The Monster's Wife(18)

“I’m sorry about what I said.” May’s words sounded choked.

“Me too.” She parted sheepishly from May with a hard laugh, but really she was gladder than she would ever have said. Waves of reassurance washed over her. It was like sitting in the warm shallows on the beach, sun-lavished and worry free. May loved her and she was sure of it. Her darkest thoughts melted in the glow of that.

“He’s been asking after you.” May rolled her eyes in the direction of the music room.

“Me? Really?” Oona’s ribs tightened, bony fingers squeezing. This was worse than a chilly reception, for now she felt guilty at lying to May.

But she was protecting her. She repeated the words like a prayer as she followed May into the kitchen, hearing the now-familiar sounds from the floor above. Melancholy notes, light and crisp and utterly precise as no living thing ever is. On the table lay a brace of pheasants, red masks somehow more vivid in death, throats gleaming.

May walked round to a half-plucked fellow on a board and pushed her hands into the ruddy feathers of its paunch. “Peel some tatties for me? I’ll take you up after.”

Oona nodded, glad at the temporary reprieve. The idea of going up there again twisted her stomach. She picked up the paring knife May gestured to and dug a spud from the sack at her feet, relishing its cool heft. There was an eye in the side facing her, a green sprout starting in it like a twinkle. She excised it precisely with the tip of the knife, her mind turning inevitably to the sharp implements spread out above them, the prone body of the girl, colder than the bird in May’s hands.

“What d’you think he wants me for, the doctor?” Oona felt a lump forming in her throat and gulped it down. “Writing notes?”

“I suppose that’s it.” May shrugged, her eyes fixed on the pheasant’s brindled feathers. “He cuts things up, stitches things together. He’s hell-bent on it.” Her hand moved to the bird’s pink plucked head. “They always look so sad like this. Absurd.”

Oona braced, tense as a startled hare, her skin prickling. She must know, must nudge May back on topic. “Hell-bent on what?”

“Discovering the secret of death and so forth.”

Cold fingernails clawed Oona’s back. The secret of death. She looked into May’s eyes, wanting to spill the black web of thoughts into her mind and not have to argue against May’s inevitable skepticism. “He sounds dangerous, May.”

“Oh, not in the least. He’s an odd bird though. Half the words out of his mouth are German. He does not sleep for days, picks at his food, paces, tears his hair, then drinks a case of wine, eats like a pig and makes sheep’s eyes at me.” She laughed, wrinkling her nose. “He puts me in mind of Stuart when he came upon those whisky casks and hid ‘em. He turned so ill at ease and sulky, it scarce seemed worth it, being so consumed.”

Oona thought of the hand, the body, the doctor, strangling, slicing. “As a person hiding the truth is consumed?”

May frowned. “Perhaps.” She struggled a moment with the stubborn tail feathers, pulled them free with a grunt. “Hunted.” She grinned, pleased with the insight. “He’s like Stuart with his stolen whisky casks, because Stuart was certain people would discover him. And I believe someone is also in search of our friend the doctor.”

Oona’s mind wouldn’t quiet. It churned on through nightmarish scenes. The doctor running. Screams. People chasing him, desperate for justice. “The authorities?”

“You have a ready fancy, Oona!” May laughed. “Anyway, how in Jesus’ name would I know? When I said we were friends, I was being comical.”

“But last night, you said he trusted you. I thought...”

“That I’m his confidante? Don’t be daft. I’ve known him all of a month and anyway, I was just trying to annoy you because you were being very irksome indeed.”

“Oh, I see.” Oona laughed, relieved that May was not under some spell of Frankenstein’s. In fact, she seemed just as prickly and skeptical as ever. May laughed too, shaking her head with mock incredulity. They worked quietly then, smooth as an oiled lock, passing a knife or a dish the other wanted without needing to say a word. It was the best kind of togetherness, that understanding that grafted one onto the other so that their differences vanished under new closeness, like skin knitting over a wound.

Today, Oona grasped at the familiar feeling as a person might scoop up sunlight from a stream and it slipped away before she had a chance to grow used to it. She peeled and gouged and plunged the bald, blank heads of tatties into a bowl of cold water and all the while, unease pulsed under the companionable silence. Even May could see the doctor had some awful secret, had committed a crime perhaps and maybe he would soon be caught. But until then, they were in danger, surely? She must convince May of what she had found and if she could not persuade her to leave, she must at least put her on guard.

She plunged the last potato into the bowl of water and wiped her hands on her skirts. “May, I must tell you—”

A board creaked outside in the hallway, a single footfall. Another. As if someone were listening.

May pressed a finger to her lips and put down her knife, coughing exaggeratedly. The door opened and the doctor walked in. His filthy shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbow, revealing ink-stained arms. Oona and May stopped what they were doing. Along the length of Oona’s spine, a wire pulled tight.