The Dolocher

by Caroline Barry

  Jessop quietly showed his hand and took the winnings. Solomon shuffled the deck ready to start a new game, nodding to Ethel to bring them more drink. Then, sitting forward, his shoulders hunkered, looking out from beneath his brows, Solomon quietly enquired, ‘What’s Hawkins’ game over at the Black Dog, how wide is his scope?’

  Fred tilted his head and tittered wildly, ‘Look at him with his pretty visage thinking he can take the Keeper.’

  ‘I was more interested in business.’ Solomon sat back, letting Ethel refresh the tankards. Fred prodded Jessop in the arm.

  ‘The milksop wants to play with the big boys.’

  Jessop grinned and toasted Solomon’s stupidity.

  ‘Ever hear of Pearly?’ Solomon attempted to catch them out, thinking the name might draw a response.

  Fred shrugged. ‘Sure, and Billy Knox and over the river the Cut with his fancy knife. We know all the boys, me and Jessop do. The high ones, the low ones, and they’re all so busy cuttin’ and slicin’, carvin’ up the city, not knowing what’s to come . . .’

  ‘Fred.’ Jessop’s huge hand closed around Fred’s, crushing it tight. ‘’Nuf said,’ he growled and Fred chortled gleefully to himself.

  ‘Too true, Jessop, too true.’

  Then Fred pushed himself off the bench and did a ridiculous jig, waving his cap and arms to a round of applause, making everyone laugh, his mania weirdly disturbing.

  Reading between the lines, Solomon suspected that a power struggle among the nefarious gangs of the city was about to kick off, and if that was the case he knew he had leverage. Pearly’s meetings with Hawkins made sense now. He was exploring all options, working both sides, and, furnished with this knowledge, Solomon concluded that he could corner Pearly and negotiate a new arrangement.

  He wouldn’t tell Knox about Pearly’s treachery and in return Pearly could settle his account.

  Glad that the evening had not been wasted, Solomon walked Fred and Jessop out, watching them leave, the snow drifting lazily down out of the grey-black sky, falling in wide gentle curves around the two drunken men. They both stumbled down the road, Jessop swaying like a listing galleon, Fred hopping and jumping, before they both swung through the schoolhouse gate and disappeared into the dark. Solomon had gone back inside to convince Ethel to let him stay, flush with the satisfaction that two petty criminals had just helped him solve the problem of his gambling debt.

  This morning the schoolhouse’s chained gate piqued Solomon’s interest. Merriment’s insistence that there was something operating in the Dolocher that required closer scrutiny somehow melded with Fred and Jessop’s behaviour as they left the inn last night. A jagged, tangential line of thinking pricked his curiosity. At the centre of last night’s unfolding drama was an abandoned building, an old schoolhouse. Maybe it was nothing. He didn’t know for certain why; all he knew was he wanted to take a closer look. He watched Corker pull a thin piece of wire from his pocket and begin picking the lock.

  ‘Janey said Merri shot the Dolocher.’ Corker wiggled the wire then paused to carefully lift up the inner mechanism, sucking on his lower lip as he concentrated. Solomon didn’t answer. ‘She said the bullet went straight through him and that he was that annoyed with the pistol that he swallowed it whole.’

  But Solomon’s eyes were searching the pavement, remembering Rosie’s high-pitched scream splitting the air.

  ‘Dolocher!’ Rosie had only had time to scream the name once, but it was enough. Solomon remembered there were three of them left drinking in the pub. Ethel had wanted a lock-in, but most of her crowd opted to be home with their families, so only the single or most determined drinkers agreed to stay and spend the night sleeping on the crooked benches so long as Ethel kept the drink coming.

  When Rosie screamed, the scattered few left in the dimly lit tavern froze, trembling. Ethel and her husband, both pale and blinking, grabbed a weapon: Ethel a large butcher’s knife, her husband a rusty hook.

  A half-blind, lame sailor jumped to his feet and, pointing a finger, shouted, ‘Bar the door. Bar the door. Keep the bastard out,’ but Ethel’s husband led the charge, calling everyone to arms.

  ‘There are plenty of us.’ He pointed to the kitchen. ‘Get a weapon, lads, there’s a maid needs our help,’ and fuelled by home-made poitín they bolted out to challenge the Dolocher.

