Sweet Songbird

by Sweet Songbird (retail) (epub)

She waited, breath bated.

  ‘The New Cambridge,’ he said. ‘You’re in, Songbird, you’re in.’

  (iii)

  How the three of them finished up in a dockside drinking den at two o’clock in the morning she never afterwards remembered. Carried along by the men’s exuberance and her own excitement she protested not at all at being swept from place to place in a giddy progress that was marked on the part of her companions by the emptying of an unlikely number of bottles of strong spirits and on hers by singing until she was all but hoarse. She was lifted onto chairs, onto tables, onto bars, and she sang. And the pimps and the prostitutes, the dockers and the seamen, the bully-boys and the swell-mobsters sang along with her. Once, in the shadowed crowd, she caught sight of a face that tweaked her memory uncomfortably – a cadaver’s face, gaunt and unshaven, with disconcertingly bitter eyes. She glanced at Luke. He had one arm about Jem’s slim shoulders, in his other hand was the inevitable glass. When she looked back at the crowd the face had gone.

  They clattered through the night amidst a mob of friends and drinking acquaintances. It was not until they found themselves, in the early hours of the morning, seated at a quiet table in a corner of a sprawling dockland pub that Kitty at last had a chance to talk privately with Jem.

  ‘Jem, it’s so good to see you again! How was Paris? And the painting? Have you come back to us to stay?’

  He shook his head. She noticed that through a hard night’s drinking, despite the smile on his lips, his eyes had remained quite disturbingly sober. ‘I’m on my way home.’

  Luke was at the bar, getting drinks. As always, wherever he went in this mood, it seemed, he had discovered friends and was engaged in entertaining them. A roar of laughter almost drowned Jem’s words.

  ‘But I thought—?’ She stopped, uncertain what to say.

  He smiled, sadly. ‘The war’s over, Kitty. It’s finished.’

  It came to her with something of a shock that she had neither seen nor read a newspaper in a year. ‘I didn’t know. What – what happened?’

  ‘You mean who won?’ He played with his glass for a moment. ‘No one.’ He lifted the glass, drained it in a movement.

  She watched him.

  He pushed the glass aimlessly around a pool of ale on the table top. ‘My Pa died,’ he said at last. ‘I thought – that is – I can’t leave Ma and Cecilia to cope alone. God knows what’s left, but I have to try—’

  Kitty remembered what he had said of his mother and sister and their feelings towards him when they had spoken in the Cremorne Gardens. A small frown furrowed her brow, but she did not speak.

  ‘I have to try,’ he said again, for all the world as if she had voiced her doubts.

  She covered his hands with her own. ‘It’ll be all right. I’m sure it will.’ In her own ears her voice did not exactly ring with conviction.

  He shrugged. ‘Well, if they won’t have me back’ – his smile did not quite disguise the pain behind the words – ‘Paris will always be there, I guess.’

  Some noisy altercation was taking place at the bar. Kitty heard Luke’s ringing laughter. She glanced to where he stood, easily leaning against the bar, head tilted provocatively. She could sense the mockery in his stance from where she sat. He did not even glance her way. The burly, red-faced docker to whom he was speaking said something, and Luke replied. The onlookers at the bar howled with laughter again. The big docker’s colour heightened further. Smothering a faint unease, Kitty turned back to Jem, who had spoken and was awaiting her reply. ‘I’m sorry?’

  He was watching her, strangely intent, the pale, clear eyes searching her face. ‘I said – you, and Luke – I wasn’t surprised.’

  She found herself flushing. Looked down at her clasped hands.

  ‘You’re sure you know what you’ve taken on, Songbird?’ The words were light, but the expression in the pale eyes was serious. ‘That’s one hell of a – Great God! What the devil’s he up to now?’

  The uproar at the bar had reached riot proportions. The docker that Luke had so obviously been baiting was drunkenly stripping off his waistcoat and grubby shirt, revealing even grubbier underclothes. He was built like a bear and had hands the size of hams. ‘Oh, yes? You an’ ’oo’s bleedin’ regiment, gypsy?’

  Luke was still laughing, but his face was dangerous. Kitty half-rose in her seat. Jem put out a swift hand to restrain her. He shook his head. ‘He won’t thank you.’

