Ill Will

by Michael Stewart

  I looked her in the eye.

  ‘You’ve got to believe me, Emily.’

  I squeezed her hand gently.

  At last she returned my gaze and nodded.

  We made our way to the dockside and I paid the ferryman tuppence. The ferry was almost full, and there was an air of excitement as we cast off. The boat was powered by a large sail that one man trimmed while another took the tiller. We sailed across the choppy water, gulls gliding in our wake. We could make out Liverpool seafront from where we were sitting. Like Manchester, there were many tall buildings with domes and spires. There was a sea mist, making the scene ahead a magical one. The air was damp and tangy.

  ‘It’s like in a fairy tale,’ Emily said. ‘Where they go to a far-off land and everything is different.’

  The sun glinted on the tips of the water like polished silver. Strange fish as big as pigs swam by the side of the vessel. They had skin instead of scales and noses like bottle tops. They leapt out of the waves and smiled at us.

  ‘What are them?’ Emily said.

  I shrugged.

  A man sitting close by leaned over to Emily. ‘They’re dolphins. That’s what they are. It’s a good sign, dolphins following us. It means we’ll harbour safely.’

  I’d heard of these mythical sea creatures, half-human, half-fish. I remember you telling me, Cathy, about sea monsters with eight arms and swords for mouths.

  ‘Do you think we’ll see a mermaid?’ Emily said.

  ‘I hope so,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t. My dad said that mermaids bring bad luck. They look like angels but are really devils. What about dragons? Don’t some of them live in the sea?’

  ‘I suspect they do.’

  I suspected no such thing, Cathy, but I was happy to see Emily revived somewhat from yesterday. She clung onto the side of the boat and leaned over.

  ‘Not so close,’ I said, pulling her back. ‘You don’t want to get eaten by a sea dragon.’

  When we got to Liverpool docks it became obvious that Liverpool was very different from Runcorn. Where Runcorn had only one small dockside, Liverpool had several massive docks. Where Runcorn had a dozen boats, the waters of Liverpool were teeming with every type of vessel as far as the eye could see. Every colour, every shape, every size. Shallop, dory, skiff. Dogger, cutter, sloop.

  I came across a shipyard with ships and boats in various stages of construction. Among them was a vast galleon that was only halfway built, so that I could see all the workings inside. There were cordoned-off areas that were clearly built for storage. Hundreds of them. The height of which was ten inches or so. I wondered what cargo the ship was built for.

  We wandered around, examining the various places and buildings. The air was pungent with the stench of salt and fish. Gulls careened above us, screeching and diving. All around folk mulled. A cacophony of voices. We saw by the end dock the town’s gaol, a dark foreboding building, like a haunted castle in one of your story books, Cathy. Next to this was Coat Yard. We made our way back to the main docks. There were lots of large ships moored up. There were sailors and merchants loitering around and further back there were whores plying for business. Some not much older than Emily.

  A chill down my spine made me shiver but I wasn’t cold. The docks were familiar to me. I remembered them. The memory was rising to the surface like something coming up to breathe. I’d stored it in a room in my mind and locked the door. But now, being here, looking at the square of water and the buildings surrounding it, standing on the waterfront, watching the ships, listening to the gulls, was the key to the lock. The door was opening. I was six years old. I was hungry and cold. My mother was dead. But I could speak my mother tongue and I could speak the language of this land. Some of the words came back to me. They formed in my mind but then evaporated. I tried to grab them. They were solid, they had their own taste and flavour, but then they were smoke. I felt dizzy with emotion. I steadied myself and clung onto the iron railing.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ Emily asked.

  I didn’t say anything. I breathed in deep and closed my eyes. I saw an eye staring at me. The iris like a blazing fire.

  ‘I like it here,’ she said. ‘It’s even better than London.’

  A dog came up to us, wagging its tail. Emily bent down and stroked it.

