‘You didn’t see either of them?’ James whispered.
‘No,’ Silas said. ‘Not yet. But that doesn’t mean they ain’t there. Fecks, lend us your knife, mate, and if I’m not back in thirty minutes, Jimmy… Do whatever you think is best.’
Thirteen
Scaling the back wall was easy, as was scurrying across the yard and pressing himself against the brickwork of the house. The climb, however, was not going to be so simple. He looked down into the area where weak light spilt from the basement window, shifting in tone as someone moved about the room. There was no way in through the back door. Looking up into the milky, jaundiced gloom, he made out the uncurtained window of the first-floor landing, those either side of it dead and dark. Now he was closer, he could see that the lean-to, although offering a leg-up, was constructed from wood and tin. It would likely creak and rattle if he tried to climb it, and that left him only one option.
He gripped the downpipe with both hands and gave a hefty tug, expecting it to fall away from the bricks, but it held firm. He examined the bracket holding it in place and reassured himself that the screws were new, and nothing had rusted. Pulling his cap down tightly, he gripped the pipe, his fingers laced in the gap behind, and put one foot flat against the wall. A helpful shove from Fecker wouldn’t have gone amiss, but Fecks was on guard back at the trap with James, watching from a distance and ready to whistle.
Silas doubted they could see him, but he thought it only to reassure himself. If anyone came into the yard or even the one next door and brought a light, he was a sitting duck. With no time to think about it, he leant back, hanging all his weight from the pipe, and jumped. Both feet connected with the bricks and the pipe held him. Sliding his hands to the first bracket, he climbed with his toes, shuffling his legs higher. His foot slipped, and his knee smacked painfully against the wall, but his handhold was firm. He remembered climbing down the rope at the Limehouse crane that night with Thomas. ‘Hand under fist and don’t look down,’ he’d said. It was good advice when on a knotted rope, but it had been the sound of Tommy’s voice that gave him strength, not his technique. He imaged James’ voice now, encouraging him, telling him he was doing the right thing. Behind him, there was Thomas, calm and methodical, and again, telling him to go hand under fist.
Imitating the way he had descended the rope that horrible night, he crammed his toes between the pipe and the wall, twisting his legs to the correct but painful angle, and reached beyond the bracket with one hand, letting go the other and grabbing again quickly. He found a rhythm and ascended.
Making it safely to the first floor, he climbed level with the window and hung on by one hand and two wedged feet as he reached across for the recess. His fingers clutched at the corner, giving him leverage and he was able to stretch his leg to meet the sill. After that, it was a case of stepping gingerly onto the ledge and holding the casement for balance. Praying that there was no-one on the other side, he crouched to peer in. A corridor ran ahead to the top of the stairs just as he had imagined. The staircase turned and ran up another flight, and down, directly into the hall. There was no movement and pressing his ear to the glass, heard nothing.
Taking Fecker’s knife from his pocket, he unfolded the blade and slipped it between the windows, sliding it along until it met with the catch. It shifted with a scratch of metal on metal as the blade pushed it into its housing. The knife back in his pocket, Silas stood, one hand pressed against the inside of the alcove for stability, the other on the glass where he drew the window open. It only needed to move an inch before he was able to slide his fingers beneath and lift it. The casement weights did most of the work, and it opened silently. Checking inside and finding no obstacle, he crouched and ducked his way through, taking up a similar stance on the inside sill before lowering himself to the floor one leg at a time.
There, he paused to listen.
The house smelt of sweet pipe smoke mixed with the acid tang of opium. The night mist found its way inside, and the hall light filtered up through a faint veil that looked like dust as if the place had not been used for years.
It was in use now. Overhead, Silas heard the muffled rumble of voices, and a floorboard complained. He drew the window down silently, leaving a gap to aid his escape, and crept to the nearest door. His ear against it, he heard nothing, nor behind the next. There was another towards the front at the top of the stairs where anyone coming up would easily see him. As he cautiously approached the stairwell, he heard men’s laughter from below. Someone was singing quietly, a plaintive, lone voice that was drowned by rough guffaws and sliced by shrieks of camp laughter. He imagined the salon crowded with punters and drugged young men, youthful legs draped over the thighs of married gentry, and teenage fingers stroking greying beards.
