Read Maid of the Mist for Free Online

leaked out. It was bound to.
    He reached his apartment building and tramped unhappily up the stairs. He unlocked the front door and stepped in, kicking some bills out of the way in the process. It was perfectly dry inside, but it felt damp. His intake of alcohol was now just a sour brain-aching memory. He stripped off his clothes and left them lying in a heap at his feet. In the bathroom he used his elderly electric shaver, then razored the rest of the growth off under the shower. The hot water relaxed him almost to the point of a standing sleep. When finally he staggered out, Corrigan stood for several moments examining his ghostly reflection in the mirror, then sprayed shaving foam under his arms.
    He burst out laughing and returned to the shower to wash it off. And suddenly he wasn't laughing any more. It was the sort of stupid thing he might have done before, but the joy of it would have been walking into the bedroom and showing Nicola; they both would have roared with laughter. But now there was no one: there was a pile of wet clothes and the faintly musty smell of a lonely life.
    He dressed, and was heading out of the door when he noticed the red eye winking on the answerphone. He tutted and hurried across. There were three messages: the first from a reporter called Madeline Hume from Channel 4 in Buffalo; her voice was warm, with a hint of flirtation, which he thought was pretty depressing in a complete stranger on a friggin' answerphone, saying she'd heard about the Native American woman who'd gone over the Falls.
    Can we talk? Of course we can, we can talk about how you managed to get my unlisted number. He glanced at his watch and wondered how much Sitting Bull had managed to wring out of the swimmer.
    The old Indian had insisted on being left alone with her. He had also insisted on a bottle of whisky and cigarettes, and then he'd locked the door. Neither Annie nor Corrigan thought it was a great idea, but the girl, although she looked confused, had remained silent while Tarriha spoke, and she did seem calmer. In the end they decided to take the chance. Annie, naturally, insisted on her putting the nightie back on before they left.
    Annie and Corrigan sat on the stairs at the end of the hall. Corrigan smoked. Annie coughed. It was a true partnership. Every twenty minutes Corrigan knocked on the door and asked how much longer they'd be, but all he got in response was something guttural from Tarriha that he would probably have found quite offensive if he'd understood it. Finally he'd whacked his fist against the door in frustration.
    'Hey Corrigan,' Tarriha said, remaining behind the locked door, 'this story, it don't come in one straight line. It comes in knots, man, know what I mean? I gotta untie, I gotta straighten, I'm earning my money, Corrigan.'
    Corrigan tutted. 'C'mon. Give me something. Do you even know her name?'
    There was silence for several moments, then Tarriha said slowly: 'Lelewala.'
     
    Can we talk? Sure, we can talk, we can talk about Lelewala. It's a hit and myth affair.
    The myth: an Indian princess who sacrificed herself by rowing over the Falls to appease the Gods who had loosed a terrible evil among her people.
    The rumour: a story made up by white men to attract more tourists.
    The hard-sell: t-shirts, mugs, umbrellas, sweaters, all bearing her likeness.
     
    The second message was from Nicola. She was crying. 'Corrigan, are you there? Can we talk?'
    Yeah, sure, you've had a blow-up with Born Again Bob and you want to cry on my shoulder. Except you divorced my shoulder. And my head, and my heart.
    The third message was from Nicola as well; the information panel above the tape said it had been recorded at 4.15 a.m., two hours after her first. She sounded calmer, but somehow sadder. He could just hear Bob's dull monotone in the background. If Bob had started at, say, midnight, it would probably take him another three weeks to read her the whole Bible.
    Nicola my dear, you've made your bed, and