. ‘What do you know about him?’

‘Nothing,’ said Lepidoptera White. ‘In my job, that’s suspicious. Why does he go on the Soup Run? Hasn’t he got a job? He doesn’t even have a car registered in his name and no one seems to know where he lives. He’s often seen in company with prostitutes, so maybe that’s his interest.’

‘Maybe,’ I said, disliking her. ‘But your computers would have told you another thing and I bet you checked.’

‘What?’

‘Has he got a criminal record?’ I asked.

Her silence lasted all the way down in the lift and out to the door.

‘No,’ she said at last. ‘Not in Victoria. Not in Australia either. But you watch your step,’ she warned me, and went.

I thought about it as I retreated to the lift and arrived at the Professor’s door. He answered it, leaning heavily on a handsome gold-headed stick.

‘I sent out for a Roman one,’ he said, ‘and I got Egyptian, but it will do.’

I explained my errand. He suggested that I buy two portions of whatever Pandamus’s grandma had left over and come and eat with him. That sounded like a really good idea, so I complied. I added to the moussaka and green salad with pine nuts a bottle of my favourite red wine and we had a very pleasant meal. We ate in his kitchen. I asked him about witches in the ancient world.

‘My dear, the place was rife with them,’ he told me, wiping his moustache fastidiously with a spotless napkin. ‘Satirists had a particularly hard time with witches. One cannot read, in Petronius’s Satyricon, of a witch treating a young man for
impotence without wincing. The only bit of her treatment which I can bring myself to remember involved thrashing his private parts with nettles. One would think that this would remove any sexual inclination he might ever have had, at least until the blisters healed.’

‘Ouch,’ I agreed.

‘But, of course, there were sibyls,’ said Professor Dion. ‘Very wise women. Prophets. My favourite is the story of the Sibylline Books. Do you feel like a story?’

It had been a tough couple of days and I nodded. I would love to hear a story, preferably one not about doom, fate, curses or pain. I filled his glass and my own.

‘An early Roman emperor heard that the Sibylline Books were for sale, and he wanted to buy them. He would have been a fool not to, they contained a complete prophecy of the whole history of Rome, in twelve books. So the king went to the sibyl as she sat by her fire, and asked, how much? And she said, a hundred talents. An enormous sum of money. A talent would buy you a boat, or a racehorse. The king temporised, a very unwise thing to do. The sibyls were great ladies, not to be trifled with. She looked at him as he bargained for a lower price and threw half of the books on the fire, just like that. Then the king asked, how much for the remaining six, and she said, a hundred talents. He said this was unfair as she had burned six of them, and again she threw half on the fire. How much now? screamed the king, and she said, a hundred talents, and he thought he saw her hand move, so he said done, and paid a hundred talents for three books when he could have had all twelve for the same price.’