The Black Joke

by David Bramhall

  Chapter 8

  Thou hast visited me in the night (Psalm 17)

  Outside the night was cold and moonlit, a great wind rushing high up and carrying small clouds lit silver from above. The streets were quiet, grey and ghostlike, no colour anywhere. He trotted as silently as he could down to the Market and turned up the hill, keeping to the shadows.

  The churchyard held few fears for him, for he was used to it. To find the tomb and withdraw the books was the work of a moment and he turned for home, but as he regained the Market Square he halted. There were footsteps ahead of him. He found a doorway and hid, not wanting to be seen in the streets so late. Peering out he saw a group of men, three – no, four of them – walking up towards him. They were walking quietly, not speaking. They crossed the road in front of him, and as they passed through a patch of moonlight he was able to make out one or two of the faces.

  One he recognised as Will Durridge, the father of Darren, one of Fenestra's two persecutors. The one at the back was George Bunt, father of the other bully. He thought that a third was Spotty Bunt, Batty's older brother, a sullen oaf of a man with nothing but scowls and kicks for anyone who crossed his path. The fourth he did not know, but thought that if one had to pick four of the nastiest villains on the quay, one might come up with just such a gang. Roaming the town at this hour they could scarcely be up to anything good. To his surprise, the group made their way to the door of Grubb's Emporium. The door was evidently open for them, for they did not pause but disappeared inside.

  Pert waited for a while, but they did not come out. This was a mystery. Urethra Grubb was a wicked woman but she also ran what was, on the face of it, a respectable business. Were they here to rob her? That would be brave indeed. An alarming thought struck him. In that building were the young serving girls, including the poor lass he had wanted to befriend. Suppose these men meant them harm?

  He tip-toed to the very corner of the Bearward where it left the Market Square and led up the hill to his home, and put his books quietly down behind a dustbin where he would find them again. Then he crept across the road, his heart beating wildly, and approached the door of the Emporium. It stood slightly ajar, and with his heart in his mouth he pushed it gently. It creaked, just a little. He took his hand from it and froze, straining his ears.

  “What was that?” he heard someone say. He recognised the harsh tones of Mistress Grubb, and got ready to fly for his life.

  “I heard the door upstairs,” he heard. “Did one of you good-for-nothings leave the door open?”

  There was a mumble which he could not catch.

  “Can you not be trusted to do even a simple thing like closing a door? No, Spotty Bunt, it wasn't the wind. I'll give you wind! I'll wind the wind out of you with the tip of my bodkin if you give me any more of your wind! Now go up and close it properly, before I close you for good!”

  There were steps inside, and the door was roughly slammed in Pert's face. He breathed out, carefully. He knew there was an alley running down the side of the Emporium. He used it sometimes to get to the baker's shop in Low Street. It sloped down sharply, barely three feet wide, and because it sloped it started level with Grubb's front door but ended level with her cellar window. Down here he crept, and stood beside the window. Lights burned inside, and he could see clear enough although the glass was dirty. On the table were three or four candles, and round the table sat the four men, and at the head of the table stood Mistress Grubb. Behind her in the shadows was someone else, a tall dark figure.

  He found that by putting his head close to the frame of the window at one side, there was a crack through which he could make out what she was saying.

  “No,” she said, “you'll do no drinking at my expense, you worthless layabouts. What d'you think I told you to come for, a party? This is business, my slimy pustular friends, important business, desperate business, and business that could make us all rich. That's if you can keep your blabbering mouths shut.”

  One of the men muttered something, and Grubb punched him hard on the side of the head. His head snapped sideways with the force of the blow from her great ham of a hand. He pulled his feet under him and made to get up, but in a flash she was on him, her fists moving twice more, and he was bundled out of his chair and fell to the floor.

  “Don't you ever, ever think to get the better of me, Will Durridge or any of you! It'll be a fine day when I don't see you coming, and I've ways to make you rue the moment you thought you'd tangle with me. Now, get that sack of blubber up on his seat and pay attention.”

  When the man was seated again, she continued. The dark shadow was motionless behind her, and Will Durridge wiped the blood from his face with his sleeve.

