The Bottle Stopper (12 page)

“What is that?” he called after her. But she didn't turn around.

32

Two weeks had passed and Maeve hadn't heard of any other poison cases. A prostitute had been found by the water, but she appeared to have been beaten to death. Half the shop was stocked with poison, but business had been slow, putting Uncle Lou in a particularly dark mood. Maeve opted to simply stay out of his way.

Maeve leaned on the railings outside, watching the delicatessen shutting up for the evening. Now and again, she glanced up at Topley's window. Topley had been like a sister, and Gretta and Hex like replacement parents. But now they were all gone.

She twisted her hair around her fingers. It had grown considerably since Gretta cut it. She'd be able to plait it again soon.

Maeve wandered back into the shop. She heard Uncle Lou stumbling down the stairs. He staggered across the hall and bumped into the door frame as he came into the shop. He stared at Maeve, his eyes unfocused.

Gripping hold of the shelves, he lurched to the front door.

“Goodbye,” he slurred, and waved his hand at her.

She listened to his feet clatter down the stairs outside, praying that he'd fall and break his neck.

Uncle Lou was never drunk before going out. He didn't keep alcohol at home. This was not a good sign.

Maeve was still awake when she heard Lou came home. She had been listening out for him, too scared to fall asleep. She listened to him banging about in the shop below, breaking glass. Lots of breaking glass. This was purposeful vandalism, not a drunk man stumbling about.

She crept down the stairs, and lowered herself onto a step halfway down. She could see Lou flailing his arms around the shop, his ravings largely incoherent, peppered with curse words. They were clear enough.

He appeared in the doorway, his head wheeling around, his eyes unable to focus on anything.

He waved a finger in her direction. “You!” he yelled. “You did this.”

Maeve clung to the banister. “Did what?”

“You. You made me lose. You're a bad omen.” He took a few steps towards the stairs, his body moving faster than his feet. “You and your crazy mother.” He sat heavily on the bottom stair, and dropped his head into his hands.

Maeve couldn't make out what he muttered.

He lifted his head and looked up at her again. “I've lost everything,” he said.

Maeve shifted up to the next step.

“Don't you move!” Lou slammed his hand down onto a stair. He twisted, and turned over onto all fours. “I had such bad luck tonight, that I lost every credit I had.” He crept up the stairs towards her. “You are a bad omen. You and your hinky jinky genetics. You probably made me lose, you little witch.”

Lou snapped out his hand and wrapped it around Maeve's leg. Maeve grabbed hold of the banister as he began to pull. She screamed, kicking out at him with her free leg. She kicked the banister, hard, forcing her big toe out sideways.

Instinctively, she brought her foot back into her body, and grabbed hold of it with both hands. Lou tugged her down the stairs. He crawled over her, pinning her down with one knee as he fumbled to unbutton his trousers.

Maeve kicked out again, clawing at his face. He loosened his hold on her, and she managed to twist over onto her stomach.

He pinned her down with his whole body, and with his mouth in her ear he whispered “I don't care which side it goes in.”

Maeve grabbed hold of the banister and heaved herself out from under him, pain ripping through her shoulder. He reached out, and grabbed her thigh, his fingers driving into her flesh. He pushed up her nightie and moved up the stairs again.

She hauled herself further up and kicked out once more. This time her foot made contact with his face, and she felt his nose give. He grabbed her again, pushing his hand up between her legs.

Maeve grabbed the last rung of the banister and pulled herself away. Lou was up on his knees, rising up to grab her. Maeve kicked out, her heel slamming into his shoulder.

She watched his face change to panic as he lost his balance. He scrabbled for the banister, but he was already falling. Maeve didn't wait to watch him hit the bottom.

She hobbled across the landing and into her bedroom. She heaved her bed across the bare floor, and jammed it under the door handle. She took the blanket from it, and nested herself in the far corner of the room, her heart pounding.

Cuddling her throbbing foot, she curled as small as she could. And she wished that she could just die there.

