The Janissary Tree

[ 54 ]

A fat man, eager for sleep, felt himself rolled off the bed and hit the ground. He opened his eyes and saw a pair of women’s feet.

“All right, petal? Here’s your kit. Shove it on, love, I’m done. Go on.”

The fat man scrambled blearily into his robes. Get out, he thought. Five on the table, he’d be gone before she knew.

The woman watched him scurry through the door.

She was done for the night. Done with outside business, anyhow. No one would come now.

Upstairs would know the final customer had left. She was left with one more trick to turn, the worst.

Carrying her lamp she climbed the stairs. At the top she paused, hearing nothing.

Very slowly she pushed the door ajar. The room smelt terrible.

Silently she put in her head. She stretched out her hand, carrying the little lamp, and the shadows started to flicker round the room.

Months ago, the woman had lost her faith in God. She had begged, she had prayed, she had pleaded with Him night after night, and every dawn had brought the same answer. So she cursed him. Nothing changed. In the end, she had forgotten Him.

But what she saw now was like a revelation.

“Thank God,” she said.