Hell, p.9
Hell, page 9
“Thank you, dear Daughter.”
It was strange to hear him use that term in a heartfelt way, usually uttering it solely as an insult, and in that moment almost seeing the man she grew up with, the father she once loved…
“Where did you put those rifle cartridges?”
He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, producing a small box of bullets.
One by one, using the tip of the knife, she pried the casing and lead tip apart, dumping the tiny amount of gunpowder into the lesion. After a dozen bullets, a thick dusting of powder covered the wound. She ignited the lighter and lit the powder. It sparked and sizzled as it burned its way into the hole, cauterizing, purifying as it went. This time Yurgis betrayed a sign of pain, a single sharp intake of breath. Liberally pouring more vodka over the wound, grimacing as she took another long drink for herself before cutting up one of his shirts and binding his leg as best she could.
“I’ve done all I can, you’re going to need real medical attention soon.”
“Don’t ever tell me what to do.” He grumbled, no real fire behind it.
Two days later they arrived in Danzig, an ancient shipping port on the Baltic sea. It was late afternoon when the train reached the outskirts, cutting its speed before entering the city proper. Yurgis was convinced that the authorities would immediately descend upon the train once it stopped, so they leapt off well outside the city limits.
For the last day and a half, he’d sat silent and immobile, appearing to sleep. Almost as if he were in a trance. He didn’t respond to her in any way, so in the end she’d left him alone, it being well worth it to her not to have to deal with him. Then, an hour before they arrived, he suddenly came to life, sinister and wicked as ever, fever gone and without the slightest limp in his step. Despite her half-hearted protests, he stripped off his bandages. His wound, now fully healed, a coin-shaped scar the sole betraying sign. If he could do that, had he ever needed her help in the first place? Was it all a sick game to him? An act of manipulation?
Once off the train, they set about finding a spot to hide until nightfall. They hunkered down on a densely wooded hilltop several kilometers from the furthest outlying settlements. The brilliant colors of sunset, fading from a tumbling sky, rendered the sprawling metropolis a fathomless sea of tiny lights, twinkling up at her. If only they’d come to this beautiful place under better circumstances. For her this was a familiar view of a city, from the outskirts, the fringes; forever on the outside and eternally passing through.
Under cover of midnight, they circumvented the city, creeping into town out of the desolate stretch of Baltic shoreline to the northeast. When Danzig was originally built, centuries ago she figured, it was a castle town with thick walls encircling the city. Over the years, the town spread beyond their protection, yet those medieval ramparts still stood, every gate patrolled like clockwork. Their target was a sewer access drain at the port which would lead them into the center of the affluent district, deep within the old city walls. The first trick was getting there.
For one so large, her father was remarkably stealthy, boots treading silently on the scuffed cobblestones. Sticking to the shadows, alleys and doorways, lingering until the way was clear before sprinting across dimly-lit roads and plazas. They needn’t have been so concerned though, barely a soul stirred on the barren streets, and many of the gaslights had been extinguished for the night, providing plenty of cover as they made their way to the docks.
As with practically all of the large shipping ports she’d visited in her lifetime, Danzig’s harbor was bustling, even at this late hour. The raucous commotion of sailors on shore leave, drinking and whoring; stevedores loading and unloading freight, shipwrights making repairs. Muted snatches of music presaged a rowdy atmosphere of gaiety languishing in the salty tang of the sea air. In Tat’s experience, police didn’t come to these areas unless expressly summoned, meaning the going would be significantly easier. Two more degenerates in the den of iniquity, heads down, steps swift.
As they went, Yurgis appeared distracted, casting about as if searching for something. Tat kept her eyes focused on the ground at her feet, not paying him any mind, she had enough to worry about already. Passing the darkened maw of a warehouse he apparently found what he was looking for. He sharply grabbed her wrist, leaning in to whisper in her ear.
“Keep going straight, do not run.”
Oh no...
