Bless the Bride

pinpoints of light in similar cubicles around the walls and the darker shape of figures lying in tiers around the walls. I tried to move my hand, but my limbs felt lethargic as if they didn’t fully belong to me. If I managed to get my mouth free and shouted for help, would anyone here be awake enough to help me? My eyes wanted to close. I fought the sleep that was overcoming me. Was Monty still here, watching me? Enjoying the spectacle of my being drugged by opium, or had he merely half suffocated me and then left me to give the appearance of an opium addict while he made his getaway?

I had no idea how long I had been unconscious or how much opium I had already breathed in. I was horribly aware of the singing in my head and that my arms and legs were no longer obeying me. If Monty was still watching me, my only course was to breathe as little as possible, feign sleep, and hope that he’d leave.

I shut my eyes and let my mouth droop open, making what I hoped were the snoring noises of one on opium. I think I may have drifted off because suddenly I was floating, my body completely weightless and my arms propelling me though the bluest of skies with no effort at all like swimming in a warm ocean. Brilliantly green fields were below me, greener than anything I had seen in Ireland, and the air felt sweet and fresh. It came to me that there was nothing to worry about. All would be well.

Except a word hovered at the back of my consciousness. Daniel. Daniel. I repeated it and forced my eyes open. Something I had to tell Daniel. I tried to sit up and banged my head hard on that ceiling of the bunk above mine. The pain was enough to bring me back to some degree of consciousness. Daniel. Had to tell Daniel … I tried to get to my feet. My legs felt as if they were remote objects over which I had no control, and I had to cling onto the edge of my bunk while the world swung around me. Have to get out. Get out, I muttered. I staggered across to the wall and felt my way around until I came to a door. It took me a long time to find a latch and make my fingers lift it, then to push open the door. I stepped outside, trying to see where I was going, but I couldn’t focus on anything. In truth I didn’t know where I was. Just two things, darkness and Daniel, echoed through the hollow of my mind.

There was a bad smell in my dark passage and that helped to bring me to some kind of reality, but I still couldn’t make my brain function enough to tell me where I was or where I needed to go. I staggered forward, feeling the rough brickwork of the arched wall on my hand. I heard noises ahead—voices, harsh and loud; the chink of crockery; a fiddle played badly. As I stepped out to see what it was, a burst of gunfire sounded right beside me. I leaped back, half fell, and was grabbed by strong arms. I fought myself free.

“Okay, missie. Only firecracker. Firecracker for holiday,” a voice said.

Firecracker. My fuzzy mind played with the word. Another burst made me jump again. Danger. Had to get away from here. But I wasn’t sure in which direction safety lay. I started to walk. Then I heard a voice.

“Follow me, if you please, ladies and gentlemen. We are now in the heart of Chinatown. There is danger and depravity all around us, so please stay close to me. We wouldn’t want the little ladies to be shipped off as white slaves, would we?”

Even in my befuddled state I recognized the voice. Connors. Slumming tours. I was saved. I staggered toward him.

“Mr. Connors, I need help,” I tried to say. But the words only came out as a moaning jumble of sounds with no discernible consonants. Instead of offering help, Connors shepherded his group hastily to one side, steering them past me like a herd of sheep.

“There you are, that’s one of them,” Connors said, his voice booming through a megaphone. “I promised you’d see opium addicts and there you are. You can see how low ordinary white folks have fallen, under the spell of this awful drug.”

“No wait, listen,” I tried to say, but they swept past me and away.

Then another hand grabbed my arm. “You poor dear woman,” a voice said. “Have no fear. I’ve come to save you. Yes, there is salvation in the Lord. Come back to the mission with me and I’ll help you break the bonds of the devil’s drug.” I could vaguely make out a trim shape of woman in a gray outfit and old-fashioned gray bonnet. “Come on,” she said again. “Let me take you to the mission. I promise you won’t regret it. The Lord has sent me to find you and lead you on the road to recovery.”

I wanted to laugh. I wanted to tell her I was Molly Murphy, private investigator and about to be married to a respectable police captain, but again my mouth made only animal-like sounds. One thing was clear. I didn’t want to go with her. Had to find Daniel and tell him … I couldn’t remember what I had to tell him, but it was important.

She was just trying to drag me away when I heard another voice. “Miss Murphy! Holy Mother of God, it’s Miss Murphy, Albert. What has happened to you, my dear? Albert, take her arm. We must get her into the house.”

And I was half carried in through a front door. “Are you sick, my dear? Has someone attacked you? Your dress is all torn.”

I tried to tell her with my useless lips, again producing only the incomprehensible words one makes when half asleep.

“Looks to me as if she’s been drugged,” a male voice said.

“Then we’d better leave her to sleep it off,” said the woman’s voice. “Wasn’t it lucky that the wind got up and we came back from the picnic early, or who knows what might have happened to her?”

Someone put a cup to my lips and I sipped water.

“It’s coffee she needs,” the male voice said. “If coffee can cure a hangover, it should help with other drugs, shouldn’t it?”

They lay me down and tucked a blanket around me. “It’s all right, my dear. You’re quite safe now,” the woman said.

I closed my eyes. Quite safe now. I knew there was some reason I shouldn’t sleep, but it had gone again. I closed my eyes and retreated into dreams.

Thirty-three

It was the smell of coffee that aroused me. It crept into the peaceful landscape in which I was residing until my brain formed the word “coffee” and I came to consciousness. Aileen Chiu was standing in front of me, holding a cup.

“I let you sleep it off,” she said, “but I guess you’d now like a nice cup of coffee to clear your head.”

“What time is it?” I asked.