Except the Dying (15 page)

Jack finally got around the waiter and came up to them. “Shall we do a heel and toe?”

Alice looked at him and Ettie, then put her arm through his.

“I can’t wait.”

They pushed their way to the door. Ettie watched, then shrugged and turned back to the piano. The chimney sweep reached out his grimy hands to her and theatrically she took hold of them and joined in the ballad.

The hunchback joined in, his voice rich and deep.

Outside in the street, Alice shivered in the cold and pulled her shawl tightly around her chest. The sailor took her arm.

“I’ve a friend I’d like you to meet. We’ll go there first.”

“I thought it was going to be you and me.”

“Later. Him first.”

“It’s all the same to me,” said Alice.

WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 13

T
HE CARRIAGE LURCHED
and Alice almost fell forward into the lap of the man seated opposite her.

“Oops. What’d we do, run over a dead dog?”

“Just a lump of ice.”

He pushed her back into her own seat. The sailor had brought her to this man but she didn’t fancy him at all. He was as twitchy as a schoolboy, refused to tell her his name, and had barely said a word the entire ride.

She straightened up and sat back, fanning herself. “It’s bloody roasting in here.”

She started to unbutton her jacket.

“No sense being uncomfortable, is there?” She giggled wildly, then hiccoughed. “What’d you put in that drink? I can’t feel my nose.”

The man sipped at the silver flask he was holding.
“It’s just first-quality scotch. Perhaps you’re not used to it.”

Even well on her way to total drunkenness as she was, Alice picked up the contempt in his voice. She scowled.

“I’ve had good grog before. Lots of times. Just as good as your Turkey muck.”

She was sweating in earnest now.

“Can we open the bleeding window? I’m going to melt, else.”

She went to pull up the blind on the window closest to her but the man caught her arm.

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“I value my privacy.”

“Nobody’s going to see you out here except the ducks.”

She had lifted the blind enough to see that they were close to the lake, trotting slowly along a narrow spit.

The man leaned over and lowered the wick on the porcelain lamp that hung from a bracket above the door. The carriage darkened, the shadows so deep she could hardly see his face.

“That’s much cozier, wouldn’t you say?”

She shrugged. “I suppose so.”

She’d had all sorts; some liked daylight, some didn’t. She could tell he was one of the play-acting kind. They always wanted you to make out you was enjoying
yourself. Ooh and aah and wriggle. When all you could think about was the chops you’d cook for your tea and how long was he going to take to finish the jig. That kind of cully always left red-faced with a couple of dollars on the pillow. “Buy yourself a little present.” Sod the fools. She giggled to herself.

Good thing they weren’t mind readers.

“Can you share the joke, Alice?”

She yawned. She suddenly felt so tired she thought she could fall asleep right there.

“Wasn’t anything. But I’m bloody whacked. Can we go back now?”

“I thought you were enjoying the ride.”

Alice sighed. “’S bloody marvellous.”

He leaned forward. He was sweating and there was an unpleasant smell coming from him. Maybe she was his first wagtail. The Johnny Raws were always scared out of their nobby drawers.

“I understand you have information about that girl who froze to death …”

“Did Jack tell you that? It was supposed to be a secret.”

“He tells me everything. Are you going to go to the police and claim your reward?”

“I might, ’cept Ettie’s all miffy. She doesn’t want me to say anything because she thinks it’ll get us into trouble.”

“I don’t see how giving information to the police
could get you into trouble. You’re doing your civic duty.”

“Don’t I always.”

“What was it you saw? Perhaps I can tell you if it is worth bothering the police about.”

Alice struggled to make sense of what he was saying. He seemed to be going a long way off.

“Stop mumbling,” she said. “Course it is. They’d love to know. She got into a carriage, didn’t she?”

“Who did?”

“The mort, the girl, who’d you think?”

“Is that so? Where?”

“Yes, it is so, and I saw her on Queen Street. Just past the hotel.”

“When was this?”

“’Bout ten o’clock on Saturday night.”

“Are you sure it was the same person? Could have been anybody.”

“Of course I’m sure. There aren’t two women in the whole town with a hat like that. I saw her get into a carriage right at the corner.”

“That is very strange. On the other hand there are so many carriages in Toronto I’m not sure if your information will be that helpful.”

