Behind the Sun (23 page)

Sarah intercepted her. ‘Where are you off to?’

‘The bog. I’m
bursting
.’

‘I’ll come with you.’

‘Oh, what for? I’ll only be five minutes!’

Sarah glanced up at the foredeck. Keegan was there, yapping away with that other cove. That was all right; as long as she could see him, he couldn’t be anywhere else. ‘Well, mind you come straight back.’

‘I will.’

Sarah turned back to Keegan too quickly to notice that someone else had followed Rachel down the ladder onto the prison deck.

As usual the light below was dim and, after being in the fresh air, the smell of body odour, bilge and the bogs enveloped Rachel unpleasantly. She hurried along the aisle to the water closets at the far end and shut herself into a cubicle, lifting her skirt and hovering above the seat with profound relief. When she’d finished she wiped herself with the hem of her skirt and barged out of the cubicle, eager to be back on deck before the music finished for the evening.

But someone was sitting at the table, just by the door that opened into the water closets.

‘Good evening, Rachel,’ Bella Jackson said in her low voice.

Rachel came to a rapid halt, her boots skidding on the smooth floorboards. Bella’s face was in shadow; all Rachel could clearly see was the gleam of lamplight in her hair and her pale, long-fingered hands resting in her lap.

‘You gave me a fright!’

‘I didn’t mean to. I saw you dancing up on deck. Very pretty. Charming, in fact.’

‘Thank you.’ Rachel’s gaze searched the rest of the prison deck, trying not to make it obvious. Were she and Bella the only ones down here?

‘Did your friend Friday like her gift?’

‘Her gift?’

‘The caul?’

‘Oh! Yes, very much, thank you. She felt better as soon as I gave it to her.’

‘Well, that’s good news, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m always heartened to hear that a favour has worked out well.’

‘Yes, it did. Thank you.’ Rachel attempted to sidle past, but Bella put out a staying hand.

‘And now I would like to ask a favour of you.’

Rachel began to feel uneasy. Perhaps she should have paid something for the caul after all.

Bella shifted slightly on the bench seat, allowing the lamp to illuminate her face. There was a big, scabby pink mark on it, below her right cheek. She smiled warmly. ‘Tell me, Rachel, how would you like to make some money?’

‘At night? Working for you?’ Oh no, this was terrible. ‘But I’m not a prostitute! I couldn’t!’

‘No, dear,’ Bella said, patting her hand. ‘I don’t mean that. I’ve been approached by one of the paying passengers who is looking for someone trustworthy to launder his linen once a week. He’s willing to pay very handsomely, I believe. I said I might know just the girl. Are you interested?’

‘Laundry?’ Rachel’s heart was thumping so loudly at the thought of prostituting herself she could hardly hear her own voice. ‘Which paying passenger?’

‘The gentleman named Mr Keegan. Do you know the one I mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘Interested?’

Rachel nodded.

‘Good. In that case he would like you to go to his cabin tomorrow night at eleven o’clock to discuss the terms of your employment.’

‘Eleven at night? That’s late.’

‘It will have to be done in secret, Rachel. Remember that prisoners are forbidden to fraternise with the passengers. Have you forgotten?’

‘No.’ Rachel had.

‘And a word of advice.’ Bella leant forwards, though they were still alone on the prison deck. ‘I strongly suggest you keep this from Friday and your other friends. They might become jealous if they realise you’re earning such good money.’

‘No, I don’t think they’ll mind. We’re like sisters now, and all the money we make we share.’

‘Really?’ Bella frowned. ‘Well, perhaps you’d like to save up and buy them something when you get the chance in Sydney, a token of your affection for them? I know what a generous little soul you are. You’d like to keep that secret, wouldn’t you? Good girl,’ she said as Rachel nodded in agreement.

Up on deck again Rachel began to realise what a stroke of good fortune she had just encountered. It was the most extraordinary thing because she’d been planning for weeks now to approach someone — either Mr Keegan, or Mr Cutler or even bossy Mrs Seaton if she had to — and offer to clean their cabins or take in their laundry. For money, of course, to go towards her Lucas fund, which she hadn’t started yet, but she had better if she wanted to get back to England after she’d served her sentence. She couldn’t play cards any more, not on the ship, as no one would play against her. And if Mr Keegan was actually offering laundry
work, she wouldn’t have to go begging for it. Though where she would find lemons and turpentine for washing silk she didn’t know.