  There was a sudden clattering and scraping of chairs. Miraculously a space appeared in the centre of the room. Men clustered, grinning, to watch the fun. A small rat-faced man had leapt onto the bar and was taking bets.

  ‘Two to one against the gypsy!’ ’

  ‘A guinea on Rozzer!’

  ‘Five that ’e don’t stand up two minutes. I’ve seen Peveral fight before.’

  Luke, unhurriedly, had stripped off his jacket and kicked off his shoes. Not once did he glance in Kitty’s direction. She suspected he had forgotten her existence. His dark hair slicked down across his forehead, the narrow gaze was intent. He showed no sign whatsoever of the enormous amount of alcohol he had consumed. The other man, too, faced a little disconcertingly by this suddenly dangerous-looking opponent, seemed to have sobered.

  The two men circled each other warily.

  ‘Can’t we stop it!’ Kitty asked of Jem.

  He shook his head.

  A roar went up as the huge Rozzer leapt suddenly at Luke, who sidestepped lightly, chopped painfully at the other man’s kidneys and then was across the sawdust floor, poised and waiting before the heavier man could turn. He grinned wolfishly, made a little, mocking, beckoning motion with his hand. Like the bear he so much resembled the other man charged furiously at him. Again Luke dodged, but this time not quite so smoothly, and a fist like a hammer caught the side of his head, rocking him. In one movement he ducked and turned acrobatically, coming up inside the other man’s guard. The sound of knuckle upon bone made Kitty flinch and she closed her eyes. When she opened them again blood had appeared on Rozzer’s broad face, and Kitty remembered the heavy ring that Luke invariably wore and saw it suddenly and for the first time as less an ornament than a weapon. Luke had stepped back and was standing easily, waiting, his dark face alight with the reckless enjoyment of the moment. Kitty turned her head away. Jem’s hand touched hers. Another roar brought her eyes back to the conflict despite herself. Rozzer had Luke in the bear’s grip of one arm, whilst with the other he was pummelling the slighter man’s body with brutal force. With a strange, twisting movement Luke turned, and ducked and – incredibly – his heavier opponent flew over his shoulder and crashed to the floor.

  The silence of astonishment held the room. The man who had put his money on Luke grinned happily. Luke himself stood back from his prostrate opponent, bouncing on the balls of his feet, half-smiling, eyes watchful.

  Rozzer lay on his back, winded, his feet tangled in the wreckage of a smashed chair. For a moment he seemed totally stupefied, then with an enraged growl he rolled over and came to his feet with surprising speed. Instead of retreating, however, Luke stepped straight into the enraged attack; in a blur of movement he blocked the blow that was aimed at him, caught the man’s flailing arm and once again the unfortunate Rozzer soared, somersaulting, into the air to crash with painful force onto a table that disintegrated into splinters beneath him. The shouts of the crowd held laughter now. This was better than a circus act.

  ‘What’s the matter, Rozzer, can’t yer keep yer feet?’

  ‘Come on, Rozz – my old woman’d do better’n that!’

  Very slowly Rozzer pulled himself to his knees, head hanging, great shoulders heaving as he struggled to gain his breath. One of his supporters leant to him, as if to help him to his feet. The big man stood and slowly turned.

  In his hand now he held a great metal hook, a tool of his trade, a shocked Kitty guessed, used to help haul the great sacks of carcasses the dockworkers handled. He lifted it. The spike wove a brutal pattern be
fore Luke’s still face. The man who had handed it to Rozzer stepped back, a small grin of satisfaction on his face.

  Where the knife came from Kitty did not see. Nor, she was certain, did anyone else. One moment Luke stood empty handed. The next a blade glittered, slender and lethal, in his fingers, lightly held.

  She caught her breath, heard that same exhalation from a dozen throats. The men around the arena shuffled back a little.

  Rozzer had frozen where he stood. The knife spun in the air, glimmering, as Luke tossed it up, reversing it, catching it delicately by the razor-sharp blade, standing poised to throw as Kitty had seen stage performers do.

  ‘Aw, come on, gypsy,’ one of the onlookers asked, uneasily, ‘is that fair?’

  Luke did not move a muscle. ‘Drop it,’ he said to Rozzer, softly. The laughter had gone entirely from his face. It was stone hard now, and frightening.

