The Secret Fate Of Mary Watson Part 41

'Oh, G.o.d. What do I do?'

When G.o.d doesn't answer, I turn to Ah Sam. But already his eyelids are drooping. The opium's kicking in. My own lips feel tingly from the borrowed air around the pipe. He takes another long drag.

'We can't win, Ah Sam. There's no way out.'

He just stares at me for a long moment. He's half-asleep, sitting up. The pipe falls from between his fingers to smoulder on the floor. His body lists slightly to the left. The faintest oriental snore.

55.

When you're stuck between a rock

and a hard place,

there's nothing to do but keep wriggling.

From the secret diary of Mary Watson 30TH SEPTEMBER 1881.

Ah Sam sprinkled some ground dragon bone and oyster sh.e.l.l into Ah Leung's opium pipe to make him sleep soundly. He's just come back from their hut to confirm Ah Leung is well and truly paralysed until morning. Now, he points with his head at the gun near the door. 'You take.'

'Yes, I will. Look after Ferrier for me.'

I've fed the baby and changed his napkin. He's drowsing now on Ah Sam's shoulder. With one finger, I wipe a thin worm of milk from his chin. The tendons in the Chinaman's wrist flex as he pats the baby's back.

'Bar the door behind me. I'll be back,' I say.

'You stay,' he says, his pale face obstinate. 'I go.'

'You don't know how. In any case, I started this. I have to finish it.'

The night outside is as cold as a reptilian eye. Cloud partially uncovers the quarter moon. The beach glows with an alien light. Stiff gusts from the southwest carry chilled hooks in them. I see the door close. Hear the bar come down.

Ferrier whimpers inside, sensing even in sleep that I've gone. Although my b.r.e.a.s.t.s seem empty, I feel the letdown reflex, then a leak of milk that almost immediately turns clammy and cool on my chest.

I start out towards Cook's Look, loaded rifle in my right hand, the handle of the covered signal lantern in the left. I trot through the open country near the house. The moonlight, though thin, is reliable enough to reveal anything untoward in the terrain I've become so familiar with. But if I can see, I can be seen. Branches rustle and click ahead. Air rushes too quickly out of my lungs; I make an involuntary noise. The clicking stops, but not the rustling. Something scurries past, inches from my feet. I yelp, then, too late, put a hand over my mouth. The night sky's a pour of treacle, that bright spoon-handle of the quarter moon dipping into it, flinging out bright filaments.

Clouds roll in as I reach the path and start to climb, then there's another blade of illumination from above. Last time the moon was more full, the sky clearer. I stumble and totter up the rough track. Tufts of knotty gra.s.s grab at my boots, threaten to trip me.

A twig-snapping noise to my left. I turn to see stunted trees, a few boulders big enough for someone to crouch behind. My finger moves down the barrel of the gun, rests for a moment on the trigger. I open my mouth. And close it. Why ask who's there? It's what every stupid heroine in every suspense story does. As if the blacks would answer. Or Ah Leung.

Instead, I stand still and listen. The ocean fizzes and rumbles in the distance. The cold wind rises and falls like a small boat in choppy water. My Cornish third eye knows well enough that they're watching me. What I don't understand is ... what are they waiting for?

I put down the signal lantern and raise the rifle to my shoulder. I've no idea where to aim. The darkness around me writhes with observation, calculation, intention. I wait for five minutes. Maybe ten. Maybe only two. Nothing moves. When a curtain of cloud draws fully away from the moon, I pick up the lantern, turn and hurry up the path.

When I reach the summit, I'm panting too hard to stand. I sit with my back to the nearest boulder and struggle for air. Minutes pa.s.s before I can breathe with relative ease. Then all I can register is the cold and the fact that I'm still alive.

Alive and with a job to do.

I stand and begin by lighting the signal lamp. It's a struggle; the wind accelerates, unseasonably harsh and chill. My fingers are numb inside the gloves I've pulled on. I waste six matches before the wick catches. I warm my hands for a moment over the quickly heating metal, then unpack the compa.s.s, pencils and paper. My calves are about to cramp, so I cover the lantern, stand and stretch my legs.