  Somehow Solomon was first on the scene. Through the falling snow, he could just about make out Rosie’s form: doubled over and sobbing, she clawed at the ground, crippled with pain. Ethel and her husband ran up with a lantern, waving their weapons and shouting for the night watch to come and assist them. Solomon touched Rosie’s head, but then noticed when he turned that there was another woman sprawled on the ground. The lantern, cast on its side next to her, spread a gloomy yellow wash over her body. And moving away, disappearing into the snowy darkness, was the unmistakable form of the Dolocher, its grotesque shadow elongated and hideously climbing over the snow-sprinkled brickwork of the surrounding buildings. Solomon caught the barest glimpse: the oversized head, the wisp of a pointed ear, the folds of thick flesh at the base of the cranium, the breadth of shoulders and a flutter of dark cloak. He stood a moment gazing at the narrow entrance to a side street, feeling suddenly nauseous. Then his eyes pivoted towards the woman on the ground, and his chest suddenly caved when he recognised the sweep of luscious red hair. He ran, knowing in his bones it was Merriment. Sure she was dead, he fell on his knees towards her, pulling her up, hauling her into his arms, willing her to be alive. Her body fell listless against his chest and for a while he rocked her, convinced she had been murdered and all his hopes condensed into a narrow leaden weight somewhere behind his ribs.

  ‘There ye are,’ Corker said triumphantly, as he popped the lock. ‘Nice and dandy.’

  ‘Good lad.’ Solomon slipped in.

  The yard was covered in a carpet of snow, stainless and virgin and absolutely level and flawless. Solomon trod through the thick covering, his footprints sculpting the fine white ice. The vacant schoolhouse had a peaked roof decorated with baroque swirls of granite that were mirrored either side of the keystones above each window. A plaster plaque over the right side of the building contained the word Girls while a parallel plaque on the left read Boys. In the centre, beneath the broken lattice moulding hanging from the gutters, were the ornately carved roman numerals MDCXCVI, denoting the year 1696. Solomon made for the door into the boys’ side of the school.

  ‘What are we going here for?’ Corker asked, as Solomon twisted the door handle and pushed his way into the slender tiled foyer, now empty and freezing. The cloakroom stank of damp mould. Nailed to the wall were redundant wooden hooks and someone had left a battered lantern on one of the windowsills.

  ‘It’s like an icebox in here.’ Corker shuddered.

  Solomon shook the snow from his hair and glanced at the latched door directly ahead. He pushed open the bandy door, kicking it in when it caught on the warped floor tiles.

  ‘There’s this little man, Fred,’ Solomon began to explain. ‘I don’t know if he was cutting through the yard or . . .’

  Solomon stopped dead, astounded.

  ‘Jesus,’ he whispered, his eyes scanning the wide empty classroom before him. The partition dividing the girls from the boys had been disassembled and the chairs and desks were long gone. All that remained were the grimy walls, pierced by windows.

  ‘What the . . .?’ Corker stepped into the room, his blanched face looking left and right.

  The walls were streaked with blood. Brackish runnels emanated from splodges of crimson and drips ran down the tongue-and-groove trim circling the lower half of the room. Blood stained the floor, running into the grout between the tiles.

  ‘Did they kill the children?’ Corker asked, his lower lip contorted with horror.

  Solomon shook his head, stepping towards a bloody handprint pressed into the wall beneath one of the windowsills. He inspected the distribution of the bloodstains, noting the level and line of th
e smears. ‘This hasn’t been a school for years.’

  ‘But there was murder done in here.’ Corker’s voice trembled. ‘We’ve to get the beadles.’ He stood shaking, circling on the spot, checking the walls behind him. He tugged Solomon’s sleeve. ‘The smell,’ he complained. ‘It’s rotten. Is it cadavers?’

  Solomon sniffed the sharp, bittersweet scent. ‘Smells like . . .’ The idea came swift and clear, and with it a new possibility suddenly sprang to life. Solomon frowned, staring a moment at everything around him. Had Fred and Jessop? Did they? It made sense.

  ‘Smells like what?’ Corker squeaked.

  ‘Offal.’ Solomon stroked his chin and stood a moment, contemplating a theory. ‘I think,’ he finally announced, ‘this is where the slaughtered pigs vanished to.’

  ‘Is it?’ Corker gasped, astounded, his eyes darting quickly to the door, convinced that he needed to escape. He rolled up onto his toes, pitching forward, ready to run. ‘Is this the Dolocher’s lair?’ He clutched at Solomon’s arm. ‘We should get out of here.’