  Rozzer stared at him. Sweat streaked his broad, florid face, his eyes glinted still with the red fire of rage.

  ‘Drop it,’ Luke repeated, very quietly.

  With a roar the other man leapt for him, his brute strength carrying him and the lethally swinging hook across the short distance that divided the two men. Luke moved swiftly. Kitty saw the flashing movement of his hand and the glint of flung metal. The hook nicked Luke high on the cheekbone. A scarlet thread of blood appeared. And then the other man was down, howling, clutching his shoulder, the hook skittering away across the sawdust floor. Quick as thought, Luke stepped in before anyone could stop him and brutally flicked the knife from where it had buried itself up to the hilt in the flesh of the other man’s shoulder. Rozzer shrieked. Kitty flinched. Unhurriedly Luke wiped the blood from the blade and the knife disappeared as magically as it had earlier appeared.

  Rozzer moaned.

  ‘Fair fight,’ someone said. ‘Rozzer pulled the ’ook first.’

  There was a murmur of assent. Rozzer groaned as several pairs of unsympathetic hands hauled him upright. ‘Best get Doc Aherne.’ The barman, entirely calm, was wiping down the bar. ‘If ’e isn’t too pissed ter stand upright that is. ’E’ll patch ’im up.’

  Luke picked up his jacket, brushed it off, shrugged into it. He seemed utterly composed, the rhythm of his breathing barely altered. Only the high stain of colour in his dark face betrayed him, and the slender thread of blood upon his cheek. That, Kitty thought, fighting nausea, and the light of pure excitement in his eyes.

  She watched him as he came towards her. Those dark eyes were a little wary as they met hers, yet still gleamed with that unholy excitement. No one could doubt that he had enjoyed this short, violent encounter that he had so cavalierly provoked. She looked away from him.

  ‘My apologies.’ His voice was cool. ‘If you’ll spare me one more moment I’ll see the landlord about the damage.’

  As he walked away she caught Jem’s eyes on her, and knew that he guessed her feeling surely. He took her hand. ‘He’s a violent man, Kitty,’ he said, ‘from a violent background. He can’t help it.’

  Matt’s excuse. She said nothing.

  ‘He’s had to fight since he could walk. Dog eat dog. He lived in a world where the strong survive and the weak go to the wall.’

  And he enjoys it. Still she sat in silence.

  The warm pressure of his thin hand was comforting. ‘You’ll never change him, Kitty.’

  ‘I know.’ She did not see, beneath the sympathy, the strange shadow of sorrow in the pale eyes.

  ‘Right, that’s settled. Time to go, I think.’ Luke had materialized again at her side. She knew from his eyes that he sensed her horror – sensed it and rejected it. She trailed behind him to the door, all eyes upon them. As she passed through the door and turned to hold it for Jem, who was warily bringing up the rear, a face in the crowd behind them leapt out, unsmiling, watchful, puzzlingly familiar. A face she had seen before, this evening, in another crowd, in another tavern.

  Minutes later, as she ran down the deserted, darkened street, hurrying to keep pace with the men’s long strides, the name associated with that face clicked in her mind like a key unexpectedly fitting into a strange lock.

  Oliver Fogg.

  Chapter 7

  (i)

  Kitty told Luke about Fogg the next day, when she met him to tell him of the outcome of her meeting with Patrick Kenny. He frowned, pensively. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Certain. It isn’t a face you easily forget, is it?’

  ‘Interesting.’

  She watched him. Neither of them had touched on the potentially explosive matter of the fight. Luke, when he had greeted her, had acted as if nothing more than usual lay between them. Kitty, who, since Jem was staying with Luke for the duration of his short stay, had had the quiet of a long night alone to brood upon the violent events of the evening, knew neither how to broach the subject nor, if she were honest, what she would say about it if she did. She did not want to quarrel. Neither did she want to express openly the revulsion she felt, for fear of the breach it might cause between them. She understood well that what Jem had said the night before was the truth; Luke was a man who had lived since birth in a harsh and perilous world. The casual acceptance and use of violence was not to be wondered at in a man of his background and occupation. But the disturbing fact was that in her heart she knew that no matter how she loved him she would never learn to accept that – as she could not, try as she might, close her eyes to the way in which he earned his living.

