7
‘YOU’RE SOMETHING DIFFERENT,’ she said, after two whiskies had been placed in front of us on the bar. ‘You’re not pretending, are you?’
‘What would Mr Quinton think of his wife talking to another man like this?’
‘I wouldn’t worry.’ She gave me the smallest of smiles and pulled off her long gloves, showing me her ringless fingers. ‘I’m nobody’s wife. And you’re not exactly a man.’
‘What do you want?’
She seemed flustered by my bluntness, and I realised she was less confident than she appeared. I’d been misled by the elegance of her purple polonaise overdress, and her lace underskirt that swished as she crossed her legs. Those clothes must have cost more than Rosie earned in a month.
She touched me lightly on the shoulder. ‘Don’t think ill of me. I want to know about you, that’s all. I’m fascinated by the range of human existences.’ She swept a hand across the room. ‘All these boys have their foibles. Some of them dress up and do make-believe, some have even convinced themselves. But you, with all this … ’ She indicated my jacket and the hat I was holding. ‘You’re so normal. So commonplace. I could pass you in the street and never imagine what you were.’
‘I’m an ordinary man.’
‘Exactly. Yet different. That’s what’s fascinating.’ She gazed at me with such frankness I started to blush. ‘The extraordinary, hidden beneath the ordinary.’
‘I mean, corporeally. If you were to stand there naked, you’d be like any other woman.’
‘I have to go.’
‘No, please. I didn’t mean to offend you.’
‘I’ve outstayed my intention.’
Such was the thickness of the crowd and opacity of the atmosphere I had some trouble locating the exit. I found myself close to the fellows occupying the sofas, one of whom looked up from his kissing, his eyes at first unfocused and then catching mine. He spoke, but I couldn’t hear him in the din. Seeing my confused expression, he leaned forward, detaching himself from the lad he was with.
‘Are you a policeman? You look like you don’t belong here.’
‘No. A journalist.’
He leapt to his feet, straightened his tie and commenced searching about the torso of his somnolent friend, who was now sprawling face down on the sofa.
‘Please,’ he said, his voice quivering. ‘Make no mention of me, I beg you.’
‘I’m not planning to write about this place.’
The poor fellow gave up his hunt and swallowed hard.
‘It’s for amusement, nothing more. A lark. Do you understand?’
‘Of course.’
He met my eyes again and seemed at a loss for what more to say. Finally, he came close to me and whispered in my ear. ‘The days are so long. Don’t you find that? I can hardly bear the hours in between.’
And then he was gone.
The lad he had been with stirred and lifted his face. I recognised him as the same one whom Peregrine had been entertaining in his room. He rolled over on to his back, revealing a squashed felt hat on the sofa.
‘You’ll have to talk to Stephan.’
‘What?’
He waved in the direction of the bar. ‘You can’t miss him. He’s the size of a bull.’
He sat up. His shirt was open to his navel. ‘If you want to spend time with me, or any of the boys, or girls, you have to talk to Stephan. Do you understand?’
‘I think I do, yes. He handles the transactions on behalf of Mr Quinton, is that right?’
The lad blinked at me as if was a simpleton. ‘Yes, exactly. I don’t handle money.’
‘I see. Well, I’m not interested, thank you.’
He threw up his hands in mock despair and stretched himself out again. ‘Come back if you change your mind.’
The band was still playing, black sweat pouring from all of them except the singer, who was swaying as he sang inaudibly, like someone seen through a distant window.
I couldn’t stay in the place a second longer. I blundered around the walls until I found the curtain across the exit, and stumbled out into the night, leaning on the metal railing and sucking in lungfuls of air.
Underneath the metal steps, a fox was lapping at a puddle of puke. My first thoughts weren’t of revulsion, but amazement that the city was still here, apparently unchanged. I felt as if I’d been transported to another world altogether, and that on my emergence back into reality, I’d find everything strange and incomprehensible, as if waking and sleeping were reversed.
I was about to climb the steps and make my way home when I realised that I wasn’t alone. Alice had come out behind me, now wearing an elegant travelling coat tailored to fit around her bustle.
‘I’m glad I caught you,’ she said. ‘I wanted to apologise.’
‘There’s no need—’
‘And I’d be very grateful if you would walk me home.’