  “This gentleman ...” she motioned to the figure behind her, “... this gentleman has come to me with a business proposition. He came to me because he knew I could be trusted. He knew I could be trusted to know what goes on, and he knew I could be trusted to make things happen the way I want them to happen, and he knew I could be trusted to find filth like you to help me. And so I have.”

  She turned slightly, and gestured to an empty seat at the table. “Won't you sit down and make yourself known, Captain?”

  The man sat, and his face came into the candlelight. He was old, older than the other men, his face lined and seamed and burned by the sun and the wind and the salt spray, but it was a strong face that spoke cruelty and ruthless determination. He was tall, and dressed like a gentleman in the old fashioned way with fine silks and lace at his throat and cuffs, but he did not seem like a gentleman. He did not seem gentle at all. His voice was low, but he formed his words clearly. This was a man accustomed to making himself understood, understood and obeyed.

  “My name is Trinity Teague,” he said, “and I am the Master of the brig you've no doubt seen down at the quay. She's called The Black Joke, in honour of a great man I should very much like to have known. Unfortunately he died before I got the chance. His ship was called the “Burla Negra” which is “Black Joke” in Spanish, so I took that name for my own ship, seeing as he had no further use for it.”

  Pert drew in his breath. He knew who Teague was talking about. It was in one of his books, “Ye Dredful Crimes and Justifiyd Execution of ye Blak Pyrate, Benido de Soto by A Sea Captain”. This man was surely a pirate, and called his ship after that commanded by the infamous Benido, or Benito, de Soto. What were pirates doing in the town, and what was a pirate captain doing with Urethra Grubb and four of the biggest ruffians on the waterfront?

  “I am here to recover something that belongs to me,” the man continued. “It belongs to me because I stole it. It belongs to me because I killed for it, and it belongs to me because I want it. I lost it, to my eternal indignation, and I mean to steal it again, and I'll kill for it again if I have to. You're going to help me, and if you work well I'll be generous. This could set you up for life. Beer, rum, tobacco, food, a soft bed and a willing woman to fill it. Or a berth on my ship, if you prefer, for a life of power and adventure on the high seas, with no one to say you nay. Now, what do you say?”

  “What would we have to do?” asked one of the men.

  “What you're told,” growled Grubb.

  “No, no, let him ask!” said Teague. “Let him ask, if he wants to know. Let him ask and I'll tell him, straight. All you have to do, my dear friend,” he leant forward and a great curved knife had appeared in his hand from nowhere. He did not seem to have moved, but suddenly the knife was at the man's throat and his other hand was behind the man's head, “all you have to do is follow my bidding without question or hesitation, my friend. Is that clear enough for you?”

  The man's eyes were wide but he dare not move his head.

  “Grunt once if you agree, my friend, and twice if you'd prefer that I open your veins now.”

  The man grunted once, showing the whites of his eyes.

  “Good,” said Teague, and the knife had vanished again and he was lolling at ease in his chair, “it would have been a pity
to spill blood all over this clean floor and put the little ladies to the trouble of cleaning it up in the morning. Now, I think we all understand each other?”

  He stood up, and bowed to Mistress Grubb. “I shall return to my ship, and the refreshing sleep that rewards a job done properly.”

  He moved to the door, paused and swept the men with his eyes. “Here is my first instruction to you. Go home. Let no one see you out on the streets. And find out ... where is Obadiah Potts?”

  So shocked was Pert to hear this that he jerked upright, and hit his head on the top of the window opening. Inside he heard the scrape of chairs thrown back. He took to his heels, down the alley towards Low Street, and as he ran he had the presence of mind to yowl like a cat and then yap like a dog, hoping to allay their suspicion. At the bottom of the alley he ran as hard as he could up Low Street, and from there circled back to the top of the church yard. He slipped over the church yard wall and hid behind some gravestones, breathing hard, and listened.

  He heard nothing, no shouts, no following footsteps. He waited. Still no sound.

  After half an hour crouched on the ground, the cold seeping into his bones and up through the soles of his shoes, he judged it was safe to emerge. With infinite care, ready at any moment to fly for his life, he slid noiselessly down the road to the corner of the Bearward, recovered his books, and trotted for home.