Fingersmith

‘Is it down to me,’ he said, ‘that small boys weep?’

  ‘Fuck you, I ain’t small!’ said John.

  ‘Will you be quiet?’ said Maud, in her low, clear voice. ‘Charles, that’s enough.’

  Charles wiped his nose. ‘Yes, miss.’

  Gentleman leaned against the post of the door, still smoking. ‘So, Suky,’ he said. ‘You know all now.’

  ‘I know you’re a filthy swindler,’ I said. ‘But I knew that, six months ago. I was a fool, that’s all, to trust you.’

  ‘Dear girl,’ said Mrs Sucksby quickly, with her eyes on Gentleman’s face. ‘Dear girl, the fools were me and Mr Ibbs, to let you.’

  Gentleman had taken his cigarette from his mouth to blow against its tip. Now, hearing Mrs Sucksby and meeting her gaze, he stood quite still for a second with it held before his lips. Then he looked away and laughed—a disbelieving sort of laugh—and shook his head.

  ‘Sweet Christ,’ he said quietly.

  I thought she had shamed him.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘All right.’ She lifted her hands. She stood, like a man on a raft—like she was afraid to make too sharp a move for fear of sinking. ‘Now, no more wildness. John, no more sulks. Sue, put that knife down, please, I beg you. No-one is to be harmed. Mr Ibbs. Miss Lilly. Dainty. Charles—Sue’s pal, dear boy—sit down. Gentleman. Gentleman.’

  ‘Mrs Sucksby,’ he said.

  ‘No-one to be harmed. All right?’

  He glanced at me. ‘Tell it to Sue,’ he said. ‘She is looking at me with murder in her eyes. Under the circumstances, I don’t quite care for that.’

  ‘Circumstances?’ I said. ‘You mean, your having locked me up in a madhouse and left me to die? I should cut your bloody head off!’

  He narrowed his eyes, made a face. ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘you have a very whining tone to your voice at times? Has no-one told you that?’

  I made a lunge at him with the knife; but the truth was, I was still bewildered, and sick, and tired, and the lunge was a feeble one. He watched, not flinching, as I stood with the point of the blade before his heart. Then I grew afraid that the knife would shake and he would see it. I put it down. I put it down on the table—at the edge of the table, just beyond the circle of light that the lamp threw there.

  ‘Now, ain’t that nicer?’ said Mrs Sucksby.

  John’s tears had dried, but his face was dark—darker on one cheek than on the other, where Mrs Sucksby had hit him. He looked at Gentleman, but nodded to me.

  ‘She went for Miss Lilly just now,’ he said. ‘Said she’d come to kill her.’

  Gentleman gazed at Maud, who had bound up her bleeding fingers in a handkerchief. He said, ‘I should like to have seen it.’

  John nodded. ‘She wants a half of your fortune.’

  ‘Does she?’ said Gentleman, slowly.

  ‘John, shut up,’ said Mrs Sucksby. ‘Gentleman, don’t mind him. He is only making trouble. Sue said a half, but that was her passion talking. She ain’t in her right mind. She ain’t—’ She put a hand to her brow, and looked a little queerly about the room—at me, and at Maud. She pressed her fingers against her eyes. ‘If I might only,’ she said, ‘have a moment, for thinking in!’

  ‘Think away,’ said Gentleman easily, sourly. ‘I am longing to know what you will come up with.’

  ‘So am I,’ said Mr Ibbs. He said it quietly. Gentleman caught his eye, and raised a brow.

  ‘Sticky, wouldn’t you say, sir?’

  ‘Too sticky,’ said Mr Ibbs.

  ‘You think so?’

  Mr Ibbs gave a nod. Gentleman said,

  ‘You think perhaps I should go, make it simpler?’

  ‘Are you mad?’ I said. ‘Can’t you see, he’ll still do anything for his money? Don’t let him go! He’ll send for Dr Christie.’

  ‘Don’t let him go,’ said Maud, to Mrs Sucksby.

  ‘Don’t you think of going anywhere,’ said Mrs Sucksby, to Gentleman.

  He shrugged, his colour rising. ‘You wanted me to leave, two minutes ago!’

  ‘I have changed my mind.’

  She looked at Mr Ibbs; who looked away.

  Gentleman took off his coat. ‘Fuck me,’ he said, as he did it; and he laughed, not nicely. ‘It’s too warm for work like this.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ I said. ‘You fucking villain. You do what Mrs Sucksby says, all right?’

  ‘Like you,’ he answered, hanging his coat on a chair.

  ‘Yes.’

  He snorted. ‘You poor little bitch.’