The ocean's like a lamp itself; a floating shark-oil lamp, its wick lit by the moon. Veins spring high-pressure leaks beneath the surface in luminous trails of green. An occasional white flash near sh.o.r.e signals the spots where irresistible force meets an immovable reef and is transformed into fizz. A seductive voice in my head suggests that there are much worse places to die than this. It would be so easy to lie down and wait, looking up at the stars, the distant, unfl.u.s.tered stars. It's been such a long journey. No one could say I didn't deserve a rest. I stand apart from myself for a few seconds, seriously considering this option. But then feel the wetness on my blouse, and remember Ferrier.

I set the signal lantern on the same flat rock I used last time. I've lost track of time, but the internal clock in my head tells me the first signal will come soon. I lift the cover off the lantern, check the compa.s.s, then align the light to the co-ordinates Percy pa.s.sed on to me before he left. The wind drags the heat towards my face and I revel in the sensation. I don't remove my gloves, as cold fingers can still burn, but warm them again, as close as I dare. The remarkable lens captures my attention; the polygon reflector. It reminds me of the overlapping chambers of the nautilus sh.e.l.l Porter gave me, but made of gla.s.s. With that deep, bright eye of flame at its heart.

The sweat from the climb has dried and I have all over gooseb.u.mps when I see the first signal. One of the three pencils has blown off the rock; I pin the other two and the paper under my left arm. My gloved finger rests on the shutter.

I don't have to wait long. The little blinking dot of light seems familiar this time. I send the first pa.s.sword, and it's acknowledged. The message is long but I hardly notice. My writing jerks on the paper. Then it's time to reorient the signal lamp to relay the code I've transcribed.

I don't look around. Either the blacks have followed me up Cook's Look with their spears, or they haven't. Either Ah Leung is waiting for me at the bottom of the hill with a gun or a cane knife, or he's still lost in his opium dreams. Either I'll live or I'll die. I can't do anything yet about either, though it occurs to me that if I do survive this night I won't pa.s.sively wait for Ah Leung or Percy to make the next move. I'll be ready for both of them. And not with tea and gingerbread.

When my relay is finally acknowledged, at first I feel nothing. Then I notice the snail trail of tears on my cheeks. It's not sadness, but anger. Anger at those who have stabbed me in the back. Anger at myself for this whole, self-serving mess.

I extinguish the lantern, pack it roughly into its box. Think about throwing it as far as I can down the slope, or just leaving it there on Cook's Look: a monument to greed. But I do neither of those things. Just dangle it from one hand, grab the rifle by its stock with the other. And set off down the path towards Ferrier.

I'm too tired to hurry and the wind has risen to a steady gale. Clouds still drag across the moon, and each time one obscures it altogether I go blind and must stand with my skirts billowing until it moves on. A wolf-howl of wind. A clatter of leaves. I imagine Ah Leung's outline in every stunted tree, blacks loitering in every shadow, but I'm too numb for fear.

The path begins to level. I know I'm almost home when I feel windblown sand p.r.i.c.kle my calves and hear the zizz-crash of waves on sh.o.r.e, an undertone to the larger roaring. I can't quite make out the house, but I know now where it is.

Then I feel the air displaced around me. A long flexible spear trailing white feathers thunks into the ground a yard in front of my feet. A curdling cry behind me.

The next thing I'm aware of is banging on the door hysterically, the lantern dropped and forgotten. Ah Sam pulls me in so roughly, I feel a tearing pain in my shoulder. He slams the door shut. The blessed bar comes down. The forceful thwack of spears. .h.i.tting the wood.

I can't fill my lungs. They're ten times too large for my chest. All I can do is keep pulling in air in small increments. It sounds to my ears like I'm sobbing.

Ferrier hasn't even woken in his cradle.

'They could have had me on the hill,' I manage. 'Don't you see?'

