Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 24 Read online

  He turned to the others. “Hey, Yuri, bring it here."

  Yuri dutifully returned the knife. Mitch turned the weapon idly in his hands.

  "You got something to say, No-Dials?"

  I contemplated telling them what I'd done the night before. The mention of Orchid Street would shake them up a bit. But then again, what was I going to say if they pressed me for details? That I had sat and looked at photos while an old couple fished in their bags?

  Sharing the experience would only cheapen it anyway, I decided. What did I care what they thought? I muttered imprecations under my breath.

  That night I walked home past Factory Row with my trophy heavy on my wrist, feeling as trapped and sour as I had two days before. I ate dinner in silence in the brown room while my parents watched Mr. Wiggles.

  "Cheer up,” said my father, at one point. “Mr. Wiggles is on."

  It was all the conversation we had.

  When the meal was over, I went upstairs to work through another pile of pointless homework in the cramped confines of my bedroom. An hour later, the phone rang.

  I knew my parents wouldn't answer during one of their shows, and the distraction was welcome. I ran to the hall to pick it up.

  "Hello?"

  "Kid? It's your Uncle Morgan."

  My stomach sank. I was suddenly certain that Morgan had found out.

  "I'll go get Dad,” I said weakly.

  "Don't. I want to talk to you. You went into the house, didn't you?"

  I didn't breathe. Morgan couldn't have the money back. I'd spent it all.

  "I..."

  Morgan cut me off. “Doesn't matter, kid,” he said. “Everything turned out apple candy. After all, you're still here, aren't you? You faced a difficult situation and handled it perfectly. And best of all, the clients liked you. A lot."

  I stared at the wall behind the phone with my cheeks tingling.

  "How'd you like to make a hundred notes tonight?” said Morgan.

  My eyes went wide. I didn't want anything else the way I'd wanted the shock-watch, but a hundred was a huge amount of money—enough to even buy my own scab's knife.

  "How?” I asked. My voice sounded a lot smaller than I intended.

  "Another package,” said Morgan. “You're my star courier now, kid. I know I can rely on you."

  "When?"

  "Right now."

  "But I have homework,” I said weakly.

  Morgan laughed the way he did when he visited the folks.

  "If you can't find someone to help you finish it with a hundred notes in your pocket, kid, you're not the guy I thought you were. But it's okay. If you're scared..."

  I squirmed. I'd already been goaded enough for one day.

  "Okay,” I snapped. “You're on."

  "That's what I like to hear,” said Morgan. “Meet me outside the warehouse in five minutes."

  The phone went dead.

  I stared at the wall some more while I tried to work out if this was what I wanted. I could live without the money, but Morgan's attitude burned me. Proving myself to him this way felt somehow stupid, but it didn't matter. I'd already committed myself.

  I went back to my room, donned my jacket and shock-watch, and headed for the front door.

  "Where are you going, sweetie?” called my mother from the brown room.

  "The ColaWorx to study with Carl."

  "Be back before ten,” she said. She didn't even look to see if I had a bag with me.

  I stepped out into the chill autumn night.

  Five minutes later, I saw Morgan waiting at the warehouse door under the greenish glare of the fluorescent lamps. He wore his camelhair coat and grubber's cap.

  "What you tell your folks?” he asked.

  I explained.

  "Nice,” he said with a sly grin. He reached into his coat and pulled out a white envelope. “Here's your new package."

  Eleven Orchid St. was written on the front. I couldn't feel anything inside. I stared at the words while something cold climbed around in my stomach. I'd expected another parcel to a different address, or for a hundred, two packages.

  "What's in it?” I said.

  Morgan gave me a look. “Wake up, kid. What'd I tell you about the second rule of couriers? You don't want to know. Just hand it over to the nice lady and collect my money."

  He took me by the arm with one thick, powerful hand. “And this time, if they ask you to go in, do it. It's a new rule, for this time only. Just don't touch anything or eat anything while you're in there. And don't stay for more than half an hour. If they try to make you stay longer than that, tell them Morgan wants you back before ten. Tell them exactly that, okay. Morgan wants you back before ten."

