The Dolocher

by Caroline Barry

  ‘Jaysus, poor Ned,’ someone piped up. ‘He’d want the strength of ten horses to cope with you, Molly Jenkins,’ and everyone laughed.

  ‘We’ll send you out, Molly. Ye can lash the Dolocher with that tongue of yours, flay him to death, ye termagant.’

  Far from being insulted, Molly regaled the crowd with quips on how she’d brace the Dolocher between her thighs and smother him with her breasts. And the assault on Merriment and Rosie deteriorated into a comedy about how all the Dolocher wanted was a fine Dublin woman with a bit of go in her to sort him out.

  Solomon took the ribs and hurried out into the snow, racing to Skinner’s Row, keen to finish up his business early. The office was hot as an oven. Corker was asleep before a blazing fire, and sprawled over the desk was an ink sketch of Rosie giving birth in the snow with the Dolocher crouched over her.

  ‘Corker.’ Solomon flicked the young boy’s ear. ‘Uppity-up-up.’

  ‘Sol?’ Corker squinted. ‘I must have dozed off.’ He ran his hand through his tousled hair. ‘Where to now, Sol? The court assizes? The beadles’ office? The garrison on duty last night?’

  Solomon pinched his nose and glanced out the office window. ‘We don’t go to print until Tuesday night.’ He slipped his hands into his pockets. ‘I want to look into a few things.’

  Across the way, two pigeons cooed and pecked along a length of guttering. Solomon slapped the side of ribs he had left on the table. ‘Do you know how to cook pork?’

  Corker shrugged. ‘That’s women’s work.’

  ‘Listen to me,’ Solomon instructed, ‘I want you to go to Ethel’s first and fetch my stuff.’ He flung him a shilling. ‘This should pay for a chair, saves you lugging things through the snow. Go back to Merriment’s and put the griddle on the fire. Oil this, salt it and sprinkle it with rosemary. Don’t ask Janey to do it, she’s busy.’ He wagged his finger. ‘When the griddle is scorching hot put the ribs on it. Make sure they sizzle. It has to sizzle,’ Solomon insisted. ‘It’ll take well over an hour to cook. I’ll be back by then.’

  ‘But what about the schoolhouse?’ Corker squeezed his lips together, sulking at the idea of doing a girl’s job.

  ‘I still have a bit more investigating to do. Meanwhile, we’ll have delicious crackling for supper.’ Solomon tweaked Corker’s cheek and ruffled his hair, curiously feeling in better humour. ‘Now, run along.’

  *

  Merriment was sitting up in bed surrounded by books. She had been visited by Anne and Stella and, despite Mister Shelbourne’s accusations, the shop was busier than usual, most of the customers crowding in to hear Janey Mack’s account of what had taken place the night before.

  ‘Misses O’Grady was helpin’ Rosie, who wasn’t well’ – Janey Mack was standing on the counter and pointing up at the ceiling – ‘when down out of the sky in a whirl of snow came the Dolocher, with the ends of his cloak blazing, the hem still burning from the fires of hell and he screaming like a banshee as he tumbled down out of the rooftops. The Dolocher rushed at her meaning to gore her with his tusk, but she had her pistol made of fine Damascus steel and didn’t she point it and shoot him square between the eyes.’

  The room gasped, enthralled by Janey Mack’s eye for detail.

  ‘Like she did her lover,’ a tall woman with thick black eyebrows told the room. ‘Song says she shot him straight between the eyes when she caught him walking along with his lady gay.’

  ‘That wasn’t true.’ Janey Mack clacked her tongue. ‘The song got it wrong. Johnny Barden became an ostler, settled in Liverpool with a wife and three children.’

  ‘But she’d a brace of pistols.’

  ‘She didn’t,’ Janey Mack sniffed. ‘She’d a single pistol decorated with ivory and rifled to make it shoot better, but that didn’t knock a whit out of the Dolocher. All he did when the musket ball ripped through him was whelp like he’d been stung by a bee, for that’s what the musket ball was to him, nothing more than an irritation.’

  Janey Mack satisfied her audience with choice details. ‘His hands had long black nails pared to points and his feet were cloven. Large boils burst across his chest and there were gaps in his ribs where his rotten flesh had fallen through and bits of bubblin’ intestine could be seen glistenin’ between the bone.’

