The Night Brother

by Rosie Garland

  ‘Oh yes. I have a job in mind. A very particular job.’

  ‘We are particular men,’ declares Joseph. ‘Aren’t we, Mr Jack?’ He grins, top lip peeling away from his teeth, augmenting his rodent air.

  Jack lobs an unflattering epithet at one of the whores.

  ‘I have in mind a particular woman,’ I say.

  ‘Just the one? How incommodious.’

  The word is so out of place that I am close to laughing. I know what side my bread is buttered, so I stow it and nod.

  ‘Nothing too cruel,’ I say grudgingly. It’s a shame, but there’s no way around it. ‘No violence.’

  Joseph scowls. ‘That is a pity.’

  ‘I want her – scared.’ I give my imagination its freedom. ‘Tell her …’ I pause and the Muse descends. ‘… You’re going to kick her into the middle of next week.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he breathes with a smile that increases in malice by the minute.

  ‘Tell her that you’re going to flog her black and blue. That you’re going to strangle her till her face goes puce. Put ground glass in her tripe and onions. Lye in her lemonade.’

  ‘That’s a fearsome amount of work,’ says Jack.

  ‘Don’t do any of it,’ I reply. ‘Just threaten to.’

  Jack frowns. He digs a finger into his ear, rotates it a couple of times, then removes it and inspects the tip. ‘I don’t get it,’ he says.

  Just my luck. I’ve picked cretins. There’s no time to search for better.

  ‘Scare her,’ I say. ‘It’s not difficult. No kicking or thumping needed. Threats. Frights. That’s all.’

  Joseph holds up a finger so thin you could pick a lock with it. ‘We need no instruction,’ he says. ‘We know a good way to frighten the ladies, don’t we, Mr Jack?’

  ‘We do?’ says Jack, tugging a strand of hair bristling out of his nose.

  ‘We do indeed.’

  ‘Oh yes. We know how to put the wind right up them,’ cackles Jack. He pulls out the hair and winces.

  ‘And you’ll pay us?’ says Joseph. I nod. He shoves out his hand and I fill it with the money I filched. It seems far less of a fortune when spread over the spade of his palm. ‘I’d do it without thought of monetary recompense, to tell you the truth.’

  ‘In that case …’ I lunge forwards to sweep the coins back into my own keeping, but he snatches them away.

  ‘This will reimburse my companion and myself for any inconvenience. Expenses incurred, you might say. Thirsty work, so it is.’

  ‘And hungry,’ chimes Jack, scratching his backside.

  ‘Shut up,’ snaps Joseph. Jack shrugs, clearly unbothered by such chastisement. Joseph returns his attention to me. ‘Where shall we find her, young fellow-me-lad?’

  We stare at each other. I am putting it off, I know. For this to happen, I shall have to step aside and let her back in. I shudder at the thought of drowning for another five years. That will not happen, I tell myself firmly. When these two have done their business, I’ll rule the roost again. This is no gamble. It’s a dead cert.

  For all my brave thoughts, I am trembling. I take a deep breath. ‘The Comet on Renshaw Street. A plain beerhouse. I’ll go ahead and—’

  Joseph wipes his paws one against the other, as though washing them. ‘Oh no you won’t,’ he says. ‘You will lead the way. Don’t want you getting any queer ideas.’

  I can’t imagine what sort of ideas they might be. However, there’s no putting him off, so I shrug and head to Hulme with them dogging my heels. We loiter at the junction with Rosamond Street whilst I point out The Comet.

  ‘Let us be crystal clear. No broken limbs. She mustn’t be injured,’ I say.

  ‘I heard you the first time. It’s not our style. Just fun and larks, eh?’

  ‘Frightening fun and larks,’ guffaws Jack.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘That’s right. Like a mouse back into its hole.’

  I grin at the picture this presents. Edie with a pink, twitching nose, too afraid to stick it out. The two men exchange a look.

