August (20 page)

‘What's in there?' Grace asked.

‘Your future,' James answered. ‘Good luck. Who knows, if they like you I might even see you again some day.'

He winked and let his gaze slide down to her breasts.

‘Hello Martha, a convent girl fresh from the City.'

‘Can you vouch for her?'

‘She comes highly recommended.'

Martha, the madam of the house, had applied her make-up in the way a plasterer applies render, but still the cracks were visible. Her hair, cut short and close to her head, was dyed an improbable red. Her dress, black and of the finest fabric Grace had ever seen, swayed loosely about her delicate frame and a huge ring of gold dangled from each ear, as if to keep her from floating free. Once she had been beautiful, and the memory of beauty lingered in her eyes. Her expression was warm but careful, appraising, and her voice was startling.

‘What is your name?'

‘Grace, Ma'am.'

‘A convent girl?'

Grace nodded.

‘Have you been whipped?'

The room was warm and the furniture more opulent than Grace had ever seen. She considered lying but there was no hiding the scars.

‘Yes, but many years ago.'

‘Let's see, then. Lift that dress off and turn around.'

Grace did as she was told and felt the pressure of bony fingers running along the hard raised skin.

‘You're lucky: they healed badly. It's a nice rough contour. We'll take you. Turn around. Look at me. We'll test you and if you're clean there's a room for you with the other girls. Staying clean is your responsibility. We'll pay you well if the clients like you. I'm sure they will. That's a great blemish and you seem shy, which is what they look for. You're lucky. I'll keep you safe.'

The woman pulled her close. Grace was as numb as the scars on her back.

There were twelve girls altogether and they slept off the premises in a hostel that was clean and comfortable. The girls were friendly and at the same time wary, an attitude Grace remembered well from her convent days. She tried to be careful too, yet in those first few weeks she laughed more than she had in all the years before. And for the first time in her life she received a wage. The money felt strange in her hand, like the first tickling of a new disease. When she wasn't working she was free to explore, but the rush of the streets overwhelmed her and she preferred to lie on her bed reading the tattered books and magazines she found on a shelf next to the linen.

Settlement men were different of course—their clothes and their way of talking—but none was unfamiliar. It was the same mix of the shy and the confident, the polite and the demanding, the frightened and the frightening. Until Grace met Pete, the men held no surprises.

Initially she mistook him for a first timer. He hung in the doorway as if waiting to be invited in and was careful to keep his eyes from her body. When he walked his movements were gentle. His narrow shoulders and small hands suggested a life free from labour, and when she led him to the edge of the bed he remained standing, like an unannounced visitor not wanting to impose.

‘What would you like?' Grace asked. Although his light hair was thinning she saw he had the eyes of a child, ready to tip into tears or laughter.

‘It's a little unusual.' He dipped his eyes and a blush worried its way across his cheeks.

‘You will do well to surprise me,' Grace said.

‘My name is Pete. I would like you to like me.'

‘I already like you,' Grace replied. It was a game and she was good at it, finding the right words to relax them.

‘No, genuinely like me.'

‘I'm not sure what you mean.'

He sat down and let her take his hand.

‘I've never been here before. I suppose that's obvious. Or maybe all your clients pretend that. I don't know. I don't want to tell you about myself, not too much. But I am sad. I haven't always been sad, but life, it catches us unawares. It shouldn't, but it does. And I need to be able to tell somebody I am sad. This, well, it's honest, isn't it? That's what I decided. There's no pretending. I'm paying you to do as I please. And as I please is for you to listen to me and talk to me, and if I am lucky you will like me. And if you don't, I don't want you to pretend. Is that all right?'

Grace nodded. He was right: it wasn't unusual for men to start this way. But Pete spoke in a way that made her want to believe him.

‘And when I like you?'

‘Then I suppose I'd like to fuck you,' he admitted with a smile. ‘But not today. Today I would like to talk to you.'

This too she had heard before. Perhaps he even believed it. But no man was to leave unrelieved. On this point the madam was most insistent.

‘The frightened ones need you to lead them,' she explained. ‘They would never have come here if they didn't want you, and they'll never be back again if you don't give them a reason to return.'

‘I chose this place because it has convent girls,' Pete continued. ‘And I am interested in that. I am interested in talking about God.'

That part, she had to admit, was new. He used his hour and then paid for a second, and all the time they did nothing but talk about God. He questioned her about her education and her beliefs, and Grace did what she always did: wove truth and tale together, keeping close to herself those things that mattered most—Josephine and the angel.

Grace was worried when Pete left with no more than a handshake, and she expected to be punished for it. But he was back three nights later, and in the months that followed Grace saw him on average twice a week. He told her he taught psychology at one of the universities, and she believed him. He knew more than anybody she had ever met and was a kind and patient teacher. Soon her thoughts were patterned with his fingerprints and with every new thing he told her she yearned to learn more. He brought her books to read; histories were her favourite. One morning he took her out in his car to show her the places he had talked about: the street where he grew up, the school of his childhood, the restaurant where he worked washing dishes through his student years.