  She told them that the Dolocher took Rosie’s baby and almost got away with it only Solomon Fish arrived with the militia. When Corker popped his head in and tried to get Janey Mack to cook the pork, he was roundly chided and sent into the anteroom.

  ‘I’m workin’,’ Janey Mack hissed down at him. Then, turning back to the crowded shop, she said, ‘Now, everyone, ye’ve to purchase something to assist the patient upstairs. We’ve powders for to calm the nerves, drops to stop the tremors and drive away the terrors, we’ve tea to cool the mind and honeyed wine to help ye sleep.’ Janey Mack nodded at Anne, who had volunteered to stay and work. ‘Ye tell me what yer ailment is and I’ll do me best and ye give Anne the payment over there.’

  Meanwhile Stella was upstairs feeding Merriment fish stew and telling her over and over again that she would have to leave early.

  ‘My father was in a state when I got home, thought I was surely dead. And to think . . .’ Stella pressed a hanky to her mouth; her long face looked drawn, her eyes marked by dark circles. ‘Ye were almost killed by it.’

  Merriment nodded mournfully. ‘Thank you for staying.’

  Her neck was badly bruised. Large blue patches spread around her gullet and up towards her ears. She accepted the flowery shawl that Janey Mack had given her and wrapped it about her throat to hide the discolouration.

  ‘Used to be me ma’s,’ Janey Mack had said softly and Merriment patted her cheek and smiled.

  Stella slipped away, leaving Merriment alone. She lay back on the pillows, looking out at the sky, and wondered if Solomon would come home early. She wanted to talk to him, wanted to see him. She had relived last night’s attack over and over, and with each recollection she became more certain that something wasn’t right. She gingerly held her side as she settled further in the bed, longing to see Solomon’s face. She wanted to hear his voice, to tell him she had no intention of leaving Dublin, not now, to ask him to come back, to have him put his arms around her. She closed her eyes, remembering Solomon’s spontaneous kiss, and imagined him kissing her again, only to have the Dolocher’s malignant face intrude unexpectedly. And as she tried to sleep, snatches of last night’s attack erupted violently into her mind: the pared white teeth, the oily snout, the roar and grunt, the eyes glaring, the hollowed sockets, the weight, the pressure. She jolted, her arms thrashing until she realised she was in her bedroom. Sinking back, she blinked at the dimming light, amazed that somehow she had slept. She listened to the fishwives in the shambles packing up their stalls and, smoothing her fingers over the bedclothes, she drew in a long deep breath.

  ‘Up,’ she instructed herself, keen for distraction while she waited for Solomon to come home. She pushed aside the covers and climbed out of bed.

  *

  Over at Pue’s Occurrences, Solomon tapped on Chesterfield Grierson’s office door.

  ‘Come in,’ Chesterfield called. ‘Ah, Solomon.’ He smiled sombrely, lowering his glass and leaving it to be contemplated upon later. ‘Dreadful news about your landlady. Corker says you found her.’

  ‘Yes.’ Solomon inspected the map of Dublin pinned to the old cabinet and surveyed the red dots sprinkled across it.

  ‘I’ve added last night’s encounter.’ Chesterfield pointed to a red dot carefully coloured at the beginning of Smock Alley. ‘There has been a meeting of bishops and talk of carrying out an exorcism. We should write an editorial. We should mention Prudentius.’

  Chesterfield offered Solomon a glass of port. Solomon shook his head.

  ‘You don’t happen to collect recent crime reports?’ he asked. ‘Do you have anyone who collates complaints? Or do I need to visit the beadles myself?’

  ‘We wouldn’t be an instrumen
t of up-to-date information if we did not collect the most recent travesties of the law. What do you think they are there for?’

  Chesterfield Grierson waved at the mountain of files piled onto the table nearest the fire.

  ‘Excellent.’ Solomon began rooting through the folders much to Chesterfield’s chagrin.

  ‘Please, please,’ Chesterfield winced. ‘Philmont is meticulous. Allow me. Don’t mess with his excellent filing system. What are you looking for exactly?’

  Solomon pointed at the map. ‘I want any information on robberies carried out near Corn Market House.’

