Authors: Jennifer Donnelly
She stared at him, her face a mixture of anger and anguish, then
slumped down into her seat again, her shoulders bent, her hands knotted.
"Have you ever seen the light go out of a newborn baby's eyes?" she
asked. "All that beauty, that hope...gone..."
Sid leaned forward in his chair and took her hands in his. "It's not your fault."
She made as if to pull away, then instead she gripped his hands.
Hard. He was surprised again by the strength in those small hands. A
droplet of water fell onto his hands and then another. She looked up at
him and he saw that her cheeks were wet. Her gray eyes were large and
luminous with tears.
"I'm sorry. I don't ...I don't do this. I don't cry. I don't..." And
then she leaned her head against him and wept. He felt her shoulders
shudder as a torrent of emotion gripped her, heard the sobs wrench
themselves out of her. He said nothing, just held her close, giving her
his strength until she found her own again.
"It hurts. Oh God, how it hurts," she said, lifting her head.
"Elizabeth Adams and Emma Milo and Alison Coburn and her baby ...I'm
sorry. For all of them. I'm so sorry."
"Then don't give up. For their sake, India, don't give up. If you do, you leave those women to the Dr. Giffords of the world."
"But I'm no good."
"You are good. You're just not perfect, that's all. You want to be. Perfect and right. But you're not. No one is. Except me."
India gave a weak laugh. Sid smiled.
"Ella brought food," Sid said. "Would you like some? You're very thin."
"No. Later, perhaps. Not now."
"A cup of tea? I could make you one."
"No."
"Your wrapper? You must be cold."
"Sid?"
"Aye?"
"Can I have this? Just this?" she asked, squeezing his hands.
He nodded wordlessly. And squeezed back.
Freddie lifted his whisky glass to his lips and drained it. He waited
for the alcohol to make him feel warm and relaxed, pleased with himself
and the
world, but it did nothing. He put the glass down, then looked at the
girl's head between his legs, bobbing up and down. His fingers twined
themselves in her hair, pulling her closer.
"Harder," he said.
The girl--she was no more than seventeen--gagged. Her small hand
knotted itself in the bedsheets. Freddie leaned back, trying to give
himself over to her tongue, her lips, but it was no good. He picked up
his whisky glass and took another slug. He heard the hecklers at the
speech he'd given in Stepney yesterday. Heard the harsh questions fired
at him by reporters.
"Harder, I said. Didn't you hear me?" He tightened his fingers in her hair. The girl whimpered.
He barely heard her. Instead, he heard Isabelle thundering at him.
He'd been summoned to Berkeley Square again. Just that morning.
"You said she'd given up her position, Freddie. You told me she'd
resigned. But I saw Maud yesterday and she told me that India had been
beaten by some drunken lunatic. My daughter--your flanc�-beaten! Maud
told me she's back at Dr. Gifford's surgery and forging ahead with plans
to open a clinic for paupers. This is absolutely intolerable!"
"Isabelle, please," he'd said, trying to soothe her. "It's only a temporary situation."
"I see I've made a terrible mistake. I see that my confidence has been entirely misplaced."
"That's not fair. And it's not true. India was going to resign, but--"
"I'm not interested in excuses. Either get the job done now or I will
approach someone else. I hear young Winston Churchill's quite
ambitious. And quite poor thanks to his spendthrift mother. Ambition and
poverty are powerful motivators, but I don't have to tell you that, do
I, Freddie? I won-der what Winston would say to a Mayfair townhouse and
twenty thousand a year?"
He'd left Berkeley Square in a towering rage and had gone straight to
the Reform Club to cool off with a drink or two. But there he'd been
taken aside by the manager and informed that if his bill was not settled
by the end of the month, his membership would be terminated. He owed
them nearly three hundred pounds. He'd called the man a few choice names
then headed to a Cleveland Street brothel, run by a discreet woman
named Nora. He'd gone there a few times before when Gemma was
unavailable. He went a lot more often now. He'd thought to spend the
afternoon with Winnie, his favorite, but she wasn't available. So he'd
chosen a new girl-- Alice--hoping that with her help he could shut out
his failing campaign,
Isabelle, India ...and Wish. Most of all Wish.
But it wasn't working.