Bella Jackson was right, though, about keeping quiet about it. Not because of buying presents for everyone with the money, though that was a nice idea, but because Friday and Sarah disliked Mr Keegan so much. Rachel didn’t know why as he seemed such a gentleman, and she really was quite a good judge of character.

Now she was lying in bed next to Harrie and Sarah, who were asleep, waiting for eleven o’clock to arrive so she could creep out and go to his cabin. Friday was already out, working, so she would have to be very careful not to bump into her anywhere up on deck. It was amazing, really, everything that went on on the ship at night. A real little hive of industry, Friday said it was. And all the while Captain Holland was snoring away in his cabin on the quarterdeck — and Mr Downey as well. Sarah said surely Mr Downey couldn’t be that stupid, though she thought Captain Holland was, but Friday said the captain probably did know, but was turning a blind eye because he didn’t want to upset his crew in case they mutinied, and Harrie reckoned Mr Downey took a sleeping draught at night, because he missed his wife, and slept like the dead.

Rachel had been feeling nervous about meeting Mr Keegan all day. Harrie asked her what was wrong and she’d lied and said nothing, and felt bad for it. She’d thought about passing the time by setting her hair in curls using pages out of Mrs Fry’s bible, but her hair had grown too long for that and she wasn’t cutting it for any reason. Lucas loved her hair and she’d vowed when she’d realised she probably wouldn’t be seeing him again for a while —
really
realised, when the ship was leaving Portsmouth — not to cut it until they met again. Now, if she didn’t tie it up, she sat on it and sometimes it made her eyes water. And she had nits, but she nearly always had nits.

The ship’s bell tolled ten-thirty. Rachel carefully lifted off her blanket and sat up. She didn’t have to worry about making a noise because the prison deck resonated with the usual sounds of over a hundred sleeping bodies, as well as the creaking and grinding of the ship, and neither did the odd bump matter, but Sarah and Harrie might wake if they got cold, so she made sure not to disturb their blankets.

In the sooty light of the permanently burning oil lamps, she wriggled stealthily to the edge of the bunk, put her bare feet on the floor and crouched, reaching for the sack containing her blouse and skirt. She wouldn’t bother with her boots, even though it was cold enough to wear them on deck now.

Dressed, she crept the short distance along the aisle, looking left and right to make sure no one was awake and watching — because if even just one person saw her,
everyone
would know by morning she’d been up on deck — then climbed the ladder and pushed against the hatch. It was closed but not locked. It was extremely heavy and she had to really put her weight behind it, but finally she managed to open it and wriggle out without dropping it and making a horrendous crash.

The waistdeck was empty. She felt slightly disappointed. Not that she’d been expecting to see couples fucking all over it, but she thought she might have seen something at least mildly interesting. She padded silently across the boards, long accustomed by now to the roll of the ship beneath her feet, until she came to the narrow door that led to the cabins beneath the foredeck. Taking a last, quick look around to ensure she wasn’t being observed, she grasped the door handle.

‘You’ll be sorry, girlie.’

Rachel almost wet herself. Stepping back and squinting into the darkness, she spotted him: revolting Amos Furniss, squatting on the foredeck where he wasn’t supposed to be, hunched and crumpled like a gargoyle, back against the foremast, filthy black pipe in his mouth. She loathed him; everyone did.

‘What did you say?’

‘You and your fine, silky hair and your pretty eyes. You’ll be sorry.’ And he laughed.

‘Oh, sod off.’ Rachel pushed open the door.

At the bottom of a pair of steps the narrow corridor between the cabins was lit by a single swinging lantern. Four low doors led off the corridor, two on each side. One at the far end was slightly ajar so she headed that way. Rachel took a deep breath and knocked.

It opened almost immediately to reveal Gabriel Keegan, stooping slightly due to the low ceiling, but smiling widely and making a grand welcoming gesture with the hand that wasn’t holding the door handle.

‘My dear, you came! Come in, come in.’

Rachel stepped inside and looked around as he closed the door behind her. It was a tiny little cabin, much smaller than she’d imagined. Standing exactly in the middle she could just about touch every wall if she’d had a mind to.

‘Please, make yourself comfortable,’ Mr Keegan said.

