Behind him, Cornelius went deathly still. ‘No,’ he whispered eventually. ‘You are wrong. The Angel has made me a better man. Its presence has strengthened me. It has stopped me from thinking of … I am no longer dependent on … I never fall, Captain! I am a better man! I—’
Ashamed, Vincent strode to the couch and grabbed his friend’s clammy hand. ‘Hush,’ he said. ‘Pay no heed to me. I am a fool. A head full of science and no heart at all.’
Cornelius clung tight, a drowning man. He whispered, ‘I ache, Vincent!’
‘We will be home soon, cully.’
‘I am overcome.’
‘What of it? You have but to ask, and I would go out now and purchase a vial of whatever it is will make you better. I—’
Cornelius groaned. ‘Stop. Stop before I say yes.’
‘I have known you through thick and thin, Cornelius. Whatever you perceive your failings to be, you have never failed me. You are a strong man. Rest easy in yourself. You will be home soon.’
The grip on his hand only increased. ‘Don’t let me sleep.’
Vincent straightened without speaking and, after a desperate moment, Cornelius released his hand, allowing him to return to the window. A cold breeze billowed the curtains, and Vincent inhaled it, closing his eyes. ‘It is good to be close to the sea again. I had forgot how alive it smells.’
‘Jolly times we had back then, eh, Captain? Under our old ragged flag.’
‘Jolly times,’ agreed Vincent.
‘We were great men for the cutlass and the axe,’ added Cornelius, beginning to smile. ‘Fierce coves.’
Vincent grinned. ‘The scourge of Nevis. Lousy with gold and silver, and all the things a sword could fetch us.’
‘We were wicked.’
‘We were free!’ Vincent’s grin faded. ‘Though may chance we misremember even that.’ He put his hand to the pain that was dull but growing in his chest: a small, insidious foretaste of things to come.
Cornelius straightened, suddenly alert. ‘You are in distress? But you’ve spent barely a week away! We’ve taken much longer trips before, and with no ill effect to your health.’
‘My last trip was a while ago, cully, and the creature was much stronger then. Its power is fading fast, and perhaps does not linger within us as it used to.’ He glanced wryly at Cornelius. ‘You should check the mirror. Your hair has begun to grey. Next, your fine face will line. Raquel will not recognise you on your return. She will cry, “Who is this old man in Cornelius’ clothes? Cast him out! Cast him out!”’
The jest seemed to cause Cornelius a moment of pain.
Vincent sighed. ‘I tease, cully. You do not look old.’
Cornelius pulled himself upright on the sofa. ‘At home, we will both feel better,’ he said. ‘As soon as the Angel is restored, all will be mended.’
Vincent grimaced at the word ‘angel’. He had never approved of Raquel and Cornelius’ beliefs. As ever, Cornelius paid no mind to his disapproval and Vincent let it go.
‘Speaking of superstitions,’ he said, ‘you still insist on this fool’s meet tomorrow?’ At Cornelius’ nod, Vincent huffed. ‘I thought you had left the throwing of bones and reading of entrails long behind you, cully. What makes you wish to consult the ether now, when we both wisened to the folly of such pursuits a century ago?’
‘This theatre crone has quite the reputation as a seer, Captain. The new method she uses – this spirit board – it is apparently very effective. Should she prove more than just another charlatan, I should very much like to bring her back with us. I should like her to commune with the Angel. If we can speak with it, learn more accurately what it needs, this irritating dependence on extravaganzas and the intrusion of strangers into our peaceful home may yet prove unnecessary.’
Vincent shook his head, parted the curtains, and looked, once again, into the street. ‘There is only one proven way to sustain the creature. You know this. There is no speaking to it.’
‘The first soothsayer spoke to it.’
‘Really? You recall this as fact? Over two hundred years have come and gone since then, Cornelius. I can barely recall the events of eighty years past, let alone two centuries. Let us not fall back on half-forgotten superstitions, shall we? Let us stick to that which we ourselves have proven to work.’
Too much talking and Vincent’s lungs rebelled. It was just a gentle cough, but, without thinking, he found himself checking his palm for blood. It was a gesture from another lifetime, risen to the surface now with the threatened onset of his disease. He instantly regretted it. Cornelius’ concern was palpable from across the room.