"For God's sake, get off," he said now, pushing her away. "Where in blazes is Winnie?"
"Off to the country. It's her holidays," Alice said. "Would you...
would you like some more to drink?" she asked timidly, gathering a silk
kimono about her.
Freddie nodded. She hurried to a table in the corner of the room
where glasses and bottles stood. She was anxious, upset. He couldn't
have cared less. What were a whore's feelings to him now? What was
anything, or any-one, to him now? He had killed his best friend. A man
he'd grown up with. One he had loved like a brother.
His heart, the tiny piece that was left of it, clenched in pain.
There had been others, of course. He'd killed his father, but he had
not grieved long over it, for there had been no other way. If he hadn't,
the man might have killed Daphne. And there was Hugh Mullins. That
wasn't his fault. Not really. He hadn't meant for Hugh to die. He never
thought he would. He'd only wanted him to go to prison for a bit, long
enough for India to forget about him.
Now there was Wish, and there was no rationalizing his death. He'd
done it out of anger and purely for advantage--his own. Wish had made
him furious with his meddling. He'd listened to him talk about raising
money for India's clinic, and he'd listened to him encourage her to
post-pone their wedding date yet again. And then he couldn't listen
anymore. He'd challenged Wish to a race, simply to break up his and
India's conver-sation. But once they were in the woods, Wish spotted the
fox. He got his pistol out to shoot the animal, then found he couldn't
and asked Freddie to do it. And Freddie, seeing his chance, just as he
had with Hugh, took the gun and shot him instead. He'd watched Wish's
head explode in a shower of blood, watched him fall out of his saddle to
the ground. And then, weeping real tears, he'd leaped down, pulled the
ring off Wish's twitching hand, and curled his fingers around the
pistol.
When the others arrived, he was genuinely in shock. He blurted out
that Wish had been having financial difficulties, that he'd pawned his
ring. It was partly true. There were some financial difficulties. Wish
had confided as much to him earlier that morning, but he'd also said
they were typical of new businesses and would resolve themselves.
Freddie knew he should've felt grief, horror, and shock over what
he'd done. And he had, at first. But they'd faded, and relief had taken
their place. Wish was dead, and without him, without his financial
know-how and his connections, India's clinic would die, too. He wasn't
fearful about being discovered. No one even suspected he'd had a hand in
Wish's death--why would they? The only evidence--Wish's ring--was
safely hid-den inside his music box.
The Red Earl's words echoed inside his mind: rip out thine own heart...
"I've almost succeeded, old boy," he whispered. "Nearly there."
"What's that?" the girl said.
"Nothing," Freddie replied tightly. "Where's that whisky?"
"Here it is," she said, handing him a glass.
As she climbed back into bed, Freddie's thoughts returned to Isabelle
and India. He could not understand what had happened. Only a fortnight
ago India had agreed to resign from Gifford's.
He'd been positive he'd convinced her to give up practicing. So sure,
in fact, that when Bingham said he'd be short again this month on
Freddie's allowance, Freddie, in a fit of pique, had told him to stuff
his money. He'd told him that he'd soon have twenty thousand a year and
the Selwyn Jones townhouse, thanks to Isabelle. And then, only a few
days later, he'd gone to visit India and had found a sick child in her
bedroom. She wouldn't go into detail about how the girl had gotten
there, saying only that a friend had brought her. This same friend, it
appeared, had also convinced her not to resign. It was that interfering
Ella Moskowitz, damn her. Who else could it be?
And not only was she back at Gifford's, but she was sounding more
zealous than ever about her clinic. She and Ella were talking about
taking over the fund-raising themselves. She still wanted to take tea
with Princess Beatrice. They'd even found a reliable and discreet
supplier of birth con-trol, she'd said. She wouldn't tell him who it
was, but he knew, thanks to Gemma. It was Sid Malone. India and Ella
were using the goods he'd sup-plied at Varden Street. Very quietly, of
course. If Gifford ever found out, there'd be hell to pay.
Freddie rubbed his temples. He'd been so close--so very close--to
getting all that he wanted, but despite his best efforts India still
hadn't been brought to heel. Emotion rose in him, a combustible mixture
of anger and panic, at the thought of losing her dowry. He couldn't let
that happen. He'd be finished if he did. There had to be something he
wasn't thinking of, something he wasn't seeing, some way to derail her
plans once and for all.
