Marlon James - The Book of Night Women

— The feckin’ sniveling son of a jackal bitch! Consumed with spite he is, that feckin’ bastard. Nothing but goddamn spite!

— Vindictive son of a bitch. Never in all me life seen a man with such malcontent as that whoreson, he say.

Robert Quinn sit down at the table and shuck off one boot, then the other.

— I’m sorry, luv, I’m far too cross to eat.

Lilith set down the plate anyway. He stare at it for a while, then look at her. He pick up a johnnycake, dip it in gravy and eat.

— I tried to buy ye, Robert Quinn say. Lilith nearly drop her plate. — I tried to buy ye, but the bastard said no. No, he says. Just no! Oh, he’s wicked now, him and his whoring wife to be!

— Massa Robert!

— I shall not hold me feckin’ tongue in me own goddamn house! I worked good and hard fer it indeed. He thinks this is the end of it, he’s sadly mistaken. When word gets out about what his future wife does in Kingston, he’ll be sorry he crossed the likes of Robert Quinn, ye can bet on that, lassie, aye! Ye can wager good!

MISS ISOBEL RIDE TO KINGSTON LIKE A DEMON CHASING HER. Robert Quinn, for all him riding, was no expert horseman like she. Galloping down the Half Way Tree Road, he didn’t have nothing to guide him but the dust she leave and him own memory of where he go for whorin’ when he and Massa Humphrey set foot in the city. He ride down Orange Street, empty at night, and go to turn back ’cause he think he miss her. But few people up and about at this hour and fewer still on horseback. He sees her. Her horse trottin’ now and she in Massa Humphrey black coat and breeches and her boots shiny. Orange Street is where all the markets be for fruits and liquor and hogs and fowl, but by the three o’clock hour the only thing on the street be rubbish and rats. And the beggars. A white one stagger up to Quinn begging for a quid or a pence, matey, and Quinn slip him foot out of he saddle and kick him away. The man land flat on him arse and just hiss and ask the road for a farthing then, matey.

Miss Isobel turn down a lane. Quinn never got the name but it head west. Save for one or two lantern that hang above an inn or a tavern, the lane did darker than hell. There be nothing but more rubbish and more rats squeaking and scurrying that too dark to see. Quinn think to dismount, but there was no way he was goin’ leave him horse in that place. He ride slow while Miss Isobel trot, mayhaps eighty or a hundred yards ahead of him. Miss Isobel stop at a crossroad and tie off her horse at a building on the corner. As she slip inside, Quinn gallop.

Hog’s Breath Inn and Tavern the sign say, the words under a real boar head. Quinn at the corner of the lane and Oxford Street, the beginning of the west end. Greenwich, the contraband port, not far. Hog’s Breath tower over all of the lane like it be a lighthouse. Quinn go to knock on the door but it push open, and smell rush him like four whore going at him at once. He grab him nose with him left hand and pull out him kerchief with him right. Lantern all over the wall but the room still feel dark and smell of liquor and lustiness and shit. And sawdust and old food and mildew. Four or five mens sprawled by the bar, two of them sleeping on the counter. The barmaid sitting and looking into the dark like she seeing everything and nothing. A big fat man in old infantry clothes stumble away with a whore who was pulling him along by the crotch. They go upstairs and Quinn follow them with him eye. He look around. A negro fiddler off to the side playing like for dead people. He one of the few who not a-snoring or a-groping or a-fuckin’ in the dark. Lantern on the table and lantern on the floor that glow on men’s teeth and hand and ears but hide they eyes. Light glow on women’s legs that man caressing, and petticoats that man lifting, and bosoms that man squeezing but hide they head. Quinn know this bar. A whore, a white woman with dark teeth and cheeks speckle from the pox, come to Quinn and grope him before he could stop her. He push her away and she barrel into two mens, who get up to fight but fall down from drunkenness. Quinn look around but don’t see Miss Isobel. Gone upstairs, she must be.

So much stink fight for space in the inn that a nose would think there be no smell at all. But upstair be more smells, human funk, not liquor like downstairs. There be rumours of a opium den in Kingston but Quinn never would have guess that this is where it be. He push open a room and see white mens, some old, some not so old, and one of them — a short fat man, naked save for him stockings — asking where him wig be, even though it still atop him head. Four or five men in cots, three or four on the floor, Quinn couldn’t say for sure, but they all, save for the man looking for him wig, smoking opium. He hear a sound, a giggle, a titter, he not sure but not a sound that a man make, not even the sorta men that sometime flock these parts.

The voice coming from behind him. Quinn try to walk slow, but him boot thick and heavy and each step is a boom. He push open the door and step right into the blade of a sword.

— When she said she was being followed, I thought it was her knack for storytellin’ actin’ up agin. Seems the bitch was right.

Quinn couldn’t say nothing. The room was blue from a oil lamp in the corner with a blue shade, the wick almost gone. The man scrape the sword right across Quinn’s throat.

— Who are you?

— Robert Quinn. Robert Quinn, sir. A gentleman.

— A gentleman, you say?

— Aye, and what have ye done with her?

— An Irish gentleman? Quite like a virtuous whore, is it not? The man laugh but the blade was still firm at Quinn throat. — Sir, I’m a liar, killer, thief and whoremonger. I have no qualms about slicing your head off.

— So yer also a coward, then, are you? I should—

— You shall do no such thing! Or I—

— So louddddd. Why sooooo loud?

Is then Quinn look at the bed. Is there Miss Isobel be, her yellow hair spread right across the bed like wine spill. Her legs spread too, like scissors one second, then close up. Her hands stretch across the bed and her breasts free. She looking in they direction but don’t notice Quinn. Quinn think she look at him like a blind man would, turning where she hear a sound, but the eyes wet and blank, like she seeing nothing. Her legs scissors open again and stay open. Her pussy bush redder than the wick. She raise one hand to wrap her forehead, then flap back down on the bed like the hand faint from tiredness. Quinn couldn’t say nothing. He think to say a million things but he couldn’t say nothing.

— You have a guest. A friend.

— Fooli-foolishness dat. Only friend me ’ave down the. . down the. . bottom of that bottl — Where the bottle? Where the bottle. . bomboclaat sum’bitch?

— Ye lousy piece of Greenwich pond scum! Defiled her, ye have!

— Defiled, you say? The man move him sword away from Quinn. Quinn go to grab him musket, then remember that when he rush to follow Miss Isobel he didn’t pack it. The man laugh.

— Can I help it if milady hankers for the sweet stuff? Nobody in the room who has no cause to be ’cept you, of course.

Is then Quinn realise that he know the man. He still hard to see in the dark but even in the indoor he still have on the top hat tilt to one side of him head. Him coat on the floor. Quinn thought it was blue but soon see that it purple. The top hat be all he wearing and he stiff.

— Fer Godsakes, man. She’s a grieving woman.

— She’s not grieving tonight. Tonight she’s mad with happiness and tomorrow more so.

— I shall take her. Now!

— Came by her own free will, she did, the man say and lift up his sword. — And by her own free will shall she leave. Now you can either join the play — she hankers for that as well — or get lost.