  Chesterfield nodded. His long fingers skated up the stack, drew out one and pulled a sheaf of loose paper from a folder marked with purple string.

  ‘See, it’s organised according to quadrants on the map. He’s colour-coded the districts,’ Chesterfield explained.

  ‘Thank you,’ Solomon said, immediately scanning the reports from the Thomas Street beadles’ office, while Chesterfield amused himself quoting Prudentius.

  ‘“’Tis said that baleful spirits roam abroad beneath the dark’s vast dome; but, when the cock crows, take their flight sudden dispersed in sore affright.”’

  Chesterfield looked bleakly at the glass of port warmly reflecting the fire’s glow. His quote fell on deaf ears. For a while he stood watching Solomon read.

  ‘Did you know that the word hell relates to the word hole?’ Chesterfield said at last. ‘It’s derived from the Anglo-Saxon word helan, meaning “to hide”.’

  ‘Is it?’ Solomon was only half listening. Chesterfield was in a gloomy mood. He had overdone it at Margaret Leeson’s Dolocher party and now was wracked with guilt for merely having imagined what it would be like to roll with Margaret on a soft bed. Because of his sinful imaginings, he indulged in remembered fragments of scripture and oddly gathered facts relating to the devil.

  ‘The word devil derives from the Old English deofol, which means “a nuisance” and is related to the Greek disbolos, “an accuser” or “slanderer”.’

  No reaction from Solomon. Chesterfield gazed into the flames flickering over the logs in the fire.

  ‘In ancient texts, demons were considered to be mischievous or malignant entities with unnatural abilities,’ he said. ‘Normally they didn’t appear in a religious context, it was only later that the belief emerged that demons could possess people. Then they were held responsible for causing disease, even splits in the personality, and in that context the word demon evolved from the Greek daimon, emanating from the verb “to divide”.’

  Solomon nodded absently and slid his finger along a list of names, noting the dates of court applications, and quickly read one plaintiff’s testimony in particular. I had two fine candleholders made of beaten silver and a porcelain vase given to me by my mother-in-law. I had four knives and forks and twelve silver teaspoons and a clock that came from Italy and chimed on the hour. Three hairpins were taken, one carved from ivory and inlaid with mother-of-pearl, one with a gold filigree border and the other shaped from gold and silver intertwined. All my lace mantles were taken and . . .

  ‘Ulrich Molitor was a professor of law at the German University of Konstanz.’ Chesterfield gave in and sipped at the glass of port. ‘Responsible for the publication of De Lamiis et Pythonicis Mulieribus. Anyway, in it Molitor says that the devil can shape shift into any form he wants. Like our Dolocher taking on the form of a pig. Of course, for a long time pigs have been associated with demons, and the goat; actually the goat is probably more commonly considered a satanic creature.’

  Chesterfield Grierson looked out the window. ‘And women,’ he added forlornly. ‘They are long affiliated with demonic forces.’ Chesterfield moved across the room and sat in a fine embroidered chair, crossed his legs and recalled the bacchanalian delights of the previous evening. ‘Some women are so pretty,’ he sighed. ‘And they move . . .’ He waved his hand. ‘They have limbs that seem to glide and sometimes they allow their fingertips to linger, and I swear to God the fire they stoke with their pert lips and silky tongues, like delicious succubi . . .’ Chesterfield closed his eyes a moment, wishing he had never seen Margaret Leeson and her den of iniquity. His head hurt and his heart was filled with shame. He was so preoccupied with the ailing condition of his dilapidated soul, and promising to never, ever again allow a sinful thought to take full form in his mind, that he did not notice Solomon grab an armful of files and maps until it was too late.

  ‘Where are you going with all of that?’ Chesterfield half rose from his chair.

  ‘I need to study these,’ was all Solomon said. ‘I’ll be back for more.’

  ‘I don’t think . . .’ Chesterfield protested mildly, but Solomon was already down the stairs and out in the street hailing a sedan chair.

  ‘Wait here,’ he told the carriers. ‘I’ve more to fetch.’

  He was rushing out of the office when Philmont beckoned him and quietly asked, ‘Mister Fish, I’ve been calculating the takings and there is a matter of five shillings outstanding.’

