Hell, p.24
Hell, page 24
This supposed reticence to accept her new life was a constant disappointment to Maria, which led invariably to increased tension on their burgeoning relationship. It broke Tat’s heart that she couldn’t be all her mother wanted her to be. She deserved a daughter capable of living up to her expectations, not this pale, frail, frightened creature.
The one comfort she had was her Cassock, it’s oversized hood blocking out the world. Her mother couldn’t stand it, denouncing it as unfit for one of her station. In a ploy to be rid of her daughter’s embarrassing garment, she’d even taken her to an expensive boutique, choosing for her an entirely new wardrobe of dresses, frocks and gowns which now hung, mostly unworn, in her cavernous armoire. She couldn’t bring herself to wear any of them, doing so only under protest.
One day, after breakfast, as Tat sat at her desk trying in vain to summon even one aesthetically pleasing or inspiring couplet, Maria knocked and entered.
“How is the writing going, my treasure?”
“Awful, as usual.” She replied in sullen frustration.
Maria approached, reading over her shoulder. “Birth, the death of love, I struggle to rise above, hands that drag me down, into a sea of mediocrity, I drown…”
Tat immediately crumpled up the sheet, throwing it vaguely towards the pile.
“Mother! Don’t read it!”
Maria laughed, “Why ever not, my treasure? It’s perfectly fine, sure it’s a little dark, but any kind of writing can find an audience if the author writes with conviction. Don’t get so discouraged. Do you think every great writer started out great? Of course not, they had to work at it, sometimes for years, before their first works were ready for publication. Try to recognize that your writing will improve with time, these first works are a necessary step in the learning process.”
Maria always seemed to know the right words to say, and Tat relaxed a little. Her next words, however, caused her to tense up again.
“I want you to go to the market and buy a liter of milk.” She held out a ten pound note. Considering that a liter of milk could be had for mere pennies, this was an exorbitant sum of money. “You may keep the rest.”
Though Maria had made several half-hearted attempts to cajole her out of the house of late, this was the most direct approach she’d taken. Leaving the house with Maria, in a carriage, was one thing. To walk the streets alone? Tat began to feel one of her attacks coming on.
“Mother, we’ve been over this…”
“Tatiana, you can’t keep doing this to yourself! I’ve pored over backlogs of newspapers from all corners of Europe, and I can find no mention whatsoever of these murders you claim to have committed. Nothing about that Innkeeper…”
“Ronan Devine,” Tat interjected. “You think I would make something like that up? Mother, the man literally melted in my arms. I saw his burning skeleton!”
“Calm down, my treasure, I’m not saying that. I’m telling you that I can find nothing about it in any of the papers, which would normally revel in such gory details. How do you explain that?”
Tat was at a loss, a half-hearted, “I don’t know,” was the best she could do.
“Tatiana, this last year alone the profits on businesses and properties held by this family… Your family,” she added for emphasis, “Topped a quarter of a million pounds. The work it takes ministering to such an empire is no small task. It requires a person strong of will, decisive, quick to take action. If you are to someday succeed me, you will need to become such a person. That is why I have been taking you to these meetings, so you can begin to learn what will be expected of you. You cannot remain here, hiding out from the world forever, my treasure.” Again, she insistently held out the note, which Tat received with a resigned sigh.
“Whole or skimmed?”
Moments later she was unceremoniously shooed out the front door, which promptly closed behind her. The clicking sound of locks caused her to turn in sudden anger and kick the door, hurting her foot. She now understood that a door that opens outward, can not easily be kicked inward.
The slot slid open, “You’ll be fine, go straight to Smyth’s, he’s already expecting you… and don’t speak to anyone.” This she added almost as an afterthought before the slot closed. No amount of effort on her part would induce it to open again.
Tat fondled the paper bill, deep in the pocket of her robe. Though Maria had predictably balked, Tat stood firm, refusing to leave the house unless wrapped in the obscuring folds of her cassock. At least now that it was freshly laundered, it no longer bore the stink of the sea. It made her feel safe, concealed and it reminded her of Dobra...
Her first hurdle, the crowds of homeless lining the tunnel that led into Falconhead lane, seeking shelter from the light rain. Many times as they passed by in their private coach, Mother admonished her to ignore them, to remain oblivious to their plight. Looking up at the bars on the windows of their house, Tat came to the realization that it was less like a prison, her first impression, and more like a bank vault.
Recalling what Maria had said earlier, about the profits of their businesses reaching nearly a million pounds, she couldn’t help feeling disgusted. Why did they need so much when others had so little? Shouldn’t they give as much of it away as they could? Shouldn’t they do what they could to ease the burdens of those suffering from this society-imposed torture that plagued the city?
An idea came to her then which she couldn’t ignore. Overcoming inertia, she resolutely set out to accomplish her assigned task. Her mind, bubbling with possibilities.
“Please miss, spare a copper coin? Tis all I ask.”
“Me ‘usband died and they repossessed the ‘ouse.”
“I lost me arm in a factory accident and can’t work.”
“My child is sick…”
“Please!”
“Have mercy!”