33

Harris bustled Lacey out of the monastery. He'd considered disguising her as a monk, but had settled for some demure clothes from the charity donation box. He'd put some extra in a bag for her, along with food, water, and a fistful of credits, also from the donation box.

A little less than two hours ago, a man had entered the church and asked for Father Harris. He had said three words to him: midnight, Second Stair, Hestia. He had then turned, and walked out of the church.

Harris tugged the hood of Lacey's coat up. She bowed her head and they hurried through the darkness. They turned into Second Stair and looked up the empty street.

“Where do we need to be?” Lacey whispered. “At the actual steps, further up the street?”

“At the exit, I presume.”

Falside had few roads going in or out of it. The majority of its supplies came via the river, with several slum workers receiving generous pay packets to see deliveries safely up the steps. One road cut through the cliff from Second Stair on the Hope. Another, on the other side of the city, from Haverhead. There were several routes in and out of The Head, but that level was not open to the general population. It allowed the administration to tightly control what came in, or went out of the city.

Harris had heard the stories of people attempting to escape. If they were caught, they were gunned down. Men, women, children, even babies had been killed. The law was rigid; if you tried to leave, you were committing treason, and the punishment for that was death. No exceptions.

They scuttled along the street, keeping close to the buildings where the shadows were at their darkest. Ahead of them, the road narrowed, and they could hear the low rattle of an engine idling.

“Come on,” Harris whispered, and took hold of Lacey's hand.

They kept close to the buildings until the end of the row. Harris stepped forward. One man was loading boxes into the back of the old, battered truck, and Harris could see the reflection of the driver in the wing mirror.

He nodded to the man. “Hestia,” he said.

For a moment the man didn't react, and Harris wondered if he had the wrong truck. But then he squinted into the darkness, and beckoned Lacey forward. Without another word he lifted her into the truck as if she were just another box. He gestured for her to move forward, towards the cab.

Harris' hand was still outstretched, and the sense of her hand in his lingered.

The man bumped against him. “You better go,” he said.

Harris retreated, but he didn't go far. He wanted to see her out of the city, he wanted to know she was safe. His chest ached from the loss of her, but he had to get her to safety. Maybe this small act would redress the mistakes he'd made. With Lacey, with Selene, with Maeve.

Two more women were lifted into the truck, one little more than a child. The back doors were locked, the man climbed into the cab, and the truck lurched forward. Harris stepped into the street as he watched it rumble away. He could see the lights of the checkpoint bleeding orange into the sky.

He kept his eyes on that glow.

“I haven't been the best disciple,” he whispered. “I haven't obeyed, or honoured your word. I've sinned, and I've lied, and I've let people down. But I'm ready to make up for that. And if you ever grant me anything, grant me this. Keep that truck safe. Keep Lacey and her baby safe. And I will be the greatest monk this world has ever seen.” He pushed his hand into his pocket and twisted his prayer beads around his fingers. “Please.”

Gunfire echoed against the cliffs, the sound bouncing around like rubber. Harris started running.

As he approached the scene, he saw the bodies of the two men lying on the ground. The three women clung to one another.

Harris raised his hands. “Please, please stop,” he called out.

He felt the heat of the torches turned on him, and watched the guns wheel around to focus on his body. Harris slowed and stopped.

“Please, I beg of you, stop.”

“It's a monk,” a soldier said.

“Lower your guns.”

“This doesn't concern you, Father.”

“Please, don't kill them. Please, no more bloodshed,” Harris said.

A soldier approached, placing his gloved hand on Harris' chest. “This doesn't concern you,” he said forcefully.

“I'm just asking for innocent lives to be saved.”

“They are traitors to the administration.”

Harris opened his mouth again, but his voice was drowned out by the gunfire. He screwed his eyes shut as he saw Lacey's body convulse from the impact.

34

While Maeve was curled up in the corner of her room, Harris was on his knees on the rocky road off Second Stair.

There was no solace for either of them.