He released her, already gone when she turned to reason with him; there was no stopping this. Turning back to the road, she continued along the dock, her stride longer and increasingly immediate, knowing exactly what his plan was. Before passing the next pier he rejoined her, chuckling under his breath. Tensing up as he draped his arm across her shoulders to shield her, she braced herself for what she knew was coming.
Any second now...
Even prepared as she was, the sheer violence of the explosion shocked and startled her, causing her heart to skip and skitter. She spun to see a pillar of flames engulf the warehouse before Yurgis seized her, pulling her along. Pandemonium broke out as hordes of people poured into the streets, rushing past them, heading to the scene. Heeding that primal, human urge to live vicariously through tragedy. Alarm bells went up, sending their shrill tintinnabulation into the night. Quite soon they were practically alone on the dock.
Port fires were one of Yurgis’ favorite acts of subterfuge. Instantly focusing all of a city’s resources and police-presence on a single point, and leaving one largely free to do anything one wanted. The harbor being of paramount importance to the economic life of any port town, it was also the easiest place to come across large shipments of kerosene or gunpowder…
Locating the access drain was easy, they simply followed the smell. The closer they came, the stronger the stench, until she saw it, breaking the seawall like a decayed, rotten throat, ready to swallow them whole. Built slightly below the high water mark on the surrounding pylons, the entire system relied on the changing of the tides to carry refuse out to sea. It seemed their timing was impeccable. Being the nadir of the cycle, all that obstructed their entry was an iron grate secured by a rusty padlock. Such things were merely a momentary distraction to men like her father.
Somewhere along the pier, Yurgis had obtained a lantern. Now, as they stood ready to enter the foul tunnel, he lit it, causing dozens of rats to scurry away. Tat wasn’t scared of rats per se, but she knew they carried all manner of deadly maladies, and one bite could mean a painful, meaningless demise. She was thankful for her leather boots and men’s canvas trousers, this wasn’t a place to enter in a dress.
As a final precaution, Yurgis took two of her makeshift bandages, producing a vial of strong, lemon-scented oil, liberally applying it to the fabric.
“Good thief always plans ahead,” he whispered, handing her one of the strips. “Tie over nose and mouth.”
Tat gratefully did as she was told, the acrid scent of lemon replacing the fetid stink of human waste. While it didn’t block it out completely, it cut through enough so that she could breathe without heaving. Satisfied that all was in order, Yurgis picked the lock on the iron grating and they entered.
She kept her attention glued to her father’s back, not wishing to acknowledge her surroundings in any way. How had it come to this? Less than a year before she’d performed for the Czar of Russia, one of the most powerful men in the world, had even been offered a place at the royal court. Now forced to skulk through abhorrent refuse. The lantern illuminated but a paltry space immediately surrounding them, leaving her blissfully ignorant of the abundant horror of what lay just beyond the lights’ timid reach.
Alongside the mire of filth lay narrow walkways on either side. They mostly kept to the left, turning down side tunnels, crossing rickety bridges spanning the central canal, doubling back to continue their way through this gothic labyrinth of brick and shit. Tat fervently wished she’d succeeded in drowning back at the inn, thus sparing herself from all this.
Stopping only to reapply the oil when their masks dried out, they eventually reached the egress they sought. Iron rungs climbing up a long shaft, devoid of light. By her reckoning they’d come nearly two kilometers, yet exactly how long they’d been down here was a mystery to her. Long enough for the tide to send its insistent tendrils seeping into the trenches...
Yurgis disappeared up the shaft, light spilling in as he slightly lifted the manhole cover while Tat wrung her hands impatiently below. Abruptly he dropped the heavy iron disc, crouching down on the ladder. Apparently the coast was not clear. After waiting and listening for an interminable amount of time, Yurgis again raised the cover. This time he found more favorable conditions and heaved it to the side, motioning for her to join him as he disappeared topside.
Even with the larger part of the police force gathered at the port, they still remained cautious, if they were caught now, it would become blatantly obvious who was responsible. Another crime to add to the growing tally. Over the tops of the houses, a great plume of black smoke rose from the docks. She hoped no one else had died to allow her continued freedom.
