spume of the sea, far below. Jump, commands the voice of the waters. My arms await you. I haul myself up the rungs to sway on the topmost bar.
‘Wait for me: I am coming!’ I yelp into the filthy spray.
The wind smacks the words back into my mouth.
Hurry, I will not wait.
Suddenly there are other voices: men approaching, screaming. I know the words mean Stop, come down, madman. I shall not be turned aside. This is not madness. This is escape. If falling on to land cannot kill me, then perhaps the death granted by water might.
I jump, and am sucked down into a darkness cut into small flickering pieces; my jaw falls open at the hinge, mouth taking in a slow river of silt, filling my lungs with cold hard fists. Weed slops around my tongue like a woman’s hair; the water is a stone in my lungs but there is no pain, no fire.
I move a piece of wood and it is my arm; I beat it against my face until the bridge of my nose swings towards my left eye. My arms do not break the surface; they stir the rusty mud and hide the broken window of the light, burrowing me deeper and deeper into the long night of the ocean.
The mouths of fish flay me to the bone; as fast as they nibble the fruit of my flesh, it restores itself. They return to feed on me, over and over. I beg the sea to grind me into mulch, for I ache to lie still for ever. I shall not come out, I wail. But it pushes me away. Throws me out, on to earth. I surface from tea-brown water, flesh boggy from its long stewing, gasping for my first breath as the new air slaps life into my lungs. But I want to die, cries the voice of my soul.
The heavy embrace of the river resolves into the hands of children searching through my pockets, fingers boring holes into my shoulders as they strip me. My ears unlock to their complaints.
Not much here.
Not so much as a bloody wipe.
Waste of bloody time.
He’s a dead one.
I want to be a dead one for them. Blood settles in a slow night-fall into the pouches of my cheeks. The muscles of my face remember; begin to knit and heal and make me whole again, and they are never tired. I am already forgetting that I have done this. My body remembers, and keeps it secret. I go forward into darkness, into the fear. To find that light I saw and lost.
EVE
London, March–April 1857
Mama and I thought the knock at the door was the man come for the collars I had sewn; but a stranger’s voice gusted down the passageway to my customary sheltering place in the crook of the door, out of sight of the street.
‘My dear madam, forgive this intrusion,’ said the voice.
I could sense Mama’s eyes creasing at the corners, the marbles of her thoughts clacking together. Who is he? Do I owe him money? The air rippled as he raised his hat; the stitching in his coat creaked as he bowed politely. I heard him say, ‘Is your sister at home?’ And Mama’s surprised, ‘Sister? I have no sister,’ and only then halting, realising it was flattery.
She brought him in, and he bloomed to the very edges of our meagre walls. He was of middling height, but held himself taller; of a middling girth, but bulged himself fatter. He pigeoned out his chin, which was shaved so close I wondered if he hated his own beard and moustaches. He looked at the small table and the sewing laid upon it; the truckle-bed huddled in the corner – everywhere but at me.
Mama stared at his waistcoat, a gaudy affair of vermilion brocade before which I could have warmed my hands. He turned this way and that, the fabric gleaming, complimenting Mama on the tidy industry of the room, the delicate embroidery of the collars, and every sentence held an apology for having so intemperately disturbed the retirement of her afternoon. His hands peeped from the tight cuffs of his shirt, soft as a midwife’s; there was a shine on the seat of his trousers, a stain of sweat creeping around his hat-brim.
Think of him peeled from his linen, his wool, his velvet, whispered Donkey-Skin.
I shushed her, and the noise made him turn, as though he noticed me for the first time. He bowed, very slowly.
‘Dearest miss,’ he breathed.
I dropped my eyes, tried to find a place to conceal my paws, and settled for behind my back.
‘Do not be alarmed, dear miss,’ he said. ‘I mean neither you nor your mother any mischief.’
Don’t be alarmed, sneered Donkey-Skin through her nose. I giggled: she was a very good mimic.
‘Have some manners,’ hissed Mama, and I was quiet.
‘Do not scold her on my account,’ he said. ‘It is fitting for a young lady to be shy in the presence of a stranger. Therefore let me introduce myself, I entreat you.’
He cleared his throat, and puffed himself out some more.
‘I am Josiah Arroner. Amateur Scientist. Gentleman of Letters. Entrepreneur.’
Taxidermist? murmured Donkey-Skin. Careful, girl, or he’ll skin and stuff you before you know it.
Mama was already bustling about him, offering him the sturdier of our little chairs, bleating excuses for the lack of tea, lack of sugar, lack of milk. He took out a sovereign from his pocket with the carelessness of finding a coat-button there and shone its little sun upon the dullness of our room.
‘Ah, the labours of a caring mother. They are never done, are they, madam? Pray do send a boy to bring us tea, and milk, and sugar – plenty of sugar.’ He smiled. ‘And a penny for the lad himself.’
‘Oh no, sir, I could not,’ Mama lied.
‘You are right. How unfeeling of me to expect you to work whilst I rest! No, it is not fitting that you should prepare tea for an unexpected caller. I observed a restaurant on the corner as I came this way. Pray, send the boy there instead, so he may fetch a can of good sweet tea ready-made, a plate of bread and butter and some slices of beef. I declare I am a little hungry and would not eat alone.’
Mama paused for precisely as long as was necessary to indicate her treasured respectability; then raced down the passage and bawled to the woman upstairs for her eldest to run an errand, now. I stared at my lap and counted the seconds before she returned and resumed fussing once more about our guest’s comfort. I was the one hairy as a dog, but I believe she would have rolled on her back and stuck her paws in the air if she had thought it might please him.
I watched him through my eyebrows, simpering at my mother, making little jokes at which she tittered. When the food arrived, Mama left the room to argue about the change and he occupied himself gazing at the tobacco walls, the empty grate, the unlit gas-bracket, the cracked picture of a cow up to its hooves in a puddle, once again avoiding the sight of me. I folded my hands, stroking the fur on my knuckles and wondering why my breathing seemed so excessively noisy this afternoon.
The