‘We will fix this, Captain.’
Vincent nodded and dropped the curtain back into place. ‘We will … and in the only way we know how. You meet with your soothsayers and entrail-readers tomorrow, cully, if you so desire. I wish you joy of the encounter. But do not neglect the real reason for our journey here. It is our one assured hope, and I will not have you derail it based on the ravings of a centuries-dead bedlamite who presumed to speak with angels and claimed a demon slept in the lake.’ He pulled on his overcoat, heading for the door.
‘You … you are leaving?’
‘I cannot sit in this hotel room all night, Cornelius. I have business I must attend to.’
Cornelius leapt to his feet. ‘But … it is cold out there. Your health! Surely there is nothing so important that …’
Vincent went very still, and Cornelius came to a halt. After a long, silent moment, Vincent placed his hat upon his head and opened the door. ‘I wish to get Raquel some fabric,’ he said. ‘Something pretty, for a dress. Something bright. The draper will not see a man such as me on his premises before dark.’
‘But I would have done this for you! You should not have to suffer the scorn of such fools!’
Vincent laughed softly. ‘The chittering of insects and grunt of pigs is no insult to a man who knows his worth, cully.’ He glanced sideways at his friend. ‘It will be like old times, to explore a strange port. You will not join me? Stretch your legs?’
At Cornelius’ hesitation, Vincent sighed again. ‘No. Of course not. Very well, then. Stay here. I shall see you later.’
Cornelius went to speak, but Vincent closed the door on whatever objection he might have expressed, and made his way through the silence of carpeted hallways and out into the sharp winter night.
A Night’s Wage Lost
AS JOE LED the way down through the darkness of Tina’s house, Harry surprised him by starting a conversation. ‘I liked how you read that story,’ he said.
Joe waited for the sly dig. None came, and Joe had to admit it didn’t sound like Harry was taking the piss. He took a chance on saying, ‘Thanks.’ Then, without really knowing why, he added, ‘I like reading for the ladies.’
‘They can’t read, huh?’
‘Not a word, but they’d add and subtract the eyes out of your head.’
He heard Harry chuckle. ‘I’d say they would,’ he said. ‘There was a lot more science in that book than I’d thought women would appreciate, though – do you think they understood it?’
Joe came to an abrupt halt, causing Harry to bump into him. ‘Did you understand it?’ he asked coldly.
‘Say, I didn’t mean any insult. It’s just … you know… all those terms: hyperbolas, parabolas, ellipses. Did you understand them?’
Joe had to smile at that. ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘I hadn’t a clue.’
Harry laughed, a relieved sound in the echoing dark, and Joe began descending the steps again. ‘I marked the pages, though,’ he said. ‘I’ll ask Saul in the morning, and he’ll explain.’
‘If Saul doesn’t know,’ said Harry, clattering along behind him, ‘I’ll write and ask my pa. He knows a lot. Then, even if I’m far away, I’ll send you the letters so you’ll know the answers, too.’
Joe almost stopped again at that – at the unexpected pleasure of it. ‘I’d like that,’ he said.
They let themselves
out into the street, and the cold clamped itself around them like a fist. Joe shrugged deeper into his jacket as they trotted down the steps.
‘Honestly though, Joe,’ said Harry, ‘you’re like a different person when you read. You did a terrific job of the accents.’
‘I was copying you with the accents. So that’s what America is like, huh? Everyone shooting off guns and waving their wooden legs about?’
‘More or less – though I’ve never met anyone with a silver nose, more’s the pity.’
It was Joe’s turn to chuckle. He was astonished to realise that he was enjoying himself – that he’d been enjoying himself all evening. He had never before had such a discussion with a man his own age: a discussion free of slyness and barbs. It was a good feeling.
‘It’s darned cold,’ complained Harry. ‘Tina should have given you that muffler she’s knitting.’
Joe touched his throat where Tina had wrapped the red wool muffler around his neck to measure its length. That had been another nice surprise, to find she was doing that for him. ‘Ah sure, it’s not quite ready,’ he murmured. ‘I can wait.’
