Sadie’s face went slack for a moment and her eyes, looking deep the other in the glass, seemed like a child’s, full of pain and vexation. Her white plume moved in the cold wind as if waving goodbye.
What was it McLevy had said to her? All these years ago, all these years.
She’d dipped a mark in the Tolbooth Wynd, while the man was standing to attention, him being an officer of the guards, and slid the wallet over to her then fancy boy, wee Dougie Gray.
Dougie had taken off round the corner while she gripped the mark fast in pretended passion. The man discovered his loss but she gave gracious pardon, it must have fallen from his pocket or perhaps it was at home with the wife, never mind settle up the next time, eh?
He cursed her something fierce as a rancid wee whore, but the smile froze on her face when Dougie marched back round the corner, arm in arm with Jamie McLevy, prime thieftaker of the parish of Leith, in the city of Edinburgh.
The policeman was limping though, puffing for breath; wee Dougie must have kicked the clouds but the ploy had not worked. Not well enough.
God bless wee Dougie, took it right on the chin, said he’d delved in regardless, nothing to do with her, no proof, she was free of scath. But, even though, even though, McLevy turned those slate-grey eyes on her, wolf eyes in that big white face that looked like it never saw the light of day. He smiled and her bowels lurched, then he reached out and gently flicked the feather which even then she wore as her proud emblem.
‘One day, Sadie Gorman,’ he said, and his voice pierced in deep. ‘One day, your wings will be broken and you shall fall to earth at my feet.’
Well, he could kiss the devil’s arse because here she was alive and kicking. But still. His voice echoed in her mind. All these years.
And wee Dougie had died in the Perth Penitentiary, defending his honour against some brute from Aberdeen. He did not deserve that. Nae justice.
The east wind nagged her back to the present. She turned and looked at the dead street. Not a hunker-slider in sight. That bloody wind must have frozen the randy boys where they lay.
Sadie shivered and glanced around again. This dark time, the evil hour, played tricks upon your mind. Satan might be watching, long black nails and big red eyes. She had felt him on her trail these past nights.
She dare not go home empty handed. Her pounce, Frank Brennan, was a big Irish lump with hands like a navvy’s shovel, genial enough save in drink but, by this time of night, he’d be steaming like a horse dollop and looking for his due reward. Her face was safe but God help her belly from his fist.
For a moment she felt a sense of panic, desperation, as if she was sliding away from what she knew into the darkness, some pit where only monsters waited. She’d seen a drawing once, a woman drowned at sea, a great big octopus dragging her under, the mouth open, screaming, hair wrapped round her face, breasts naked, dress ripped from her by the slimy tentacles. Of course it was to ginger up the clients in the Holy Land, the bawdy-hoose where she’d first been on the bones. Should have stayed there, Jean Brash would have seen her right, but no, she was too young, too restless, she liked it free and easy. Free and easy. Look at her now.
A hard shake went through her whole body. It was cruel and cold. No mercy. She’d have to go home. Take her licks.
She could stand the panic now. It was like a dull ache but a thing she knew.
But then the fear charged in again, like a black mist. She heard something in the shadows, a rat chittering; what if the beast scuttled right up her leg? She detested rodents. Now wait. What was that? God’s mercy on a cold night maybe?
Footsteps, coming towards her, through the narrow wynd, heel and sole on the cobbles, a fine firm masculine step.
Aye, there he was now, oh definitely on the prowl, ye could tell. Under the tile hat, a furze of white hair shone in the gaslight, a patriarch, even better, might settle for a wee flutter of the fingers, gentleman’s relish, but see the light grey frock-coat – that’s quality, that’s good money, that’s more than promising.
Sadie licked her lips and pulled a touch back into the shadows, distance lends enchantment. She laughed softly, the man’s head turned, slow, ponderous.
‘Well, my braw gallant,’ Sadie spoke low, inviting, she had a fine organ for that, whisky tonsils. ‘Is it company ye’re searching for? I’ll wager you could tremble me, I can tell just looking. I know a strong man when he comes a- calling.’
She laughed, kept in the shadows, extended a white arm; her arms were her best point these days, elegant, long, supple fingers waggled saucily.
He also kept out of the light, but she could see, straining her eyes, that he was a fair age and height, white sideburns, eyes deep set below craggy brows, shaded by the brim of the hat. The mouth worried her, it was not a kind cut. And there was an odd smell in the air. A hospital smell. Coal tar.
This might be slow fruit and it would help if the auld bugger might think to say something. Now, wait. She knew that face surely, she’d seen it before but not in a serving capacity, no, that mouth the downward set of it, in the newspapers maybe? Not that she could read but the photos, or was it somewhere else? The man fumbled inside his jacket; if he brought out his wallet then to hell with what she knew or didn’t know, business was business.
She pitched her voice soft and throaty. ‘I can see a man of substance, a man of style, a man whose wishes must be met. I can satisfy you, sir, satisfaction is my aim, tell me your heart’s desire.’
She risked coming forward a touch more, threw back her head, thrust out her chest, maybe her titties would take his eyes off the state of her teeth.
‘Tell me your heart’s desire.’
Sadie’s first lover had been a flesher’s assistant; he would present her the odd mutton chop when chance arrived.
She loved to watch him at work, a butcher’s boy; his big meaty hands wielded the cleaver with surprising delicacy. He had a delicate touch with many things. The flash of the blade through the air always excited her as the edge bit into the lamb’s neck. A flash of steel.
The axe blade hewed straight through her collarbone, crashed through the ribs and only stopped when it reached the heart. Sadie fell like a stone. The man, with gloved hand, carefully wiped the sharp edge of the weapon clean on her yellow dress and put it neatly back inside his coat.
The plume still clung to her hair like a last vestige of life, though the top had snapped off. He picked up the fragment, placed it into a side pocket then walked off with measured tread.
Above her sightless eyes where she lay was a motto carved on one of the doors.
Her blood flowed out in a hot gush. A rat scuttled in the shadows but Sadie didn’t mind. It was the first time she’d been warm all night.
The white feather had been broken. The east wind blew it from her hair, and cast it out into the darkness.
3
Death is the cure of all diseases.
SIR THOMAS BROWNE,
McLevy stood in the cold room, watching Dr Jarvis plucking away at the dead body on the slab as if it were a chicken carcass. The police surgeon was a tall cadaverous man, with small watery eyes and long skinny fingers that poked and prodded while he whistled through his teeth.
The surgeon was, not to mince words, an overweening tangle of vanity, a veritable struntie who was passable at his job but not as masterly as his self-esteem would have folk believe.
Once, through his carelessness, he had caused a man’s death. A good man. A bad death. Of course Jarvis
