The Angel Makers (22 page)

Despite the hour, Judit answers the doors surprisingly swiftly – perhaps it’s from her habit of dealing with medical emergencies, or perhaps she’s been expecting this knock on her door since she saw Sari by the river that day. Either way, she shows no surprise to see Sari standing there, but simply steps back from the door, letting Sari past. Sari looks around the familiar room, soft, worn wood, and comfortably tatty furniture, and is hit by the contrast between when she was last standing there – worried, certainly, but strong, intelligent, independent – and the way she must seem now, in her torn, tattered night dress, bare feet bloody, hair tangled, face bruised, clutching a shard of mirror in bleeding fingers.

Wordlessly, Judit extends a hand and places it on Sari’s convex belly – oh, of course she knows, you can’t have dealt with as many pregnant women as Judit has without knowing something like this – and a shiver of ice pours through Sari, as she notices for the first time a damp feeling on the inside of her thighs, and a red, ominous stain on the front of her night dress.

‘He kicked me in the stomach,’ she says. Her voice is very small. ‘He was trying to kill it.’

She starts to cry. She can’t remember the last time she wept, and it’s a painful, wrenching experience, as she puts her face into her hands and weeps for Marco, for her baby, for herself, even a little for the man Ferenc had been. Judit holds her with an unexpected lack of awkwardness, but it doesn’t last long – she’s so unused to this that her tears dry up in minutes, leaving her with a bone-deep sadness and a brittle, burning rage.

When she lifts her head, Judit leads her into the bedroom, and automatically Sari climbs up onto the bed, lifting her night dress and spreading her legs. She’s watched Judit do this so many times before, but still she’s taken aback by Judit’s gentleness as she examines Sari.

After a few anxious moments, Judit withdraws her hand. ‘I think it will be all right,’ she says. ‘It was a hard kick that he gave you, but you’re tough, and you’re still pregnant.’

‘But the blood …’

‘Pregnant women sometimes bleed, you know that, and often it means nothing. You’ll need to be careful over the next couple of days, but I think it will be all right.’

Sari nods, coasting on a flood of relief. She’s amazed at how much she wants this baby, and how quickly that desire has seized her. The baby only became a reality when Ferenc’s foot connected with her abdomen, only – what? Half an hour ago? But it’s already wielding a disproportionate influence over her choices, as it seems to have taken over as the most important thing in her life.

‘Do you know whose it is?’ Judit asks.

‘No.’

‘Do you care?’

Again, Sari shakes her head, surprised to find that she is being honest. She feels no less fiercely protective of this child when imagining Ferenc to be the father than when imagining it is Marco’s. It’s hers – that’s all that matters.

‘And Ferenc?’ Judit asks. Sari’s not sure quite what the question is, but she answers the one in her own head.

‘I’m going to kill him. I’ll do it whether or not you help me, but if you help me I’ll have less chance of getting caught.’

For a moment Judit says nothing, and then she gives a curt nod.

‘Of course I’ll help you, as much as I can. But first, you need to sleep. We can talk about things in the morning.’

‘If you think that I’m just saying this because I’m tired and upset, if you think that I’ll change my mind after a bit of sleep, you’re wrong.’ Sari’s voice is sharp and cold.

Judit shakes her head. ‘I don’t think that at all. But if you’re going to do this properly, you need to pay very careful attention to me, and I don’t think you’re in a state to do that, do you?’

Sari agrees, but is still reluctant. ‘I won’t sleep. I feel wide awake.’

‘Try it, at least. If you’re not asleep in half an hour tell me, and I’ll give you something to help you relax.’ Sari still looks dubious, and Judit adds: ‘The baby needs you to rest, you know.’

That decides it. Sari lies down, wriggling under the blankets, and Judit turns down the lamp. There’s a shadow of light patterning the walls, but nothing more. Sari closes her eyes, still certain that she’s too overwrought to sleep, but within minutes, wave after wave of tiredness breaks over her and she slips eagerly into darkness.

When she wakes it’s very early. The night is not quite properly over, but there’s a hint of pink at the window. She can’t have slept for long, but she feels refreshed and full of energy. In a way, she has been sleeping for the past few weeks, so it’s no wonder that just a few hours are enough for her now.