  Solomon’s stomach lurched; he tried to hide his fluster as he recalled handing over the five shillings to Pearly at knifepoint in the alleyway.

  ‘Yes, yes, I know about that.’ Solomon turned and promised, ‘That’ll be sorted.’

  He loaded up the chair and instructed the carriers to walk with him under Skinner’s Row Gate out onto Cork Hill and over to Fishamble Street, his brain buzzing, trying to figure out how quickly he could replace the money he’d taken to pay off Knox. He ruminated over possible solutions, leaving the carriers to grumble all the while that the snow was bad for business.

  ‘Bloody Aldermen refusing to throw down hay or sand or boards at least, useless bastards.’

  When he pushed open the door into the apothecary, it was empty. The bell that announced customers tinkled cheerfully, the notes bouncing over the glass cases, but no one appeared. He went back outside, his breath coming in white billowing pillows from his mouth. Overhead the sky was dimming, the clouds scattering, and a handful of bright stars glittered yellow-gold above the rooftops. The fishwives were packing up and the market traders were making their way home early, cautiously navigating the cobbled streets. The snow had already begun to harden and crunch underfoot. The chair carriers were sharing a nip of brandy when Solomon scooped up an armful of files from the velvety interior and asked them to give him a hand bringing in the remainder. He was stacking the scrolls over the countertop when Janey Mack stuck her head out of the anteroom.

  ‘Sol!’ she beamed, then calling back over her shoulder she chirruped, ‘Sol’s here.’ She jumped out into the shop, grinning, and announced, ‘We’re dividing the pork,’ her eyes wide with appreciation as she watched Solomon pay the chair carriers handsomely for their trouble.

  ‘What’s all that for?’ She pointed at the papers, but Anne emerged from the anteroom, rushing past and calling ‘wait’ to the rheumatic men, who were lifting the chair ready to park for the night and head home. ‘Can ye take me to Hanbury Lane?’

  ‘But the pork?’ Janey Mack wailed.

  ‘More for you,’ Anne grinned, pinching the little girl’s cheek as she dived into the chair and snapped the oak half-door closed.

  Janey Mack waved her off and locked up, turning the sign in the window to read Closed.

  Across the way, a man swinging a silver-topped cane, dressed in a thick worsted jacket and wearing a beaver-trimmed hat, idly occupied himself by pushing the snow off the edge of the path onto the road with the tip of his boot, his eyes occasionally shifting over to the shop. On seeing the sign flipped, he drew out his pipe and lit it, watching two drays pulling a wagon full of freshly barrelled porter manufactured at the brewery on James Gate as they sloped past.

  Solomon found Merriment standing at the table dividing out the darkly coloured ribs, while Corker’s eyes bulged with disbelief and Janey Mack stared at the meat being portioned as though if she looked away it might disappear.

  ‘Jaysus, me mouth is wa
tering that much, there’s no point in swallowing, just gushes back up again.’ Corker could barely breathe with anticipation. ‘Doesn’t it smell that fine? Must be how King George eats every evening.’

  Janey Mack picked a little grit off the griddle and popped it into her mouth.

  ‘Hey!’ Corker jolted her, then looked for his own piece of grit to steal.

  Merriment smiled at Solomon and said, ‘Thank you for supper,’ but there was something about his expression that made her pause. He stood at the threshold, his sombre face lit by the lantern near the door, his expression intense and curiously anxious, and without coming in he indicated that he wanted to see her in the shop, away from the children.

  Merriment responded to his signal and handed the little girl a fork. ‘You divide out the potatoes, Janey.’

  The shop was filled with brooding shadows. The countertop was obliterated by wads of bound manuscripts and scrolls, and Solomon looked agitated and uncertain as he stepped close to her, taking her arm and quietly clicking the door shut.

  ‘Are you fit and well enough to be up?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Merriment nodded.

  ‘You’re sure?’ he checked again, his expression full of concern.

  ‘Yes,’ Merriment reassured him.

  He reached for the shawl about her neck and slowly drew it back, wincing at the purple bruises spreading in a dark fan up towards her ears.

  ‘They look bad.’ He swallowed.

  Merriment nodded, her fingertips reaching for his hand.

  ‘I . . .’ She needed to say something, but all she could remember was the brush of his lips on her mouth. Solomon’s expression darkened.