The houses here resembled diminutive castles themselves, with walled gardens and towering spires. This overt opulence a marked contrast to what lay merely meters below. After navigating a coiled tangle of narrow lanes and alleyways, they came to a large manse nestled in a back corner against the city wall.
The garden wall, seemingly constructed more for aesthetic purposes over any actual intent of deterrent, proved little more than a minor inconvenience as they vaulted into an overgrown garden. Their masks, now unnecessary, were folded up and stowed. Yurgis led the way, visibly relaxing as he sauntered around to the front door.
Taking hold of the heavy brass ring, he knocked in a precise pattern, then waited. No lights shone in the windows, the door remaining stubbornly unanswered. Betraying a growing frustration, he knocked again, louder this time...
“I thought you were dead, Yurgis Stannek.” A gruff voice came from behind, startling them both.
A small man crept out of the bushes and removed the cover from his lantern, bathing them in light. Stout, bald pate with graying fringe and round spectacles, moustache waxed into neat curls.
“So it is you the police are after. I should have known. As soon as I heard the detonation, I somehow knew you had returned.”
Yurgis approached and threw his arms around him in a crushing bearhug. This was the first time she’d ever seen him embrace anyone; the first time she’d witnessed him touch anyone without violence. The man dropped his lantern, enthusiastically reciprocating.
“Dobra! You old devil, like old times, yes? Remind you of anything?”
“Are you referring to Sevastopol? Or maybe Alexandria, or any of the other dozen ports we used that old trick.” Both men burst out laughing.
Tat was happy to be left out of this little reunion, more than a little concerned that their carrying-on would bring unwanted attention to bear upon them. But she knew better than to speak, knew her place; silently waiting, trying to make herself unnoticeable. In due time they calmed down, Dobra retrieving his lantern, coming to his senses.
“If you’ve sought me out after so many years, you truly must be in trouble old friend, come now, let us get off the streets.”
Moments later, seated in Dobra’s elegant sitting room, Yurgis poured a glass of wine for her, and something considerably stronger for the two of them. Tat curled up in a large recliner, struggling to stay awake. She hadn’t slept in the last thirty six hours. After the initial pleasantries, Yurgis explained the situation they were in, and what they required of him.
“We need to secure passage on ship heading to England, you will help us, yes?”
“You waste no time my friend. I don’t see you in nearly twenty years and you show up unannounced, at the witching hour, demanding my help, leaving a trail of death and destruction in your wake? I can see that time hasn’t changed you one bit.” Both he and Yurgis shared a hearty laugh at this.
Dobra continued, “If you wanted to get on a ship, you should’ve thought of that before you set fire to the port, there will be increased security for days. Of course I will help you, but... back to England? There can only be one thing you are seeking there.” For the first time he glanced in her direction, acknowledging her presence…
“Enough! You overstep your bounds Dobra.” In the blink of an eye, his mood escalated from relaxed to murderous.
Tat perked up momentarily.
This man knew something.
Fear bled all the color from Dobra’s expression, his role devolving from gracious host to humble servant. “My sincerest apologies. Tomorrow I shall make the necessary inquiries about departing ships. You must be tired, let me show you to your rooms.”
Yurgis drained his glass in a single swallow.
Dobra was a widower, all his children grown, so there were plenty of extra rooms. Tat had one all to herself. The bedsprings sighed under her as she flopped down on the bed, relishing a little privacy after the nightmare of communal living on the road. For the first time in days she fully relaxed, absentmindedly acclimating herself to the room. It’s former occupant had clearly been a daughter, as evinced by the presence of several large wardrobes, garish floral wallpaper, and an elaborate mirrored dressing table taking up most of the far wall.
