Except the Dying

The second floor of the shop was used for storage, and along the far wall were deep shelves stacked with rolls of fabric. There were two long tables in the centre where the tailors did their cutting and at the end of each table was a large oil lamp. Canning lit one of them.

Somebody will see the light, said Ettie’s inner voice. The copper on his beat will investigate. She’ll be safe soon. Sleeping in her own bed before she knows it.

But Canning immediately pulled down the window blind and fastened it tight.

He walked over to the shelves and was fingering the different bolts of cloth.

“What’s your real name?” she asked.

“You don’t need to know, Ellie. Jack’ll do.”

“You’re not a sailor, are you?”

He scowled. “Are we playing ‘Forfeit’ all of a sudden?”

She shrugged. Careful, don’t crack the egg, her voice warned. “You seem too nobby for a sailor is all.”

That seemed to please him. “I was one once. Not now. Now I’m a gentleman … or as near as makes no difference.”

So far he hadn’t removed his coat or hat, which she took comfort from, but now he unwound his muffler. He looked different but she couldn’t at first identify why. Then he removed his wide felt hat. Instead of the close-cropped pate she’d seen at the O’Neil, he sported a head of dark, smooth hair.

“Sod me, you’ve got hair.”

“Sod me, but I haven’t,” he mocked. He tugged off the wig and tossed it to the floor, where it lay like a strange species of animal.

“Frigging thing’s hot,” he said. Next he removed his greatcoat and placed it on the workbench. “Why don’t you get more cozy. I’ve never taken a flyer before and I don’t fancy it now.”

“I’m cold.”

“I’ll warm you up … I said to take your jacket off.”

The tone of his voice made Ettie’s knees quiver. She licked her lips; her mouth was as dry as sand. “Don’t happen to have a spot of soother with you, I suppose?”

“As a matter of fact I do.” He took a silver flask from his pocket and handed it to her. “You are cold, Ellie.”

“Ettie! I keep telling you my name’s Ettie, from Bernadette.”

“What’s the difference?” he said.

She unscrewed the top from the flask and took a deep gulp of the liquor. It wasn’t gin but something that burned her throat.

“Hey, leave some for me. That’s expensive scotch you’re swallowing like it was water.”

The drink was a fire in her stomach, but every other part seemed to grow colder. In the distance she thought she heard a dog bark but in the room the silence grew deeper, as if her ears were stopping up. He stood, legs apart, contemplating the rows of fabrics. Then he suddenly and violently hauled out a big bolt of crimson satin. In the faint light of the lamp, the cloth was as dark as spilled blood.

“This’ll do.” He turned back to where Ettie was sitting on one of the wooden chairs at the table. “Didn’t I say to take off your clothes? I can’t stand gits who won’t listen.”

She flinched and with shaking fingers began to unbutton her jacket. In the meantime he rolled out the satin, making a pool of crimson on the grimy floor. Then without another word he walked over to her, gripped the back of her neck with one hand and with the other pulled at the collar of her blouse. A button tore off.

“Oi, what are you doing? This is my good waist.” But her voice lacked conviction. Her beautiful detachment vanished and she was back in the stuffy room, the smell of new fabric intermingling with the stink of their sweat. Her arms ached as if she had been holding a heavy weight, and her legs had lost all strength. His face was very close to hers, his breath was foul, and she could see a small deep scar by his nostril as if a knife point had been driven in. His chin was rough with reddish hairs. His pale blue eyes looked at her but did not see. He grinned again and the gold tooth gleamed.

“I’ve made you a bed fit for a queen. Come on and try it.”

She knew she’d lost.