The Bottle Stopper (10 page)

“Do you really think he would?”

“How many bruises do I need to show you? How many scars, or broken bones?”

Harris looked at his feet.

“Do you know how many nights I lay in the darkness wishing my real father would turn up and rescue me? I had visions of a heroic man, walking into the shop, telling Uncle Lou he was taking me, not taking no for an answer. But instead, I got you. Full of excuses.”

“Tell me what I can do.”

Maeve pulled up her sleeve and held out her wrist. She pointed at her tattoo. “Make this real. Get me off The Floor.”

“And swap your freedom for a life of being owned? No, Maeve. You don't know what it's like. I marry women every month, and they are terrified as they say their vows. I've known countless women commit suicide rather than marry a stranger. It's no life at all up there.”

“So you just leave me with him, and wait for him to kill me? I guess that would be one problem solved.”

“You're not a problem to be solved.”

“No. I wasn't a problem at all until your conscience got the better of you.” She rolled her head. “Did you ever worry that I’d turn out like mum? Would you have handed me in for the money as well?”

Harris looked at the floor. “Are you like her? Can you, you know, see things?”

Maeve looked down at the large, cheap bottle of medicine by his feet. “Enjoy your medicine. Maybe that will help ease your conscience.”

She pushed past him, and walked back towards The Wall. But she wasn't ready to go home yet.

25

Roscoe Cross hitched his heavy pack onto his shoulder and looked up the steps. It would be hard going with such a heavy load, and he cursed himself for letting the apothecary talk him into buying such a big bottle. Taking a deep breath, he began the climb.

Roscoe had stashed his cart in a back alley, and had been mindful enough to remove anything of value from it. Luckily, he found it just as he had left it. He shrugged his pack from his shoulder and dropped it into the makeshift cart. He pulled the top open, and peered in at the huge medicine bottle. He lifted it out and held it up to the light. It looked like nothing more than filthy water. He eased the cork free and poured some over his fingers, lifting them to his nose. It smelt like filthy water too. Still, as long as he sold it at a profit, he didn't really care what it was.

He dragged the cart out onto Hind Street, straightened his jacket, and set off for Second Stair. He relied on impulse buys, on people believing this was a one-time deal. The women on The Hope tended to hoard their precious credits, considering each and every purchase carefully. He didn't make money here.

The staircase up to Lynstock was a world away from the roughly cut steps up from The Floor. These stairs were deep and wide, edged with a marble strip, and flanked by impressive stone handrails. Beside the stairs was a slope, designed for people just like him; pedlars, merchants, delivery boys.

Roscoe took a run-up at the slope, his cart bouncing as it hit the beginning of the incline. He pushed it up, and nodded to the merchant waiting at the top.

“Good selling today,” the other merchant said. “With the news about the baby girl, everyone's in high spirits. The wallets are open.”

“Good to know,” replied Roscoe with a smile.

Roscoe manoeuvred his cart around and set off for the bigger houses. May as well start at the top and work his way down.

He parked his cart, and kicked down the small stand. He straightened his jacket, smoothed down his hair, and knocked on the door.

The merchant hadn't been wrong. Each house he visited resulted in a sale, and he even managed to rid himself of a few items he'd been dragging around for weeks.

By the time he wheeled his cart from Buck Way into Silk Lane, it was considerably lighter, and his purse was considerably heavier.

He knocked at the first house, and waited. He knocked again.

“Hold on!” he heard from the other side of the door.

He straightened his jacket, and practised his most apologetic smile.

The door was yanked open, and the woman behind it was red and flustered. Her hair had come unpinned, and a vomit stain patched her dress. She wiped her forehead with her forearm.

“I'm so sorry to interrupt you madam, you're obviously very busy today. But if I could just take one minute of your time to—”

“I'm not buying,” she snapped. “Whatever you have, take it away.”

“Really, just one minute of your time.”

“You've already had it, and I don't have another one to spare.” She moved to close the door, but Roscoe placed his hand on it.

“I think I may have exactly what you need here.” He reached into his pack and pulled out the bottle. “This, madam, is the finest medicine from the world-famous apothecary Jean Louis Benedict Ricard. Proven to cure any sickness, pain, ailment, or affliction.” He borrowed directly from Lou's usual sales patter.