  I stiffened.

  "Why?” I demanded. “Why shouldn't I eat anything? What's there to be afraid of?"

  Morgan fixed me with an odd look.

  "Nothing, kid,” he replied in a hard, flat voice. “It's just not polite, that's all."

  "Then why don't you go? Go yourself if it's so important!"

  He glared at me, then slowly relinquished his grip on my arm.

  "Fine,” he said. He plucked the envelope from my hand. “If you don't want the job, that's not my problem. You can go back to your mum and dad and their puppet shows."

  He sneered the words. Then he turned and walked back toward the warehouse door, his feet crunching on the gravel.

  I watched that man's back for a dozen heartbeats while my cheeks burned and my breath came in angry heaves.

  "I'll do it,” I said at last. My stomach got tight at the thought, but I knew I'd do it anyway, if only this one last time.

  Morgan stopped and nodded.

  "Alright, kid,” he said. “I'll admit it, you've got guts.” He sauntered back and pressed the envelope into my palm. “Go do it. And be back before ten, remember."

  I gave Morgan a look as if to say you're talking to a Watch Boy, you idiot. Then I flipped up the collar on my jacket and headed back out across town.

  My mind raced the whole way there. Why shouldn't I eat anything? Clearly there was something wrong with that couple that he wasn't saying. Were they poisoners? But so what? I just had to say no. I couldn't see how they could force something on me that I didn't want.

  I'd show Morgan. And after that, I'd get myself a knife and show Mitch too. I was fed up with people taking jabs at my courage. I'd show all of them.

  I spent the rest of the walk playing out scenarios in my head as if on the screen of some internal television. If Anne tried to force me to eat cake, I'd knock the plate out of her hand and bolt for the window. If Mitch tried making fun of me in the yard, I'd whip out my new knife and hold it up to the asshole's eye. And if Morgan tried to push me into another job, I'd turn up at his warehouse with a few Watch Boys and a can of QuikLite.

  The daydream show stopped when I turned the corner onto Orchid Street. The door to Eleven was open. Roger and Anne stood there with the porch light on, staring at me just the way they had the night before. Hairs all over my body stood up straight. The feeling from the night before was back in force.

  I considered turning on my heel and walking away. I knew I should do exactly that, but there was something so smug and expectant on their faces. They were so sure I was going to do exactly what they wanted.

  I didn't intend to give them that satisfaction. But to prove it to them, I wanted them to be close enough to know. If I just walked away now, they could just tell themselves I'd chickened out. I balled my shaking hands into fists and marched straight for the open door.

  Roger and Anne's eyes tracked me as I neared. Their smiles started to look more predatory than smug to me, though the muscles on their faces never moved. But by the time I'd reached the porch steps again, their expressions had taken on yet another meaning. Now they were just a nice old couple keen to have their young guest back.

  "Ben,” said Anne. “So lovely to see you again. Why don't you come in out of the cold?"

  They moved apart so I co
uld walk between them into the house.

  I gave them both a Watch Boy glare and stepped inside, holding the envelope out to Roger as I passed.

  "Thanks, that's great,” said Roger, and tossed the envelope onto the chair by the door where last night's parcel sat unopened.

  "Why don't you boys go into the living room and relax,” said Anne. “I'll go and make us all a nice pot of tea."

  "No thanks,” I said, my voice hard.

  Anne appeared not to notice. She was already bustling off toward the kitchen. I smiled to myself. She was a fool if she thought she was going to catch me that easily.

  Roger gestured for me to go through the open doorway into the sweltering living room. I strode in, headed for the place I'd sat the night before.

  Roger stopped me.

  "Oh no, please,” he said. “Why don't you take my spot? It's the best seat in the house."

  He interposed himself between me and the seat and pointed to the worn patch in the center of the other sofa, facing toward the front window, with its back to the kitchen.