“Well, you’re wrong, Mr. Know-It-All. This one belonged to a swell. I’d know it anywhere …” Groggily she shook her head. “Shouldn’t be talking … Ettie said not to tell anyone …”

“So you told Ettie, did you?”

“Course I did. She’s my best mate. I love Ettie.”

She was having great difficulty sitting upright.

“You seem so tired, Alice. Why don’t you put your feet up? Here, let me help you with your boots … My, they’re tight, aren’t they?”

He tugged and the boots came off with a plop, the rancid odour of Alice’s dirty stockings filling the carriage.

“It’s sodding hot in here. Look at you, you’re sweating like a pig.” She giggled again. “Do pigs sweat? Can’t say I’ve noticed … Wish you’d speak up. It’s too dark. Are we in the Other Place? You’re not the Devil, are you?”

“Far from it. I’m your Good Angel. In fact, I’m going to send you to Paradise.”

He turned and tugged at a short leather thong attached to the upholstery of the seat behind him. A section came away. Behind it was a built-in cabinet.

Alice lifted her head. “Oi. What you got in there, the family jewels?”

“As good as.”

He took out a glass vial and a burgundy leather case. Then he rapped hard on the roof of the carriage. Alice heard the coachman call to the horse and they stopped suddenly, the well-sprung vehicle bouncing gently. She watched as her companion flicked the catch on the leather case and opened it. Nestled in a pink satin
lining was what looked like a steel tube. He lifted it out, removed a long needle lying beside it and fastened them together. He placed the instrument on the seat and pulled the cork out of the vial.

“What’s that?”

“Let’s call it the Milk of Paradise.”

He plunged the syringe into the vial and drew up the brownish-coloured liquid. “Roll up your sleeve, Alice, and I will make you happier than you’ve ever been.”

She shook her head. “Sod off. I’ve heard of that stuff. Sends you batchy.”

“No, it doesn’t, not if used wisely. It’s the nectar of the gods.”

“That so? Let me see you do it, then.”

“I will. But ladies first. Here, hold out your arm.”

He caught her by the wrist with his free hand but she knocked him away. “No. I don’t want to.”

The syringe fell to the floor. The needle broke in half and the brown fluid spread on the beige matting. The man yelped.

“Damn you! You shouldn’t have done that. Heaven is costly.”

Alice saw his rage, saw the intent. Fear surged through her body, every nerve sensing the danger.

Before he could stop her, she pushed down the handle and thrust open the door and half fell, half rolled to the ground. Desperately, she scrambled to her feet, oblivious to the sharp ice beneath her unshod feet. They
were on a desolate strip of shore. She could see the outline of the distillery to the west but it was too far away. Even if she screamed, she knew nobody would hear her. She began to run, not realizing she was heading out on the frozen lake.

The man leaned out of the carriage. “Stop her!” he shouted to the coachman. The order was unnecessary. Jack understood the situation immediately and leaped down from his seat and plunged after the fleeing woman. Even in his heavy cape, he caught up with her easily.

“Hey, wait. Where’re you going?”

She turned, gasping, “He’s a sodding lunatic …”

“Don’t be silly, course he’s not. Come on, you’ll catch your death.”

Alice looked over his shoulder and for the first time she could see the carriage completely. The moon was full and gleaming on the snow. It was easy to make out a burgundy chassis. The grey horse shook his bridle and pawed at the ground.

“My God, it’s the same bloody carriage. It was you … you’re the ones who picked up the girl …”

She saw the expression on the man’s face but before she could move, he caught her shoulder with one hand, twisted her around and slipped a rope noose around her throat. Alice toppled backwards as he pulled tighter.

THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 14

J
OE
S
EATON GOT OUT OF BED IN A HURRY.
He’d forgotten to pull down the alarm lever on his clock and had slept an hour longer than he should have. The window was already grey with the coming of dawn. He pulled on his trousers, lit his lantern and, rubbing hard at his head to wake himself up, clambered down the ladder to the stable. The horse whinnied softly in welcome and thrust his head over the gate of the loose box. Joe offered him the dried apple he’d pinched from the kitchen the night before, and Silver took it delicately between his big yellow teeth and ground it to pulp. Joe stroked the soft upper lip with its stiff whiskers and the horse nuzzled into his hand in the hope of finding more apples.

