The Bone Garden: A Novel

Let there be no whisper of my name.

She began to walk again, heading for familiar territory, the baby still sleeping soundly in her arms. Better to bed down in the gutter you know. Perhaps Mrs. Combs down the street would grant her and Meggie a corner in her kitchen, just for tonight. I could repair that old cloak of hers, she thought, the one with the badly mended rip. Surely that was worth a small spot in the kitchen.

— I told the Night Watch everything I saw, — said Billy, practically dancing up the street beside her. — I been out, y'know, lookin' for Spot. I been up and down this street ten times, and that's why the Watch says I'm a good one to talk to. —

— That you are. —

— I'm sorry she's dead, 'cause she won't be sendin' me out on errands anymore. Gave me a penny every time, but last time she didn't. That's not fair, is it? I didn't tell that to the Night Watch, 'cause they'll think I killed her for it. —

— No one would think such a thing of you, Billy. —

— You should always pay a man for his work, but she didn't that time. —

They walked together, past darkened windows, past silent houses. It's so late, she thought; everyone is asleep except for us. The boy stayed with her until she came, at last, to a stop.

— Aren't you going in? — said Billy.

She gazed up at Mrs. O'Keefe's lodging house. Her tired feet had automatically brought her to this door, through which she had walked so many times before. Up the stairs would be her narrow bed, tucked into the curtained alcove in the room she'd shared with Aurnia and Eben. The thin curtain had not been barrier enough to muffle the sounds from the other bed. Eben's grunts of lovemaking, his snores, his hacking cough in the morning. She remembered his hands groping at her thighs tonight, and with a shudder she turned and walked away.

— Where are you going? — Billy said.

— I don't know. —

— Aren't you going home? —

— No. —

He caught up to her. — You're going to stay awake? All night? —

— I need to find someplace to sleep. Someplace warm, where Meggie won't get cold. —

— Isn't Mrs. O'Keefe's house warm? —

— I can't go there tonight, Billy. Mr. Tate is angry with me. Very, very angry. And I'm afraid he might? — She halted and stared at the mist, which coiled at her feet like grasping hands. — Oh, God, Billy, — she whispered. — I'm so tired. What am I going to do with her? —

— I know a place you could take her, — he said. — A secret place. But you can't tell anyone about it. —

Dawn had not yet lifted the darkness when Wall-eyed Jack harnessed his horse and climbed up onto the buckboard. He guided the dray out of the stable yard and onto icy cobblestones that gleamed like glass under the lamplight. At this hour, his was the only wagon on the street, and the clip-clop of the horse's hooves, the rattle of the wheels, were unnervingly noisy in the otherwise silent street. Those stirring awake in their beds, hearing the rattle of his wagon rolling past, would assume it was just a tradesman passing by. A butcher hauling carcasses to market, perhaps, or the mason with his stones, or the farmer delivering bales of hay to the stableman. It would not occur to those drowsy people in their warm beds what sort of cargo would soon be loaded onto the wagon that now rolled past their windows. The living had no wish to dwell on the dead, and so the dead were invisible, nailed into pine boxes, sewn into shrouds, moved furtively on rattling carts under cover of night. What no one else has the stomach for, here I am, thought Jack with a grim smile. Oh, there was money to be made in the snatching trade. The clop of the horse's hooves pounded out the poetry of those words again and again as his dray rolled northwest, toward the Charles River.

There's money to be made. There's money to be made.

And that's where you'd find Jack Burke.

In the fog ahead, a crouching figure suddenly materialized right in front of the horse. Jack pulled up sharply on the reins and the horse halted with a snort. A teenage boy scampered into view, zigzagging back and forth in the street, long arms waving like octopus tentacles.

— Bad pup! Bad pup, you come to me now! —

The dog gave a yelp as the boy pounced and grabbed him around the neck. Straightening, the struggling dog now firmly in his grip, the boy stared wide-eyed as he suddenly saw Jack glaring at him through the mist.

— You damn half-wit, Billy! — snapped Jack. Oh, he knew this boy well enough, and what a nuisance he was, always underfoot, always searching for a free meal, a place to bed down. More than once, Jack had had to chase Dim Billy out of his own stable yard. — Get outta the road! I could've run right over you. —

The boy just gaped at him. He had a mouthful of crooked teeth and a head too small for his gangly teenage body. He grinned stupidly, the mutt struggling in his arms. — He doesn't always come when I call. He needs to behave. —

— Can't even look after yourself, and you got a damn dog? —

— He's my friend. His name's Spot. —

Jack eyed the black mutt, who as far as he could see had no spots anywhere. — Now, there's a right clever name I've never heard before. —

— We're out lookin' for a bit o' milk. Babies need milk, y'know, and she drank up all I got for her last night. She'll be hungry this morning, and when they get hungry, they cry. —

What was the fool boy babbling about? — Get outta my way, — said Jack. — I got business to attend to. —

— All right, Mr. Burke! — The boy moved aside to let the horse pass. — I'm gonna get myself some business, too. —

Sure ya will, Billy. Sure ya will. Jack snapped the reins, and the wagon lurched forward. The horse took only a few paces before Jack abruptly pulled him to a stop. He turned to look back at Billy's spindly figure, half hidden in the mist. Though the boy had to be sixteen or seventeen, he was only bones and sinew, about as sturdy as some clackety wooden puppet. Still, he'd be an extra pair of hands.

And he'd be cheap.

— Hey, Billy! — Jack called. — You want to earn a ninepence? —

The boy hurried up to him, arms still in a stranglehold around his unfortunate pet. — What for, Mr. Burke? —

— Leave the dog and climb in. —

— But we need to find milk. —

— You want your ninepence or what? You can buy milk with it. —

Billy dropped the dog, who immediately trotted away. — You go home now! — Billy ordered it. — That's right, Spot! —

— Get in, boy. —

Billy scrabbled aboard the dray and settled his bony arse on the buckboard. — Where are we going? —

Jack snapped the reins. — You'll see. —

They rolled through drifting fingers of mist, past buildings where candlelight was starting to appear in windows. Except for the distant barking of dogs, the only noise was the horse's hooves and the sound of their wheels, rumbling down the narrow street.

Billy glanced back at the wagon. — What's under the tarp, Mr. Burke? —

— Nothing. —

— But there's somethin' there. I can see it. —

— You want your ninepence, then shut up. —

— All right. — The boy was silent for about five seconds. — When do I get it? —

— After you help me move something. —

— Like furniture? —

— Yeah. — Jack spat onto the street. — Just like furniture. —

They were almost to the Charles River now, rattling up North Allen Street. Daylight was gaining on them,