It broke Tat’s heart anew every time she came into contact with the hopeless, heartless world these discarded souls occupied. The circumstances may all be different, yet they boiled down to the same thing. This was truly a world without pity. An infernal machine that mercilessly drove one along until, through incompetence, bad luck, or sheer exhaustion, they could no longer keep pace. Then they were ground up and thrown away, left to eke out a miserable existence in whatever manner they could. It made no difference to the world, as there was always a crowded queue clamoring for the opportunity to take up the slack. All full of misguided hope and foolish, idealistic dreams. Was this the world that God intended? As if by reflex, she reached up and rubbed the cross about her neck.
All her life she’d seen it, the rich trampling the poor. Never before had she possessed the means to do anything about it. Now was a different story. As it stood, there was presently nothing she could do for them, having but a single ten pound note. So she passed by, doing her best to keep her face hidden, offering a silent apology to each soul that accosted her, and a promise to return later…
The little bell rang as she entered Smyth’s. It was only a right turn onto the high street and half a kilometer down, at the eastern edge of the market plaza. Though as she walked, keeping her eyes on her feet and nowhere else, it felt like thrice that. Maria had brought her here several times recently so, if far from comfortable, at least she was in familiar surroundings. The musty old store took the term general to new heights, offering everything from canned goods and sundries to clothing, medicines, and home furnishings. The proprietor, a short, rotund man in his late forties, son of the recently deceased, eponymous Mr. Smyth, greeted her effusively.
“Good morning, miss Seldeen, why yes, a lovely morning indeed. How is your dear old mum?”
The few other customers present at this early hour quietly glanced in her direction. Though due to simple human curiosity, or because he’d uttered the name Seldeen, she was unsure. Tat had soon discovered that her new name was instantly recognizable to many and, to her chagrin, made her somewhat of a celebrated personage. Either way, she kept her head down as she approached the counter. For a moment it appeared she wasn’t going to be able to respond. Only through heroic effort succeeding in coaxing her voice from its cage.
“Mother is well, thank you, she sent me to pick up a liter of milk.” It was still a struggle to push her words above a whisper.
“Of course, of course, she mentioned you would be coming in, I have it all ready for you, that’ll be eight p.” He placed a paper bag on the counter.
Tat handed him the crumpled ten pound note.
Smyth whistled as he flattened out the bill on the edge of the counter. “‘Aven’t seen one of these in bloody ages, don’t ‘ave enough in the register to break it. I’ll need to get in the safe, one moment.” He disappeared through the curtain behind him into the back room where, according to Maria, he stored an impressive array of firearms available for sale to those with the proper credentials...
While she waited, Tat wandered down the counter to the opposite end of the store, making sure to give the other patrons a wide berth, looking about with mild interest. Here he kept the outdoor gear and hunting paraphernalia. Glancing into a glass case, something caught her eye, and held it. So entranced was she that when Smyth approached with her change, she had him immediately ring it up as well.
She left the store with a liter of milk in a paper bag under one arm, and a brand new, razor sharp hunting knife concealed in the loose folds of her robe…
As she strolled down the crowded street, she managed to break her eyes away from the cobblestone walk, peeking curiously into storefront windows advertising all manner of fulfilling possessions. Buying the knife had awakened something in her. The revelation that nothing was out of reach, any and all of the things she saw could be hers if she willed it. This was an utterly foreign concept to her, there having never been a time in her life when she’d even touched money, let alone had an opportunity to spend it unchecked. A strange hunger reared, disconcertingly strong, within her, overpowering her nagging desire to return home straight away.
She caught herself short, about to enter an antique shop to inquire about the beautiful music box in the window; a pang of guilt as she remembered the promise she’d made to those poor people, and to herself. Clearly seeing how easily one could get caught up in materialistic folly, squandering all one’s money in incrementally improving their own life, until nothing was left for those who really needed it. That was not going to be her reality. She wouldn’t allow it. Letting the doorknob slip from her grip, she turned back to the street, her next destination already set in mind…
“Hello, miss Seldeen, how can I help you today?” The bank manager asked. Moustache stiffly waxed, dapper in a well-tailored suit.
She was at their local branch of Barings bank, which handled the accounts for a large portion of the Seldeen empire. Maria had made it a point to introduce her to the manager, so when she came in, she was immediately shown to his office. It had been quite a trek to get here, several kilometers at least. It was easy to misjudge distances whilst riding in a carriage.
Her foot tapped out a nervous rhythm as sweat beaded on her brow. She wasn’t used to dealing with banks, and everything about the whole operation intimidated her. In fact, she was so wary that she’d stood outside the stately brick building for nearly ten minutes, arguing with herself before summoning courage enough to enter. In her mind, the bank, at its most basic and abstract core, represented everything in the world she had no experience with. A malevolent agent of the inescapably necessary evil which was human society.
“I’m sorry to bother you, it’s nothing really…”
“Nonsense, we at Barings are proud to have served your family for over sixty years. There is no request so trivial as to not warrant our complete attention.”
