The Irregular: A Different Class of Spy

by H. B. Lyle

  The room looked surprisingly comfortable, with a plush bed in one corner and heavy curtains over the small window. Then the bed moved. Pinned beneath the covers lay a girl of six, tousled blonde hair awry. She looked at Wiggins with curiosity.

  ‘Meet the family,’ Milton said. ‘That’s our Annie in the scratcher. You should stay.’

  Wiggins shook his head. The sight of the two small girls – with seventeen-year-old Milton as their sole breadwinner – upset him. They looked like they were doing well, but as an orphan you were only ever a hair’s breadth from oblivion. And always that tugging at the heart, the why should this be me? He never knew his own father, who could be alive still for all Wiggins knew, and his mother long dead in a pauper’s grave.

  ‘I best get home. Mavis.’ Wiggins tipped his cap at the older girl, offered the little one an enormous wink and opened the door.

  He began the long walk back. The wind picked up, the air cooled and then a rain burst slicked the streets. Wiggins turned his collar close and strode on, picking his way through the dark, on the lookout for a night bus. He crossed the river at Tower Bridge just as the rain stopped. The air tasted bitter still; the river stank. He paused on the northern edge, just as the darkness turned from pitch-to blue-black, breathing in the foulness. His belly felt heavy with stale beer. That evening’s truth was hard to stomach.

  No amount of summer rain could wash the taste away.

  * * *

  There was nowhere to go.

  She lived with Vincas now. The northern ports had long since frozen solid for the winter. Sarah had been gone four months and still no word. Bela woke every morning, dreaming of her sister’s tears. Two days after their double, hateful wedding, Arvo and a weeping Sarah had made off to the sea, and America.

  ‘Write to me,’ Bela whispered. The secret only she and her sister shared, the power of the written word.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Write to the Plovs’ cook,’ Bela said.

  ‘What will I do without you?’

  ‘I will come for you, I don’t know how, but I will come for you.’

  ‘To New York? How?’

  ‘Enough of these tears.’

  Bela feared dreadfully for Sarah. The ship might have been wrecked, Arvo might have already killed her, anything could have happened. She simply didn’t know. To make matters worse, Russia itself was in turmoil. News reached Dvinsk of trouble in St Petersburg, of mutinies and nascent revolution against the Tsar, but nothing was certain. Each report came followed by its opposite until no one in town knew what to believe, only to be fearful and nervous – of the revolutionaries, the mutineers or, worst of all, the Tsar’s own secret police, the Okhrana.

  Vincas didn’t care for politics. He didn’t care for much other than vodka and the slaking of his more private tastes. When Bela first moved into the Marinsky house, she’d expected the same brand of sporadic violence her father employed – a means of control and of venting his own anger and drunkenness. Vincas was different. He delighted in hurting her. On those occasions where she’d committed some minor slight or misdemeanour, he would grin and pull from his waist a long leather belt. It slithered from the loops.

  Bela tried to make friends with old man Marinsky, hoped he might come to her aid or at least temper his son’s malice. He did not. The rooms they all shared above the shop resounded with her cries, until she realised crying out only made things worse. Belt marks slashed her back, the air vodka thick.

  ‘You are learning, bitch.’ Vincas spat, laughed and left.

  She learnt, too, the one thing that would often forestall a beating, though it sickened her. Vincas fucked her whenever he wanted, drunk, sober, morning and night. He didn’t need her permission. And he didn’t care when it hurt her. The first time, their wedding night, he laughed when he saw the blood. But though he did it whenever he liked, Bela realised he preferred it when she seemed enthusiastic or aroused. She never was. That it made a difference to Vincas amazed her. Didn’t he know she hated him, that her very soul shrivelled at his every touch? Yet if she showed she enjoyed his vulgar thrustings – or, even better, initiated them – then she avoided a belt lashing. It gave her wounds time to heal.

  It didn’t take Bela long to realise, too, why the Marinsky family had agreed so readily to the double match. They needed a woman in the house, and all of its work had fallen on her. Vincas forbade her from working for the Plovs. Denied the secret access to their library, she felt the lack of books almost as much as the loss of Sarah.

