“Funny that isn’t it,” Heidi said, though her tone insinuated there was nothing funny about it at all. “Ever since… I’ve only ever found Brits. And nearly all of them English.”
Almost surprised to have some evidence to the contrary, McConnell spoke up. “We had a French couple turn up in Sighisoara.”
“What happened to them?”
“Kept to themselves, no-one could speak French, not properly. Eventually they got stuck in an altercation over booze and got themselves killed. Bit difficult to resolve disputes with no common language. And this was before Tetrazzini showed up, so no-one knew any medicine—” He tensed, knowing he’d mentioned a name he shouldn’t have. Grace stiffened too, her eyes low.
“Who’s Tetrazzini?” Harris asked, curious.
An awkward silence followed, finally broken by Heidi. “So you’re from Croydon? I’m from North London, Hampstead Heath.”
He gave her a solemn smile. “Small world huh? If only our friend here could remember his origins?” He patted the Mariner on the shoulder. “Perhaps he would turn out from a similar neck of the woods? Bromley? Clapham?”
“Perhaps.” The Mariner didn’t see much point in trying to work out the insanity in which they lived. The Pope would tell them what the Oracle couldn’t. He placed his glass down with a hollow thud. “Done.”
Not long later, Harris negotiated a second round.
“I don’t miss him,” Grace whispered lightly over the crackling fire. It was towards the end of the evening, when most had crawled off to bed, leaving only those obsessed with the pursuit of oblivion chasing it like a dog after a butterfly. The Mariner had thought her asleep, her small figure, curled up in Harris’ coat, hadn’t moved for hours. McConnell, still by her side, had fallen asleep, lulled into unconsciousness by the disarming heat, and yet she’d remained awake, staring at the fire through slits so fine she’d appeared to slumber.
“Who?” he asked, more as a delaying tactic than an actual question. He knew full well whom she meant: Tetrazzini. Who else? She hadn’t said a word since McConnell had mentioned the man. And now she wanted to voice those demons. Why couldn’t she keep them locked away, like he did? Surely that was best?
“You know who,” she replied, calling him out in one swipe. “Him.”
I guess I do, but I don’t want to talk about him. I don’t want to think about leaving him to burn for what he did, because somewhere deep inside I think I’m the same. And if that’s true then I should burn too. I should burn as surely as he did, as surely as Absinth was ate. But I’m scared. I’m far too scared to burn.
“Christopher wants me to talk about… what he did, but I don’t want to, I don’t want to even think of him.”
“Christopher?”
“Yeah.” Her pristine forehead furrowed and realising she theatrically rolled her eyes. “The reverend.”
The Mariner was surprised, McConnell had never told him his first name. Funny. Names were strange things, meaningless and yet given so much weight.
“I understand. I don’t like to think about someone too.”
“Who?”
Everyone I’ve hurt. Everyone I’ve killed.
“My mother. I don’t remember her much, but what I do…” he stopped, the alcohol in his system loosening his tongue enough to speak, but not his brain enough to prevent protest. “She wasn’t a good person.”
“Like Dad?”
“He wasn’t your father. Don’t dignify him with the title.” He meant it as a compliment, but tears quickly gathered in the young girl’s eyes.
“He was my daddy, he was!”
“Shush! Hush now.” He took her arm and gently rubbed it. The arm was so small in his hand. So delicate.
Suddenly he recoiled. What had he just been doing? Where would his mind have gone if allowed to continue? He tried to force the confused revulsion down out of sight. Right now, Grace was upset and she needed his guidance. “Your father hurt you, and my mother hurt me, and I don’t think they get to call themselves ‘mother’ and ‘father’ if they do that. I think they lose the right. But that’s not something to be upset about, because a person doesn’t need a mother or father as long as they have someone who loves them. And we love you, Grace.”
“You do?”
“Yes.” Or at least McConnell does. Me? I don’t know what I feel, that’s a question best left unanswered. “And although bad thoughts can return and upset you every so often, they can’t hurt you. Not really.”
Grace looked assured, and the Mariner felt guilty. He’d fed her a pack of lies. Sure his mother couldn’t hurt him, not physically, but the damage done to the boy then had turned him into the man, and the man saw to it he was hurt over and over again. Continuing her work.
“Grace?” he whispered.
“Yes?”
“I understand there is pain, but I want you to do something for me?”
“What?”
“Let me take it. I will take the blame, the hurt, the anger. I will tend that fire if it must be kept. You don’t need to. And if you ever feel you are betraying the past by forgetting it, then remember I’m honouring the memory for you. Let me take the blame.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Yes. Yes I can.” He allowed himself to touch her once more on the arm, ever so briefly, and the young girl seemed to brighten, ever so slightly. “Now, Miss O’Hara, let’s get you to bed.”
Each room was decorated with a simple bed, a small lantern, and a single grubby window behind thick iron bars. Outside the rain still poured down with a ferocity that made the Mariner feel rare gratitude for being on land.
He carried Grace up the stairs, stepping gingerly, afraid that at any moment he would slip and send them both back down, no doubt twisting their necks in the process. But his steps were true and once inside her room he laid the child upon her bed. Just as sleep claimed her eyes, he gave a her forehead a solitary kiss, bade her goodnight, and left.
He found Heidi waiting in the corridor. She was leaning against the banister, smiling a drunken grin and swaying to the gust of an alcoholic breeze.
“You’re awfully sweet to that girl. Both of you are.”
“She’s had an awful life.”
“Are you sweet to everyone who’s had an awful life?”
“No.” He began to grin back, just as drunk as she. “Just those to whom my devils take a liking.”
“Ah yes, the Tasmanian devils. The devil-whisperer! The man who can make devils do as he says!”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that, but I did once get them to kill a rat, though I think they wanted to do that anyway. You should really call them the devils that can make a man go hungry.”
She laughed and wagged a finger at him. “There’s something very strange about you!”
He studied her face, high cheek-bones, piercing eyes and dainty chin. She really was very beautiful. “And you. You remind me of someone, though I don’t remember who.”
She took his hand in hers and led him up a second flight of stairs. “Let’s see if this jolts your memory.”
He followed in a drunken haze, stumbling as he stared at her hypnotic behind, lost in a sudden and powerful desire. At the top, outside her bedroom door, Heidi turned and pressed her lips to his. Despite the sour liquor, her mouth tasted sweet and inviting, and like a spooked horse, his lust reared, seizing all senses and directing them towards one goal.