There’s no forgetfulness when she wakes, no period of blankness in which she doesn’t remember the events of the night before: she wakes into perfect awareness, and a comforting clarity of purpose. As she swings her legs out of bed, she checks herself quickly and is relieved to find that there’s no more blood on her thighs; moreover, she feels an early twinge of nausea that makes her uncommonly cheerful. She still
feels
pregnant, at least.

Judit is sitting at the table, still dressed as she was the previous night. She hasn’t been to bed, and is looking exhausted. Sari feels a spasm of guilt – at Judit’s age she doesn’t need this sort of excitement, fleeing women and attempted murder – but despite the tired lines on her face, Judit’s grin is as animated as ever.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Better,’ Sari says, sitting down gingerly. ‘The bleeding’s stopped, and I think everything is still all right – in that department, anyway. Thank you.’

‘Fine, fine,’ Judit says dismissively. ‘No bother, you know that. As for the other thing, though – do you remember what you said?’

Sari nods. ‘I still mean it. But it’s unfair of me to ask you to help me. I would understand if you refused.’

Judit shrugs. ‘You were right, though. You have a better chance of getting away with it if I help you. And I’m happy to do that. You know,’ she adds, contemplative, ‘it’s a funny thing about getting old – you start to care less and less about things that used to matter, things like morals and ethics.’ She gives her characteristic cackle. ‘Or maybe that’s just me, I don’t know. I’ve always been rather lacking in concern for my immortal soul, and that’s certainly not changed, the older I’ve got.’

Judit gets to her feet, and picks up a small bowl that’s sitting on the counter behind her, setting it on the table in front of Sari. When Sari looks inside, she sees that it contains a neat little rounded pyramid of powder.

‘What is that?’

Judit holds up a hand. ‘Before we go any further, I want to be sure that this is what you want to do.’

‘It’s the
only
thing I can do,’ replies Sari fervently, but Judit shakes her head.

‘You know I don’t believe that. Remember what I told you about choices? It might be that this is the best choice, but I need to be sure that you’ve at least considered the others. Have you thought about leaving?’

‘He said, the night that Marco – you do know that he killed Marco, don’t you?’

‘I knew he’d died. They’re telling some story down at the camp, but I guessed what had happened. I’m sorry.’

‘He said that night that if I tried to leave, his family know enough people around here that I would be found, that he wouldn’t give up until he found me, and when he found me he would kill me.’ Judit just looks at her. ‘I believe him, Judit. If it hadn’t been for the baby, I might have given it a try, but now … I’m not going to risk it. I can’t.’

Judit shrugs. ‘All right. And you wouldn’t even be talking to me now if you still thought that staying with him is an option, am I right?’

‘He’ll kill the baby,’ Sari says flatly. ‘I can’t let him do that.’

‘Fine,’ Judit says. ‘So that leaves us here.’ She taps the side of the bowl lightly in illustration.

‘So, what—’

‘Arsenic,’ Judit says. ‘Fairly easy to get hold of. You just boil off a few of those—’ she waves her hands at a couple of tattered old flypapers, flapping, dejected, at the windows – ‘and there it is. Very effective. Or so I gather. I prepared this a couple of weeks ago – had an idea that I might be needing it.’

Sari can’t help but laugh. ‘I was expecting something a little bit more … subtle, Judit.’

Judit grins, unperturbed. ‘I didn’t get where I am by being subtle, Sari. Anyway, we’re trying to kill a man, not give him a touch of nausea. This will do the trick.’ She snorts. ‘Surely you weren’t hoping I could provide a nice, simple curse so that you could keep your hands clean?’

Sari flushes, not wanting to admit that part of her had been hoping for just that, but Judit, as usual, sees straight through her.

‘Sari! You’ve worked with me for four years now; I thought you knew better. You’re not some naïve housewife from the plain …’

And her words trip something in Sari’s memory. Suddenly she’s taken back to a night four years ago, soon after she’d moved in with Judit, when a strained-looking woman sat with Judit in the half-light, and she knows, suddenly, as surely as she’s ever known anything, that Judit has done this sort of thing before.

They look at one another for a long moment. Sari’s heart is hammering, but Judit looks as cool as ever eyes bright and watchful, before Sari takes a shallow breath:

‘You—’

‘Sari,’ Judit says, and her voice is gentle. ‘Don’t ask me if you don’t want me to tell you the truth.’