  ‘Richard,’ said Maud. She had got to her feet and was leaning upon the table. She said, ‘Listen to me. Think of all the filthy deeds you’ve ever done. This will be the worst, and will gain you nothing.’

  ‘What will?’ said John.

  But Gentleman snorted again. ‘Tell me,’ he said to Maud, ‘when you first started learning to be kind. What’s it to you, what Sue knows?—Dear me, how you blush! Not that thing, still? And do you look at Mrs Sucksby? Don’t say you care what she thinks! Why, you’re as bad as Sue. Look how you quake! Be bolder, Maud. Think of your mother.’

  She had raised her hand to her heart. Now she jumped as if he had pinched her. He saw it, and laughed again. Then he looked at Mrs Sucksby. She had also given a kind of start at his words; and she stood, with her hand, like Maud’s, at her bosom, beneath that diamond brooch. Then she felt him looking, glanced quickly at Maud, and let her hand fall.

  Gentleman’s laughter died. He stood very still.

  ‘What’s this?’ he said.

  ‘What’s what?’ said John.

  ‘Now then,’ said Mrs Sucksby, moving. ‘Dainty—’

  ‘Oh!’ said Gentleman. ‘Oh!’ He watched her as she stepped about the table. Then he looked from her to Maud, in an excited sort of way, his colour rising higher. He put his hand to his hair and tugged it back from his brow.

  ‘Now I see it,’ he said. He laughed; then the laugh broke off. ‘Oh, now I see it!’

  ‘You see nothing,’ said Maud, taking a step towards him, but glancing at me. ‘Richard, you see nothing.’

  He shook his head at her. ‘What a fool I’ve been, not to have guessed it sooner! Oh, this is marvellous! How long have you known? No wonder you’ve kicked and cursed! No wonder you’ve sulked! No wonder she’s let you! I always marvelled at that. Poor Maud!’ He laughed, properly. ‘And, oh, Mrs Sucksby, poor you!’

  ‘That’s enough!’ said Mrs Sucksby. ‘You hear me? I won’t have it spoke of!’

  She also took a step towards him.

  ‘Poor you,’ he said again, still laughing. Then he called: ‘Mr Ibbs, sir, did you know of this, too?’

  Mr Ibbs did not answer.

  ‘Know what?’ asked John, his eyes like two dark points. He looked at me. ‘Know what?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said.

  ‘Know nothing,’ said Maud. ‘Know nothing, nothing!’

  She was still moving slowly forward, her eyes—that seemed almost black, now, and glittered worse than ever—all the time on Gentleman’s face. I saw her put her hand upon the dark edge of the table, as if to guide herself about it. Mrs Sucksby saw it, too, I think. Perhaps she also saw something else. For she started, and then spoke quickly.

  ‘Susie,’ she said, ‘I want you to go. Take your pal and go.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ I said.

  ‘No Susie, you stay,’ said Gentleman, in a rich sort of voice. ‘Don’t mind Mrs Sucksby’s wishes. You have minded them too long. What are they to you, after all?’

  ‘Richard,’ said Maud, almost pleading.

  ‘Gentleman,’ said Mrs Sucksby, her eyes still on Maud. ‘Dear boy. Be silent, will you? I am afraid.’

  ‘Afraid?’ he answered. ‘You? I should say you never knew fear, in all your life. I should say your hard old leathery heart is beating perfectly quietly now, behind your hard old leathery breast.’

  At his words, Mrs Sucksby’s face gave a twitch. She raised a hand to the bodice
of her dress.

  ‘Feel it!’ she said, moving her fingers. ‘Feel the motion here, then tell me I ain’t afraid!’

  ‘Feel that?’ he said, with a glance at her bosom. ‘I don’t think so.’ Then he smiled. ‘You may get your daughter to do it, however. She’s had practice.’

  I cannot say for certain what came next. I know that, hearing his words, I took a step towards him, meaning to strike him or make him be silent. I know that Maud and Mrs Sucksby reached him first. I do not know if Mrs Sucksby, when she darted, darted at him, or only—seeing Maud fly—at her. I know there was the gleam of something bright, the scuffle of shoes, the swish of taffeta and silk, the rushing of someone’s breath. I think a chair was scraped or knocked upon the floor. I know Mr Ibbs called out. ‘Grace! Grace!’ he called: and even in the middle of all the confusion, I thought it a queer thing to call; until I realised it was Mrs Sucksby’s first name, that we never heard used.

  And so, it was Mr Ibbs I was watching, when it happened. I didn’t see it when Gentleman began to stagger. But I heard him groan. It was a soft sort of groan.