  Her mind was full of her sister, how to get to America, how to protect her from Arvo. She had no money of her own and no means of escape. Stealing from the old man, running, wasn’t an option. They were hundreds of versts from the sea and the Marinskys would run her down before she got far. Marinsky liked a clean house and Vincas liked fucking her, whether she protested or not. She couldn’t easily sneak away in any case, with her birthmarked face, even if she did have the money. Marinsky as a flour merchant had contacts all the way to the coast.

  The old man disturbed her almost as much as his son. He would stand behind her as she scrubbed the shop floor on her knees, silent but for the sound of chewing tobacco. When she righted herself, he would look away and spit. She tried to engage him, to seek his help in controlling the violence of Vincas, but he would quash any attempt at conversation. ‘You’re his wife,’ he would say, his upper lip rising in a sneer. She began to think he liked to hear her cry.

  As the winter gave way to spring, her belly grew bigger and even the old man commented. She felt the life growing within her with a mixture of excitement, bitterness and disgust. Not for the new life but for its father. She longed for a girl, anything to save her from a little Vincas. He seemed not to notice her condition – whether he thought she was getting fat or didn’t care, she didn’t know.

  Finally, feeling round and vulnerable six months after her marriage, she thought to spare herself a beating. She hoped, too, that Vincas would not want to take her as she grew big.

  ‘I’m with child now, Vincas,’ she whispered when he grabbed her one night. He breathed vodka over her face, heavy, urgent.

  ‘You think I care?’

  ‘No, it will harm the child.’

  As soon as she said it, she wished it away. No. Not a word to use in that house, ever. The belt buckle cracked her jaw. ‘You say no to me, bitch? I say no.’ She curled away from him. The buckle caught the crown of her head. It clattered across the floor and for a hopeful moment, Bela thought he’d given up. He pulled her hair, exposing her neck, stretching her body. And then his fist crashed down on her midriff. Again and again until she could scream no more.

  Later, after the pain and the tears and the confusion, came the blood. She felt the dead life in her fingers, a sickening crimson, a broken, miniature human. As the blood dried on her thighs, and the dark deep ache inside her dulled, a plan came to her.

  Life with Vincas would forever be impossible. She knew what she had to do.

  * * *

  Wiggins had finally made it to Peter’s place, supposedly a teashop deep inside the ’Chapel. It was like no tearoom he’d ever seen. Not a woman in sight for one thing, he noted as he sat down opposite Peter. The table was scrubbed bare, without cutlery or plates. The walls were mostly bare too and the room had little natural light, other than a faint gloom coming from the alleyway. There were four or five other tables in the room, each with two men sitting at them. Saying nothing.

  ‘Tea?’ Peter said. ‘We have the finest samovar west of Riga.’

  Wiggins nodded, bemused.

  ‘Don’t look so shocked,’ Peter said. ‘This is Russian tea. No milk. Please, don’t mind them.’ Peter wafted his arm around airily at the others, who had said nothing since Wiggins came in either to him or to each other. ‘They are suspicious of you. But they are Russian. They are suspicious of everyone.’ He laughed. ‘Vodka?’

  Wiggins examined his host in more detail. The grey streak in his hair gave Peter a ce
rtain elegance, an intellectual sophistication. His beard was trim and well kempt, quite unlike the other Russians he’d seen. The man’s nails were clean and clipped. They shone. He looked like a rich man in a poor man’s clothes. Or the devil. Wiggins turned his attention to the rest of the room. The clientele was similar to that of the drinking den – suspicious, restless, and hairy. A long trestle table ran down one wall. It was peppered with cups and dominated by a huge gleaming tea urn.

  ‘Bonbon?’ Peter placed a paper bag on the table and popped one into his mouth. ‘Very good.’

  He then made an extravagant show of serving vodka to go with their tea. In the dismal light Wiggins examined a string of flags and embroidered hangings strung up above the samovar. There were stars aplenty but without getting up to see, he couldn’t be sure if any of the emblems matched the one in his pocket, the eight-pointed star.

  ‘You have had haircut,’ Peter said. ‘Good. The fisherman must trim his line, if he is to get a bite.’

  The other customers had resumed their conversations. There were two chess games on the go. Despite this, Wiggins felt the gaze of one man in particular, leaning back in his seat, fat-cheeked with a shock of electrified hair climbing away from a high forehead. His eyes sat deep and his stare did not relent. He balled a teacup in his fist.

