Part 8 (2/2)

I thought it a little overwrought, but tonight I could allow him any of his fancies.

'Come now, Mrs Arroner.'

He took my hand and patted it; I lifted my golden wrist to his chin and he pecked at it with dry lips.

'My name is Eve, dearest.'

'It is indeed. The sweetest of names to my heart from the day I met you.'

He leaned forward and pressed his mouth to the velvet of my forehead. A deep thrill swept from that spot down to my inmost parts until I was running over with richness, churning instantly from milk to cream.

'Oh, Josiah,' I breathed, and s.n.a.t.c.hed at his coat, pulling him towards me.

The weight of his breath warmed the crook of my neck, perfumed with coffee and tobacco. I wrapped my arms around him and we rocked backwards and forwards. I rubbed myself against him, purring. Unsheathed my claws and dug them into his back, chewing on his neck.

He shoved me hard; my eyes sprang open to find him breathing in short bursts, his collar awry where I had torn it. He staggered to the mirror where he examined the spreading wine-stain of my mouth on his throat, and began to tie his cravat very high, to cover the dark spot. I watched the way his fingers slipped the silk over and about until he was satisfied with his handiwork, devouring his every gesture. However, I was confused, for I would be proud to have his mark on me would parade our pa.s.sion without shame. Then I understood: he did not want to share our secret. I giggled.

'Was I a little rough?' I simpered. 'You will forgive me?'

He turned, eyes wide. 'What are you staring at?' he wheezed.

'Just you, my dear Josiah.'

I tried to pull him towards me again in this newly-wed game we were playing, but he slipped out of my grasp.

'Dear wife,' he said.

'Yes?' I smirked, looking up at him through my eyelashes.

'Dear Mrs Arroner. You will be tired, my pet, after such an enervating day. I shall retire and allow you to rest and restore yourself. As any gentleman should.'

He clicked his heels together, and was gone.

The room was suddenly very empty, the walls too far apart. I cursed myself for being so forward. I should have let him take the lead, should have held myself back, acted the bashful maid. But I would bring him back to me; tonight, even. How could he resist my bounty? I was his harvest-home, safely gathered in: a full larder that would never be empty, a heaping board, cartwheels of cheeses, thumbed loaves, oozing cuts of crackling pork, dishes of plump curds. I would gorge him. I could not understand why he would not taste me. All he needed to do was gather me in for year after year of happy ploughing, seeding, cropping.

I would purr spells to bind him to me. Witch words no-one taught me. I would draw them up from the secret book of my body, written during the long years of want and wanting. An alphabet of need, spelling an A-B-C of love me, need me, want me, hold me. He would want me. Would not be able to resist.

I would make my own fortune. I did not need any of Donkey-Skin's bewitching flummery. A hairy gentleman with sword in hand? No. I would settle for this man of solid flesh, not some childhood fancy. Tellers of fortunes were tellers of lies. Butcher, baker or candlestick-maker, Josiah Arroner was the only one to come wooing. In this hand I had been dealt there were neither princes nor gla.s.s shoes. He was married to me: that would serve me well enough. And what did I care if he was as close-shaved as a peeled boiled egg? If that was as close as the prophecy got, it was sufficient.

'You were wrong,' I said to Donkey-Skin.

Well, she said. I wonder.

ABEL.

London, MayAugust 1857 I am deafened by the shouting of commands. The boat heels sharply to the side, ropes groaning, planks straining against each other. Vast sails slap as they are taken by the wind.

I look about and see for the first time manacles upon my wrists and ankles, a chain which leads from the cuffs to an iron ring nailed into the deck. I have no time to wonder at my situation, for all about me are naked men chained in the same fas.h.i.+on in the belly of this leviathan. The stink of s.h.i.+t and sweat makes my head swim. A man dark as a tanned goatskin squats before me, holds a ladle to my lips and I drink thirstily. I smile but he is gone down the line, to desperate entreaties of 'Water! Here! I beg you!'

We lean forwards as one body, shoving the tree-trunk of the oar; at a yell from the steersman we haul backwards. Beneath me I feel the huge vessel slip through the water to the chorus of oars moaning in their rowlocks and the grunting of my fellows. So it goes on: I rock to and fro, faster and faster, my breath catching, head ringing with the stench.

I am shaken by the movement of the body next to mine, and tumble into wakefulness.

'Good morning, Abel,' he says, pulling on his boots.

I rub the crust from my eyes. I was on a boat, and am now in a cellar. This man is smiling at me. His name is ... His name is ... I will have it in a moment.

'It's Alfred, you dozy b.a.s.t.a.r.d,' he laughs. 'Rough night?'

I shake away the dream of the boat, seep back into myself. Of course, this man is Alfred. Truly, no man has such a friend. My dull soul awakens and rubs a bleary eye as it comes forth into light. I owe Alfred everything. There is no gift too precious to repay all he does for me. I smile, stretching my limbs into the warmth of the morning.

'Is it time to get up?'

He looks away. 'I am going to work,' he says.

Yes, of course. We work together: we are slaughter-men.

'Wait, I shall be ready straightway,' I say.

He pauses in the lacing of his boot.

'Abel, you cannot come with me. Don't you remember?' he sighs. 'Every morning you've forgotten and I have to tell you afresh. It's been weeks and weeks now.' He tightens the kerchief around his neck. 'The carcase. You must remember.'

He makes a stabbing movement with his bunched fist. The trickle of memory becomes a flood and I see myself hack the carcase to pieces, hear the angry shouts of the gaffer. Most vividly, I remember my body, monstrous in its ability to heal.

Alfred is still occupied with his laces.

'What will you do today, Abel?'

'I do not know.'

My hopeful mood melts away. I think of the hours until he returns: this room, my mattress, the swelling tide of pictures I do not want; images of myself cut and healing, rising from a river that refuses to drown me.

'Will you go and find new work?'

I am intrigued by the idea. Although I remember that I am a slaughter-man, I do not recall how I rose to that state, nor what else I can do.

'Maybe I could be a surgeon?'

I do not know whence comes the notion, but the word slides easily into my mouth. Alfred guffaws.

'Bullocks are a bit of a different matter to men!' he crows. 'Though you'd not think it, by some of the sawbones I've seen.' He finishes fastening his boots. 'You must find work, Abel. You have no money.'

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