The Dolocher

by Caroline Barry

  ‘Rubbish and clutter.’

  ‘Is there a fireplace?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Maybe we could clean the rubbish out.’

  ‘Could turn it into your room, I suppose.’ Merriment tried to hide her smile.

  ‘I was thinkin’ that.’ Janey Mack grinned from ear to ear.

  ‘You’re some operator, Janey. Anyone ever tell you that?’

  ‘Hoppy John said I was made for the law. That there were enough turns and alleys to me thinkin’ to bombast a judge. He said I could trick a barge from underneath the feet of a skipper if I put me mind to it. But honest to God, miss, I wasn’t operatin’ for to take advantage of the situation. It just seems a waste of a perfectly well-constructed room to be sleeping in on top of ye here when yer working at night.’

  ‘Very thoughtful of you.’

  Merriment finished up the bandage. She hadn’t the heart to tell Janey Mack that the room was used for storage because the roof leaked and the fire smoked and, if truth be told, she couldn’t afford to keep four fires burning even if three of them were only being lit at night.

  ‘What time is it, miss?’

  ‘Maybe you should start calling me Merriment.’

  ‘If ye like. I thought Solomon would be home hours ago. He’s unreliable, isn’t he, miss? Gets away with murder ’cause his face is pretty. I’m supposed to put on a chop for his supper. But sure it could be burnt to a crisp before he darkens the door . . . and I’ve to set a fire in his room.’

  ‘Oh,’ Merriment frowned, looking at the clean bandage. ‘I forgot. I’ll do it.’

  ‘I’ll come with ye.’

  Janey Mack carried the candle. Merriment brought the scuttle and the kindling. The stairwell appeared narrower and higher in the gloom. Janey Mack gazed at her lengthening shadow creeping up the dark walls. Occasionally the candle flame trembled on the painted yellow breast of a trapped canary. During the day the wallpaper was cheery; at night it became melancholy and morbid.

  ‘Maybe Sol is gone to see Boxty,’ Janey Mack whispered, frightened by her own shadow behaving like a detached being. ‘Do you want to go in first?’

  She opened the door, too terrified to go into Solomon’s room in the dark. Merriment brushed past knowing by instinct the direction of the fire. Janey Mack followed.

  ‘On consideration,’ she whispered, glancing across the landing to the third door. ‘Maybe it would be better if I slept in your room.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ Merriment said, holding out her hand. ‘Give me the candle.’

  The kindling hissed and sparked in the fireplace. Janey Mack was just about to sneak a peek into Solomon’s bags when there was a knock on the front door.

  ‘Bet that’s himself.’ Janey Mack took off. ‘Come on.’ She waved her bandaged hand. Merriment set two logs on the hissing flames before leading Janey Mack down the stairs.

  When they opened the door it was the little girl who reacted first.

  ‘Holy mother of God, what happened to your face?’

  Solomon was leaning against the door frame with two blackened eyes, a broken nose and a loose tooth.

  ‘Maybe you’ll let me in first,’ he said, clutching his ribs.

  Merriment sat him down in the chair nearest the fire. She fetched water, fresh lavender, bandages and arnica, while Janey Mack pumped Solomon for all the information.

  ‘I was robbed,’ Solomon groaned.

  ‘Ye poor divil. Where?’

  ‘In the Black Dog Prison.’

  ‘In the prison?’ Janey Mack squealed. ‘Isn’t that shockin’, miss?’

  ‘By the Keeper.’

  ‘Ye know who robbed ye?’ Janey Mack looked from Solomon to Merriment and back again. ‘Are ye sure?’ Janey asked.

  Merriment set about cleaning off the last of the blood caked around Solomon’s nostrils.

  ‘Ow.’

  ‘Mind him, that’s sore.’ Janey Mack stood on the stool to get a better look at things.

  ‘Thank you for that,’ Merriment said. Then looking at Solomon, she said, ‘You know it’s broken.’

  He nodded.

  ‘I can fix it straight if you let me splint it up.’

  His vanity getting the better of him, Solomon nodded again.

  ‘I’ve to push the cartilage into place. It’s going to hurt like hell.’

  ‘Ye can bite down on a stick,’ Janey Mack said, looking at the kindling spilling out over the fender. ‘Hoppy John had to when he was gettin’ his leg cut off proper.’