  I looked at the spot I'd been assigned. Was it some kind of trap? It was hard to see how, unless steel bands shot out from between the cushions or something.

  What the hell, I decided. Part of me relished the chance to catch them in some malevolent act. I felt more keyed up than I ever remembered being.

  I stepped over to the other couch, planted myself and gave Roger a knowing look.

  "Where's my check?” I said.

  "I'm sure Anne will bring it out with the tea,” said Roger with a benign smile. “In the meantime, why don't we look at some more pictures?"

  For a moment, the hunger in his gaze showed through.

  He moved quickly to the table, selected one of the volumes and opened it in front of me. He stood too close again, this time between me and the route to the door.

  "What do you see?” he said.

  I took my time, meeting his eyes before condescending to look down at the page. It showed the opened back of an old radio with dusty wires showing. I found it troubling, despite myself. Something about it looked dead and dismembered.

  "Old radio,” I said.

  Roger's eyes gleamed. He flicked the page.

  I looked at the next picture and felt obliged to speak.

  "Broken wine bottle."

  Roger flicked again.

  "Box of pencils."

  Most of them had broken or stunted tips.

  Flick. “Some old wood."

  Flick. “Cigarette butts."

  Flick. “Thumb tacks."

  Flick. “Moldy cardboard."

  Flick. “Half a sandwich."

  Roger breathed heavily. “That's excellent. Why don't we try some of these?"

  His hands trembled as he dragged out another album and flung it open.

  I looked down at a scuffed doll lying in a pool of brackish water.

  "Old doll,” I muttered.

  After all the build up, this was what Roger really appeared to want—nothing more sinister than for someone to look at his weird photos. Yet I couldn't help the feeling that I was somehow subtly being abused.

  I thought of refusing, but before I could say anything, the parade of dark images began again.

  "Car tire."

  "Cracked window."

  "Old fuse box."

  "Apple core."

  We reached an image that gave me pause. It was a crappy old-fashioned telephone very much like the one in the corner of the brown room that didn't work any more.

  "Go on, say it,” Roger urged.

  "Phone,” I croaked. It felt like the answer had been pried out of me.

  "Yessss,” said Roger. “What about this one?"

  "Some nails."

  "Packing crate."

  It looked a lot like one from Morgan's warehouse.

  "Chipping paint."

  "Wire fence."

  "Gravel."

  Perhaps the gravel in the yard where I hung out behind the school kitchens, perhaps not.

  Either way, there was an eerie sense of building familiarity in the pictures, and with it, a sense of claustrophobia, and hopelessness. I shifted uneasily on the sofa.

  "Rotting orange."

  "Builder's knife."

  "TV remote."

  Roger slapped another page across before I could see if it was ours. It certainly looked like it.

  "Office chair."

  "Burned out toaster."

  It looked like the one we'd owned that had blown a fuse the same day my dad lost his job. My mother had cradled it and wept. I turned away for a moment. That picture summed it all up—the quiet, pathetic desperation that clung to our house like black tar.

  When I looked back, though, the toaster wasn't there. Instead, I found myself staring at a picture of the Joggly Horse. It grinned up at me from the page with a wide painted smile and sightless eyes.

  I leapt to my feet.

  "What the hell is this?” I shouted.

  As I stood, I collided with Anne. She must have been standing just beside me, though I'd never noticed her there.

  "Oh goodness!” she cried as the teapot slid slowly off her tray. It spilled tea across my front.

  With reflexes born of panic, I slapped the pot away. It flew sideways, hit the edge of the table, and smashed. Hot, red liquid splashed across the albums and started seeping into the rug.

  "My pictures!” Roger squawked.

  He yanked up the threatened books and swept steaming tea off them with his sleeve while Anne rushed back to the kitchen. I dragged off my scalding shirt.

  In a second, Anne was back with paper towels. She mopped the albums with frantic dabbing motions.

  "Look, sorry,” I said while she worked around my feet. Then I saw the check lying there among the crockery shards. I snatched it up and took a step toward the door. “I should go."