The woman sneered. “He sounds foreign.”

“French,” Roscoe said with a perfected air of reverence. “The greatest apothecaries in the world.”

There was shouting from inside the house, and the woman glanced over her shoulder. She swayed back and forth, her decision making marked in the body language Roscoe had trained himself to read.

“How much?”

“I can see you're a busy woman, but this kind of quality doesn't come cheap.”

“How much?” the woman repeated.

“Fifteen credits.” He listened to her intake of breath. He held up his hand. “Maybe, maybe, I can do a little better for you.” He thought for a moment. “Thirteen. But I really can't go any lower.”

The shouts came from inside again. Perfectly timed. “Twelve,” the woman said quickly.

Roscoe thought for a moment more. “Because I can see you're busy, I will take twelve. But just for you. Don't tell your friends I went so low.”

Roscoe placed the large bottle on the doorstep, and balanced a business card on top of its cork. The woman disappeared into the house, and returned with a bundle of credits. She counted twelve into Roscoe's hand. Roscoe had only paid the apothecary five.

“It was a pleasure doing business with you.” Roscoe bowed. Before he came back up, the door had already been shut.

He pulled out his roll of credits, and added the extra twelve to it, snapping the elastic band back around. He slipped it into his pocket, and patted it. Today was a good day.

Roscoe sorted through the few items left in his cart. He'd need to get more supplies before continuing. In fact, he probably deserved a break. There was a small patisserie in Satin Square that sold the sweetest apricot pastries, served by an equally sweet young man.

The shortage of women had brought many men to homosexuality; the basic human need for closeness, to feel a body wrapped around them, skin on skin. It was so common—more common, in fact, than heterosexual relationships—that the distinctions, the terms, had almost completely disappeared from the language. It was almost expected.

Homosexuality amongst women, of course, was outlawed, with the threat of strict punishments to discourage it.

Roscoe sat at his usual outside table, positioning himself with a view of the counter. He didn't even know the young waiter's name, although they'd got up close and personal in the patisserie's staff toilet on more than one occasion. But today, Roscoe was in a good mood, and a quick fumble wasn't going to do it for him.

He leaned back in his chair, and slipped his hat from his head. Despite being on the quick approach to his fiftieth year, Roscoe still laid claim to a full head of thick, dark hair. His eyes had borne the brunt of his lifestyle; with heavy wrinkles from the sun, the wind, the smoking, the drinking, and the general excesses of life. But he didn't mind, and the young men didn't seem to either. He paid well, and he knew he performed well too.

The young waiter strolled over and placed Roscoe's usual coffee on the glass-topped table. Roscoe reached out, and brushed the waiter's fingers.

“When's your break?” Roscoe asked.

The waiter smiled. “Give me twenty minutes.”

“But not here. I want you all afternoon.”

The waiter thought for a moment. Roscoe placed his roll of credits on the table. The waiter nodded.

“I don't live far. Half an hour and I'm yours.”

Roscoe leaned forward and watched the man walk away. He shifted, tugging at the crotch of his trousers.

26

The waiter's apartment was small, but it was immaculately tidy. Roscoe sat up on the bed as the waiter picked two bottles of beer from the fridge.

“What's your name?” asked Roscoe, accepting the offered drink.

“Todd.”

“Do you bring many customers back here, Todd?”

Todd climbed back onto the bed and leaned back against the pillows, flexing an arm behind his head. “Not many.” He put his bottle on the bedside table, and reached over, taking hold of Roscoe's hand. He lifted it to his mouth. “But you are by far the best.” He slipped Roscoe's fingers into his mouth, sucking them in deep.

Roscoe reached over Todd, setting his bottle down. “Let's go again.”

Roscoe woke to the sound of gasping. He opened his eyes, taking a moment to remember where he was. He looked over at Todd. He was propped up on the pillows, his eyes wide. He clawed at Roscoe's shoulders.

“I can't move my legs!” he screamed. “I can't move my bloody legs!”