Stella could well be downstairs with the rest, but there was no way to tell. He would have to wait and watch. He was listening at the third door when the sounds from below increased in volume and a second later, a hand appeared on the bannister below.
‘Go right up, Your Honour. He’s waiting.’ It was Danvers using a high, effeminate voice.
Silas opened the nearest door and slipped inside.
He was in a cupboard large enough to stand in but pitch black. He groped the walls and felt sheets resting in piles on shelves. Outside, footsteps stopped at the top of the stairs with a resounding creak, and Silas ducked, cramming himself beneath the bottom shelf and the floor. The footsteps passed him, and he relaxed but stiffened again when the wall vibrated as a door closed. He pressed his ear to the plaster and heard the dull thud of feet crossing a room.
A muffled grunt. Indistinct voices, one low, one higher, neither angry or scared, just as if an everyday conversation was taking place. An older man was talking to one younger, he concluded, and he didn’t recognise either, the sound was too distorted. He waited for the sounds to fall silent when he imagined that the two were engaged in some sensual act, and unwound himself from beneath the shelf. He gave his circulation a moment flow naturally before feeling for the handle.
A bell rang somewhere, and a faint cheer went up from the salon. Opening the door a fraction, he was able to squint down to the hall in time to see the doorkeeper arrive and admit a visitor. He was only able to make out that it was a man, his head was hidden by the lay of the floor, and he spoke too quietly for Silas to hear his words.
The guilt he had been suffering in spasms hit him in one mighty blow. What if this was Roxton? What if he did use the place and Silas saw him? He’d have to tell Archer he had broken into a molly-house to spy on a man Archer loved, and Silas didn’t trust. Not only that, if it ever came out, it wouldn’t be Billy O’Hara, street-rat and renter who was called up before the law, it would be Viscount Clearwater’s secretary. He’d told James to stay in disguise and clear of the place, not wanting his livery recognised, and now here he was with a lot more to explain if he was caught.
When he heard the doorkeeper say, ‘Go straight up, My Lord,’ he thought his heart had stopped.
What if this wasn’t Roxton? What if it was Archer?
‘How long?’ Fecker asked.
‘Only ten minutes.’
‘Too long.’
‘Does he know what he’s doing?’
Fecker nodded. His back was to James, his eyes set on the window where they had last seen Silas. James wasn’t sure whether to be impressed, scared or outraged that the man had so blatantly broken into a private house. He said nothing. That afternoon, in the warm comfort of Mr Hawkins’ private sitting room, he had promised to do whatever Silas asked of him. He had said it was out of gratitude for the kindness shown him by the viscount and his staff, but underneath it was from genuine concern for Silas, a man he liked and admired more each day.
‘I get him,’ Fecks grunted and turned back. ‘Stay here.’
‘No, Andrej.’ James dared place a h
and on the man’s arm. ‘He said to wait. There’s no sign of trouble.’
Fecker was uneasy and his disquiet transferred to the horse. It snorted and pulled against its bridle. He lent over the rail and patted it, instantly calming the animal. When he sat back, he said, ‘Ten minutes, I go. Watch clock.’
From the snatched glimpse Silas had, he knew the man was not Archer, but the possibility left him hollow. He hadn’t stopped to think how he would feel if his lover had been there, the idea hadn’t even entered his mind, and he berated himself for allowing it to infect him. Of course Archer wouldn’t be involved in a place like this, and if Roxton was, the viscount would be outraged. He would also be devastated, and his gala night and possibly his reputation and charity would be in ruins.