“That’s yer lot, greedy guts,” Joe said affectionately. “Come on, move over. I’m late. They’ll be on at me
good if I don’t get cracking.” He pushed the animal aside and went into the box, where he forked some fresh hay from the bale into the feeding trough. Silver was a young horse but sweet-natured and biddable, and Joe was grateful for that. The big Morgan on the farm where he’d first lived in Canada was ornery and unpredictable. He’d landed such a kick on Joe’s thigh once he’d near broken the bone. “’Twas yer own fault,” said the farmer and cuffed the boy for good measure.

He shivered even though this part of the stable was warm. There was an oil heater in the corner, kept on a low burn, and the horse’s body heat helped. Joe’s room was up above in the loft. There was only a single layer of wood between it and the elements, and the cracks were so bad, snow sifted in at the corner.

He left Silver to his hay and climbed back up the ladder. The frost on the window shone like silver filigree as the winter sun grew stronger. He put his candle on the wooden dresser, reached under his narrow bed and hauled out the tin strongbox that had come with him from England three years earlier. That, a set of wool underwear and his navy-blue suit were all that remained of his original endowment from Dr. Barnardo’s Home. The suit was small for him now. His wrists protruded from the cuffs of the jacket and he was ashamed to wear it. The sturdy boots had gone too, traded to another boy at the Fegan Boys’ Distributing Home for a book now stored safely at the bottom of the box.

He lifted the lid. Inside was his scanty clothing, one-piece flannel underwear, two jerseys, a flannel shirt, all neatly folded as he had been taught. Underneath everything was the precious book,
A Handbook of Physiology and Phrenology.
He took it out and laid it aside carefully on the bed, giving it a little pat as if it were a live creature. Although there were a lot of words he couldn’t understand, he’d been well schooled in basic reading in the orphanage, and he studied the thin volume at every opportunity. He’d even shown it to Therese and they’d looked at the illustrations together, giggling as they determined that the high bony forehead of Edith Foy was a sign of excessive pride and John Foy’s bibativeness, his fondness for liquids, as the book called it, could be clearly seen above his prominent zygomatic arch.

In the far corner of the box, tucked beneath the jersey, was a twist of newspaper which he unfolded. Inside was his hoard of treasures, a gold cufflink, part of a broken onyx earbob, some coins, including two shilling pieces he’d once found on a London street, and a small wooden crucifix. He removed this reverently.

When he first knew that Therese was a Roman Catholic he was afraid. At the Home the word “Romanist” always sat in the same sentence as “wicked” or, at best, “misguided.” Once one of the bigger youths had discovered a new boy clutching a rosary, and a group of residents soon gathered, whispering together, solemn and afraid as if they had found the Devil himself
in the cupboard. They informed the warden and the poor newcomer was sent away. “To his own kind,” said the supervisor. But the incident had shaken everyone and special prayers were offered for the soul of the depraved departed.

Therese was always unobtrusive in her observance, but he’d seen her touching the glass beads on her rosary, muttering in a strange language. Then she’d kiss the little wooden cross that hung from the necklace. She’d shown it to him, the seminaked body of Jesus Christ, arms outstretched, head drooping. The agony of that tiny figure had fascinated Joe.

He propped the crucifix against the candlestick, then dropped to his knees on the hard floor. He’d seen Therese cross herself and he imitated her as best he could, fluttering his hand across his chest. He bent his head in prayer, saying out loud the only Latin he had gleaned.

“
Ar vay Maria, Duminee nose tree.”

There was no one to hear and make a mockery of him, and he repeated these words over and over.

It was in early December that he’d first crept into her room. There was a severe frost that night and the cold had bitten through his blanket until he woke shivering, unable to sleep. Normally he would have gone down to the stable and burrowed into the pile of straw beside Silver, but he was afraid to. He’d seen two large brown
rats vanishing down the drain in the centre of the stable, and them he truly hated. He knew what they were capable of. This particular evening he and Therese were seated at the kitchen table, snug against the wind soughing at the windows. The Foys were on a rare evening out and Joe had basked in the warmth and peace of their absence, and talking what was, for him, “a blue streak,” as Tess put it. She soon pried out of him what sort of conditions he was living in.