He thought of the Red Earl again. Richard Lytton would have found a
way out of this, he thought. But then again, the Red Earl would never
have let things get into so dire a state in the first place. Freddie
could picture the cruel face, the mocking eyes, and for an instant he
imagined the derision there was aimed at him and him alone. The thought
shamed him. And infuriated him.
"I saw a show the other day, me. A musical revue," Alice suddenly said, interrupting his thoughts.
He turned to her. "I couldn't possibly care less," he said, handing her his empty glass.
"I'm sorry. You seem bothered. And me mum always said that talking about your problems helps. She said--"
"Do me a favor, will you?" Freddie said acidly. "Keep your mouth shut and your legs open."
Alice swallowed. She opened her wrapper and lay down on the bed.
"Don't lie there like a dead fish," he said. "I've one of those in my
life al-ready. Make me hard, Alice. Make me forget. For Christ's sake,
make me come. Touch me. Touch yourself. Do something."
Alice spread her legs. Her fingers disappeared inside herself. She gave a moan. A stage moan.
Freddie looked at himself, soft and limp. "It's not working, Alice.
Nothing's happening. What are we going to do about that, eh?"
"I'm sorry," she said, sitting up. "You won't tell Nora, will you?" She reached for him, tugging at him so hard it hurt.
"Ow!" he shouted. "You useless bitch!" He slapped her. Hard. He
didn't mean to, it was a reflex, but Alice burst into tears. The sound
of her sobs didn't soften him, though; they made him angrier. He grabbed
her by the neck and shook her. "Stop it!" he ordered. "Stop it right
now!"
She struggled against him. "Please, don't hurt me," she rasped. Her
eyes were large and frightened and Freddie finally felt himself stiffen.
He wanted to hurt someone. Badly. He needed somewhere for the anger
to go. He wanted to hurt India. And Isabelle. And Gemma. He wanted to
smash Joe Bristow and Sid Malone. But he couldn't. All he had was Alice.
So she would have to do.
A few minutes later, when he had finished, he lay back on the bed,
sipping his whisky and smoking. He felt calm, almost peaceful. Alice had
gone behind a screen. He heard her washing and sniffling.
"You done there?" he called. "Get some fresh water, will you? I'd like a wash up myself."
There was another sniffle. More splashing. "I'm sure you're clean enough by now. How about that water?"
As he said it, he suddenly wondered if she was clean. He realized,
with horror, that he hadn't used a johnny. He always used one with
Winnie, but he'd been so distracted this time, he'd forgotten. Christ,
what if he'd caught something? He'd never had the clap and he didn't
want it now.
How would he explain that to India?
He swore. Thinking about rubber johnnies reminded him of his money
troubles again. He got his from Payne's, a chemists, and they wanted him
to settle his account, too. Their boy had actually been round to his
flat the other day asking for payment. He didn't have it. He was short.
Again. He'd have to find another source.
Who else has rubber johnnies? he wondered, and then he laughed aloud
as he remembered India did. I'll ask her, he thought, chuckling. And
then he stopped chuckling and sat straight up in bed. He'd had an idea. A
bril-liant, flawless, foolproof idea.
"Alice!" he shouted.
There was no reply, then a small, broken, "What?"
"Stop blubbing, will you, and come here. I've a job for you. A good
one. I'll pay you five quid and you can keep your knickers on."
"Where are they?"
India, surprised by the angry voice, looked up from her casebook.
Dr. Gifford was standing in the doorway to the Varden Street examination room.
"I beg your pardon, sir?" she said.
"The contraceptives. I know they're here. Where have you hidden them?"
India's heart lurched. How on earth had he found out? She had sworn every patient who'd asked for devices to secrecy.
"I was visited in my Harley Street office this morning by a Mrs.
Eliza-beth Little. She is the mother of Alice Little, one of your
patients. Mrs. Lit-tle was furious. She informed me that her daughter
came to you here requesting a contraceptive device and that you supplied
it. Is this true, Dr. Jones?"
India remembered Alice Little. She'd said that she was married, that she had three children and couldn't afford anymore.