  ‘Oh, I’ll bet she has a fine hole we can scare her into,’ says Joseph.

  ‘We’ll scare her good and proper,’ titters Jack. ‘We’ll scare her front and back.’

  ‘You can take the back,’ says Joseph in a generous tone. ‘I’m a front-door man myself.’

  ‘What?’ I say. A ghostly presence digs its cold finger into my stomach.

  ‘We’ll scare her so she can’t stand up for a week,’ Joseph continues.

  ‘So she can’t walk for two,’ pants Jack.

  Joseph turns his smiling face to me. I wish he wouldn’t.

  ‘You won’t have a squeak out of her by the time we’re done,’ he says. ‘We’ll put a cork in that mouth of hers.’

  ‘Two big corks,’ says Jack, pummelling the front of his britches.

  My heart sinks into my boots as I tumble to their plans. I hungered for revenge a moment ago. I shouldn’t care. I should cheer them on, waving a rattle. A scrap of my pie comes back up and stings the back of my throat. I swallow.

  ‘No,’ I say, shaking my head furiously. ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘Why not?’ sneers Joseph. ‘There’s no better way to strike terror in women.’

  ‘No other way,’ opines Jack. The flesh of his throat is flushed where it bulges over his knotted neck scarf.

  ‘Quite, quite,’ says Joseph, smacking his lips.

  ‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘I said you can’t hurt her. Deal’s off.’

  ‘Bit late to change your mind now, lad,’ he replies. ‘Not now you’ve brought us all the way here.’

  I pluck at Jack’s sleeve. It’s like trying to get the attention of a brick wall. He turns his head, so slowly I swear the hinges creak.

  ‘What do you want, you little shithead?’ he hisses, spraying me with spittle.

  ‘I said you can’t hurt her. Go on, hop it,’ I say with a great deal more courage than I feel.

  Joseph grasps my shoulder and shakes me like a dog. ‘Too late. You got us fired up and you can’t throw water on the flames.’

  ‘Lay off!’ I cry.

  ‘You asked for this. Begged and wheedled, so you did. Now she’s going to get it.’

  ‘Get her out here now,’ says Jack.

  ‘Or we’ll take you up the back alley and scare you instead. You or her. Your choice.’

  Jack chucks me under the chin. ‘What a pretty boy you are,’ he coos. ‘I’d say you’re nice enough for us.’

  ‘Stop it! Stop calling me pretty!’

  ‘Now, now. No need to get agitated. A fellow never got anywhere by being agitated,’ says Joseph.

  I am way out of my depth. Why does everything I do foul up? I have to think fast.

  ‘Let go!’ I shout, wriggling free of Joseph’s talons. ‘We’re wasting time squabbling. She’s in there. I’ll send her out to you.’

  I have no intention of doing any such thing, but I have to get away from this ghastly pair.

  ‘Not a moment too soon. My fingers are trembling.’

  ‘It’s not good when his fingers get into a tremble,’ declares Jack.

  ‘It’s good for us,’ corrects Joseph. ‘Not good for those who cross us.’

  ‘I’m not crossing you,’ I say with exasperation. ‘Pipe down, hold your fingers in check for one blasted minute and I’ll fetch her.’

  Joseph throws back his head and laughs. It’s a thin sound, like a rabbit having its windpipe cut. I scurry across the road, fly through the door, gallop up the stairs and wedge a chair under the doorknob to bar my nosy mam and nosier grandmother. I pace up and down, cursing the heavens.

  Now what? My mind empties of solutions. I’ve been back less than a day and my plans have landed me in a fix I can’t see my way out of. It’s not my fault. If Edie hadn’t shut me out, I wouldn’t have been forced into this. She brought it on herself. I ought to leave her to it. Let Jack and Joseph do precisely what they want.

  My heart tips over. I can�
��t. I tug my hair in frustration. The tufts remind me, as if I needed it, how deep a hole I’ve dug, and how fast. It’s not fair. It wasn’t supposed to go like this. I peer around the edge of the curtain, hoping that by some miracle they might have got bored and gone away. No such luck.

