The Linnet Bird: A Novel (16 page)

The man held out the flask as he tucked the coin into the pocket of his fustian coat and patted it. “Later,” he said. “Now. What’s your name?” He pulled a tartan lap robe over his legs.

“Linny,” I told him. “And I don’t drink spirits, sir.”

He laughed then, a deep rumble. “Well, I have found myself a rare bird, haven’t I?” He put the flask to his mouth again, drinking until it was empty. Then he shook it as if its emptiness angered him, finally throwing it to the floor.

It landed at my feet, and I looked at it. Silver, with initials, but there wasn’t enough light in the carriage for me to make them out.

We drove for quite a time. I couldn’t see where we were going, as he’d kept the curtains drawn, but I suspected we were simply circling the streets, and once he was finished with me he would drop me back where he’d found me. Even in the darkness inside the carriage I was able to see the gleam of the man’s eyes. They never left me. I tried, at first, to make conversation with him, but he appeared uninterested in talk. Eventually he motioned for me to sit beside him. I did as he bid, and immediately he ran his index finger over my scar, over and over, finally lowering his head to lick and nibble at the puckered flesh. I ground my teeth; I had been subjected to all manner of indignities, but somehow this filled me with a different revulsion. Perhaps because no one had dared touch my scar before; it was always avoided, and, in some strange turn of thought, I considered this part of me one of the only left unviolated, perhaps the only area of my body that had not been used for a man’s pleasure.

When I felt I could not bear it for another second, I shifted, trying to pull away from him, and thankfully he lifted his head, but then tossed aside the lap robe, pushing me to my knees in front of him with one hand, the other working his buttons.

Still repulsed by his saliva wet and thick on my breast, I involuntarily recoiled as I was hit by his vile smell as he burst out of his trousers, more than ready. He took hold of my head on either side and pulled my face close to his groin.

I struggled, attempting to draw back, wanting to tell him that perhaps he’d prefer something else; I could suggest other manners of pleasing him, but before I could speak he grew impatient, slapping me smartly on the side of my head so that my ear rang.

I knew I would have to do as he wanted, and quickly, if I was to get away without a beating, but the first slap was immediately followed by a second, this one harder, stunning me. He tried to stand in the swaying carriage, his wool trousers slipping down to his ankles. He towered over me with his open hand raised as I struggled to right myself.

But now he was in his game, the one that all of us from the street knew too well, the gent that couldn’t find his own satisfaction without bringing pain and humiliation first.

“Sir, please,” I said, “give me a chance to—” but he knocked me about again, and I fell to one side, my hands flailing for something to grab. I inadvertently yanked the door handle. The door opened and I half swung out, gripping the handle for all I was worth, and then—and I’m not sure if I actually felt the man’s boot under my back, shoving me out, or if he was trying to grab me and prevent me from falling—I was on my face on the hard cobbles at the side of a street.

A
LL THE AIR
was knocked out of me. I lay there, gasping, aware I was in the middle of a crowd. There were so many boots and horses hooves and wheels passing close to my head that I feared I would be trampled.

In the next moment there were hands under my arms and I was dragged to the relative safety in front of the buildings that lined the street. It was a woman with a small boy who had come to my aid. “Are you all right, miss?” the woman asked, and I nodded, still bent over, trying to breathe.

“We seed you,” the boy said, “come flying out the carriage.”

I managed to raise my head and look down the busy street. The carriage had disappeared.

I put my hand to my chest; my heart was pounding.

“Will you be all right now?” the woman asked again, and I managed to thank her for her help. She was well into middle age, her face badly lined, and a number of missing bottom teeth had shaped her chin into an inquisitive point. Under a faded burgundy bonnet with a torn brim her white hair had that particular yellow cast of one who had been blond, although her eyebrows were coarse and dark.

I looked around. Nothing was familiar. “What place is this?” I asked her.

“You’re way down Richmond Row, miss,” she said.

My heart sank. The carriage hadn’t been circling the streets. We’d come far from the center of Liverpool.

The woman reached out and brushed at my sleeve. “Have you no reticule, my dear? No shawl?”

I cursed myself for my foolishness. As well as being shaken and losing the sovereign—if indeed the Scot had intended to give it to me—I’d even lost my shawl in the milieu inside the carriage. I saw that my skirt was dirtied with bootblacking. My hand flew to my waistband; the reassuring thickness was there, as always.

The woman was watching me.

“No. I suppose I’ve lost them.” I didn’t know how to explain the situation to the woman. Her dark eyes were kind, almost moist, it seemed, as if she were very worried over my state, even though I was a stranger to her.

“A pretty young thing like yourself,” she said, as if she’d read my thoughts, “so cruelly treated.” She shook her head, and her eyes filmed further. “I lost a daughter of my own; it’s all too well I know how hard life can be for a young lady.” We were pushed and jostled by the noisy crowd. “It’s not right, one so fine as yourself, so abused,” she said, having to raise her voice to be heard over the shouts and the echoing boom of distant fireworks. “You should sit and have a sup of ale, to steady your nerves.” She glanced at the boy. “Why, if we had but a penny to spare, we’d surely buy you a drink.”

The boy nodded, licking his lips. “I’s thirsty, Ma,” he said. He looked to be five or six. I was surprised at him calling the woman Ma; she appeared far too old to be his mother.

“I know, my son, but times is hard. You know your mam hasn’t so much as a penny.”

Even though I knew I was being taken in, for it seemed the child spoke up as if on cue, I was grateful for even the small act of being helped on the street when most would pass right by. “You must let me buy you and your son a drink,” I said. “To repay your kindness.”

