The Luminaries

herself upon the shine. Gascoigne watched her. He was frowning.
    At last she was done, and the dress was emptied.
    ‘Here,’ she said, taking up a nugget roughly the size of the last joint of Gascoigne’s thumb. She pushed it across the table towards him. ‘One pound one shilling: I haven’t forgotten.’
    ‘I will not touch this gold,’ said Gascoigne.
    ‘Plus payment for the mourning dress,’ Anna said, flushing. ‘I don’t need charity.’
    ‘You might,’ said Gascoigne. He sat down on the edge of the bed and reached into his breast pocket for his cigarettes. He flipped open the silver case, plucked out a cigarette, and lit it with care; only after it was lit, and he had taken several lungfuls, did he turn to her, and say,
    ‘Who do you work for, Miss Wetherell?’
    ‘You mean—who runs the girls? Mannering.’
    ‘I do not know him.’
    ‘You would if you saw him. He’s very fat. He owns the Prince of Wales.’
    ‘I have seen a fat man.’ Gascoigne sucked on his cigarette. ‘Is he a fair employer?’
    ‘He has a temper,’ Anna said, ‘but his terms are mostly fair.’
    ‘Does he give you opium?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Does he know you take it?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Who sells you the stuff?’
    ‘Ah Sook,’ said Anna.
    ‘Who is that?’
    ‘He’s just a chink. A hatter. He keeps the den at Kaniere.’
    ‘A Chinese man who makes hats?’
    ‘No,’ Anna said. ‘I was using local talk. A hatter is a man who digs alone.’
    Gascoigne paused in his line of questioning to smoke.
    ‘This hatter,’ he said next. ‘He keeps an opium den—at Kaniere.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘And you go to him.’
    She narrowed her eyes. ‘Yes.’
    ‘Alone.’ He spoke the word accusingly.
    ‘Most often,’ Anna said, squinting at him. ‘Sometimes I buy a little extra, to take at home.’
    ‘Where does
he
get it from? China, I suppose.’
    She shook her head. ‘Jo Pritchard sells it to him. He’s the chemist. Has a drug hall on Collingwood-street.’
    Gascoigne nodded. ‘I know Mr. Pritchard,’ he said. ‘Well then, I am curious: why should you bother with Chinamen, if you could buy the stuff from Mr. Pritchard direct?’
    Anna lifted her chin a little—or perhaps she merely shivered; Gascoigne could not tell. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.
    ‘You don’t know,’ said Gascoigne.
    ‘No.’
    ‘Kaniere is a long way to walk for a mouthful of smoke, I think.’
    ‘I suppose.’
    ‘And Mr. Pritchard’s emporium is—what—not ten minutes’ walk from the Gridiron. Still less if one walked at a pace.’
    She shrugged.
    ‘Why do you go to Kaniere Chinatown, Miss Wetherell?’
    Gascoigne spoke acidly; he felt that he knew the probable answer to the question, and wanted her to say the words aloud.
    Her face was stony. ‘Maybe I like it there.’
    ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Maybe you like it there.’
    (For goodness’ sake! What had come over him? What did he care if the whore plied her trade with Chinamen or not? What did he care if she made the trip to Kaniere alone, or with an escort? She was a whore! He had met her for the first time that very evening! Gascoigne felt a rush of bewilderment, and then immediately, a stab of anger. He took refuge in his cigarette.)
    ‘Mannering,’ he said, when he had exhaled. ‘The fat man. Could you leave him?’
    ‘Once I clear my debt.’
    ‘How much do you owe?’
    ‘A hundred pounds,’ said Anna. ‘Maybe a little over.’
    The empty dress lay between them, like a flayed corpse. Gascoigne looked at the pile, at its glimmer; Anna, following his line of sight, looked too.
    ‘You will be tried at the courts, of course,’ Gascoigne said, gazing at the gold.
    ‘I was only tight in public,’ said Anna. ‘They’ll fine me, that’s all.’
    ‘You will be tried,’ Gascoigne said. ‘For attempted suicide. The gaoler has confirmed it.’
    She stared at him. ‘Attempted
suicide
?’
    ‘Did you not try and take your life?’
    ‘No!’ She leaped up. ‘Who’s saying that?’
    ‘The duty sergeant who picked you up last night,’ said Gascoigne.
    ‘That’s absurd.’
    ‘I’m afraid it has been recorded,’ said Gascoigne. ‘You will have to plead, one way or another.’
    Anna said nothing for a moment. Then she burst out, ‘Every man wants his whore to be unhappy—every man!’
    Gascoigne blew out a narrow jet of smoke. ‘Most whores
are
unhappy,’ he said. ‘Forgive me: I only state a simple truth.’
    ‘How could they charge me for attempted suicide,