  I'd had enough of this game. My chest and leg stung badly.

  Roger looked up quickly.

  "No!” he said. “It's fine. And look at you. You're sopping wet."

  Anne stared up at me like a hawk noticing a mouse.

  "Yes!” she exclaimed. “Oh my gosh, look at you! What terrible hosts we are. Your chest is all red. We have to get you out of those wet things."

  "No way,” I said, and headed for the hall.

  They both pulled desperate faces, their eyes going back and forth between me and the tea soaking into their precious books.

  "Please stay,” Roger pleaded. “This isn't how we intended for it to go. You don't have to look at any more pictures. Just sit down and relax."

  "Yes, do stay,” said Anne. “You never even got any tea. I'll make another pot while you dry off."

  She said this while I fiddled frantically with the mechanism on the front door.

  "Really,” said Roger. He hurried out of the living room and placed one hand on the hardwood frame. “We can't send you out like that. You'll catch your death."

  The lock clicked open.

  I jerked the door back and squeezed through the gap before Roger could push it shut again. I ran off across the street.

  "Come back!” called Roger.

  Yeah right, I thought.

  For several blocks, I thought of nothing but putting as much distance as I could between me and Orchid Street. Then I started to think straight. For a start, it was freezing cold and I didn't have a shirt on. Plus, one whole side of me hurt like fury.

  Very briefly, I considered going back to Morgan's with the wet check. Something told me though that he wasn't exactly going to be pleased with the way this particular job had worked out. I could have sworn Anne had meant to spill that tea over me. She just hadn't expected me to react as fast, or as violently as I had. Just thinking about it gave me the creeps.

  I was scared and hurt, so I did the only thing that made sense—I headed for home.

  By the time I'd gone four blocks, my burns hurt so badly that I couldn't walk straight. It felt like the tea was eating its way into m
y flesh. It didn't help that the night had turned bitterly cold. An icy wind scythed through my wet clothes, freezing me at the same time my injuries burned. I started to shake.

  Four blocks more and I was hunched over and staggering. It had to be the coldest night of the year. I couldn't bring myself to put the wet shirt back on though. Each gust of wind that touched my side made me whimper. Every movement of the damp fabric against my scalded leg was torment. I couldn't understand how I'd grown so weak so fast.

  I counted down the remaining streets to my house, marking each one I made as a small triumph. I reached the front door with a groan of relief and slumped up against it while I fished feebly for my key. Pain threatened to swamp my thoughts.

  The door opened behind me.

  "Ben, is that you?” said my mother, sounding annoyed. “Don't you know it's gone ten?"

  I fell against her and collapsed onto the hallway floor, shivering.

  "Oh my god! Ben! What happened? Who did this?” She knelt beside me, examining my wounds.

  My father appeared in the doorway to the brown room. Shock registered on his lined face, then sorrow.

  "Can't you guess, Mary?” he said.

  "No, not him,” my mother wailed. “Not my Ben."

  "Just look at him."

  He reached down to where I still clutched my shirt in one palsied hand, along with the crumpled check. He held it up for her to see.

  She let out a cry of woe more desperate than anything I'd ever heard. She grabbed my head from the floor and stared into my eyes.

  "Did you drink? Tell me! Did you drink?"

  I managed to shake my head before slipping into unconsciousness.

  * * * *

  Some time later, I woke to find myself in bed upstairs with my burns bandaged and my body soaked in sweat. I had little time to appreciate the change before darkness claimed me again, or a kind of darkness, at least.

  Out of the murk of fevered sleep, a wonderful dream resolved. In it, I sat in the brown room watching TV, but instead of puppet shows, wonderful stories about my life were showing.

  I saw myself yank the shock-watch from my wrist and throw it in Mitch's startled face. For once, the gang leader had nothing to say for himself. Some of the others started to laugh. I saw myself facing Morgan outside the warehouse, telling the squat man where he could put his courier jobs. I saw myself studying hard, succeeding and throwing off the shackles of my stupid life.