by Peter Sirr
This was met with great applause, and then the room fell quiet as Darcy sang.
Och! It’s how I’m in love
Like a beautiful dove
That sits cooing above
In the boughs of a tree;
It’s myself I’ll soon smother
In something or other
Unless I can bother
Your heart to love me,
Sweet Molly, sweet Molly Malone,
Sweet Molly, sweet Molly Malone.
When it came to the chorus, the whole room took it up, and it seemed to James that the rafters might tumble down under the weight of so much singing.
Molly herself was redder in the face than ever, but James could tell she was pleased. ‘Just don’t think your song will pay the bill, Jack Darcy,’ she said.
‘Oh, the devil will pay the reckoning,’ Darcy shouted. ‘And it’s the devil will be back on the streets with a brace of pistols and a merry crew!’
For a man who had just escaped hanging, this seemed to be tempting fate, James thought. But crime was no longer a choice for Jack Darcy; it was him, and he didn’t care where it led. It wasn’t in his nature to be cautious, or to think of consequences.
‘Your problem is you think too much,’ he often said to James.
That might be true: James did think about everything. He tossed and turned at night, and often woke to see Jack stretched out peacefully, not a sign of worry to be seen on his mild face.
The carousing went on in Red Molly’s until nearly dawn. And then Darcy got up and announced that he had business elsewhere. He didn’t say where he was going, but he told James they’d meet again in the Phoenix Park. James was anxious at his going; he felt safer with Darcy around, but the inn was so full of good cheer that he felt no harm could come to him here. Kelly and Hare seemed to have disappeared; they must have gone with Darcy or collapsed in one of the rooms upstairs. What was it the servant had said the first time James had slept there? ‘Clean sheets is three shillings, dirty ones are a shilling.’ James smiled at the memory. Life wasn’t all bad; he even found himself dancing a jig on the table to Doctor Bob’s violin and the roaring encouragement of the drinkers. He felt that he was dancing all the worry of the last few days out of his body. At the end of it, he was exhausted but happier than he’d been in a while.
The birds had already started singing when Kitty came over to the table. His face was flushed with drink or excitement, or maybe a combination of both. But when he spoke to James his manner was businesslike.
‘You’re to meet Darcy in the dump,’ he said. ‘He’s calling all the gang together.’
James looked hard at Kitty, but apart from the flush of excitement that had been there when he arrived, his features were impassive. James wondered why Darcy hadn’t said anything earlier about a meeting.
‘Why now?’ he asked Kitty.
‘He doesn’t tell me his plans,’ Kitty said. ‘He said something has come up, something unexpected that needs action now.’
‘He’s only just out of gaol,’ James said. ‘I don’t see why he can’t wait.’
‘I’ll tell him that, will I?’ Kitty’s face was twisted into his usual sneer.
‘No,’ James said, ‘I’ll come. But I want to take my leave of Doctor Bob first. I’ll see you outside in five minutes.’
Kitty looked at him distrustfully, but finally nodded. ‘Alright,’ he said. ‘But no longer.’
When he left, James went to find Doctor Bob. ‘I’m not sure what’s happening,’ he said. ‘But can I borrow your sword?’
‘Can you use it?’ the doctor asked. ‘It won’t do you much good otherwise. I’ve seen plenty killed who grabbed a blade they couldn’t wield.’
‘I can use it well enough. I hope I won’t have to.’
Doctor Bob considered James carefully. James could read the question in his gaze, the one that was often there when people looked at him. Who is this boy? the gaze asked, and how does he come to be here? If the question was in his mind, the doctor chose not to articulate it. He handed James the sword and scabbard and, as James thanked him and turned to go, he touched his shoulder gently.
‘Be careful, my friend,’ he said.
Before he stepped outside, James unsheathed the sword and put it inside his belt, then wrapped his cloak around his coat to conceal it.