  Whichever way I try to cut it, I can’t see any way out of this cock-up other than warning her. If I warn her, she’ll be grateful. She has to be. She can’t shove me down again. I breathe deeply to calm myself and fail. My heart is thumping so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t burst out of my chest. I slump on to the bed, groaning and holding my aching head. I’ve been held down for so long it takes me a moment to realise what’s happening. She’s coming back.

  I must do this, now, before the change swipes me aside.

  ‘Edie,’ I say. Too damn quiet. I have to put some zip into it. ‘Edie!’ I bellow. ‘Don’t go out!’

  No use. I sense the tickle of her curiosity. All I’m doing is whetting her appetite. My mind rattles: how do I make her stay indoors once she’s here? She’s so contrary she’s as like to pick up a broom and sweep the pavement. I wanted the wind taken out of her sails, not this.

  I could write a note. However, I’ve not so much as a pencil stub about my person, let alone paper. I don’t have time to ask Mam and deal with her interrogations. I chew my fingernails. Inspiration strikes. I lick my forefinger and drag it through the dirt on the looking glass.

  Stay indoors. Don’t go out.

  My stomach churns. Although it kills me to do so, I scrawl, I am sorry. I didn’t mean it. See that, Edie? I’m sorry. You can’t punish a lad who’s contrite. Don’t keep me down again. I’ve had fewer hours than I can count on the fingers of one hand. Please. You can’t.

  I stand back and survey my handiwork. It’s barely legible. If I can’t see it, she won’t. My privates have commenced their awful contraction. I’ve run out of time.

  ‘It’s not my fault!’ I wail.

  Too late. She’s on her way. The door between us swings open, I fall through and am gone.

  EDIE

  MARCH 1909

  I fall headlong into my body and, when I land, find my nose pressed into a sour blanket. My head pounds as though someone has slammed a door upon it. I raise myself only to collapse afresh as a spike is driven through my temple. It hurts to keep my eyes open, but open them I must. I squint at the light glaring through the uncurtained window and see where I am. My old room at The Comet. I am wearing a pair of ill-fitting trousers and a shirt too short in the sleeve. Gingerly, I run a hand over my head. Shorn to ear length.

  My stomach falls to my heels. Gnome seized his opportunity after the tumultuous events of yesterday evening; that much is clear. As for the Telegraph Office: the angle of the light suggests afternoon. I’m late for work. That is, if this is the day after. Oh God. Let it be Wednesday. No later. I drag myself upright, wringing my hands. If this nightmare were not agony enough, I cannot shake off the sense that I am in danger.

  I peel away Gnome’s britches and shirt and sniff my armpits. What I desire most is to heat a kettle and scrub myself with carbolic soap, but such a luxury is out of the question. I have to be content with cold water from the jug. I peer into the mirror: a half-plucked chicken if ever there was. The glass is slathered with dust so thick I can barely see myself. I bundle the shirt to wipe away a patch when I notice words written in the muck.

  Stay indoors. Don’t go out. I am sorry. I didn’t mean it.

  Gnome. It has to be. I didn’t write it, sure as sixpence. Don’t go out? The cheek of it. I need answers, and if my scheming brother is telling me to stay indoors I can bet they lie in the opposite direction. He’s been back five minutes – I hope and pray – and is already up to his machinations. How very like him to want me in the house under lock and key, the treacherous toad. I’m going out and there’s an end to the matter.

  Despite the brave words, I am unable to shake off a fear that needles and will not let go. I survey the room, which is almost bare. Hardly surprising, as I took my few possessions with me when I quit the place. I cannot stroll along Renshaw Street in my birthday suit, nor can I ask Ma for a skirt and petticoat. I picture her sneer of victory when she discovers I’ve crawled back without even a pocket handkerchief to my name. I have no option but to don Gnome’s malodorous clothes once more.