  ‘Have you hit me?’ he said. His voice was strange.

  Then I looked.

  He supposed he had only been punched. I think I supposed it, too. He had his hands at his stomach and was leaning forward, as if nursing the pain of the blow. Maud stood a little before him, but now moved away; and as she did I heard something fall, though whether it fell from her hand, or from his—or from Mrs Sucksby’s—I cannot tell you. Mrs Sucksby was the closer to him. She was certainly the closer. She put her arm about him, and as he sagged she braced herself against his weight, and held him. ‘Have you hit me?’ he said again.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

  I don’t think anyone knew. His clothes were dark, and Mrs Sucksby’s gown was black, and they stood in the shadows, it was hard to see. But at last he took a hand away from his waistcoat and held it before his face; and then we saw the white of his palm made dark with blood.

  ‘My God!’ he said then.

  Dainty shrieked.

  ‘Bring a light!’ said Mrs Sucksby. ‘Bring a light!’

  John caught up the lamp and held it, shaking. The dark blood turned suddenly crimson. Gentleman’s waistcoat and trousers were soaked with it, and Mrs Sucksby’s taffeta gown was red and running where she had held him.

  I had never seen blood run so freely. I had talked, an hour before, of murdering Maud. I had sharpened the knife. I had left the knife upon the table. It was not there now. I had never seen blood run, like this. I grew sick.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘No, no!’

  Mrs Sucksby gripped Gentleman’s arm. ‘Take your hand away,’ she said. He still clutched his stomach.

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Take your hand away!’

  She wanted to see how deep the wound went. He grimaced, then drew off his fingers. There came, from a gash in his waistcoat, a bubble—like a bubble of soap, but swirling red—and then a spurt of blood, that fell and struck the floor with a splash—an ordinary splash, like water or soup would make.

  Dainty shrieked again. The light wobbled. ‘Fuck! Fuck!’ said John.

  ‘Set him down in a chair,’ said Mrs Sucksby. ‘Fetch a cloth, for the cut. Fetch something to catch this blood. Fetch something, anything—’

  ‘Help me,’ said Gentleman. ‘Help me. Oh, Christ!’

  They moved him, awkwardly, with grunts and sighs. They sat him on a hard-backed chair. I stood and looked on, while they did it—held still, I suppose, by horror; though I am ashamed now, that I did nothing. Mr Ibbs plucked a towel from a hook on the wall and Mrs Sucksby knelt at Gentleman’s side and held it against the wound. Each time he moved or took his hand from his stomach, the blood spurted. ‘Fetch a bucket or a pot,’ she said again; and finally Dainty ran to the door, caught up the chamber-pot that had been left there, and brought it and set it down beside the chair. The sound of the blood striking the china—and the sight of the red of it, against the white, and against that great dark eye—was worse than anything. Gentleman heard it and grew frightened.

  ‘Oh, Christ!’ he said again. ‘Oh, Christ, I’m dying!’ In between the words, he moaned—a shuddering, chattering moan, that he could not help or stop. ‘Oh, Jesus, save me!’

  ‘There now,’ said Mrs Sucksby, touching his face. ‘There now. Be brave. I’ve seen women lose blood like this, from a baby; and live to tell of it.’

  ‘Not like this!’ he said. ‘Not like this! I’m cut. How badly am I cut? Oh, Christ! I need a surgeon. Do I?’

  ‘Bring him liquor,’ said Mrs Sucksby, to Dainty; but he shook his head.

  ‘No liquor. A smoke, though. In my pocket, here.’

  He dipped his chin to his waistcoat, and John fished in the folds and brought out a packet of cigarettes, and another of matches. Half of the cigarettes were soaked with blood, but he found one that was dry, lit it at his own mouth, then put it in Gentleman’s.

  ‘Good boy,’ said Gentleman, coughing. But he winced, and the cigarette fell. John caught it up in trembling fingers and set it back between his lips. He coughed again. More blood oozed up between his hands. Mrs Sucksby took the towel away and wrung it—wrung it, as if it were filled with water. Gentleman began to shake.

  ‘How did this happen?’ he said. I looked at Maud. She had not moved since stepping from him as he began to fall. She had kept still as me, her eyes upon his face. ‘How can this be?’ He looked wildly about him—at John, at Mr Ibbs, at me. ‘Why do you stand and watch me? Bring a doctor. Bring a surgeon!’

  I think Dainty took a step. Mr Ibbs caught her arm.

  ‘No surgeons here,’ he said firmly. ‘No men like that, to this house.’