The woman put her hand on the boy’s head. His black hair was long and stiff with dirt, and his dark eyelashes crusty. He had very pale blue eyes, enormous in his small face, and his features were even. He would have been a handsome lad if he hadn’t been so filthy. “That would be ever so fine. I don’t care for myself, but my wee boy here has been walking for hours now and is a mite weary. We wanted to watch the fireworks and the burning of the Guy over at the park. A warm drink of barley water would pick him up ever so much. But you’ve lost your reticule, you said. If you’ve no money—” She left the sentence hanging.

“I’ve a bit put aside,” I said.

She nodded. “There’s a nice public house only a few steps up the street, if you’re able.”

The thought of sitting down and having a warm drink was hugely appealing at that moment. I was badly turned around; although breathing normally now, there was a sharp pain in my back. I put my hand on it, and in the next few seconds it lessened.

The woman linked her arm through mine and led me to a public house, its name—the Green Firkin—painted in fancy curled letters on the thick glass. As she pushed the door open a burst of drunken singing rushed at us, along with the smell of spilled gin and cigar smoke and sweat. We had to work our way through the customers packed shoulder to shoulder. As we approached a table in the far corner, a woman and two older men sitting there got up, and we took their places. I saw the woman nod at one of the men, and he dipped his head at her as if they knew each other.

“I’ve stopped here once or twice before,” the woman explained. “It’s a friendly place.”

As soon as we seated ourselves I put my hands under the tabletop and dug into my waistband for a few coins. The woman appeared to be taking no notice of me, busy licking her fingers and rubbing at the boy’s face in a pathetic attempt to clean him up.

“I’ll take a hot lemon gin,” she said, “and the barley water for my boy, please.”

I made my way to the bar and ordered the gin, as well as barley water for myself and the child.

I managed to get the full glasses back to our table, although as soon as I set them down the pain returned, and I leaned forward, again rubbing at my lower back with my fist.

“Have you trouble, dear?” the woman asked, tossing back her gin in a deft and familiar manner. She smacked her lips with a rubbery sound, setting her empty glass back on the table.

“I must have bruised my back falling from the carriage,” I told her, sitting down and taking a long draught from my glass. “I’ll get myself home, and once I lay down it will be fine.” I looked at her empty glass; the child’s was still topped up. I realized she’d want another drink. All I wanted to do now was get away from this noisy, smoke-filled place. And I knew I was so far from Jack Street.

What a spoiled evening, I thought, as the child took the tiniest sip of his drink, watching my face. Not only did I lose my shawl and these few hours of work, but was buying gin for this woman and would have to hire a carriage to take me back to Jack Street.

As I turned to the woman to tell her I’d be on my way, the boy’s full glass tipped over neatly, knocked by his arm, and the cooling, sticky liquid rushed toward me and pooled in my lap before I had a chance to move. The woman grabbed her shawl off her shoulders and mopped at my skirt, shouting at the boy for his carelessness. His face screwed up and he howled in a high, feral wail, his mouth a black square.

“Please, please,” I said, shaking my head at the woman as she frantically brushed at my skirt. “It doesn’t matter. It’s all right,” I said to the boy, for now he was grinding his grimy fists into his eyes, his howls grown even louder.

“You’re going to catch it now, a good clout round the ear, that’s what you’ll get,” the woman hollered at him, standing, her soaking shawl rolled into a bundle.

“No, Ma, no,” the boy cried, jumping from his stool and running toward the door.

“Please, it’s not impor—” I tried to tell the woman, but her mouth was fixed in a grim line.

“I’ll catch up with him on the street, and haul him back,” she told me, then hurried after him. “Wait here for me,” she added over her shoulder.

I didn’t intend to spend the rest of the night buying her glasses of cheap gin; I hoped that the boy was a fast runner and would have his mother—if indeed she really was his mother—chasing him far down the street so that I could slip out and into a carriage before she returned.

The pain in my back dug deeper now and I had to steady myself with my hands flat on the table as I stood to leave. When it passed, I reached down to shake out my skirt, wet and gluey from the spilled barley water, and saw, in total horror, that the waistband had been turned out. I grabbed at it, refusing to believe what I was seeing, turning it out further. It was empty. I dropped to my knees and scrabbled on the filthy floor under the table with my hands, crying, “No. No, no no.” I could hear my own voice, a high, desperate shriek not unlike that of the child’s moments earlier. Except that his, I realized with a sickening thud, had been a well-practiced act.

I fought my way through the packed room to the door and looked up and down the street, but it was impossible to see through the thick wall of men and women and children and horses and carts thronging the narrow street. I raced back into the bar, telling the keeper what had happened; did he know the woman and boy? Were they regulars here?

But the keeper wasn’t interested. “Can’t help you,” he said, not even bothering to look up from the ale he was pouring.

“But—but it’s everything. She stole everything I had,” I wailed, although the keeper had moved down the bar and was talking to a woman sitting there.

The pain in my back was so strong now that it jolted me. My knees buckled with the sudden unexpected shock of it, and a young man who had been nursing a glass of dark ale, sitting to one side, grabbed me. “Are you ill, miss?” he asked, his hand wrapped tightly around my forearm, holding me up.

When the pain receded slightly, I felt a tremor from the man’s hand pass onto my arm, and looked down at the long-fingered hand, the knobby wrist emerging from too-short sleeves. He was shaking with some kind of mild palsy. “No. I’m not ill, just sick. Sick at being robbed. Is there nothing anyone can do?” I cried again, looking into his long, plain face. His eyes—deep blue with a darker rim—were small but kind.