  ‘I’ll keep an eye open,’ he said now, referring to Fogg. ‘So – what news from Kenny?’

  The excitement she had been tamping down since she had left Kenny’s office stirred again. ‘I’m to be given a spot next month at the New Cambridge.’ Her attempt to sound casual failed dismally. ‘Mr Kenny says the act needs polishing a bit – the Cambridge is no penny gaff – if I can make it there—’

  ‘You’ll have London at your feet.’

  ‘Well – not quite that. But it’s a start. A marvellous start. If I can do it.’

  ‘Sure you can. No question.’ Jem, who had been sitting quietly at a table with chalks and paper, stood up now and presented her with the drawing he had been working on. ‘There. A farewell present. To remember me by when you’re famous.’

  She stared in delight. ‘Jem! It’s lovely!’

  ‘I sketched it last night, while you were on stage. You like it?’

  ‘I love it!’ Impulsively she kissed him. ‘It’s the Dipper to the life! Though you flatter him a bit, I think!’

  ‘Not at all.’ Jem took the drawing back and looked at it for a long moment. ‘Not at all,’ he repeated, then, tossing the paper onto the table, he stretched lazily. ‘Well, if you two don’t mind I’m off for a farewell stroll round my second favourite city. I’ll see you later, down at the Rooms.’ He slung his cap at a rakish angle upon his fair head, raised a hand. ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do—’

  When he had gone the silence was long and faintly uncomfortable.

  ‘Something worrying you?’ Luke asked softly at last.

  She looked at him, a thousand words crowding her tongue, a thousand protests, arguments, pleas. ‘No,’ she said.

  He tilted her chin, kissed her lightly. ‘Then let’s do what Jem so thoughtfully left us to do. Come to bed.’ He stepped back, hands held up placatingly. ‘All right – do what you have to do first. But hurry.’

  After their lovemaking they lay in silence for a long while, Luke’s head cradled upon Kitty’s shoulder, her fingers in his thick, straight hair. Kitty had given up all thought of tackling him about what had happened the night before. The opportunity had passed, as he had no doubt intended.

  ‘What are you thinking about now?’ he asked.

  She hesitated. ‘I wanted to ask your advice.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Luke – I have to get away. From here. From Moses.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, quietly.

  ‘Will he let me go, do you think?’

  He rolle
d away from her, onto his stomach, came up onto his elbows, dark hair flopping into his eyes. ‘He’ll let you go.’

  ‘What makes you think so? Moses seems to believe that he owns anyone and anything that comes within five miles of him – anyone but you, that is. But I won’t let him stop me. I can’t. I’m leaving. And’ – she glanced a little nervously at his calm profile – ‘I want to take Pol with me, if she’ll come.’

  To her surprise he threw back his head and laughed. ‘God, girl, you don’t believe in doing things by halves, do you?’

  She did not reply to that but there was stubborn resolution in the set of her mouth. ‘Luke – I’ve thought about it – thought about little else over the past few weeks. I won’t stay here. He’ll have to kill me to make me stay.’

  He opened his mouth to speak. She rushed on.

  ‘Matt won’t come – I know that – nothing will persuade him. He’s got what he wants.’ She tried to suppress the bitterness in her voice at that. ‘At least he thinks he has. I can’t change him. But I can’t let him stop me.’

  ‘He wouldn’t want to.’

  She turned her head on the pillow. ‘I know.’

  ‘I believe he thinks that he’d be no good to you. That he’d spoil your chances.’

  ‘And I believe it’s got more to do with an itch to thieve and that girl he’s fallen for.’

  ‘Sally-Anne? They’re still seeing each other?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’ll find himself in trouble with Moses there if he isn’t careful. Moses doesn’t take kindly to anyone messing with the girls in The House.’

  ‘I know. I’ve told him. He won’t listen.’

  ‘P’raps I’d better have a word?’

  ‘You can try, but I don’t think even you could influence him over this. He says he’s in love. Perhaps he is.’

  Luke grinned. ‘For the third time this month?’

  She did not respond.

  In one of those strange, gentle gestures that from him always struck her to the heart he reached a long finger to her face, stroking it. ‘Don’t worry, Songbird. I’ll handle Moses for you.’