  ‘You work today?’ Peter said. ‘Tell me again, what you do?’ He rolled a penny between his fingers, flipping it over his knuckles first one way, then the next.

  Wiggins switched his gaze back to Peter. ‘I didn’t tell you.’

  Peter’s brow twitched but he said nothing.

  Wiggins sipped his tea. ‘You was a croupier.’ he said.

  Peter brought the coin to a stop between his second and third fingers. ‘Gambling is bourgeois,’ he said at last. ‘But you are right – when I was young.’ He looked at Wiggins. ‘I stood there in Riga and helped fat capitalists spend their money. They would think nothing of wasting a thousand roubles on a card, while outside people died in snow. For lack of a few kopeks. I wanted to be like them once, capitalists.’ He spat on the floor. ‘I can’t think this now.’

  ‘Factory watchman, out Woolwich way,’ Wiggins said.

  ‘You liked Comrade Kent’s talk?’

  ‘It rang some bells. But I don’t do politics. All I know is the rich is still rich.’

  ‘But they don’t have to be,’ Peter cried. ‘If a pack runs together, they can do more than an animal alone.’

  Wiggins raised his eyebrows. ‘And your plan is—?’

  A chair scraped across the floor and the fat-cheeked man strode towards them. He shouted at Wiggins in harsh, guttural barks, finger jabbing. Peter leant across to shield Wiggins, who couldn’t decipher the language, but knew a killer when he saw one.

  Wiggins stood up, arms outstretched. ‘Hey. Look. I don’t want no trouble.’

  But Fat Cheeks went for him, pushing him to the floor. Before Wiggins could even grasp his cosh, the man had a snub knife at his throat. His face shoved right into Wiggins, their eyes locked, noses touching. He smelt of garlic and vodka. Saliva dripped from his rotten teeth.

  ‘Who are you?’ the man rasped.

  Wiggins felt the point of the knife against his neck. ‘Wiggins. Woolwich watchman. Used to be a bailiff. Ex-gunner,’ he tried not to gabble.

  ‘British Army?’

  Something jangled against Wiggins’s chest. He saw a flash of red on a string around the man’s neck.

  The door crashed open behind him.

  A sudden stream of hysterical Russian broke in and the assailant relaxed his hand, allowing Wiggins to slither clear. Rough hands yanked him into a chair. His attacker stood, with Peter and a third man – a boy almost – crowding in on him. They spoke in quick, urgent tones, glancing every now and then at Wiggins. One word rose above the rest.

  Arlekin.

  Wiggins assessed his options. Heavily outnumbered, he had only one – stay still. Say nothing. Finally, the three men reached some kind of agreement. Peter stepped towards him.

  ‘Forgive Yakov.’ Peter gestured to his attacker. ‘He trusts no one. Not even his own mother.’

  Yakov stood in middle of the room, knife cast to the floor, panting heavily. Beside him, the younger man smiled.

  ‘This is Yakov’s small brother, Mikhail. He remembers you,’ Peter went on.

  Wiggins nodded. ‘I let you go by London Bridge.’

  ‘When you were bailiff?’ Peter asked.

  Wiggins nodded. He remembered chasing the boy down Liverpool Street, to the river. The day when Kell first came calling; the eve of Bill’s death, at the hands of a man like Yakov.

  Yakov swiped his knife from the floor and strode towards the door.

  Peter chuckled. ‘So, you are not lying – as Yakov thought. You do a good thing for Mikhail. Yakov owes you now. He trusts his brother. Only his brother.’

  Wiggins rubbed his neck. Then he held out his hand to Mikhail. ‘Thank you, fella,’ he said. ‘That’s a debt repaid.’

  Mikhail showed no understanding but offered a hand, then skittered off after his brother.

  Wiggins touched the wound on his neck and examined his bloody fingers. His heart still thumped, despite his calm exterior – not only from the exertion of the fight, but at the thought of what was around Yakov’s neck: the flash of red, a small, eight-pointed star.

