Slammerkin - Emma Donoghue [55]
She stood Biddy a quart of ale, for the sake of the news, and old times. The river was frozen solid at Richmond, according to Biddy; a gang of Misses had gone down for the skating and the bonfires. Trade had been sluggish all winter; Biddy blamed the mollies. 'Sure, they do it for free, half the time, the filth!' And in this cold spell, cullies feared to unbreech in the street in case they'd freeze their bags off, and the war didn't help; Biddy blamed the Frenchies. Oh, and there was a thing: Nan Pullen got arrested.
'But I saw her last night, at the Dials,' said Mary, bewildered.
'Sure, it was only this morning they picked her up.'
'For whoring?'
'Not at all,' said Biddy with a snort. 'For borrowing her mistress's clothes, don't you know. They're after saying she stole them. It was a fine taffeta robe they caught her in, so she'll swing for it, so she will.'
Mary's head was buzzing. The Tyburn Tree rose up in her mind's eye, the bodies dangling like flies in a web. 'God help her.'
'Well, Nan should have known, the poor eejit. Thievery's the one thing they never forgive.'
Mary sat back against the greasy oak settle and let Biddy ramble on. She knew what she should do, what Doll would have done in her place. Biddy, dear heart, let me kip with you for a night or two... But the thought of lying next to this skinny, spirituous body repelled Mary. Maybe she could do without a bed for a few nights. Maybe she could walk the streets from dusk to dawn in her violet slammerkin till she made a bit of cash. Enough to bury Doll. Mary was sure she could bring in the cullies despite the weather, if she offered a cut rate of sixpence a throw. (Doll tut-tutted in her head. Never go below ninepence, sweetheart. For the dignity of the trade.) Mary knew the best thing would be to work all day and night, standing against a wall till her legs buckled, till her guts numbed, till the memory of Doll's frozen hand was wiped out of her head along with everything else.
But Caesar. Mary's heart was thumping again, as if she could smell him, the spiced aroma of muscle under the rich waft of his vast white wig. If only it had been anyone else but him. She covered her mouth with her hand as if to shield it from the knife. She tried not to imagine what she'd look like with her red lips carved off.
She had to think practically. How much would it cost to pay Mrs. Farrel to call off Caesar? Now that blood had been mentioned, and his victim had slipped out of his grasp by means of a trick; now that it was a matter of the pride of his trade?
Mary couldn't sit still. The man might walk in any minute, pristine and calm, with his long knife pointing right at her. Was there anyone in the room who'd stand in Caesar's way? She'd never heard of anyone who defied him and lived to boast of it. She scrabbled to her feet now, and left Biddy Doherty behind in the chop-house, still chattering into her cup.
On the Strand, Mary met nobody's gaze; she bent her head over her bag as she broke into a run. Old snow moved like lard under her wet shoes. Wherever she turned, she kept an eye out for Caesar; once she thought she saw him, and ducked into an alley so fast she fell down and wet her skirt through to the top petticoat, but it was some other black fellow, a footman in gold livery.
If she were Doll Higgins, Mary knew, she'd be laughing at danger, greeting old customers, drumming up trade. If she were Doll Higgins she'd pick up her old life like a stained skirt and turn it inside out. But she was only Mary Saunders, and a man was hunting her through the slippery streets of this city, and all she could think to do was run.
She thought of Mr. Armour's companion, the old man with inky fingers. No no, my dear, it won't do, he repeated