“It's just cramp.” Roscoe rubbed Todd's thighs. “You just need to get the blood moving.”

“I can't move them!”

Todd leaned over the bed and vomited on the floor, his whole torso heaving. “What the hell have you done to me?”

Roscoe backed off the bed, looking around wildly for some kind of inspiration. “What do I do?”

Todd pointed madly towards the door. “The alarm!”

Roscoe ran to the door. He flipped the cover up on the panic alarm and pressed it hard.

Todd's chest began to heave. “I can't feel my arms! Oh God, I'm going blind! Help me!”

Roscoe ran back to the bed, cradling Todd's head onto his knees. He stroked his wet forehead. What else could he do?

Todd's eyes grew wide as his body went into convulsions. Roscoe held him tightly, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. Todd's eyes closed and his body stilled. His chest rose and fell one last time. Roscoe bowed his head, and let the tears come. In a way, he had loved this boy.

He looked up as the door burst open and two paramedics entered the room.

Roscoe shook his head. “You're too late.”

27

Roscoe tapped his fingers against the desk. They'd left him alone in the police interview room for what felt like years. There was no clock, and they'd taken his watch. It was a technique, designed to break him, to make him confess.

But he didn't know what he was meant to be confessing to. He knew that a man was dead, but it had nothing to do with him.

He chewed the skin around his thumbnail, a habit his father had beaten out of him as a child. He tugged at a loose piece of skin with his teeth, the strip tearing further down his thumb, deep enough to draw blood. He squeezed his thumb, watched the blood pool on his skin, and put it in his mouth. He could still taste the soap the police had scrubbed him with.

The door opened and the officer walked back in. Detective, inspector, something like that. The man was fat and balding, and looked like he hadn't fitted into a standard issue uniform for decades. He was chewing on something.

He sat down, and tucked his wayward tie back under the desk. He sighed, and switched whatever was in his mouth to the other side.

“Roscoe Cross. You've got yourself in a bit of trouble, haven't you?”

“You tell me,” Roscoe replied.

“One dead young man, found in your company. You don't think that's trouble?”

“Well, I'm not sure what to call it, because I have no idea what happened.”

“But Todd Patton's house wasn't the only one you visited that day, was it? We've pieced together your movements.”

“I'm a salesman, I visit a lot of houses. But Todd was the only one I slept with. What exactly am I accused of?”

He held up his chubby hands, a wedding ring cutting into the flesh. “Nothing, nothing. Yet. You're simply helping us with our enquiries.”

“So, I'm not under arrest?”

“Not yet.”

“So I can leave?”

He shook his head, and the wattle under his chin swayed back and forth. “It's not like it is in the movies. You will remain in custody until we decide if or when to charge you. And at the moment, that's looking more like a when than an if.”

“What happened to Todd? What killed him?”

He took a deep breath, held it, and exhaled. “We believe Mr Patton was poisoned.”

“Poisoned? With what?”

“Hemlock.”

28

Harris grunted as he grabbed the pew in front of him, and pulled himself up from his knees. He rubbed blood back into his aching legs. He looked up at the carving above the altar. It looked back at him with disdain. A God warped and twisted to serve man's purpose.

There were no answers forthcoming from the half-closed wooden eyes. Harris had grown bitter and cynical over the years. All he saw was corruption, false piety, and most of it was his own. He couldn't find anything to believe in anymore.

He heard footsteps behind him, and turned around. He hurried down the aisle, and took Lacey into his arms. He eased her down onto a pew, letting her lean her weight against him.

“What happened?” Harris asked.

Lacey swallowed, her tongue sweeping over her swollen lips. “He tried to get rid of the baby his own way.”

Harris held Lacey to his chest. “We'll get you sorted out. I won't let you go back to him again.” At least he could save one girl.

He helped Lacey to her feet, and held onto her as she hobbled up to the chancel. They walked through the sacristy, and into the corridor beyond. Harris opened his bedroom door and helped Lacey onto the bed.

“Is anything broken?” Harris asked.

“Maybe a few ribs, I don't know.”

“I'll get Father Benson to see you. But first, I'll get you something to eat. Just wait here, and rest. We'll figure everything out.”