Ah Sam's face floats hazily above me. He doesn't seem to understand.

'They spared me, Ah Sam. I should be dead.'

56.

Even a third eye can close

when it's beyond exhaustion.

From the secret diary of Mary Watson 1ST OCTOBER 1881.

The next morning at eight, I stand outside with the rifle, swaying. Ferrier is asleep in the house. Ah Sam's gone with the revolver to find Ah Leung, who must have woken from his sedative by now.

My thoughts unfold, clunky as wooden letters spilled from a box. I'm beyond organised planning, almost beyond sense. The hollow ping of spears rebounded off the walls on and off all night. The eerie chants wormed through the shutters and under the door. I have to keep closing my red-peppered eyes against the crisp-biscuit light of morning. It feels as though my vision's attached to the lid of my head that's slightly ajar. The westerly breeze carries the whoosh and smell of the ocean into the gap, making the world blur and sting.

I must stay alert, somehow. When I braved outside at dawn, it was to see that the lantern I dropped on the way back from Cook's Look had disappeared. Four spears lay strewn on the ground to mark the spot where it had been. But there was no sign of the blacks. No sign of Ah Leung, either. And, so far, no sign of Petrel's sail ballooning with air.

But wait. What's that? A small dot out in the bay moving towards sh.o.r.e. And a larger vessel behind it. I didn't bring the looking gla.s.s, but who else could it be but Percy? The bigger boat seems to be heading north. Odd. And the dimensions, now that I squint, seem like those of a ketch.

What of the smaller part of the puzzle. There's definitely something on the water headed this way. No sail. No mast. A rowboat then, bobbing unevenly towards the beach. Percy's come in a rowboat! Why? This temporarily defeats me and I lick my dry lips, try to order my dishevelled mind. To hide the evidence of his murderous intent from any pa.s.sing ships? No. Percy knows this island better than anyone. If he didn't want to be seen, he could have simply anch.o.r.ed Petrel further around the bay, in one of the secluded coves the blacks found so convenient to hide their canoes in.

I aim the rifle at the black dot. Blink. Blink again. Now the detail's resolving. It's not Percy. It's no man. Glittery, watered sun drips off the oars as they rise and fall, pulled, haphazardly, by a woman in a bonnet. I must be hallucinating. Too tired. Too worn down. Is it Mama come to rescue me? Disobedient Carrie returning to the island?

I shake my head to dislodge the mirage. But it persists. There is still a woman in a rowboat, come from a ketch that's now sailing north in the distance, a single seagull keeping watch above it. I lower the gun. Hang it at my side.

I hear the rasp as the hull strikes sand. She - whoever she is - lifts something from between her legs. A loaf of bread? Then climbs out awkwardly, almost tumbling into the shallow water. Her skirt is drenched. She staggers up the beach towards me.

The closer she gets, the more familiar her clothing seems. I almost know her from the way she's holding her body. Not quite a swagger. Something's wrong with her. She's drunk, or ill. Maybe mad. She looks like a castaway who has neither eaten nor slept for days.

'Where is 'e?' Her rank breath hits me when she's three feet away. 'Where's Bob? I got somethin' for 'im.'

It's Laura from French Charley's but almost unrecognisable. She's gaunt, stretched. Her dress hangs from shoulders frail and sharp as twigs. Where once her bosom rose above her bodice, the bars of her ribs are now visible. Her skin's blotched with patches of red, some sort of rash. Her face is hollowed out at the cheeks, as though a spoon has scooped the flesh away. Only the eyes burn.

I step back. 'Who brought you here? You look like you've walked straight out of the pits of h.e.l.l.'

She coughs and cracks out a laugh. 'And you strolled out o' heaven, I s'pose.' She lifts her head in a parody of flirtatiousness. 'I'm the pretty one. Remember, Mary Oxnam? The Devil's 'ad a 'and in you, not me. Though I must admit a few drunk Devils 'as been in me at times.' That cackle again, like autumn leaves underfoot. She finishes in a coughing fit that bends her almost double.