He was firmly entrenched in his customer service persona. No self respecting man could ever be so smarmy or ingratiating of his own volition. Mother had recounted the story about how this bank had lost nearly half a million pounds of their money in a debilitating financial crash not ten years past. No wonder they took pains to be extra courteous. She placed her small fold of bills on his desk. After buying the milk and the knife, she was pleased to discover she’d spent half a pound.
“I’d like this converted to coins, please.”
“Of course, what denominations would you like? Farthings, ha’pence, pence, groats, guineas, florins, shillings, crowns…” He trailed off, waiting for an answer.
The entire concept of the divisions of the pound was a mystery to her. There were antiquated coins in use since the middle ages alongside ones conceived and minted this year. She decided to keep it simple.
“Pence please.”
“Are you quite sure? There are two-and-ten pence in a shilling, twenty shillings a pound, t’would make twelve score pence a pound. A grand total of…” He paused, counting her change and doing a little mental arithmetic. “Two thousand two hundred eighty pence. Is that correct?”
That was far too many, “I’ll take it in shillings please.” She said, with all the confidence she could muster.
The manager smiled, “Of course, miss Seldeen.”
The small, cloth sack was surprisingly heavy in her pocket as she rushed back towards home. The paper bag Smyth had given her had started to rip so she discarded it, clutching the glass bottle of milk under her arm. An unfamiliar, giddy feeling fluttered in her stomach. A feeling she eventually attributed to a small, almost insignificant, pride. For the first time in memory, she felt proud of herself, a keen sense of the rightness of what she planned to do.
Before she’d even made it halfway home, such was her excitement, she eagerly pulled out the bag of coins and began to distribute them indiscriminately, giving one coin each to anyone who asked. When it was discovered that the coins she handed out were sterling, she drew a crowd. Empty hands coming from everywhere, waiting expectantly for her to judge them worthy of her charity, to validate their suffering. She handed out coins as fast as she could, and still they came. She began to think this might not have been such a good idea after all…
Word that someone was giving away free money quickly spread up the street. In the span of a heartbeat, from every conceivable direction they came; the young, the old, the infirm, the destitute, the hopeless, the angry, the downtrodden. In seconds an alleyway infantry was conscripted and fast converging on her.
Judging by the weight of the bag, she still had well over half her coins left, but even then it was never going to be near enough. Those closest to her were begging for more, while those who joined the clutch at the rear began to fight and push to get to her. The respectful distance earlier observed by the crowd disappeared as the newcomers shoved harder. How could she ever hope to fill this gaping maw of poverty that yawned, insatiably, before her?
She was rapidly losing control of the situation. In her mind it had all gone so differently, a meaningful exchange of charity and gratitude; as if by helping them, she could help herself. Now, flaunting the folly of expectations, things were turning ugly. True human nature was rearing its ugly head.
Fist fights were breaking out, the crowd now pushing so hard she was being crushed. The bottle of milk, wrenched from her arms, shattered on the street as desperate hands groped her, tearing at her robe.
Without warning, someone from behind attempted to strike her on the head, glancing off and hitting her shoulder. As if waiting for this signal, more blows began to rain down upon her, each hoping to claim the spoils for themselves. Clutching the remaining coins, she folded to her knees in a fetal position, protecting herself as best she could. Her earlier pride forgotten, replaced with the sickening heat of self-preservation.
When she collapsed, Those closest fell on top of her as the crowd continued to constrict, thus they joined her in struggling for their lives. Everyone was shouting at once and Tat was so disoriented she could barely tell which way was up, hardly able to breathe under the crush of bodies…
Then, through the din of the mob, the sound of a pistol shot rang out. Her heart sank, she’d only wished to alleviate a bit of suffering, now people were probably going to die for her ill-advised attempt at generosity. After another shot, the crowd dispersed enough so that those at the center were able to regain their footing and scramble away. A strong, male hand roughly grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet.
“Stay back!” He shouted at the advancing line.
He was a rakish looking man in his late twenties, brandishing a smoking revolver. The crowd grudgingly backed away. Assaulting a young woman was one thing, few desired to face an armed man over a pitiful bag of coins, sterling or no.
She succeeded in drawing her knife, making several mock-slashes at empty air, warning anyone with any fight left in them not to get too near. She stuck close as he led the way, striking out indiscriminately with the butt of his gun at anyone within range. Luckily, she seemed to be largely uninjured, barring a bit of heavy bruising. They’d begun to make headway before they were forced to stop short as several police officers rounded the corner, blocking the retreat to home, causing her heart to leap into her throat.
“Can you run?” He asked.
In response, she hiked up the hem of her robe and showed him just how fast she could run, darting into a nearby alley that promptly branched off into a veritable spider’s web of twisting paths and lanes. The sight of those uniforms scared her far more than the mob ever could. Dodging and weaving through cramped passages at a full sprint, her only thought to avoid capture.
From behind came the unmistakable sound of pursuit. Her adrenaline ignited, causing her legs to pump even faster as she leapt and spun. Turning into a narrow offshoot, she came up against a dead end. Halting momentarily, nearly despairing before locating a gap between two buildings wide enough for her to shimmy through.