The hoary scent of makeup and faded perfume clung to the polished wood of the vanity. Likewise exotic, the stranger’s face that gazed back at her from the depths of the darkened mirror. Her eyes had taken on a dark, sunken appearance, mouth turned down at the corners into a perpetual frown. Reading between the lines of her markings, her ribs showed alarmingly; she’d been two weeks out of the hospital, and hadn’t been eating at all well. Her heavy eyelids drooped and slid closed, head sagging as she snapped awake. The hours were catching up with her, she couldn’t stay awake any longer. Leaving her clothes in an unkempt trail on the floor, asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow...
Birdsong wafting in on beams of late morning sunshine wrenched her from shallow sleep fraught with nightmares. Her sickness was nearly gone. The crippling pain, once so overwhelming, had all but subsided, it’s existence capitulating unto an insistent itching. The cravings were as strong as ever though; she unrealistically wondered if Dobra kept any morphine in the house. She needed it...
Even more than death.
Her joints cracked as she lazily stretched, reveling in the warmth, comfort and safety of this unfamiliar bed. Though she was loath to quit it, after several minutes she rose and dressed, cringing at the smell of her grimy clothes. Poking her head out of the door, she could detect no sound, the house seemed empty. Evidently Dobra had already left to make inquiries.
A hollow gurgle in her stomach drove her into the hall, descending the carpeted stairs in bare feet. Pushing through the door to the kitchen, taken aback by the presence of a strange man, eating peaches out of a can with a fork.
“Ahh, look who is finally awake, yes?” He chided her.
It was her father.
He’d shaved his head and beard, donning a pair of Dobra’s spectacles. He’d become a different person. Never in her life had she seen him without his beard and long hair. Not wishing to give him the satisfaction of her surprise, she chose to ignore the change.
“I’m hungry.” She said.
He made no reply, vaguely gesturing for her to have at it.
Sick to death of dried meats, dried fruits and hardtack biscuits, the staples of trail fare, she raided the cupboards, devouring anything she found. Four portions of cold beef stew directly from the can, several spicy, cured sausages, and a large portion of a ripe, gouda cheese wheel from the pantry. Never once deigning to acknowledge her father in any way. After gorging herself, she retreated to her room, crawling back into bed to sleep as long as she was allowed.
Rudely awoken by a pounding at her door. It was Yurgis, dressed in one of Dobra’s bathing robes, toting a large, overflowing laundry basket.
“There is washtub in cellar, make use of it.”
He thrust the basket into her arms as he stalked off.
She sighed angrily. On top of everything else, he now expected her to do the washing up?
In the troupe there had always been camp hangers-on, little better than servants, who took care of menial tasks. Wives or paramours of the performers, hopeful souls eager to prove themselves and earn a place in the show. There was never a shortage of help, they were forever leaving towns with more people than they’d arrived with. She couldn’t recall ever engaging in any physical labor in her entire life. In the end the thought of fresh, clean clothes was too alluring to disregard. So, she piled her own dirty laundry on top, lugging it down to the cellar while Yurgis lounged, generously sampling Dobra’s extensive liquor cabinet…
The basement was extensive, running nearly the entire length of the house. A cramped warren of twisting corridors and rooms. The smell of sawdust permeated the dry air, it appeared that Dobra was in the midst of renovating it into a wine cellar. Many of the structural walls had been scaled back, leaving raw, load-bearing studs exposed. Lumber, tools, and partially-built racks, haphazardly strewn about.
In the corner nearest the steps, the pot-bellied furnace was stoked with a roaring fire, heating a large kettle of water, obviously meant to be used for the laundry; at least Yurgis had done that.
Setting down the basket, she dragged the washtub closer to the fire, pulling down the board and paddle from their hooks on the wall. Judging by the billows of steam the water was beginning to boil. She didn’t want it too hot so she grabbed the pot to lift it, gasping as the metal seared her hands.
Not off to a good start.
Working the handle on the old pump, the cool stream of water flowed over her poor hands until the worst of the pain was past. Turning back to the task at hand, she noticed a pair of oven mitts hanging next to the furnace and cursed under her breath.