  ‘I’d like a dog,’ she said. ‘Maybe we could get one.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘But when we get the shop we’ll need a dog to guard the place at night. My dad would never let me have a dog. He said I was enough trouble, without another meddlesome creature. We could feed him the cake that was left over. Dogs like cake.’

  ‘Talking of which,’ I said, changing the subject, ‘let’s get some grub.’

  Further back from the dockside, we found an alehouse called the Gallows Inn and I ordered us refreshment. We sat by the fireplace and watched a game of skittles. There were four men playing for pennies. Sailors. One of them was talking about their next voyage to Africa on a ship called Destiny. He’d never been before and the others were telling him of how dark-skinned the natives were, black as coal, and how the women went around bare-chested with everything on show, bubbies out. The man’s eyes lit up and they joked around. The man lost his game and handed over his money to the others. When he went to the bar, I followed him. He was rummaging around in his pockets. He turned to me.

  ‘You know, I got paid yesterday, a week’s wage, and it’s almost all gone already. I just can’t seem to keep hold of it.’

  ‘Why don’t I buy you a drink?’ I said.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course. What will you have?’

  I bought him a glass of brandy and handed it over.

  He had thick, greasy brown hair and the hair from his chest was growing out of the top of his shirt and up his neck. He was stocky but a good few inches shorter than me.

  ‘You’re a sailor then?’ he asked.

  ‘Not me,’ I said.

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I’m a farm labourer.’

  I thought back to the burial ground above Shudehill, and to a grand memorial with an eagle sculpture and gold lettering carved into the stone.

  ‘The name’s Isaac Addison.’

  ‘Jack Bird,’ he said. ‘Nice to meet you, Isaac.’

  We shook hands.

  ‘Done farm labouring myself one time. Cutting the hay, baling it. Those bales don’t half get scratchy.’

  He laughed, showing off a row of black and crooked teeth.

  ‘I’m no farmhand though. Ships are my thing. First voyage I went on, I got flogged for drunken behaviour. Said I’d never sail again. That was six years ago. My feet have hardly touched dry land since.’

  He laughed, flashing those teeth again.

  ‘You off on this next voyage then? Destiny, I think it’s called.’

  ‘Not me,’ he said. ‘I’m not part of the crew this time. Got in there too late. Captain’s got his crew. I’m waiting on another ship. So what brings you to Liverpool? There’s no farm labouring hereabouts.’

  ‘Bit of unfinished business.’

  ‘Oh, aye?’

  ‘I’m trying to trace my roots.’

  ‘Lots of roots round here. And there’s them without roots.’

  ‘I was found in the streets hereabouts when I was a boy. Taken to Yorkshire.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly. About nine years ago.’

  ‘The docks was busy in them days. Twice as busy as they are now.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘This war has been bad for business the past few years. A big drop-off.’

  I assumed he meant the war in America, but I didn’t want to show my ignorance so I just nodded.

  ‘Well, nice talking to you, Isaac. Best get back to my game.’

  ‘You wouldn’t know anyone who could help, would you?’

  ‘Well, there’s only one bloke I know been here nine years.’ />
  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘A man named Edward Cubbitt.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘He’s worked the docks longer than anyone I know. There isn’t much he doesn’t ken.’

  ‘How would I find him?’

  ‘He’s not hard to find. Anyone will tell you. Looks after the South Dock. Used to be a sailor. And a privateer. Getting on a bit now. About my height, bald head, grey beard, big belly. Good luck. And thanks for the drink.’

  He took his glass from the bar top and went back to his game of skittles.

  Our plates arrived and Emily tucked in, not looking up or pausing for breath until her plate was empty. I’d seen dogs eat like that, back at Wuthering Heights. But never people. She used the last of her bread to mop up the gravy. Then, clasping the plate in both hands, she licked it clean.

  ‘It’s good stuff, that,’ she said. ‘That’s what you want, good grub and good ale. Good grub and good ale keeps you out of mischief. That’s what my dad used to say. Didn’t keep him out of mischief though, did it?’

