The dressers dragged Henry White to the floor and sat on him. Aisling collapsed to the ground, like a delicate marionette with its strings cut. On my knees, I tried to examine her neck with my hands, but she was bleeding so fast. The duty manager ran in, followed by doctors, porters, nurses. The other nurses pulled me away, and the last thing I saw was her body slumped against the wall, her head at an awkward angle, her uniform soaked in blood and a lake of it creeping across the floor. Her eyes were open and her arms were by her side, palms up. We can’t leave her head like that, I thought. Her neck will hurt.
*
The Princess Alice was wrapped around a corner and had windows on all sides. I inched my way along Commercial Street until I found a spot outside a window at the far end through which I could see the bar. Though the pub was busy, I had a clear view of Thomas as he weaved his way to a table in the corner. He sat down with a man who had his back to the window. The man wore a black billycock and the sight of it made my hair stand on end. They both got up, walked to the bar, leaned up against it and faced each other. I had yet to see the other man properly, but I already knew who it was.
It was Dr Shivershev, the man to whom only a few hours ago I had confessed all my fears. I flopped against the pub wall and felt the air leave my lungs. The betrayal stung, probably more so than my stupidity. I was lost. I had no one. The man I’d thought could be my last hope was drinking with my murderous husband. I now had to believe that the baby in the jar had come from Mabel and that my husband had given it to Dr Shivershev, who had likely reported back to him after each one of my consultations with him. They were in it together – whatever ‘it’ was.
I hurried on down Commercial Street and had walked only ten feet when I saw Dr Shivershev’s pretty whore from the Ten Bells and the man with the ginger whiskers coming towards me. In a panic, I dipped my head; it had started to rain and the wind was up. I pulled the edges of my bonnet down about my face and bowled straight between them – they even parted to let me through. I glanced back to see them push through the doors of the Princess Alice.
It must have been half past six by the time I arrived home, in a great rush, hurtled into the hallway, ignored Mrs Wiggs and nearly barged into Sarah on the stairs. Once inside my bedroom, I locked myself in.
The vow I had made earlier in the day to abstain from taking further drops was forgotten. I waited for the edges to blur and the angels to come. At any moment, Thomas would arrive like a hurricane, breaking down the door and storming into my room once he’d learned of everything I’d said to Dr Shivershev. Would Dr Shivershev come too? Would I be dragged down into the cellar, past Sarah and Mrs Wiggs, who would watch open-mouthed and blameless as I was murdered, my blood poured down the drains and my clothes burned and left out with the hot ashes. My husband and his friend would know all too well how to dissect me into convenient pieces small enough to smuggle out and drop into the Thames along the Chelsea Embankment.
I could run, but where would I go? I had the urge to go somewhere, but at the same time it was too tempting to remain. What would Aisling have done? She’d have left Thomas long ago. Better to be free and poor than a wealthy captive, she used to say. But I dithered on that still. I had memories of being cold and hungry and sometimes I was not sure which was better.
Elizabeth the Melody
A person can be many things, can they not? Most people are merely acting the parts they’ve been given anyway. Life is an instrument thrust into the hands of a small child; they play the violin because it’s the only one they’ve been shown how. She had been an Elizabeth before and would be again, soon, but for now she must make do with being this Liz. She didn’t much like it: Liz sounded hard, like a hiss or a grunt. The English had a million ways to reduce a person to nothing. ‘Eliz-a-beth’ had a melody. It rose and fell. It had a beginning, a middle and an end. The name was a story, and how Elizabeth loved stories. She would keep going until hers was a good one.
Elizabeth took care to avoid the mirror, a pointless square of blackened glass that hung from a nail driven into the wall made fat with damp. She had whitewashed the wall that morning and now she’d moved on to cleaning the men’s rooms. This being Elizabeth’s regular haunt, she had the benefit of the odd piece of casual work thrown her way.
Despite her best efforts, she caught her own eye in a small portion of the mirror and studied her complexion; the skin was dry, the bones appeared a little too close to the surface and the line of her jaw had become slack. Her eyes had shrunk, and her lashes, which always used to be long, looked as if they’d been filed down. She slapped her cheeks hard to bring the life back into them, then yanked at her bodice and thrust her shoulders back.
‘I can always be another,’ said Elizabeth.
‘What was that?’ shouted Ann