  Merriment gently rubbed arnica around Solomon’s bruised eyes.

  ‘I think Solomon is bold enough and brave enough to do this without the stick. I need to get at the nose and not have anything barring my way. Janey, go to that drawer over there and look for a wooden box with a red circle on it and bring it to me.’

  Janey Mack did as she was told, chattering all the while.

  ‘Did ye get the beadles to arrest the Keeper?’

  ‘Pointless,’ Solomon groaned. ‘He beat an inmate to a pulp, that’s how I got involved in the first place.’

  ‘Trying to stop him beating a prisoner up?’

  ‘He took everything,’ Solomon winced, retracting his head away from the slightest pressure of Merriment’s index finger as it slipped near his inner eye and down along his swollen nose.

  ‘Here you are.’ Janey Mack watched Merriment open the box and pull one nose splint after another out, until she found one that was the best size.

  ‘They’re like triangles,’ Janey Mack told Solomon.

  ‘It’s going to be tight, and I’m going to be firm,’ Merriment warned him. ‘Ready yourself. Sit with both feet on the ground, both hands holding the sides of the chair and rest your head on the back.’

  Solomon did as he was told and Janey Mack took up her position on the three-legged stool. Merriment reached her left arm over the back of the chair. Turning a little to one side, she bore down on Solomon, her right knee crossing the tops of his legs, and, leaning hard on him, she crushed the small splint quickly and firmly along his nose. Solomon let out an almighty yell and launched forward, howling and thrashing and clutching his face.

  ‘Jesus, mother of fucking Jesus.’

  ‘Done and dusted. Now, sit back down and I’ll bandage you up.’

  Solomon couldn’t see, his eyes were watering so much, and the pain was cutting through his head, sending shocks down his whole body. He doubled over, his face buried in his hands, whimpering like an injured dog. Janey Mack dragged her lips away from her teeth, hissing with sympathy.

  ‘That nearly killed him, miss. Are ye all right, Sol? Are ye all right?’

  ‘Bloody, mother of divine . . .’

  He pulled his hands away and sucked his mouth in, his eyes still smarting.

  ‘What a bloody day.’

  The pain was beginning to subside. He shoved his loose tooth further up into his gum and sat down glumly, ready to be bandaged.

  Merriment wrapped him under the ears and across the nose and then under the chin and over the crown of the head so that he looked half mummified.

  ‘You’ll have to report the incident to the Board,’ she said.

  ‘It’s my word against his,’ Solomon groaned. ‘And who knows me? Who can vouch for my character? The man’s a tyrant. I wouldn’t mind but I had it on good authority to watch out for him.’

  Corker’s words still rang in his ears.

  ‘What were ye doin’ in the Black Dog in the first place. Ye think ye’d avoid it like the plague considering the Dolocher.’ Because she couldn’t wring her hands Janey Mack had developed a new habit of opening and closing her right fist as a way of releasing her worry. ‘Are ye soft in the head?’

  ‘I’d been given a tip.’

  Solomon moaned and grabbed his carpet bag, tugging out a sheaf of paper, a battered tin box containing a quill, some loose nibs and the small cubed bottle of Roman shellac that Merriment had sold him.

  ‘I’ve to write .
. .’ He suddenly flung his quill down, grabbed the tin box and lobbed it across the room. It clanged noisily against the wall, and knocking against a huge jar, rang it like a bell.

  ‘What the . . .?’ Merriment stepped back.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Solomon stood up. ‘I’m sorry.’ He sank back down, ashamed and frustrated. ‘I can’t afford to pay the printer. The Keeper robbed all my money. The one story that has a follow-on and I can’t write it to sell it. People promised me they would be back tomorrow for more and I have more and I can’t . . .’

  Solomon stared at the floor.

  ‘How much do ye need?’ Janey Mack asked, creeping closer and looking intently into his face.

  ‘Four shillings. I had twenty times that in my bag. It was the best day’s selling I ever had.’

  His shoulders suddenly lifted. Something struck him and Merriment drew back her head, straightening up, knowing what was coming next.

  Don’t ask, she recited over and over. Don’t ask.

  ‘The deposit. One week, if I could take one week back. You’ll have it tomorrow afternoon.’