35

Avery Aguilar was a well-respected man on The Floor. He was the dock master, responsible for ensuring any deliveries by boat were delivered, intact and untouched, to The Hope. It wasn't an easy job, but his reputation for being a fair man, while taking no bullshit, allowed him to be authoritative without attracting bitterness from his subordinates. He was also the only person on The Floor who carried an administration-issued gun.

Avery was the embodiment of professional cool-headedness while on the job, but his home life was surprisingly turbulent.

Those who knew Avery through his work would be surprised by the quick-tempered, irrational man he became when he came home and locked his front door each evening.

Avery's youngest son was nothing but a disappointment to him. On the cusp of his thirties, Willis lived in his parent's home with his wife and their constantly screaming baby.

Willis was one of those people who always claimed circumstances were against them. Any misfortune in his life was due to other people and their actions, and he never attributed it to his own poor decisions. Avery knew better.

Willis had started life well enough. He became a farmer's apprentice, learning how to raise cattle, how to milk, calve, and graze them. He was an impressive apprentice with a bright future ahead of him. Avery had been so proud, happy to support Willis however he could, even when it meant an evening of studying books on agriculture together.

The opportunity arose for Willis to purchase some grazing land, and he set his heart on it. In those days, when Willis wanted something, he put his entire soul into it. He worked hard, saved hard, and went to the land auction with, what he thought, was plenty of money to purchase the land. A bidding war ensued, and he lost out. Over the next month he spent all of the money—which could have bought him another equally suitable piece of land—on gambling, alcohol, and prostitutes.

That's how he met his wife, Lucille. He got her pregnant, and nine months later, she knocked on his door with a baby in her arms, and a very angry pimp. Avery was forced to buy the woman for his son. Of course, this baby came with no solid proof that it was actually Willis' child.

For the last few days, Lucille had been sick. She was confused, feverish, plagued with headaches. The baby had caught whatever virus it was, and its tiny body was too weak to fight it. They had buried it behind the house just last night. Desperate to save his wife, to salvage something of the life he had grown accustomed to, Willis found himself in the apothecary shop, handing money to Jean Louis Benedict Ricard.

He couldn't have said how much he parted with, he had stopped at several bars along the way. But the bottle was a pretty pale blue, with a long, slender neck, and it reminded him of Lucille. Or rather, his romanticised, intoxicated image of her.

Had he been sober enough to look, to remember his apprenticeship training, he would have instantly recognised the plant inside the bottle as poison hemlock. And had Avery not been so relieved to see the end of his unwelcome daughter-in-law, he would have checked the bottle himself.

Willis buried his wife next to his baby. Within a year, he would be dead himself, having left a gambling debt foolishly unpaid.

36

After three days, hunger drove Maeve from her bedroom. Before removing the bed from the doorway, she sat and listened intently to the house. It was silent.

She eased her bed back, creaking inch by creaking inch, until there was enough gap for her to slip through. She didn't need much room.

She stood on the landing, one hand wrapped around the door handle. Her bedroom was her life raft, and she was about to swim into unknown waters.

She crept across the floor, and stopped at the top of the stairs. She looked down them, not sure what she felt when she saw Uncle Lou wasn't still lying there. Equal parts disappointment, relief, and fear.

She listened again, but still, the house stood silent.

Maeve crept down the stairs, slowly, both feet on each step, stopping to listen each time. The door into the shop was open, and Maeve could see the glitter of broken glass covering the floor. Wherever Lou was, he wasn't open for business.

Maeve scampered down to the kitchen. She glanced into the storage room as she passed. In the kitchen she found two apples, some bread, a jar of peaches in syrup, and half a bag of raisins. Gathering the supplies into her arms, she returned to her bedroom. She laid the provisions on her bed, and was going to climb over it back into her room when curiosity got the better of her.

It beckoned her towards the stairs up to Lou's room. It coaxed her up them, step at a time, and invited her to peer around the door frame.

Uncle Lou was lying on his bed, fully-clothed. A wine bottle had slipped from his dangling hand. His feet hung off the end of the mattress, his head was tilted back with his mouth wide open.