The Eyeball Collector Read Free Page A

because those that were left were so clean. There were plenty of badly dressed boys about, but none with such white stockings. But soon enough, on account of the piles of manure and rotten vegetables on both street and pavement, he looked no different to the numerous other guttersnipes ducking and diving in and out of the crowds. Hector had just learned, like everyone else, that in this place it was often better not to stand out.
    He passed riotous taverns and unlit shops and pawn-brokers’ windows. He looked down alleys and saw crouched and still figures, dead or alive he couldn’t tell, and strange shadows at the gin pipes gulping down the fiery liquid that warmed the throat and dulled sorrows before inevitably leading to their downfall. He dodged carts, milkmaids, foul-mouthed beggars, knife-grinders and travelling players.
    When he finally reached the river Hector allowed himself to think for the first time that he might get home safely. He leaned over the low parapet to see up close the dark waters of the infamous Foedus. The smell of the river that day would stay with him all his life. In later years the aroma of just one atom of its chemical make-up would instantly transport him back to Urbs Umida and dredge up bittersweet memories of the south side. For some cities the river was its lifeblood; for Urbs Umida it was more like the Styx in the Underworld and Hector’s fervent imagination momentarily conjured up Charon, the mythological ferryman of souls, and his punt poling down the river. When he looked again he realized it was only a poor river-taxi man.
    Halfway across the bridge, as he passed under the sign of the Nimble Finger Inn, a tavern of such ill repute it was known to all, north and south, Hector knew the end was in sight and it spurred him on. In his haste he tripped on an upturned cobble and lurched into a dirty-looking fellow crossing the street.
    ‘Trying to pick my pocket?’ snarled the man, grabbing Hector’s arm and pinching his chin to tip his face towards his own. It was not a pretty sight. The man wore a filthy black eyepatch and a grey beard, and he gave Hector a violent shake before releasing him. Hector stumbled off as quickly as his tired legs could carry him until he reached the broad, bright streets of the north . . .
    Now, some hours later, safe in his father’s butterfly house, the south again was a distant world. Outside the gentle moon glowed through the glass. A butterfly, as black as night, alighted on Hector’s palm where it sat quietly. He could feel its legs delicately pinching his skin. It must be newly hatched he decided, and carefully brought it closer to his face for a better look.
    ‘Hector?’
    The sound of the voice caused Hector to jump. He looked up to see his father standing in the doorway. The butterfly flew off, ascending in a gentle spiral to the glass roof.
    ‘What are you doing down here at this time of night?’ his father asked, a concerned look on his face.
    Hector shrugged. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’ Similarly he wondered why his father was out here so late. Hector had noticed that he seemed preoccupied with something these last few days. Business, I suppose, he thought. To divert attention away from himself he pointed to the black butterfly, now settled on the white flowers of a nearby shrub.
    ‘I see you have a new one. Pulvis funestus , if I’m not mistaken.’
    His father smiled. ‘Yes, you are correct. Though it’s usually just called Blackwing. Quite striking in large numbers. When they flock together they create a cloud of black dust that has been superstitiously described as like a cloud of death. As you see, they are very fond of Lippia citriodora , or lemon verbena as it is better known. They adore its citrusy smell. But it’s late. Come back up to the study. I have something to show you.’
    The grass was wet with night dew and Hector took off his slippers and walked barefoot to soothe his feet. If his father noticed, he said nothing.
    In