‘So, it came on suddenly then, is that right?’ Mockett asks.
‘Yes.’ Jonesy bows.
‘What time of day was that?’
‘Well over two hours ago,’ Clovis says.
‘Will he be all right?’ asks Finn, genuinely worried for the boy and not the coin.
‘Too soon to tell you more.’ Mockett pours liquid into a one-ounce bottle.
‘Could it be deadly?’ Clovis asks.
‘Honestly, yes. But you mustn’t worry yet. This is a fever tincture.’ He holds an amber-coloured bottle to the candlelight. ‘I need to dilute it quite a bit for the child.’
Clovis refrains from ordering him to be quick about it.
Upstairs it is Nora who notices first. She has been struggling; one foot in her shoe, one foot out. Her heart is with the baby, though her mind is sore with hurt and anger. She has been foolish and knows it. Why she ever thought the Fowler woman would select them to be godparents … Why she ever let herself imagine that there still might be a child in her life, though not her own … Foolish, foolish. Owen has forgotten the compresses of willow tree bark and meadow-sweet that are complementary to the tincture. She should be preparing them now, slender strips of cloth for the baby’s forehead. She is wistful.
If the hand of fate could be seen as a living thing in this moment, its grasp is so firm it would choke Nora Mockett. It is now when her pride wrestles her like a demon – it is in this very second that she decides to offer her help – and in the next second that follows when she changes her mind, that her future is determined. Suddenly the house is absent of the cries of the baby’s misery.
Downstairs they had become immune to the screams and accustomed to speaking over it, and it is some minutes before they fall quiet and notice the child sleeps.
The silence is then pierced by Mockett’s voice.
‘Good God, man!’ He tugs at Finn’s sleeve.
‘Is he dead?’ Finn asks.
‘No, he lives. And he lives without the fever. Look, his face is a good colour. Feel his forehead and arms … they are cool. He is dry as the desert sand. What ailed him has completely disappeared.’
‘Thank fuck for that. What did you do?’ Finn is visibly relieved and grateful.
‘He has done nothing,’ Clovis scoffs. ‘The boy is simply no longer ill.’
‘Enough. You forget yourself, woman.’ Finn cuts her with a sharp warning.
She has broken their agreement. She is forbidden to cross him in public.
‘Take this tincture with you should it come again in the night. Watch him closely tonight at regular intervals. Hopefully, this is the end of it.’
Finn takes the bottle as Clovis makes no move towards it.
‘Thank you. I am sorry we have disturbed you.’ Clovis makes a small effort.
‘And Mrs Mockett. Apologies to her,’ says Finn.
‘Quite all right, and my apologies that this tunnel business has come about so quickly. Be careful, there are rumours flying. They seek to hold someone up to the public, tar them, all of it. It will be bad.’
‘Warning received with thanks. I’ll have the readies for you tomorrow for your trouble.’
‘No, not at all. Consider it an act of friendship.’
‘No.’ Clovis says sharply. Then more kindly, ‘No, thank you. We will see to the account. I insist.’
It is midnight when the Fowlers and Jonesy step out into the street. It is the hour when the nightmen begin their work. They do not come to the cesspools frequently enough in this area. The shit is heavy and malodorous. The Fowlers cover their faces, damning their timing.
Doors of the infamous houses remain open. Publicans line their pockets. Rum blokes stagger. It is raining gin. The violin of the mariner’s night still plays at this hour, serenading the sailors whose opium lozenges have overtaken them and dumped them at their wit’s edge.
The Fowlers turn off the Commercial Road to a more docile scene. Benedikt breezes quickly past them. They do not notice.
‘Why do you insist that we settle with Mockett?’ Finn asks.
God, I am weary of this. Weary of explaining my actions, my thoughts, my decisions, thinks Clovis, her patience spent.
‘I do not wish to be in Mockett’s debt. And certainly not his wife’s.’
‘If it had been mine, I would have closed the tunnel, too. It’s time to find a new route.’
‘How kind of you. When did you become so forgiving?’
‘When did you turn so fucking hard?’ he puts to her.
‘Turn? I have never turned.’
When they are home Jonesy stands in the doorway as the man in the black suit and beaver topper crosses over to the other side of the street. His thoughts rest with something other than Benedikt, who now moves on into the night. He loosens his plait and frees his long, silky hair, but it does not help, it does not keep the knot in his stomach from twisting, rousting up a truth. He is recovered from months of blindness and it brings a feeling of the deepest dread. His beautiful mistress … he was wrong about her.
Finally, the Fowler home rests. Clovis and Finn dream of filling their coffers with Icelandic money. Willa sleeps soundly with her whole being weary from this frightful night, and Jonesy entertains dreams of the sailor while the cloud of his mistress’s spite hovers over him. Owen Mockett sleeps in a splendid stupor, drunken by more of his wife’s juices.
The baby Rafe sleeps innocently, unaware of the remarkable transformation his dripping sweat has wrought on those who held him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
‘Christ! There is enough to do without this annoyance.’ Clovis tosses the letter on the table.
Clovis Fowler,
We are disappointed that there has been no return message from you. We were clear in our previous letter that a report is required regarding the health of your son. Every detail is expected. We know of his fever; now you must inform us of exactly the circumstances before, during, and after his recovery.
Any information we ask of you is vital to your safety as well