  I looked around me at all the men in the inn, different heights, different builds, different-coloured skins. I felt detached from the scene, as though it were a dream. It felt so strange being back. I felt myself drift up to the ceiling, watching the scene from the corner of the room, looking down on me and Emily. Maybe it was the white walls or the sailors, or maybe the skittles, but I recollected an earlier time. A different pub or the same pub? I couldn’t be certain. I tried to dig down in my mind. To get at the memory. Roaming streets. Lost. Hunger pangs. The smell of cooking. Entering an inn. Warmth and bustle. But nothing more would come. I couldn’t rely on my brain. I would comb these streets and taverns until I got the picture as clear in my mind as a painting.

  I thought back to Wuthering Heights, at how small the world was that we occupied. The moors had seemed vast but I’d seen so much since I’d left that now it felt as though the moors were just the edge of another world.

  A barmaid came over to our table and cleared our plates. I asked her if there was a room for hire for me and my sister. She said she’d enquire. She came back a few minutes later. They had a room we could have. She would make up the bed. Would we need a bath? I said we would and thanked her.

  ‘You know when you were talking earlier about your mother, about her being a whore?’ I asked.

  ‘Only till she met my dad. She wasn’t a proper whore.’

  ‘And that she died in childbirth.’

  ‘She did.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘My father told me. He said she’d turned to whoring because she had no other way of earning a living. She was an orphan like you. As soon as she got with my father she gave up her trade. She was a good woman.’

  ‘According to your father. Who was a highwayman.’ I raised my eyebrows.

  ‘At least I know who my mother was. Maybe yours was a whore too. At least my mother didn’t die a whore.’

  ‘My mother was no whore.’

  ‘How do you know? You don’t know anything. You don’t even know your own mother’s name.’

  I could feel my blood boil but I reined in my wrath, Cathy. I tried to focus on the game of skittles through a fog of pipe smoke. I watched the light flit on the tops of the pins.

  ‘When did you first know you could do it?’ I said at last.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Get dead people to speak through you.’

  Emily stared into the empty pit of the fireplace.

  ‘I found my father in the kitchen one day on his own. He was sitting on the floor, drinking brandy and crying. I was probably no more than five years old.’

  ‘What was he crying about?’

  ‘He was crying over my mother. He said he missed her. He said they’d argued before she died. She was pregnant and she said she didn’t want me because she didn’t want a child of hers to have a thief for a father. He stormed off and when he came back half-cut, I was born, and she was dead. He said he just wished he’d been able to tell her how much he loved her. He said if there was a spell to bring her back to life, even for one moment, he would pay anything to get it. I just remember being overtaken by this feeling. Everything in the room was swimming. Then I became aware of another world behind this one. It was like this other world was trying to break through. I could feel myself sinking into its dark waters. I was helpless, unable to stop it. I don’t remember what happened next. I just remember waking up. I was on the floor with a banging headache. My throat was so dry I couldn’t swallow. My ears were ringing and I had pins and needles in the tips of my fingers. My dad was stood over me. He was smiling. He picked me up in his arms and kissed me on the forehead. He stroked my hair and said he’d spoken to her. We were always close, but after that he never left my side. That’s when I started working for him.’

  Emily told me of another robbery.

  ‘This one wasn’t on the highway, but in a home. We broke into this house of a nobleman. Got over a thousand pound in gold and silver. My dad tied them up in their beds. It took my dad a while to get them to confess. The money was where they said it was. There was a packet of gold lace too. That was valued at eighteen hundred pound.’

  She stopped and stared into the fireplace.

  ‘It was his last job,’ she said.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘He was going to give it up. He had enough money to quit. He had a friend who was setting up a business, needed a partner. If he hadn’t got caught, things would have been very different. If only that servant hadn’t come in. If only he’d left us to it.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘What do you think? He got a good crack to shut him up. And the rest. It was his own fault.’

  She went quiet and stared into the fireplace again.

  ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Let’s get a bath and lig down for the night.’

  I bathed first, the privilege of age. Emily had to bathe in my water. She complained initially but then stripped off and plunged into the grey soup. I got into bed first, Emily joined me shortly after.

  ‘I didn’t tell you, did I?’ I said.

  ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘When we were in the bar earlier. I met a man who gave us a lead.’

  ‘What lead is this?’

  ‘He said to look out for a man called Edward Cubbitt, works the South Dock.’

  ‘Well, it’s a start,’ she said, settling into the covers and putting her head on the pillow. ‘Tell me a story.’

  ‘I think we’ve had enough stories for one day. Let’s get some sleep. I need you to be fresh for the morning.’

  I thought she might complain but she was snoring in no time. I couldn’t sleep with her racket. I thought about poking her in the ribs, telling her to shut it, but she looked so angelic in the moonlight with her head on the white pillow, her eyes closed, and her white-blonde hair splayed around her. I lay back and wondered about Edward Cubbitt.

  Jonas Bold

  The shrieking of gulls above the Gallows, the clatter and clammer of industry, were our alarm call the next day, and after breakfast we set off for the docks again. There were several large docks, rectangular in shape with high stone walls and a sloping wall at one end. People everywhere, fetching and flitting. We weaved through the crowd and walked past the King’s Dock, Salthouse Dock, George’s Dock, up Chapel Street. There were goods sheds, tobacco warehouses, spirit vaults, breweries, inns and taverns. The air was rich with sharp and strong aromas. The stench of things baking, boiling and burning. Mashing, malting and milling. Sweet yeast and bitter hop. We took a walk around the town to familiarise ourselves with its layout. The Exchange Building was the first thing to grab my attention. It was very grand with a domed tower and a spire that reached up to the heavens. There were many stone pillars and archways and a fine bell tower. There was a notice attached to the wall:

  To be sold by auction at George’s Coffee-House, betwixt the hours of six and eight o’clock, a very fine negro
girl about eight years of age, very healthy and has been some time from the coast. Also, one stout young negro fellow, about twenty years of age.

  Human flesh being sold openly in the street, among market stalls and butchers’ shops. Another chattel being flogged for bunce. We walked up Paradise Street and watched the whores on the corner. Some approached us and asked for business. Then along Bold Street, past the almshouse. We wandered down Brownlow Hill Lane, past the poorhouse and the house of correction. Rivulets of piss and heaps of shit. The crowds thinned, and their voices dimmed. Gulls and pigeons gathered on the ledges of tall buildings. They shuffled and huddled. We walked past the bowling green and the Methodist meeting house. There were cooperages, block-and-spar-makers’ shops, waterworks, drinking fountains that we made use of, sheds and boat-building yards. But above all there were burial grounds.

  ‘When I see a grave I see a wage,’ I said.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘We need to get to work.’

  We walked up Renshaw Street and Berry Street, along Great George’s Street, until we came to St James’s church. We examined the graveyard. It was vast, a tall stone wall enclosing it with lush ivy growing up one side. The church cast some of it in shadow, but further out the graves were clean and ordered and glistened in the sun. There were many fine ornate tombstones, with elaborate carvings and fanciful headstones. A Cupid plucking a bow and an angel clasping its hands. Its wings proud. A sculpture of a man and woman embracing. Seraphim and cherubim. A stone carved Jesus. A marble Madonna and a piping girl. It was clear that the dead buried here had been of moneyed stock.

  We studied the names on the graves. From one stone slab I took Jeremiah, and from another, Nelson. I saw Emily do the same and we agreed on our monikers.

  We waited under some trees for our first customer. We experienced further disappointment as we had in Manchester, and the same accusations, suspicions and indifference. The first looked disdainfully at our tattered apparel and refused to converse, the second was a pious man who accused us of witchcraft. The third listened to our tale but refused us, saying he’d rather not meddle in demonology. The fourth just shook her head and said not even the dead could console her.