There is a silence as long as a heartbeat, and then: ‘All right,’ Sari says, looking down at the unassuming bowl of powder.

Part of her feels relieved – she’s not naturally squeamish by nature, but the idea of killing someone discomfits her, and bar any quick and clean curses that Judit obviously doesn’t know, poison is far preferable than any number of unpleasantly real and
fleshy
methods of murder that she’d dreaded Judit suggesting; she’d had all sorts of horrible visions of having to hack Ferenc to pieces and bury him in the woods, or push him down the stairs. But with poison – just a little bit slipped in his food – and he’ll get ill and die; the only blood on her hands will be metaphorical. Easy.

‘So how do I do it?’ she asks.

‘You don’t want to kill him outright. It needs to look like a natural death, the result of an illness. No, no—’ as Sari starts to protest – ‘you said that you want to get away with this, and this is how you’re going to do it. I know you’re worried about him doing more damage, causing more problems if you don’t finish him off right away, but I promise you, Sari, I know men and illness. Just a touch of pain and discomfort and he’ll take to his bed, desperate to be mothered by you. All you need to do is just be a bit nice to him and I guarantee that he won’t lay a hand on you.

‘Now, you’re in luck. I remember you mentioning, when Ferenc first came home, that he was having some sort of stomach trouble – maybe the result of tension, or maybe some fever he picked up on the battlefield. Do you remember telling me that?’

Sari frowns. When …? ‘Oh yes!’ she exclaims. She gets a sudden, vivid image of the conversation in question, standing in this Judit’s kitchen. She’d been trying to keep her voice down, not wanting to embarrass Ferenc, but Matild Nagy had been sitting at the table, waiting for a headache treatment, and just as Sari was leaving, had said in unctuous tones: ‘Do give my best to Ferenc – I hope he feels better soon.’

‘You remember?’ Judit presses, and Sari nods again. ‘Good. That’s going to be a helpful way of deflecting suspicion. It’s also useful that Ferenc’s been seen so little around the village since he’s been back. We can let people believe that it’s because he’s been ill. And you’ve been seen out so little because you’ve been nursing him.’

She shrugs. ‘Whether people will believe that or not I don’t know. Rumours have been flying about since Marco was killed – you know what this place is like – but the point is that they are just rumours, nobody really knows what’s been going on, and if your story is plausible enough, well, people may not necessarily believe it, but they can’t disprove it, and that’s all that matters.’

‘It all sounds very risky,’ Sari says.

‘Well, of course it is! You’re killing a man; there’s no safe way to be doing that. You can’t do it without taking a few risks. But with a little bit of care, and a little bit of organisation, we can minimise the risks. There are some other things on your side, as well, you know. You have to remember how your average woman around here thinks.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘For one thing, you’re pregnant, and it’s going to start showing soon. What woman in her right mind would kill her fiancé when she’s pregnant? You’d have to bring up the child alone, and no other man is going to want you if you’ve got somebody else’s child, especially if you weren’t married in the first place. It doesn’t reflect very well on your morals, Sari,’ Judit adds, slyly.

‘And of course the other thing is the money. Ferenc’s a wealthy man – or his family is wealthy, at least – but you’re not married to him yet, and so you have no claim on any of that money if he dies. Any woman in her right mind – with a little murderous intent – would just wait a few months longer and kill him once you’re married, so that you can get your hands on his cash. You see, in the eyes of anyone in the village, you’re going to be in a pretty bad state after Ferenc dies – pregnant, penniless, soiled goods. That can all work in your favour.’

Sari thinks it over, and what Judit says makes sense. There are plenty of holes in the plan, of course, but there’s no way to block all of them. This can work; it will take a bit of luck, and a bit of manipulation, but it can work.

‘Fine. So what do I do?’

‘A little bit of it in his food at every meal, and he’ll start falling ill with stomach problems. You need to start coming to me more often – preferably at times when other people are here – and telling me that his illness is getting worse. I’ll give you some possible treatments. They won’t work, of course, but it will get people talking. You’ll probably need to write to his parents – has he been in touch with them since he’s been here?’

‘Not often. They write to him quite a lot – I think they want him to come back to Budapest and help his father – but he doesn’t write much to them. I saw one of his letters once, and it said nothing, just news about the weather, things like that.’