Kitty was stamping his feet in the cold outside. His eyes brightened a little when he saw James, but his expression was neutral. The morning was grey and cold, the bricks damp in the mist. A large rat scurried off in the direction of the dump. A good enough guide, James thought, as they moved off behind the rat until they came to the dump. It seemed as if all the rats of the city were congregated here this morning; everywhere James looked he saw their fat bodies twisting and darting. Gulls screeched above and came down to inspect the rubbish. No other humans walked the rough path through the dump. It looked like a long-deserted place, a rat-and-gull kingdom. James spotted a couple of fist-sized stones on the path and scooped them up quickly, secreting them in his breeches pocket. They trudged on past mounds of stinking rubbish until they came to a clump of bushes in the corner of the dump.
‘This is the place,’ Kitty announced.
James noticed his companion’s hand had gone to the hilt of his hanger as he spoke, and under the cloak he reached quietly for the hilt of his own blade. He wasn’t entirely surprised when Kelly and Hare stepped out from the cover of the bushes.
‘Where’s Darcy?’ he said, though he knew the question was pointless.
‘Who?’ said Kelly. ‘Jack Darcy, do you mean? I imagine he’s well tucked up in bed with his floozy. Were you expecting him?’
Kitty went for his hanger, his eyes shining now as if all his wishes had come true at once.
‘Nothing like a cock-fight to warm us up on a winter morning. Better than breakfast, if you ask me,’ Kelly said. He reached into his pocket for his cudgel. ‘Isn’t that right, my lord?’
So they knew who he was. James didn’t wait to find out what they knew exactly or what their intention was. He whipped the sword from his cloak and lunged at Kitty before Kitty knew what was happening. The blade went into his shoulder and he dropped his hanger and cried out.
‘You should have expected that, Kitty.’ Kelly shook his head. ‘Don’t you know these gentlemen were born with their hand on a sword, the better to teach the lower orders some manners?’
Kitty lay groaning on the ground. James backed away and held his sword in front of him. Kelly and Hare began to circle him, Kelly with his cudgel ready and Hare with hanger and dagger pointed at him, keen for his blood. James switched the sword to his left hand, and with his right he pulled one of the stones from his pocket and launched it at Hare. It hit him on the side of the head. He fell, but got up again, blood trickling from under his wig.
‘You little bastard,’ he shouted. ‘I’ll cut you so many ways you won’t be able to tell what’s skin and what’s scar.’ He ran at James with a mad fury, waving both his weapons.
James managed to fend him off but had to spin violently to avoid the dagger. As he spun around to take up his position again, he found Kelly waiting for him with his cudgel raised. He ducked and hacked at Kelly’s shins. Kelly doubled over in pain but it made no difference, for Hare had him now, his hand around James’s throat as he kicked the sword away.
This is it, James thought, there’s nothing more I can do.
He closed his eyes and waited for Hare to do his worst, but, as he did so, he suddenly felt the man’s grip slacken and at the same time he heard the report of a pistol. Hare slumped to the ground and James saw Kelly look around quickly in confusion.
A figure in a long cloak was approaching down the path with a second pistol cocked and aimed. Kelly bolted towards a mound of filthy rubbish and disappeared among the rats and gulls. James had never seen a man move so fast. The figure with the pistol came nearer and James recognised him. It was Doctor Bob. He bent over Hare, then turned him on his back.
<
br /> ‘He’s dead,’ he said simply.
Kitty had managed to get himself up and was shuffling away towards the street, but the doctor caught up with him in a couple of strides. He took an object from his pocket, some sort of cosh or baton from what James could see, and landed a single sharp blow at the base of Kitty’s neck. Kitty fell in a heap.
‘Not dead,’ the doctor said as James caught him up. ‘Just out of action for a few hours. He’ll need to get his shoulder seen to then. Your handiwork, I take it?’
‘Yes,’ said James, ‘though not so notable as yours. How did you come to be here?’
‘No one who is not in danger borrows a sword. I left Red Molly’s to follow you, and in my haste went down to the river. It only then occurred to me that you might have gone this way. A more private place for murder, with only rats and gulls as witnesses.’