She perched on the wooden chair in front of the little writing desk. Mr Keegan sat on the bed, a narrow, built-in cot with drawers beneath. There was nothing personal she could see, except for a trunk against one wall and Mr Keegan’s hat on the desk. No pictures, no little knick-knacks, no nice things. But then this was a man’s room, she reminded herself; her father and her brothers hadn’t gone in for fripperies either and she hadn’t had a chance to find out what Lucas had liked, as they’d shared so little time together. If it was
her
cabin, she would have made pretty cushions for the bed and the chair, a nice lace curtain with a satin sash to tie it back when the window was open, an embroidered runner for the desk and perhaps a rag rug for the floor. Those boards didn’t look very inviting all bare like that.

She looked up to see Mr Keegan watching her. The window was closed and it was quite warm in here, despite the coolness of the
night. He wasn’t wearing a coat and several buttons on his shirt were open, showing a bit of chest hair. God, her mother would skin her alive if she could see her now.

‘Bella Jackson said you have a laundry position available?’ she said.

He smiled without showing his teeth. ‘Is that what she called it? Yes, well. I assume you’re not averse to the idea of making some money?’

‘No, sir. I’m saving up, you see.’

‘How does a half-sovereign a week sound?’

A whole half-sovereign? Just for laundering one man’s shirts and stockings and bed linen? Rachel was astounded.

‘Would you be wanting me to clean in here for that as well?’

‘You can do whatever the hell you like, as long as you’re available for me, and
exclusively
me, to fuck every night between ten o’clock and midnight. I might decide on some other girl’s company, but you’re still to make yourself available or you don’t get paid, is that clear?’

Rachel felt as though she’d been punched in the face, and barely heard anything he said after the word ‘fuck’. What a truly horrible mistake she’d made. What a rotten bastard!

She stood up. ‘You bloody pig. How dare you?’

Keegan smirked, enjoying her shock and embarrassment, feeling himself stiffen. ‘You’re a whore — I thought you’d jump at the chance of a guaranteed income.’ Though he knew she wasn’t; if she was, she would be up on deck at night. But it was exciting seeing her humiliated.

‘I’m
not
, and if I was, I wouldn’t go with you anyway. The girls all laugh about you, you know.’ She crooked her little finger and waggled it. ‘John Thomas Junior.’ It was an invention, but she knew it would rile him. And then, her rage and humiliation boiling over, she hoicked up a lump of phlegm and spat it at him.

The gob landed on the sleeve of his costly white linen shirt. He looked down at it for a moment, then back at her, and in the black
depths of his narrowed eyes she saw what was going to happen to her. She lunged for the door.

Grabbing a fistful of her hair he jerked her backwards, cutting off her scream, and swung her around so she landed on her knees on the floor, her scalp burning. She scrambled towards the gap beneath the desk — perhaps he wouldn’t be able to reach her under there — but he ripped her back by her hair again and picked her up, turned her over and dumped her on the bed, for a second knocking the breath out of her. She kicked out viciously and bit his hand, but he slapped her, knelt on her legs and punched her, hard, right in the middle of her face. She lay still then, shocked rigid, a high-pitched roaring noise filling her ears, stars bursting silently behind her eyes.

Keegan pressed his thin feather pillow down over her face. She couldn’t see anything at all and the stink of him, of his skin and the pomade he used to dress his hair, filled her collapsed nostrils. Vaguely, as though yards away, she felt him fumbling around, then the heat of his freed cock against her hand.

She rallied and gave an enormous buck, almost unseating him, and flailed wildly with her arms, scratching his face, squealing as loudly as she dared but too frightened to inhale forcefully and really scream in case she sucked in the pillow casing and suffocated. Or drowned — her nose throbbed and there was blood trickling down the back of her throat and she couldn’t swallow fast enough to get rid of it. Oh God, what if she drowned in her own blood?

She felt Keegan lift his weight off her and she thought for a heart-stopping second he might have changed his mind, that he wasn’t going to do it after all, but then her skirt was pulled up and flipped over her head. She clamped her legs shut but felt his bony knee jam between hers, bearing down until her muscles gave way and he shoved his way between her thighs. He covered her completely, the top of her head under the pillow directly beneath his chest. She couldn’t breathe at all now and began to struggle for her life, grunting and crying out in muffled terror.