  ‘No men like that?’ cried Gentleman. The cigarette fell. ‘What are you saying? Look at me! Christ! Don’t you know a crooked man? Look at me! I’m dying! Mrs Sucksby, you love me. Bring a man, I beg you.’

  ‘Dear boy, be still,’ she said, still pressing the towel to the cut. He cried out in pain and fear.

  ‘Damn you!’ he said. ‘You bitches! John—’

  John put down the lamp and raised his hand to his eyes. He was weeping and trying to hide it.

  ‘John, go for a surgeon! Johnny! I’ll pay you! Fuck!’ The blood spurted again. Now his face was white, his whiskers black but matted, here and there, with red, his cheek gleaming like lard.

  John shook his head. ‘I can’t! Don’t ask me!’

  Gentleman turned to me. ‘Suky!’ he said. ‘Suky, they’ve killed me—’

  ‘No surgeons,’ said Mr Ibbs again, when I looked at him. ‘Bring a man like that, and we’re done for.’

  ‘Take him to the street,’ I said. ‘Can’t you? Call a doctor to the street.’

  ‘He is cut too bad. Look at him. It would bring them here. There is too much blood.’

  There was. It now almost filled the china pot. Gentleman’s moans had begun to grow fainter.

  ‘Damn you!’ he said softly. He had begun to cry. ‘Who is there who’ll help me? I’ve money, I swear it. Who is there? Maud?’

  Her cheek was almost as pale as his, her lip quite white.

  ‘Maud? Maud?’ he said.

  She shook her head. Then she said, in a whisper: ‘I am sorry. I am sorry.’

  ‘God damn you! Help me! Oh!’ He coughed. There came, in the spittle at his mouth, a thread of crimson; and then, a moment later, a gush of blood. He raised a feeble hand to it—saw the fresh red upon his fingers—and his look grew wild. He reached, out of the circle of lamp-light, and began to struggle, as if to raise himself from the chair. He reached for Charles. ‘Charley?’ he said, the blood bubbling and bursting about the word. He clutched at Charles’s coat and made to draw him closer. But Charles would not come. He had stood all this time in the shadows, a look of fixed and awful terror on his face. Now he saw the bubbles at Gentleman’s lips and whiskers, Gentleman’s red and slippery hand gripping the coarse blue collar of his jacket, and he twitched like
a hare. He turned and ran. He ran, the way I had brought him—along the passage to Mr Ibbs’s shop. And before we could call to him or go to him to make him stop, we heard him tear open the door then shriek, like a girl, into Lant Street:

  ‘Murder! Help! Help! Murder!’

  At that we all, save Mrs Sucksby and Maud, sprang back. John made for the shop.—‘Too late!’ said Mr Ibbs. ‘Too late.’ He held up his hand. John stood and listened. There had come a swirl of hot wind from the open shop-door and it carried with it what I thought at first was the echo of Charles’s cry; then the sound grew stronger, and I understood it was an answering shout, perhaps from the window of a house nearby. In a second it was joined by another. Then it was joined by this—the worst sound of all, to us—the sound of a rattle, rising and falling on the gusting wind; and drawing nearer.

  ‘The blues!’ said John. He turned, and came to Dainty. ‘Dainty, run!’ he said. She stood for a second, then went—the back way—tearing the bolts from their cradles.—‘Go on!’ he said, when she looked back. But he did not go with her. Instead, he went to Gentleman’s side.

  ‘We might take him,’ he said to Mrs Sucksby. He looked at me, and then at Maud. ‘We might take him between us, if we are quick.’

  Mrs Sucksby shook her head. Gentleman’s own head hung low upon his breast. The blood still bubbled at his lip; burst, and bubbled again.

  ‘Save yourself,’ she said to John. ‘Take Sue.’

  But he did not go; and I knew—and know, still—that I wouldn’t have followed, if he had. I was held there, as if by a charm. I looked at Mr Ibbs. He had run to the wall beside his brazier and, as I watched, he drew out one of the bricks. I only found out later that he kept money there, privately, in an old cigarette box. He put the box inside his waistcoat. Then he began to look about him, at the china, the knives and forks, the ornaments on the shelves: he was looking to see what there might be, that he could be done for. He did not look at Gentleman or Mrs Sucksby. He did not look at me—once he came near me, and thrust me aside, to reach past me for a porcelain cup; and when he had got it he dashed it to the floor. When Charley Wag rose up and gave a strangled sort of bark, he kicked him.

  Meanwhile, the sound of shouts and rattles grew close. Gentleman lifted his head. There was blood on his beard, on his cheek, at the corner of his eye.