Page 16 of Infamous

‘Depends if the previous occupant was a large family of rats,’ said Eddie.

‘Oh,indubitably.’

Eddie located the trunk in question, gave it a quick once-over for inhabitants and then sat down on the very edge. There was an odd little sculpture on the floor next to her: some kind of pagan goddess, in the throes of dark magic.

‘Can I pour you a drink?’

Eddie nodded. Nash turned in his chair and rooted around behind him until he arose triumphant with a dusty flute in hand, which he cleaned with his sleeve before filling it to the brim with wine. He handed it to Eddie, and then topped up his own abandoned glass.

‘Cheers. To .?.?. Well, to rats, I suppose,’ said Nash, raising his glass in her direction and then knocking back quite a lot of wine. ‘Not bad company, if you can get it. You are, of course, marginally better company than a rat.’

‘Well, thanks,’ Eddie said seriously.

‘Now,’ said Nash, straightening up and matching her tone, leaning forwards across his desk. ‘It’s all very well and good this talk of rats, but this is a room for conducting business, as you can see by the .?.?. the very businesslike paraphernalia all around you.’

‘There’s a pipe carved to look like a naked woman next to your elbow.’

‘Christ, is there? That must be Liza’s, she’s an infamous bawd. Anyhow –don’tchange the subject. You claim to be a writer, yes? Tell me what you’ve written.’

Eddie leaned back, momentarily forgetting that she was sitting on a trunk rather than a chair and risking her gown as her glass threatened to spill.

‘I’ve written one hundred and thirty-five short stories.’

Nash looked taken aback. ‘How short is short?’

‘Most of them are around five pages, front and back. The shortest was one page, and the longest, I think .?.?. thirty pages. So far.’

‘Sofar? I think somebody may have misled you about the typical length of a story. Either that or you’re terrible at mathematics.’

‘Oh, Iamterrible at mathematics. But it is around thirty pages, I’m sure of it. It’s the only thing I’ve ever written where I can’t see the end yet – I know it’s there, but I haven’t quite hit the bottom.’

‘Like one of those country wells that dogs and babies are always falling down,’ said Nash. ‘Or .?.?. something nicer, I suppose. The ocean? A lake? I always think there’s something a bit ominous about lakes, although I certainly spent enough time around them as a boy. All right, so you’ve written a hundred and .?.?. well, anindecentnumber of short stories. What are they about?’

‘All sorts of different things. Some of them are about pirates, or kings .?.?. I’ve written quite a few just about ordinary people living their lives .?.?. wayward nuns, hauntings, murderers, criminals .?.?.’

Nash raised an eyebrow at her, looking thrilled. ‘Wayward nuns?’

‘Yes. They hold up some bankers with muskets. I fancy that when the most devout and well-behaved among society go astray, it must be athingto behold.’

‘Oh, well, I’m sure of it. But I mean .?.?. Pirates, kings, nuns – those are your characters. But what are the stories reallyabout?’

Eddie paused. ‘Well, I don’t know. People, I suppose. People and how they get on, and how they don’t, and how they .?.?. relate to one another.’

‘So, you’re telling me that your story about nuns on a crime spree isn’t a comment on organised religion, or the place of women in society, or .?.?. or the criminal justice system?’

‘Oh, well, I think it’s sort of about that. But overall .?.?. it’s just about love, and friendship. Conversation and human nature. People.’

Nash took another large gulp of wine, and then left the glass resting there, pressed against his chin as he studied her.

‘Organised religion is about people. Who exactly do you think’s being organised?’

‘They’re just silly stories,’ Eddie said quickly. ‘I write them to make Rose laugh.’

‘Ah. So they’re funny, are they?’

‘Well, she usually thinks so.’ Eddie was suddenly completely mortified to have proclaimed herself awriter, to have had Nash announce her as such in the company of actual writers and artists, with so little to shore up her claim. ‘The .?.?. Well, the longest story is about a lady called Delilah Fortescue who accidentally kills her husband, and decides to impersonate him. That’s the one I haven’t finished yet. It’s funny, but in quite a dark and miserable way .?.?. Rose can hardly bear to listen to it, but she always tells me to keep reading, even when she’s clapped her hands over her ears.’

‘Goodness, Miss Miller. They’d have you bound for the gaol for even thinking about such a thing, let alone writing it down. God help the man who eventually becomes your husband. I’ll advise him to keep a sturdy hammer beside the bed.’