Things I Did for Money by Meg Mundell Page B

sleep: wash a son’s sheets, clear a husband’s plate, laugh prettily. Mind her manners and bite her tongue. Keep the truth hidden, undress in a lovely way. Stare at nothing over a heaving shoulder.
    And men. Have you ever watched one sleeping and wondered where his dreams, and his wages, might lead him? Fathers, brothers, lovers … good as their hearts may be, they’re all drawn from the same pool, and the world grants them licence for all manner of misdeeds. Kind men fall prey to strange desires. Decent men look away when bad things happen. Not one of us is innocent.
    Lives change in a moment. Once, I watched a coin flip, a merchant’s fortune and mine whistling through the air of a harmless afternoon. Heads, I rented a portion of myself: one familiar hour of smoke rings, practised smiles, then staring up at my old friend the ceiling while counting backward slowly from thirty.
    Tails, I would be offered another fortune altogether. Of course I obeyed that coin. When the odds finally shift your way, intoxication swiftly sets in, and a person with nothing to lose is easily convinced. Brains, education, past deeds — it all counts for nothing once you are a fallen woman. And this city has stolen my best parts for itself. Did anyone lift a hand in my defence?
    Now men whisper my name in dread-filled tones. In tones that fast forget the trade in women that they enjoy, or ignore, as if it were a natural thing.
    I’ve been blessed with unremarkable features: pleasant enough, but designed to be forgotten. No doubt the lack of paint makes it easier to play the ghost, for men who once looked twice — and did more than look, believe me — now pass without a glance. Many know the night-time name I’ve earned for myself, but very few can marry it with my face, and those who can are criminals themselves, their pockets lined with the same tainted currency. Our names may pull us places like the tide, but we cling hard to the notion that we are free to fight the current.
    Monday and I dragged the boy onto the wharf and stood there catching our separate breaths. He stood wheezing over the young one, staring down at his body in that hungry way of his, when I pulled a particular flask from my coat and affected a healthy swig. The broker sidled in and sniffed — I knew he had a taste for the booze. ‘What’s that you’re sinking?’ he breathed. ‘Brandy,’ I replied, performing another swallow. ‘Soothes the heart, for those that have one.’ And offered him the flask.
    His hand flew up in greed, then hesitated. Something crossed his face, and there was a brief struggle there. Then he fixed on my eyes and made a hard sound like a laugh. He knew I was only famous for one thing. ‘Only a fool drinks with the devil,’ he said. ‘Let’s get this business done.’
    Pour the tincture in a glass or earthenware jar. Seal the lid firmly and store in a cool, dark place.
    The young ones with strong limbs fetch the best prices. Don’t think these sleepers are innocent; a predator lurks in each of their hearts. Why else do they prowl the bars of whorehouses, lurk in opium dens where women in fine dresses step carefully through the smoke? Flesh and money will never be friends, and when they meet in back rooms there is often violence. The things sold in these places cannot be replaced, and there is no shortage of demand. Asleep he may be innocent, but in his waking hours a man can cause great harm.
    But this one — I wondered if the sea deserved him. The girl who had drugged him told the brothel owner she’d never seen his face before: perhaps this had been his first visit? When the house lackeys smuggled his sleeping form out the back door into the laneway, the boss emerged to haggle for a higher price. Afraid of witnesses, he slipped into the carriage beside me. ‘Look at his shoulders,’ he declared. ‘Decades of work in them yet.’ Our