He heard the floorboards creak as the man passed, taking the stairs to the next floor. Now was Silas’ chance. This whole idea was a mad one, and he needed to leave. He waited until the punter was out of sight, gave him another minute to reach a room and shut himself in, and sidled out onto the landing. He was at the back window ready to lift it when the door handle beside him clattered. With no time to escape, he let himself into the opposite room, closing that door as the other one opened.
He wasn’t alone.
The bedroom was bathed in a dull red light thrown through draped shawls that disguised two oil lamps either side of a large bed, itself swathed in material like a tent in the desert. Beneath one lamp, an opium pipe lay by an ice bucket. The sheets were askew, and crumpled further among them lay a naked man. He was face down, his features lost to the shadows, but his dark legs were long and hairy, and his broad back crisscrossed with red welts. He appeared to be sleeping, his head on one side. He lay prostrate with his wrists and ankles tied to the bed.
Silas felt sick. Sicker when voices in the corridor alerted him to another visitor. He fumbled for the lock. There was no key.
‘Where the fuck have you been? Ah, don’t bother. He’s in the Arabian room.’ Danvers’ called, clear and camp from somewhere near the stairs. ‘Take as long as you need, but I want all the details after.’
The clink of glasses against a bottle, and approaching feet drove Silas into action. There was no wardrobe and not enough space beneath the bed. A clothes rail was the only camouflage and his darted to it, stepping between the dresses and furs to press himself against the wall behind.
The garments had only just fallen back into place when someone came in and closed the door. The footsteps were light and accompanied the clanking glass until a gentle thud suggested they had been put down. Clothes rustled on the far side of the room and Silas heard the slip of a belt through hoops.
‘Are you awake, darling?’ It was a boy’s voice or at least a younger man, and feminine with a rolling west country accent. ‘My lover…?’ The creak of bedsprings. ‘Are you awake?’ It was subtle and caring and met by a deep murmur. ‘That’s the way to wake up now isn’t it?’ Another murmur, indistinguishable as words. ‘More to smoke?’ A girlish chuckle. ‘But how can you reach your pipe with your hands bound so?’
Knowing what the boy was talking about made his compassion unsettling.
‘Naughty, naughty, naughty,’ the voice chided playfully. ‘Oh, such a strong back. Such a handsome man.’
It was an excruciating, amateur disapply of seduction and accompanied by the sucking of air and, after that, a long exhale of satisfaction.
‘My lover? Are you awake?’
The springs complained again, and this time the man’s voice was stronger. He growled.
‘Aw, who left you trussed up like this?’
‘Huh?’
The boy laughed. ‘Hello.’
Silas imagined the man waking up not knowing where he was.
‘No, don’t struggle,’ the voice said. ‘I’ll look after you.’
The man complained more loudly, and Silas realised he was gagged. All he could manage were grunts in rising degrees of surprise. The bed springs were being given a hard time.
It was either part of the man’s deviant games, or someone had drugged him well enough to tie him up when he was passed out.
The scene became apparent when the boy spoke again.
‘Got you where I want you,’ he said, and gone were the false feminine wiles and the seduction, replaced by a tone as spiteful as the Ripper’s knife. ‘Struggle all you want, you’re not getting out of here ’till we know you’re going to do it.’ The accent had changed too, and so seamlessly that Silas wondered if the boy had an older accomplice.
Demonstrations from the punter, now a victim, went unheeded as the bed began to rock.
‘Don’t get nasty,’ the boy mocked but the victim struggled harder. ‘Oh! You want nasty? You’re going to get it.’
A stinging slap of leather on flesh and a gagged yell were followed by a cackle.
‘Like that? Like how it feels?’ Another whip, another yell. ‘Get used to it.’ A third and then a fourth brought the man to sobs.
Silas’ heart was in his throat. His face was screwed taut against the sounds as he tried to block his imagination.
‘That’s better.’ The demure girl was back. ‘See how worthless it makes you, Lover?’
The bed creaked gently, and the man mumbled.
‘What do I want? Is that what you’re saying, my lover?’ A laugh, high and mocking was strangely familiar. ‘What was that?’