She wouldn’t take no for an answer. I told her that I didn’t know her full name, and she told me it was Alice Morgan, and held out a hand for me to kiss. And now we were introduced, she said, there wasn’t any choice, was there? Who knew what dangers lurked on the route between here and her house? And besides, she knew where Peregrine lived, having sat for the portrait, and the detour was half a mile at most. A small price to pay for a lady’s safety. And all this while we were strolling along the promenade together, even as I protested that I would be next to useless if she were attacked.
‘Well, I know that,’ she assured me. ‘We’re like two girls keeping each other company.’
‘We are not.’
‘I said like. And it’s true, corporeally speaking.’
‘I’ve found, Miss Morgan, that the corporeal doesn’t count for much.’
She pursed her lips, slowing her stride as she was contemplating what I’d said. She appeared quite genuine in her desire to understand me. Eventually, she reached a conclusion.
‘Perhaps that’s the difference between us. I’ve found that the corporeal counts for everything.’
I supposed she had a point, from her own perspective. She was, presumably, Quinton’s mistress, so her body was her livelihood. I didn’t know whether he had a wife as well, but even if he didn’t, Miss Morgan wasn’t likely to get the part. She was, at best, an understudy.
‘You were angry with Mr Black before,’ she said. ‘You didn’t want your secret told. I can understand that.’
I didn’t reply. My feelings were too complex to express, especially to a stranger. In truth, I felt less anger than despair. First Rosie and now Peregrine had made their feelings clear. They might love me, but when it came to people whose opinions they valued – sisters or clients – my affliction was the only notable characteristic I possessed, overriding everything else: my mind, my soul and my beating, male heart.
I had the urge to run. I’d done it before. By this time tomorrow I could be on a ship to Spain or France, and no one would ever know where I’d gone.
‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘What?’
‘The sea. You were admiring it.’
She was, in literal terms, mistaken. At this late hour, the sea was nothing but a dark strip between the stones on the beach and the starry sky. But I knew what she meant.
She looped her arm in mine. ‘It’s a warm evening.’
‘It is. Would you like me to carry your coat?’
‘Thank you.’
She took it off, revealing again her shoulders and slim upper arms.
I had thought we would continue our stroll, but she continued to stand and gaze out at the horizon. ‘We should get a closer look. It’s glorious at this time of night.’
Without waiting for an answer, she started clambering over the stones between the huts. I had little choice but to go as well.
The beach dropped steeply at the tideline, where the bathing machines were lined up like cannons awaiting enemy fire. She threaded between them, looking back to see that I was following. I was feeling strangely breathless, though the walk was no exertion at all.
When we reached the water, she leaned down and removed both of her shoes, placing them side by side on the stones.
‘Come on.’
She picked up her skirts, gathering them tight to her knees, and waddled out, washing her feet in the waves, which were no more than ripples in the stillness of the evening. She gave me a broad grin, her eyes reflecting the lamps on the promenade.
‘It’s marvellously refreshing,’ she said, coming back out of the water.
Perhaps now we would resume our journey home, I thought. But that was not her intention. Instead, she began to undo the buttons of her overdress.
‘Miss Morgan, please. I don’t know what you’re planning, but—’
‘I’m planning to swim. Don’t you want to join me?’
Always the hardest question. Yes, yes, of course, yes, but it wasn’t possible. I could only ever watch from the edge. To join in required a wholeness I did not possess. My curvatures would betray me.
I looked each way along the shoreline. The beach appeared deserted.
‘We aren’t supposed to,’ I said. ‘And there’s no one here to man the bathing machines. I don’t think I’m strong enough to move one for you.’
At that, she laughed, covering her mouth like a schoolgirl. ‘That won’t be necessary. I’m not shy.’
She removed her overdress and laid it on the shingle next to her shoes, and then her flounced skirts and bustle, until she was standing in front of me wearing nothing but a white combination.
‘Miss Morgan—’
‘It’s only swimming,’ she said, and walked into the sea.
There were any number of things I could have told myself. I could have wondered at the state of the tide, and whether she was safe out there on her own. I could have remembered that Rosie didn’t treat me as a husband, so could hardly complain if I didn’t act like one. I could even argue that flirting with other women was exactly what most husbands did anyway, and why should I be any different?
But instead, I acknowledged the truth, no matter how selfish it made me feel. At that moment, on that beach and under that sky, I wanted to do something other than watch from the edge. I wanted to go swimming with Alice. I pulled off my shoes and socks, my suit and my shirt, and whooped as I sprinted into the sea, creating the hugest splash. Alice was already floating on her back, her feet poking above the water, and she clapped as I spluttered and then plunged.