I still can't see what she has wrapped in her arms. She looks over her shoulder slowly at the ketch, just a jot in the distance now.

'That's Cap'n Levitt. I paid 'im to bring me 'ere. Saved me wages up for months, I did. Though 'e weren't real courteous. Made me stay down in the 'old.' Her eyes bore into me again. 'Where is 'e? Where's that dirty, two-timin' set o' sc.u.mmy bagpipes?'

'Bob's not here. There's no one here but me and two Chinamen.'

She looks around. No luggers, no sign of activity. Looks back, her ruined face tilted upwards in suspicion.

'Out fishin' for 'is precious slugs, is 'e? Well, I'll just sit meself down and wait.'

She turns her back to me. Her legs give out and she collapses into a sitting position on the sand. She falls far too hard, but gives no sign of pain.

'Least an all 'is Majesty's bein' quiet ... Lorry, it's cold in the breeze, ain't it?'

'Laura, what have you got there?' I step forward, try to look over her shoulder.

'It's me an' Bob's baby boy. Wilfred, I called 'im. Bob said 'e'd look after me with money and such, and 'e didn't. So I came over to make 'im take responsibility.'

I barely flinch at the news. It explains Charley's incredulous reaction when I told him I was pregnant. He knew that Laura was carrying Bob's child at the same time I was carrying Ferrier. That's why he sacked her. That's why I saw her scrubbing floors at the Federal Hotel.

'Can I see him? Your baby.'

I keep my voice low. Some slow stick is stirring my insides.

''E's asleep. You know that mongrel Charley Boule wanted me to get rid of 'im, don'cha? He sent me to Mrs Liggins on 'ope Street, but I didn't go. So then he made me swaller some pills, but I spat 'em out. I wanted me baby, y' see. 'E's the only thing I ever 'ad that's mine.'

She bundles the infant closer, but the faded piece of blanket comes away and I see part of one small, oozing, purplish foot. At the same time, a wave of decay rises up. I turn to vomit into the sand. Wipe my mouth on a dirty sleeve.

'Oh, Laura. Your baby's dead.'

I step away from the mess I've made, start backing up the beach away from her. I wonder how long she's been carrying the body around.

'No, 'e ain't. 'E's just sleepin'.' She stares out to sea, unperturbed. 'You always was a liar, and up yerself on account of yer fancy education. You're just sayin' it so I won't try to find Bob. But I'll just wait for him 'ere. Ain't nothin' you can do about it.'

'You're sick. What's the matter with you?'

I don't want her or her dead baby near me. I don't want them within a whole continent of Ferrier. As if there weren't already enough threats on the Lizard. Now Laura's brought typhoid!

Ah Sam staggers over from the clearing with the revolver hanging limp in his hand. His body is shaking: muscles twitching in his face.

I motion him over. 'What's the matter with you?' I whisper, out of Laura's earshot.

He blinks slowly. Looks down at this new development. His eyes widen just a little. 'What?'

'She's one of Charley's wh.o.r.es. I think she's got typhoid. Did you find Ah Leung?'

'Ah Leung dead,' he says. 'Speared at farm. I take him to our hut.' His eyes are suddenly frantic. 'I can't leave him there. They eat him!'

I nod slowly, but can't react. I'm so tired. Each new shock is part of one long dream. I sink back a little on my heels in the sand. Ah Leung killed by the blacks. But when? Last night, probably. He could have been hiding over near the farm, waiting for me to complete my signalling so that he could ambush and kill me when I was returning from Cook's Look. So much for Ah Sam's foolproof sedative.

Twice now, the blacks have saved my life. Though I can't count Ah Leung's slaying as a deliberate favour. They must have turned their attention back to me afterwards. That was when the spears landed at my feet. Perhaps they planned to collect Ah Leung's body this morning. But Ah Sam found it first. The Chinese are even more horrified than the Europeans at the idea of being cannibalised. Or, more precisely, at having their bones scattered unrecoverably after death. It means that their souls wander endlessly.