A familiar noise made them both look back down the foggy street. It was the coalman, Daniel Barrett, leading his drayhorse home. Joe took Harry’s arm, bringing him to a stop.
‘Watch,’ he whispered.
As usual, Daniel Barrett clucked his horse to a halt in the middle of the road. Then, casually, as if he’d given it no thought at all, the big man fished in the pocket of his coal-stained jacket and produced his tobacco tin. As Daniel bent his head to fill and light his pipe, Joe nudged Harry and jerked his chin to indicate a slash of light high in Tina’s tenement. A curtain had been pulled partially aside, and a slim figure could be seen peering out.
‘Fran,’ whispered Joe.
Daniel Barrett leaned back against his horse and gazed up at the window where Fran the Apples stood. The horse, well used to this routine, sighed and shook her heavy head. Daniel exhaled a thin stream of blue smoke, his eyes never leaving the unresponsive sliver of light high in the darkness above him.
Joe felt the old familiar sadness rise up in him. ‘Come on,’ he said, tugging Harry’s arm. ‘Leave him to his dreams.’
They strolled on. After a while, Joe surprised himself by saying, ‘He’s a good man, you know, Mr Barrett. Works hard. Owns his own dray. Lives clean. A real good fella.’
Harry glanced sideways at him. ‘There’s nothing can be done if the feelings aren’t there, Joe.’
Joe shook his head. Fran the Apples loved Daniel Barrett, Joe was certain of it. He’d seen the look on her face when the big, quiet man came smiling to her stall for a chat and to buy an apple. When Daniel Barrett was around, Fran the Apples looked like the young woman she really was. But Fran would never leave the Lady Nana, and Nana would never leave Miss Price’s. Not if it meant returning to the squalor of a normal tenement – why would she? She’d be mad to.
‘Why doesn’t he go on up to her?’ asked Harry. ‘Lay on the old charm.’ He tilted his head as he said this, and did a smoothly gliding dance step that ended with him rolling his hat down his outstretched arm. ‘Ladies looove the charm,’ he crooned.
Joe couldn’t help but smile. Oily American git. He shoved his hands in his pockets and glanced back the way they’d come. ‘He won’t win her by standing in the street smoking, anyway. You need to work harder than that.’
‘That’s your plan of conquest, is it?’ smirked Harry, jamming his hat back on his head. ‘You plan to work so hard the girls will swoon?’
Joe just grinned as he led the way through the foggy dark. Harry seemed to take this as an admission of intent. ‘Oh, as before ho!’ he cried. ‘Do you think, perhaps, that if you do enough night shifts, a certain brown-eyed miss will notice that you are a boy, Mr Gosling? OW! Watch those bony elbows!’
‘Only if you watch your flapping mouth.’
They walked on in silence, Joe’s hands in his pockets, Harry shifting the bag on his shoulders, his eyes all the time roaming the streets as they made their way back towards the river. Joe had to admit he liked the way this fellow kept track of where they were. He didn’t think it would take Harry long to find his own way around.
It was almost a disappointment when Harry came to a halt and said, ‘Well, here’s where we part ways.’
‘You’re sure you’ve somewhere to stay, Harry? I could bring you round to Saul. He wouldn’t see you stuck for a friendly lodging.’
‘Nah! I’m fine, honest Injun.’
Something in Harry’s expression made Joe falter. He dug deep and closed his fingers around his last remaining sixpence. Don’t you bloody dare! screeched his mind. Not for a bloody stranger! He actually felt panic rising in his chest as he began to withdraw the money. ‘You got enough cash on you, Harry?’
‘Of course I’ve got cash!’ cried Harry, backing off in theatrical horror. ‘Do I look like some kinda bum?’
Joe laughed. He pushed the sixpence back into his pocket. ‘Do like I told you tomorrow, all right? Go talk to the carpenter’s gaffer. They’re in dire need of help to finish the stage.’
Harry waved his assent as he walked away, already half swallowed by fog.