It had been so long. Underwater, all the sounds of the world dulled and, eyes shut, breath held, I was weightless and formless. I kicked and made a stroke with my arms, and then another, feeling my drawers and undershirt pull into my body and float outwards, pull inwards and float out, over and over. More than anything, at that moment, I wanted to leave all the parts of me behind and simply disappear.
When my lungs started to burn, I came up for air. The shore was lit like a diorama, carriage lamps swinging and windows glowing. Against such brilliance, we were the faintest of shadows.
Alice was performing a neat breaststroke, a look of concentration on her face. As she came close, we trod water.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I haven’t done this for a very long time.’
‘Don’t you like it?’ she asked, between gasps.
‘I do. Very much.’
‘You should do it more often.’
My life is more complicated than that, I thought. But why? I would never have swum in the sea if this woman hadn’t cajoled me, or coaxed me – or shamed me. Perhaps my life had only become complicated because I’d forgotten it could be otherwise.
After fifteen minutes of joyful splashing, I followed her back to the beach, dripping water on to the shingle. Her underclothes were clinging to her body, revealing the plumpness of her buttocks and the hollowness of her back.
I wondered how I must look to her. I was as spare as a whippet, but I had hips and a waist and small breasts, squashed under my binding. Instinctively, I covered myself, arms across my chest, but she didn’t glance back at me. I was grateful for her compassion.
The evening had seemed warm, but now our teeth were chattering. Absent towels, we had no choice but to put our clothes back on over our salt-soaked underwear. It was no easy task, and we giggled and shivered as we hopped to and fro and fiddled with buckles, hardly able to see what we were doing.
Once reclothed, we tiptoed back to the road between the bathing machines and huts. Under the light of the street lamps, anyone would have known what we’d been doing. Our hair was lank and wet, and our clothes were blotchy with seawater. We left two trails like slugs on the paving.
At the formal garden, we headed rightwards, inland, passing an ugly grey obelisk, the kind of thing city officials erect as memorials when they’re too mean to pay for a sculptor. The streets were residential, modest but pleasant. She stopped next to a house with a blue door.
‘This is where I live. Thank you, I’ve had a lovely evening.’
Such times as these make a lie of the laws of physics and chemistry. The finest scientists couldn’t deny that another energy exists in the universe, an invisible and unmeasurable force that pushes and pulls, both at once. I was cleaved in two by it.
I forced myself to perform a bow.
‘Goodnight, Miss Morgan.’
As I turned to go, she produced from her inner coat pocket her door key and an opium pipe.
‘Do you smoke?’ she asked.
In the past, I’d been guilty of indulging in such temptations, but no longer. I had Rosie and the children to think of.
‘No.’ I should have left it at that, but more words came into my head, and for some reason, out of my mouth. ‘I’ve heard it called the “Blood Flower”.’
The smile faded on her lips. ‘The what?’
‘The Blood Flower. Opium comes from poppies.’
She narrowed her eyes, and I had the impression she was trying to work out whether I was playing some trick. Fortunately, I had an honest face.
‘What do you know of the Blood Flower?’
I shrugged. ‘Only that it’s in some way connected to two murders, a young man named Micky Long and an acrobat named Natalia La Blanche. Do you know them?’
Alice hugged herself, beginning to shiver again. ‘I met Micky once or twice. He worked for Mr Quinton sometimes. I wept when I heard. He had a younger brother, you know. I can’t imagine what’ll happen to him now. But you’re on the wrong track, I assure you.’
‘How so?’
‘The Blood Flower isn’t opium.’
I stared at her. ‘Then what is it?’
She looked down at her hands. ‘I can’t tell you. I truly can’t.’
‘Miss Morgan, you must. A lad has been arrested.’
‘If you mean Honey, everyone knows it wasn’t him. He’ll be let out tomorrow.’
I was becoming impatient. I couldn’t help but remember the faces of the circus troupe when they found out that their friend was dead. They deserved to know the truth of her murder.
‘Two deaths, Miss Morgan. Tell me what the Blood Flower is.’
She opened her door and turned back to face me. ‘It’s the most valuable thing. Beyond price.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s dangerous. It contains beauty and parlous magic.’
‘What kind of “parlous magic”?’
Her fingers went to her throat. ‘I’m speaking plainly. It’s cursed. That’s all I can say.’
Before I could ask her what on earth she meant, she shut the door, and I was left alone on the step.