  Solomon didn’t respond. His mind raced. A slew of new possibilities suddenly upended his understanding. Merriment’s conversation this morning reverberated through his whole being. Could it possibly be? he wondered. Could her instinct be right?

  ‘Sol,’ Corker whimpered, his brown eyes flicking wildly about him, ‘we should go.’

  ‘Yes.’ Solomon rounded on his heels and marched through the dank building, leaving the interior door open. He slammed the outer door shut and made his way through the thinning flakes towards the Boar’s Den, his mood suddenly shifting from despondency to determination. This changed the complexion of everything.

  ‘Do ye think the Dolocher will know we were here?’ Corker trotted by Solomon’s side, glancing back at the schoolhouse covered in a pristine layer of snow.

  ‘Nope,’ Solomon said firmly.

  ‘Ye touched the handle. He might get a whiff of ye. And I might smell, I dunno, spicy or strong, on account of me youth. What if he follows us?’

  Solomon replaced the lock on the gate and snapped it shut.

  ‘Trust me,’ he said, ‘that is not the Dolocher’s lair. Come on.’

  They left the schoolhouse and walked up the narrow lane to the Boar’s Den. Solomon’s heart beat rapidly in his chest, his thoughts kept shifting and reorganising, orbiting the questions that Merriment had asked this morning. And, quickened by the scene in the schoolhouse, he began to ruminate on the implications of this discovery. While his mind burned, his heart began to muster. Perhaps all was not lost. And thinking of Merriment and Pyrrho’s four questions, he rapped hard on the door to the Boar’s Den. From somewhere deep within a voice growled, ‘We’re not open yet.’

  ‘Ethel,’ Solomon called. ‘It’s me, Solomon Fish. Let me in.’

  Corker bit at the edge of his fingernails, staring down at the schoolhouse windows, keeping watch, wondering where the Dolocher slept during the day. While they waited, Solomon leaned on the door frame, his head bowed. ‘Did you ever see Merriment’s pistol?’ he asked.

  Corker shook his head. ‘The Answerer,’ he said. ‘Janey told me about it. Said it was fancy with ivory on it and some patterns and ciphers.’

  The lock behind the door squeaked as it was dragged back. Ethel slowly pulled it open, her long, white face peeking around the door, her hard, sharp eyes tinged with fear.

  ‘Did she die?’ she asked hoarsely, the hair above her upper lip curiously visible in the bright light.

  ‘No,’ Solomon said. ‘Can I come in?’

  Ethel’s lopsided shoulders fell. She swept a hand through her thin brown hair and stuck her filthy cap on her head, satisfied that the woman she had helped to patch up last night was alive to fight another day. She stepped aside and Solomon and Corker walked into the warm dark interior, letting Ethel slide the lock shut behind them. The room smelled of tobacco and wood smoke and sour beer and was so dark that Solomon moved slowly, giving his eyes time to adjust to the paltry light emanating from the dying embers of the fire. Ethel lit a candle and the flame shot upright, leaving a black trail of smoke behind it before settling and becoming steady. She went behind the bar, fetched three small glasses, pulled down a bottle of whiskey and, without asking, poured three shots.

  ‘Some night,’ she said, lifting the glass. ‘To sinners, may the saints protect them.’

  Solomon raised his glass and Corker copied him, all of them downing the whiskey in one gulp.

  ‘Jaysus,’ Corker coughed. ‘It’s stinging me throat. Have ye milk, misses? Me belly is on fire.’

  Ethel gave him a lump of green cheese. ‘Milk hasn’t come yet,’ she explained, and poured Solomon a second glass.

  ‘I need to talk to you about Fred and Jessop.’

  ‘Oh, aye.’ Ethel’s faded eyebrows barely lifted. Two spots of red popped onto her lined cheeks.

  ‘What do you know about them?’ Solomon asked.

  Ethel took a quick swig and leaned onto the counter, her large breasts resting on her forearms. ‘They used to work on the docks together. The both of them grew up in Rialto. They fight dirty and cheat at cards. Jessop did a spell in the army, long ago. Fred used to be married but the wife ran off with a tanner and then Fred took up with some widow. Sure, he’d a rake of kids, eleven, I think, he needed someone to herd them home in the evening.’