‘You think they meant to kill me?’ James asked.
‘Maybe,’ the doctor replied. ‘I didn’t have time to inquire.’
He paused a little as he looked at James. ‘This is a densely packed city,’ he said at last. ‘An easy place to lose yourself in, for you to feel you can hide in it and no one will really know who you are. But there’s always someone who knows the truth, or who finds it out, especially if there’s profit in finding it out.’
‘You know who I am then?’ James felt a great relief as he asked this. He was tired of being James Brown; he had had enough of it. From now on he would be the man he was born to be, no matter what the price.
‘I knew your father a little. He wasn’t entirely a bad man, though God knows he was bad enough.’
‘I think my uncle wants me dead,’ James said.
‘Lord Dunmain?’
‘I am Lord Dunmain,’ James said calmly. And he felt it too: they were not just words.
‘Of course,’ Doctor Bob said. ‘By rights you are. And that’s what makes you so dangerous.’
‘One day, if I live that long, I mean to claim my inheritance.’
The doctor didn’t reply. Maybe he didn’t think this was a likely outcome. Maybe he just didn’t want James to lose heart. ‘What will you do now?’
‘If this were a tale, I’d say I’ll go and seek my fortune. Or I’ll go into the forest and kill the dragon and return to the cheering crowd. But all I can do is, as you say, sink deeper into the city, into some corner of it, where those that want me dead can’t find me.’
‘You must never return to Red Molly’s. This whole district is dangerous for you now. You understand that?’
‘Yes,’ James said. ‘What about the Darcy gang? Will they pursue you now?’
‘What gang?’ He looked at Hare and Kitty. ‘A wounded boy and a dead thug, and another scrambling around in the dirt like a rat. Gangs come and go; they’re temporary alliances which break asunder at the slightest provocation. Do you know how many have been hanged on the evidence of their companions? Darcy himself has little loyalty to his gang; his first loyalty is to himself, and it’s not in his interest to pursue me, or you.’
James hoped Doctor Bob was right. As the doctor made ready to leave, James returned his sword.
‘Have you no weapon?’ the doctor asked. ‘Take this at least.’ He took the cosh from his pocket, but James shook his head.
‘No, I’ve robbed and fought and seen men brutally beaten. I don’t want to live like that any more. I mean to do without knives or sticks or cudgels.’
‘Then I wish you well,’ the doctor said. ‘But remember, others may not be so kind.’
James turned around and made his way back. The day was dark and spitting rain and the wind gusted the stench of the dump mingled with the stink of the tanneries in that district. He walked past the still unconscious form of Kitty, and out onto the street. Aware that Kelly might still be lurking in the neighbourhood, he turned away from the river and crossed eastward through a series of narrow and foul-smelling lanes until he emerged at Wormwood Gate and went down to the old bridge. He was tired and hungry and he had no idea where he was going.
Twenty
Respite
Later, James could not remember exactly what happened. He remembered leaving the dump and crossing the river, but after that everything became a blur. There was a graveyard with cold stones; there was the hot stink of a market. Straw, cattle dealers, butchers, the noises of cattle and commerce. One minute there was all this great din, as if all the noise of the city had flown to this one spot and settled here, and then there was silence, his body crumpling, his head emptying itself of noise and putting itself to sleep. Maybe it was the shock of the fight, or maybe he had been carrying it inside him for many days, but a fever had burst on him with a force he couldn’t resist. So he lay down right in the marketplace, the strangest bed in the city. He was woken by voices.
‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’
He tried to answer, but nothing would come. The questions sank down into a marsh inside him and no matter how he tried he couldn’t retrieve them.
The different voices resolved themselves into one voice: kindly, concerned. ‘I’ll take him.’
A man lifted him from the ground; his face was pressed against the fibres of a coarse shirt. Odour of dirt and blood. He felt sick, then everything was gone again. He fell down through the ground, through layer after layer, into cellars and pits and dank corridors, where he was chased by ugly forms. He heard his uncle’s cruel laughter. He screamed. There was the sound of footsteps on the stairs, the door burst open. Then a wet cloth was placed on his forehead, a hand touched his cheek, cooling words came out of the darkness.