  So used to smiling and dazzling people with his eyes and light manner, Solomon pleaded, oblivious to the fact that his greatest asset was now battered and swollen and wrapped in a bandage. Merriment took a deep breath and pushed her feet into the ground. She felt off balance, tipping sideways. The land was more uncertain under foot than the sea.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, remembering her pistol lying up on the table in her bedroom. ‘On principle, never a borrower nor a lender be.’ She knew she sounded priggish but she folded her arms over her chest and, drawing on her logical side, she quickly outlined the impossibility of giving Solomon back his money.

  ‘It’s spent. On stock, on firewood, on the chop for your dinner.’

  Solomon nodded.

  ‘Of course, I shouldn’t have asked. You don’t know me. And it looks bad, a stranger . . .’ He rubbed his knee over and over. ‘I swear to God.’ He shoved the chair back and fetched the tin box he had flung away. ‘I feel like I’ve an albatross about my neck. I’m a magnet for bad luck and misfortune.’

  He sat back down and looked up at Merriment, his two eyes swallowed in folds of dark red flesh.

  ‘I should never have asked. I am sorry.’

  Janey Mack rubbed the fingers of her right hand over her thumb and stared breathlessly at Merriment waiting for her to fix things. Merriment pulled a chair closer to the fire and sat down.

  ‘Will ye have yer chop, seein’ as ye paid for it an’ all?’ Janey Mack asked.

  Solomon laughed his short laugh which made him clutch his side and catch his breath.

  ‘I will, Janey love, thank you.’ Then waving his quill, he warned her. ‘Don’t make me laugh now, or my head might literally fall off.’

  Janey Mack fetched a pan and slapped the pork chop into the sizzling lard, every now and again glancing up at Merriment expecting her to say something. Solomon opened his bottle of ink and dipping his quill in, he began writing.

  ‘Are ye still writing a broadsheet anyway?’

  ‘I am, Janey.’

  ‘Even though ye’ve no money?’

  ‘I might persuade the printer . . .’

  Janey Mack looked over at Merriment, who was gazing into the fire, her face picked out by the light, her long curls shining. She crossed her legs, resting her chin on her hand and her elbow on the side of the chair.

  ‘What’s to write about?’ Janey Mack wondered. Solomon told her. The little girl brought his chop to the table and handed him a knife and fork.

  ‘All the saints and angels in blessed heaven,’ she exclaimed. ‘Ye think the Dolocher devoured the man!’

  ‘Looks like it.’ Solomon dived on the plate, starving, a rush of saliva bursting into his mouth. He sawed a sliver of pork, popped it into his mouth and moaned loudly, realising that it was agony to chew.

  ‘Oh, my teeth,’ he grumbled, chewing delicately, trying to get the meat to melt.

  ‘And the gun didn’t kill him?’

  Solomon shook his head. ‘Sure, how could a musket ball penetrate a demon?’

  Janey Mack nodded seriously.

  Merriment roused herself.

  ‘Time for bed, Janey. We’ll put a fire down in my room and I’ll leave you with a candle.’

  ‘Sure is it even nine o’clock?’ Janey Mack didn’t want to go to bed.

  ‘No arguing, you need your sleep. Come on, say goodnight to Mister Fish.’

  Solomon paused, aware of Merriment’s formality. His request for money had driven a firm wedge between him and his new landlady. Janey Mack didn’t move.

  ‘Do ye like me new dress and jacket, Sol?’

  ‘You know what, Janey, you look pretty as a picture. I was so wrapped up in myself I never even complimented you on your lovely dress. And what a pair of boots.’

  Janey Mack gave a little curtsey and then quick as a flash pulled off her boots, her jacket and her new shift. She stood in her petticoat, her bandaged arm waving in the air.

  ‘There,’ she announced, grinning from ear to ear.

  ‘Well, you’ll win a prize for speed,’ Solomon told her.

  Janey Mack picked up her boots and new clothes and plopped them on the table in front of Solomon.

  ‘Ye’ll fetch two and six for these in the pawnshop round the corner.’

  ‘Janey.’ Merriment’s jaw dropped. She launched forward, touching her forehead, confused. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Sure, I’ll have them back by tomorrow afternoon. He’ll make a killin’ at the market with that story and get them back for me. Won’t ye, Sol?’