Another undefined murmur was followed by a sniff and a louder word that sounded like ‘Please.’
‘Oh, we’ll stop, Sir,’ the boy mocked. ‘When you do as we say.’
The bed shook briefly. The man had agreed.
‘You will?’ That laugh again. ‘I know you will. What would you do to stop me? Hmm, darling? What will you offer me to make me stop?’
‘Anything.’ The word was more distinct as if the gag had been loosened.
‘That’s a good answer.’
A second of silence was interrupted by a gasp of agony from the victim.
‘So, mate,’ the rough, East End growl was back. ‘This is what’s going to happen, and I’m only going to say it once. You’ve already got your instructions, and you’ll follow them right down to the letter, got it?’
An agonised squeal muffled by a hand, perhaps the gag being stuffed back into the mouth.
‘To the letter, mate.’ The voice left no room for debate. ‘You’ll only get one chance. You do what you’re told, and everyone’ll be safe. What’s that?’ The man had spoken, but Silas was still unable to make out his voice. ‘No, we don’t want money.’ The lad laughed, deep and scornful. ‘I ain’t after taking your money,’ he said, almost pleasantly. ‘I want your fucking reputation mate. I’m going to take you down and them others the same way you take us down, but it’ll be worse for the likes of you. I’m going to hurt you where it matters, and that ain’t in your wallet.’
A savage lash of the belt and the room filled with a scream that should have brought people running. Another lash came straight after, but this lad had no need to fear interruption. Danvers knew what was going on, and it chilled Silas’ blood further to realise this kind of exploitation probably happened all the time. That was fair, wasn’t it? The men used the boys knowing the boys could turn against them, but the risk was part of the allure. It was also part of an unspoken agreement, the trust between client and renter. “I’ll be good to you, but you have to repay the respect and keep your mouth shut.” Silas had heard similar words on many occasions in his past, but there was no sign of that kind of honour system at Cleaver Street. Whoever this man was, he was being threatened with more than a beating.
The victim’s groans had quietened, and over soft sobbing, Silas heard two distant whistles sharp enough for him to recognise the signal.
‘Just remember this,’ the boy said. By the sound of it, he was climbing
off the bed. ‘You do what you’ve been instructed to do, or little Stella ain’t going to be happy.’
Silas’ caught his breath. This was the boy he was looking for exacting his revenge on one of his abusers. He prepared to reveal himself and had his hands ready to part the clothes when the house vibrated with a dull thud and banging from below.
‘Shit!’
The next few seconds happened in a blur of sound. The bedroom door opened to admit the sound of footsteps pounding the stairs and from the front of the house, the shout of ‘Police!’ yelled through the letterbox. A scream upstairs, panicked hurrying, the opening and slamming of windows, and a long wail of helplessness from the victim on the bed.
Silas was out from behind the rack in a heartbeat. The man was struggling against his bindings, his back now an angry zigzag of swelling red. The belt still lay over it, dropped there in haste, but Stella had escaped into the mayhem of urgent voices, slamming doors, whispered messages, and more loud thumping on the front door.
Sensing Silas in the room, the man turned his head into the light and pleaded. Their eyes met, and Silas swore.
‘Been too long,’ Fecks said. ‘I go.’
‘Fecker, no.’ James was stern despite his fear.
From what he knew of Fecker, if he got anywhere near that house he’d carve up the place. That was not going to endear anyone to their cause, and he couldn’t allow it to happen.
Fecker was half out of his seat, gripping his whip. ‘I go.’
‘No! You can’t. You’ll hurt Silas.’
The notion hit home, and Fecker faltered.
‘You’ll cause a scene, and they might call the police.’
‘Don’t care.’
‘You do. Look…’ James tugged him back into his seat. ‘I know he’s your best mate. I know how you two are…’ Fecker was already losing patience. James got straight to the point. ‘You love him, yeah? Well, I like him a lot, and if we charge in there’ll be a fight, and we’ll all get done. None of that would be good for His Lordship, right?’
Unspeakable Acts Page 13