Gradually, the broken pieces of the world began to reassemble themselves again. A little more light fell into the room. His head began to feel as if it belonged to him again and his body pulled back from the desert heat.
Each day the room in which he lay became a little less mysterious to him. He even found out where he was: Phoenix Street. It wasn’t far from Smithfield, the market where, it seemed, he had collapsed. The man who brought him home was none other than the butcher from the Ormond Market who had cut McAllister and him from the hooks on the day of the terrible battle between the butchers and the Liberty Boys. James could hardly believe his eyes when he walked into the room.
‘I didn’t think I’d see you back again, Liberty Boy,’ the butcher had said, when James had been able to sit up and drink a little soup.
‘Oh leave him be, John,’ the woman of the house said – the one who had placed the cloth on his forehead and put her own hand on it to test his furious heat. She was John’s wife, and her name was Nancy. Hers was the voice he had heard, breaking through the muddle of his fever.
‘The poor creature! Where does he come from, John?’
There was a third voice, quieter and heard less often. This was Sylvia Purcell, their daughter, of an age with James. She sometimes brought him water and soup but she didn’t fuss or ask about his sickness or where he might have come from. She looked at him a little warily, James thought, as if she was waiting to make up her mind about him.
‘I’m no Liberty Boy,’ James said to the butcher. His voice still seemed to belong to someone else. ‘I got caught up in the madness that day, I hardly knew what was happening. It seems a long time ago.’
‘No more talking now,’ Nancy said. ‘Now isn’t the time to be worrying about who did what. Plenty of rest and nourishment is what you need now.’ Her voice wasn’t much louder than her daughter’s, but it carried weight.
‘You’re in safe hands here,’ her husband said, smiling.
Day by day his strength came back. He began to feel hungry and was able to eat all the meat and potatoes he was given. One day he felt well enough to get out of his bed. He looked down into the street below, watching people pass by. A fish woman walked slowly with her creel on her head, shouting out her wares. A few small children played with a hoop. A man trundled a cart heaped with vegetables. Everyone moved with a purpose, and James longed to find a real purpose too. In a few days
, when he felt strong again, he’d find some useful work.
He panicked suddenly as he gazed out. What did he know about useful work? What if they found out that he’d been a common thief, that he’d hung around with a band of notorious robbers, that he had lied through his teeth in the Four Courts to get a footpad off the hook? That wasn’t me, he thought, not the real me. But who was he really? He thought of his words to Doctor Bob as they had stood in the grey light of the dawn: ‘I am Lord Dunmain’. He remembered how proud the words had made him feel, even if they amounted to a claim he couldn’t assert or prove. If he wasn’t Lord Dunmain, who was he? An urchin adrift in a dark city, dependent on the kindness of others.
No, he thought, his eyes fixed on the street, I mustn’t forget who I am or what I have to do, though even as the thought formed in his mind he realised that his main task for the moment would be just to survive. Dead men don’t claim inheritances.
He needn’t have worried so much about his recent adventures. The Purcells didn’t ask him who he was or where he had come from. All they knew was his first name. It wasn’t that they were not interested; just, James realised, that they were waiting for him to tell them himself, in his own time.
The day finally came when he was well enough to take his meal downstairs with the family. It was a slightly awkward occasion, though everyone did their best to hide it. The family were greatly relieved that he had come through his sickness, but now that the urgency had passed his position had shifted from rescued waif to something else, someone who sat down at the same table and ate the same food. Sylvia was quiet, but he could feel a particular tension from her direction. And the butcher was not by nature a talkative man. But Nancy made up for both, bustling and fussing and talking. Whenever James had eaten a few mouthfuls she heaped more onto his plate.
‘You need your strength, dear,’ she said.
‘I’m very grateful to all of you,’ James said. ‘And I’m sorry to be such trouble.’