  Solomon felt crushed, his lungs compressed as he swallowed back a whelp of agony.

  ‘I – I can’t . . .’ he stuttered.

  ‘I’ll give Mister Fish the money,’ Merriment said, tapping Janey Mack’s shoulders.

  ‘Thought ye’d spent it?’

  ‘Janey, you’d hang the apostles.’ Merriment couldn’t help laughing. ‘I have a little put aside for luxuries like food and fuel. Now, take the candle and your boots and your new clothes. Go on. Up you go.’

  She patted Janey Mack’s arms, missing the quick wink the little girl gave to Solomon.

  ‘I’ll be up in a minute,’ Merriment said. ‘And Janey. That was a very nice thing to do.’

  ‘You’re the best girl in all of Ireland,’ Solomon said, grinning painfully. He wished he could crawl into a corner and wake up yesterday.

  ‘See you in a bit.’ Clutching her bundle of clothes close to her heart, she took the candle in her injured hand and manoeuvred through the door.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Solomon hung his head again.

  Merriment felt a perplexing mix of shame and guilt.

  ‘No,’ she shook her head. ‘I’m sorry.’

  She went into the shop and, unlocking the cash box, took out eight shillings. When she came back into the room Solomon was staring gloomily into the fire.

  ‘You’ve had a bad day. I will need the full amount back tomorrow.’ She placed the stack of bright coins on the table.

  ‘That’s more than I asked for.’ Solomon couldn’t move. His hands lay in fists on the table.

  ‘If you do a double print run, sell it for two pence ha’penny, you will make it back ten-fold, I guarantee you. I heard people talking about the Dolocher in the shop today. Word is spreading. And you’ve the story, you know . . .’

  Merriment shrugged her shoulders. She remembered days like this at sea. When the wind blustered and blew and ripped the sails. Those were the days when the ship listed, and masts creaked, when rations spilt and the churning waters sent foam and fever over the bow. Those were the days Beresford would come below and steal a ration of brandy from the sickbay stores and tell her, ‘Stand fast now. Nothing like hardship to build the character.’ She recollected that all voyages met obstacles and unforeseen catastrophes. The only way to ride out the storm is to go with the wind and the wild water and trust that the
sea won’t drag you down this time. She looked at Solomon’s broken face and gave a half-smile.

  ‘Things will get better,’ she said, more to herself than to him.

  Solomon nodded.

  ‘You’ll get it back,’ he said firmly.

  And Merriment left him, hunched over his broadsheet, his quill scratching furiously on the white paper, his eyes bleary and bloodshot, his jaw throbbing, the recollection of Martin Coffey’s remains glistening in the bucket sending a shiver down his spine. He wrote for a good hour, until finally he sat back and looked at the stack of bright coins glowing in the candlelight. He tapped them with his index finger and carefully pocketed the lot. Putting away his quill, he moved stealthily, tiptoeing through the shop. He quietly slipped into the bustling street and made his way towards the Cock and Hen on Cooke Street, convinced that with a good hand he could replenish his losses.

  9

  The Hiding Well

  Sunrise was gold and pink. Janey Mack stood on the window seat looking down on Fishamble Street. She recognised the old man with the cart carrying cockles, and the milkmaid with her quart jug and stool, driving two cows before her. She saw Solomon cross the road, his head like a cracked egg. He knocked on the printer’s door and was let in.

  ‘Here you are.’ Merriment handed the little girl a pair of green woolly socks.

  ‘Do you wonder why he’s so sad?’ Janey Mack asked, slipping her feet into her new boots.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Sol. I mean, he smiles a lot and jokes, but he’s sad. Isn’t he?’

  ‘He’s been robbed and beaten,’ Merriment replied.

  ‘Before that. He was sad the first day we saw him.’

  Merriment frowned. She hadn’t noticed anything particularly melancholy about Solomon. She shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea, Janey, perhaps everyone is sad.’

  ‘You’re not.’

  ‘You’re right. Now come on, chatterbox, let’s have breakfast.’

  Merriment fastened on her holster, slipped the Answerer inside and buttoned up her waistcoat.

  When she opened up the shop, she was stunned to find a line of middle-aged and elderly women queuing to come in.

  ‘Morning.’ She held the door open as five women, all cloaked and gloved and dressed in worsted skirts, filed inside.