  Ethel kept the drink flowing and Solomon stared bleakly while she topped up his glass. He felt sick. Corker nibbled at the green cheese, surreptitiously letting it drop to the floor to get rid of it.

  ‘Do you know who they’re working for?’ Solomon asked, gingerly twisting the glass between his fingers, too nauseous to bring the whiskey to his lips.

  Ethel shrugged, her drooping goitre wobbling beneath her large chin. ‘Why the interest?’

  ‘Something . . . I just wondered if you knew,’ Solomon said.

  ‘Could be anyone, they’re hands for hire. They’re always over at the Black Dog, or drinking in the Sot’s Hole, they’re fast and loose, and not much good to no one. Although . . .’ She paused a moment, checking Solomon’s face. Last night’s experience with the Dolocher had formed a bond. ‘There’s a rumour . . .’ She sucked through the gap where her two front teeth should have been. ‘Don’t know how true it is,’ she began. ‘There’s supposed to be some new boss in town. Fred, well, you know Fred, can’t keep his mouth shut, said the ol’ boys are in for a fright. The new boss is crafty. Said he’s clever. Smart with a blade. Then he did a dance, ’cause ye know how Fred likes to dance, and said this new lad had outwitted the lot of them.’

  Solomon turned the glass on the counter. ‘Is he working for Billy?’

  ‘That’s what I’m saying.’ Ethel downed her drink and poured another, her eyes glittering. ‘According to Fred, he’s not working for the usual spice or bowman-prig; this new lad, well, he’s making his mark.’ She sniffed and poked her finger into her right ear. ‘All I know is that they’re throwing coin around like they’ve no need for it. World knows their filching it, but how and where they’re gettin’ it is a dark business. Jessop does a bit of work over in the Black Dog; mind you, Fred’s that sparky, I wouldn’t let him near a powder keg.’

  ‘What does Jessop do over in the Black Dog?’

  Ethel scratched her huge chin. ‘A bit of wheelin’ and dealin’ with the Keeper and the guards. Bringin’ in scraps of contraband to sell to the prisoners. Sure, ye wouldn’t know what the pair of them are at.’

  ‘By any chance’ – Solomon gripped the edge of the counter – ‘do you know if they slaughtered any pigs the night the swine were killed?’

  ‘Slaughtered!’ Ethel’s voice pitched and she flung her head back. ‘Sure, didn’t they organise the damn thing. They sat over there and smacked their hands together and Fred hopped up on a table, he’s that short, and let out a whistle to get the attention of everyone in the inn saying, “Now, boys, there’s only one way to catch the Dolocher and that’s to slice his throat. And since he looks
like a pig and hides among the swine, we’ll kill every pig in the city, and as sure as the devil put him here, he’ll die among the herd.” And then he says, “Who’s with me, boys? We’ll catch the bastard, give him a taste of Dublin medicine. We’ll get the devil by the tail and fling him back to hell.” And sure the cheer that went up was mighty, particularly when he told them all that the drinks were on him.’

  Ethel sniffed and dragged her huge hand beneath her drooping nose before wiping it on her apron.

  ‘We did great business that night. The place was hoppin’, burstin’ at the seams. Sure the cellars were drank dry. The lads were armed with every kind of knife and sword and dagger; most of them were seven sheets to the wind, falling out of the door into the mist to kill any stray pig that crossed their path. Misses Higgins flung herself in front of her Daisy, but they hauled her away and killed the pig before her and she weeping and sobbing like a member of her family had been murdered. Bless the poor thing, she loved that pig.’

  Ethel waited, expecting Solomon to ask her more questions. Corker looked around him, wondering if his mother ever came into this tavern to take a sup.

  ‘Right.’ Solomon nodded, satisfied. ‘Don’t let on that I was asking questions about them, Ethel.’

  Ethel nodded briskly, corking up the whiskey and giving the counter a useless wipe with her filthy cloth.

  ‘I take their orders, that’s all, and listen to their blather. I keep me talk to a minimum. The less I know the better.’ Ethel smiled, her breath sour and stinking as it passed through her rotten gums and teeth.

  ‘Ye look pale,’ she said to Solomon. ‘I couldn’t sleep a wink after. I kept seein’ that little baby dead in the snow and his poor mother wailin’ and mad with grief.’ She scratched the back of her neck. ‘But yer landlady is all right?’

  Solomon nodded. ‘She’s hardy,’ he said. ‘She’ll recover.’