DOWN AT THE quays the wind hammered sleet into Joe’s face, and he couldn’t help but grin. This weather was going to be great for business. The toffs would be murdering each other for the want of a cab home. Ducking his head against the ferocious wind, Joe took a right onto the bridge and began to hurry across. He wasn’t certain he should go home after work tonight, though. Truth was, Mickey had looked bad today: that grin. If some shleeveen had told him about the extra money … Joe shuddered.
Perhaps it would be best to sleep at the depot. It wouldn’t be the first time, and probably wouldn’t be the last. Joe tightened his grip on the sixpence in his pocket. Another four months. That’s what Saul had said. Four short months, and then they’d have enough. All Joe had to do was hang on; all he had to do was keep quiet and work hard, and—
Something big knocked into him, and he was thrown hard against the stone railing of the bridge. ‘Hey, watch it!’ he cried, jerking an elbow into the ribs of whatever drunk had barrelled into him.
A large hand grabbed his wrist. A voice hissed in his ear: ‘Watch it yourself, you little rat shit.’ And Joe knew he was in trouble.
Someone punched the back of his head, and his face smacked stone as his body was slammed against the balustrade. A big man pressed his whole weight against Joe and held him as unseen hands invaded the pockets of his trousers and jacket. Joe lifted his head, and another punch slammed his face against stone. His vision exploded with stars. Blood ran hot over his eye.
They took his sixpence. They took Saul’s book. They took the last crust of bread he’d saved from his dinner. The shame of helplessness stung almost as much as the blows.
You bastards, he thought, struggling hard. You bastards. I hope you rot.
‘That’s it? That’s all he’s got? A lousy sixpence and a mouldy book?’
At the sound of Mickey’s voice, Joe stopped struggling. It was as if something inside him turned off, something drained away, and he was left cold and numb, and empty in his chest. He barely felt it when someone punched the back of his head again, barely felt the extra twist Mickey gave his arm before releasing him to slump against the balustrade.
Saul’s book was flung into the air. Joe watched it tumble through the gaslight, the pages fanning and shivering as it sailed past the rail to plummet to the river.
To the Moon, whispered Tina.
To the Moon, Joe thought.
‘Better fetch it,’ said Mickey.
Joe blinked at him, not understanding. Then Mickey’s grin sliced through the numbness, and Joe knew. He spun, panicked, but it was too late – his cousins grabbed him. Silently, they heaved him up and over the balustrade, and dropped him to the darkness below.
JOE HAD NO recollection of the fall – just that one moment he was in the buffeting air; then
his nose and ears were filled with water, as he fought the sucking grip of the river. A scream exploded from him in soundless bubbles.
It was so dark! A freezing void of blackness, pulling him down.
Something huge loomed. Trailing slime brushed his face. Then he was inhaling air. Gasping, he thrashed against the sheer cliff of the quay wall, his windmilling arms and legs churning the water, which went into his mouth and his eyes and caught against what little breath he had.
The slime-drenched wall of the quay slipped and slid under the numb scrabble of his fingers. Then he was under, his mouth filled with putrid water, the weight of his clothes pulling him down. He was blind in the dark. Which direction was up? Where was the surface?
He had never learned to swim.
His head hit stone, and he was out in the thrashing air again: the foam and the chaos. There was a crack of cold-dulled pain as his elbow hit stone. His ribs impacted with the brutal edge of a weed-slicked shelf.
The boat steps!
Joe flung out an arm, trying to grab hold. But his hand simply slithered back, completely numb of feeling. The water swelled, and he was rolled, helpless, from the steps, his arms and legs dead from the cold.
Sleet bit his lips as his face turned one more time to the wind.
As he sank, he saw boots carefully descending the steps. He saw the trailing billow of a royal-blue overcoat. A hand as black as coal reached, and was lost as water closed against the light.
JOE OPENED HIS eyes to something pallid and lifeless lying in front of his face. A dead fish. Vaguely disgusted, Joe tried to push it away. His fingers barely twitched, and he realised he was looking at his own hand. His gaze drifted past it to the mud-spattered hem of a royal-blue overcoat. A man was crouched on the filthy steps beside him, leaning away, straining to snag something from the water. He succeeded and sat back on his heels, looking down at what he’d retrieved. He grunted.
Resonance Page 4