  Peter sighed. ‘Yakov is quick to judge. His real name’s not Yakov – he calls himself Yakov Peters, I call myself Peter the Painter. We all have different names, many names. What’s a name? It is a way for government to control you, the Church. Names, always names. If you have none, how do they know who you are? You are a ghost. But sit, I want to tell you something. More vodka!’

  The two men sat down again. Wiggins took deep breaths. He was in – he knew, now, that the eight-pointed star could be significant, that Peter and Yakov might know about Tottenham. He reminded himself to act the nascent revolutionary, a budding convert to the cause, eager for the battle.

  Peter continued. ‘We go to Hyde Park soon. You come with us?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘We march, for the workers, against Empire. Police, they don’t like it too much. We need big brave men like you, powerful men. Good men, to show others how to act, to lead. Are you with me?’

  Wiggins was with him. Of course he was, stuck with his only lead. Later, as they embraced on the street, Wiggins tugged at the thought that had been bothering him all evening.

  ‘What’s “Arlekin”?’ he said.

  ‘Ha,’ said Peter and placed a strong hand on each of Wiggins’s shoulders. ‘Not what, who.’

  11

  ‘You’re a romantic.’ Wiggins smiled.

  ‘Nonsense,’ Kell bristled. ‘Now, tell me about Woolwich.’ The two of them sat side by side in the back of a hansom cab as it bounced and weaved over Westminster Bridge.

  ‘I thought you’d prefer a motor to the hansom.’

  ‘Nothing like horsepower,’ Kell replied.

  ‘The papers are offering a straight-up fortune for someone to fly the Channel.’

  ‘It will never happen. Why do you think the prize is so generous?’

  They trotted on in silence for a moment. ‘Do you miss it?’ Wiggins said. ‘London,’ he added, staring out into the Lambeth streets.

  Kell felt the loss in Wiggins’s voice, the pain of an old wound. For himself, he missed the horses, the great animals that pulled the city’s wares across town, the magnificent dray horses, the dancing fillies of the cabs, the sleek and polished cavalry mounts on parade: the living, breathing beasts of London, its heart and bones. Soon they’d all be gone, even the emaciated nags tugging rag-and-bone men down the Old Kent Road. Disappeared, drowned out by motor cars and vans and omnibuses; by trains, over-and underground; by the tubular railway; by airships; and by telephone lines and telegrams and the Lord knew what else. Maybe Wiggins was right, he was a romantic.

  ‘What has got into you?’ he replied. ‘London is here.’ He
swept his hand out of the cab. ‘This is for security. You remember I was almost killed in Hampshire? I still have a constable on my door. I still fear for my wife and family. We can’t be too careful. What’s happening at the Arsenal?’

  Kell’s authority was slipping, he knew.

  Wiggins was a hard agent to control. And now he wouldn’t even answer a straight question. At home, Kell’s wife Constance laughed at him, or openly disagreed with him on many matters, in particular women’s suffrage. She didn’t even take the policeman on the door seriously. He suspected she thought it an affectation he’d dreamt up to impress her. His superiors at the War Office took little notice of him unless he could rustle up conclusive proof of German subterfuge. Only the buffoon Lieutenant Russell took any notice at all in the office. And did having power over a fool mean any kind of power at all?

  ‘Here, you know much about these Rooski gangs. Anarchists and that?’ Wiggins asked suddenly. He was obviously in contemplative mood.

  ‘What has this got to do with Woolwich?’ Kell cried. ‘I know nothing about them. Or rather, it’s not our business. Melville in Special Branch spends his time chasing them. Apparently, half of them are simply hell-bent on creating chaos, some want revolution, while the rest are nothing more than common criminals. Although, between you and me, Special Branch often puts them up to it.’

  ‘The police?’

  ‘Entrapment. Or else it could be some other foreign power – creating trouble for their own ends, probably.’

  ‘Other governments would pay for mayhem and murder?’

  ‘This is not our concern,’ Kell snapped. Soapy’s warning came back to him. ‘We must focus on Germany and her agents – leave the criminals to the police!’ He took a breath as the cab skirted north of the Elephant, then began again. ‘I must insist you tell me of Woolwich – you have a name?’

  Wiggins cracked his long thin fingers, lifted his brow and nodded. ‘I reckon, but first things first – what about Tinsley, is he clear?’