Grace had little trouble convincing Pete she liked him. The learning, the laughing, the sex—all of it made her feel important. She found herself wishing the girls from the convent could see what she had become. Some nights thoughts of Pete kept her from sleeping. For the first time since the death of Josephine, Grace had a friend. When she asked him if he was her angel he laughed and ran his finger down her scars. When he brought her gifts and told her she had saved him, she cried.

And then one week he didn't visit. One week turned to two, then three. His absence clawed at her and the only thing she could think of doing was the thing she knew she mustn't do.

‘Why were you surprised? You were just a whore to him.' It was easy for Tristan to hate the man she described. The affection in her voice tore at him like broken steel.

‘And what am I to you?' she demanded, her voice rising to his challenge.

‘You went to him, didn't you?'

‘They told me if I ever initiated contact with a client I would be gone,' Grace said. ‘But he didn't feel like a client. I thought…'

She finished with a whimper, whether in pain or sadness Tristan couldn't know. Either way it softened him.

‘I am sorry,' he said.

‘Thank you.'

‘What happened?'

‘Nothing surprising. He had shown me where his university was. I found his office. He was there with a student. I suppose she was my age, a year or two older perhaps. They were laughing together when I walked in. He let go of her and stood to face me. Neither of us spoke. There wasn't any need. He must have phoned them. My bag had been packed by the time I got back.'

‘What did you do?'

‘I found the cheapest room I could. I lived off the food others discarded. When my money ran out I learned to work the streets.'

There was a toughness to her voice. It had been there all night but it was only now that it made sense to him. If this was a competition she would outlast him. But then, just as he thought he understood, her voice turned tender.

‘We had our stories, we street girls. We could all recite the circumstances of our imagined salvation. There wasn't one of us who wasn't infected with a fantasy. Mine was of an angel. He'd appear again, I told them on the evenings we could find cheap drink. And he'd take me away from it all.

‘You were my story, you see. I didn't believe it, except when I was telling it. That was our rule, I suppose: you had to believe, just for as long as you were telling the story.' Grace laughed, a warm sound speckled with irony. ‘One day you would appear again, and this time I wouldn't let you leave. I would grab you by the arm and cling to you, and that would be the end of my suffering.

‘And you did appear. You drove up in this car…I cannot tell you how strange it was to see you. I didn't believe it at first. I couldn't believe it. You found me, Tristan. No matter what comes of us, I am glad of that. I am glad you found me.'

‘You mustn't be,' Tristan replied.

Never in his life had he been more certain.

PART 3

First Light

Tristan watched the outline of Grace's head, failing to make the connection. Grace noticed first.

‘It's getting lighter.'

‘The rain's stopped,' he replied. ‘Perhaps it is just the clouds clearing.'

‘No, it's almost morning.' She spoke like a child awake too early on her birthday, willing light into the sky. ‘We're going to be all right.'

Her optimism broke like a wave, threatening to capsize him. He wouldn't allow it. Not yet. She stared back at him, each looking into the darkness of the other's face, waiting to see.

Tristan squinted. He could make out only a hint of her face. Her eyes, which shone so bright in his memory, were shadowed pools, sunk deep in fear. They darted, searching as his did for the mirrored details of their decline. There was no colour yet; dried blood matted hair to her forehead in thick black lines. She tried to smile, revealing gaps where teeth had been.

He could find no word to describe the wreckage, no place in his mind into which this image could be slotted. It floated free, rising up even when he screwed his eyes tight against it.

‘What is it?' she asked.

‘I did this to you,' he said, counting his teeth with his swollen tongue. ‘I did this.'

‘We'll get out of here,' she replied. ‘Soon, when it is properly light, the traffic will see us. Somebody will come.'

‘Don't lie to me.'

‘Don't think about it. Finish your story.'

‘I've nothing left to tell,' Tristan lied, turning away, daring her to break the silence.

Grace took his hand. The fight was leaking out of her. It was over to others now. The car would be seen or it would not. Thus all things reduce.

Tristan looked again at Grace's hair, trying to make out something of its colour. There was nothing but shade. He closed his left eye, which throbbed the least of the two, and the world went dark again.

‘What is it?'

‘I can't see.'

‘You have your eyes closed.'

‘Only one of them.'

Tristan opened it to see Grace looking away.

‘What is it?' He felt fear fall out in a rush. ‘What can you see?'

‘We are both hurt,' she mumbled, fixing her gaze on the shattered screen. ‘It is to be expected.'

‘Tell me what you see.'

‘There is nothing to tell. Some swelling, that is all. A cut across your forehead. It doesn't look too bad.'

‘You're lying.'

‘Why would I lie?'

‘To make it better.'

‘We are not children.'

Tristan wriggled frantically, ignoring the fireworks of pain in his hip.