  I haul myself out of the room and trudge down the stairs. A strange force hinders my steps as surely as if I am dragging chains. I don’t know what the little devil has done to me, but I refuse to be beaten. As I fight my way along the hall, Ma sticks her head out of the kitchen.

  ‘Herb – Gnome!’ she cries.

  ‘Don’t you know your own daughter?’ I snap, puffing with exertion. ‘I’m off out.’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘No you’re not. I’ll not have you two treating this place like a boarding house. We don’t see you for five years and then you’re in and out at all hours without so much as a by-your-leave.’

  She plonks herself in my path. She barely comes up to my chin and I wonder when she grew so small. She can, at least, answer my most pressing question.

  ‘How long have I – How long since Gnome came back?’

  She flaps her hands as though chasing away a fly. ‘Don’t plague me with your nonsense. I can’t keep up with this chopping and changing, him in the day and you—’

  With a rage that comes from nowhere, I grab her shoulders and hoist her off the ground. ‘Tell me!’ I roar. ‘What day is it?’

  She blanches. ‘Wednesday. He’s only been back since this morning.’

  ‘Is that true?’

  ‘Yes,’ she gasps. ‘I swear.’

  I drop her with a thump and slog down the corridor, wading through treacle. One more step, two, and I am at the front door. I twist the handle and stand on the threshold. It gleams the colour of oxblood from a recent bout with a donkey-stone. I gaze up the street, and down. Folk are going about their business: the rag-and-bone cart rattles past; a knife-grinder shoves his cart. No danger that I can see.

  I am quaking, head to foot. Of all the ridiculous – I can’t spend all afternoon in this stupor. I must return to my lodgings, retrieve my own clothes, dash to the Telegraph Office and beg to keep my position. Hard as I try, I can’t budge. My heels are glued to the step. It is most peculiar. I ought to be racing to the nearest tram.

  It is then I see them, motionless amidst the bustle of passers-by, leaning against the wall at the turn of the street: a squat fellow as broad as a gate and a slender man of considered movements, the sort used to picking his way through a world of clumsy mortals. I shudder as though a goose has walked over my grave.

  The short chap turns to his companion and says something. The tall man responds with a brusque gesture. They draw their caps over their eyes, detach themselves from the wall and stroll in my direction. I’ve no idea what business they have with me, but am queasy with a conviction it is not for my benefit.

  This is Gnome’s doing. It has to be.

  ‘Gnome, you bastard,’ I growl.

  The words release me from my spell. I spring backwards and slam the door with a crash that shakes the house. I slide the bolts for good measure. The flap of the letterbox squeaks as a hand pushes it open. I shrink behind the coat-stand.

  ‘Open the door, lad,’ wheedles a voice, gentle as a lamb. The tall man, I’m sure. ‘Where’s the lass you promised us?’

  The flap clatters shut. Of course. I’m wearing trousers and a shirt. They think I am Gnome.

  ‘Send her out,’ says the other. ‘We have a treat for her.’ He snickers, and the sound is cut off by a slap. ‘Ow!’ he cries.

  ‘Shut up, you berk,’ growls the thin man.

  ‘She’s not there, Joseph.’

  ‘She must be. He said she was,’ comes the reply. ‘Perhaps she’s scarpered round the back. You can cut her off in the alley.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘Because I just said so. Besides, it suits your predilections.’

  �
�Huh?’

  ‘Shift your arse. I’ll stop here. I’ll give that lad what for. Mucking us about.’

  I am trapped. I can’t escape by the front door nor the back. I lean against the wall, wondering if I pray zealously enough the bricks might oblige by swallowing me up. I drop to my knees and crawl through the scullery and into the refuge of the kitchen, terrified that the slightest sound will betray my position. I do not want to think what is meant by the word promised. All I know is that Gnome wishes me to come to harm. I can taste it.

  It gives me an idea. Gnome got me into this fix. He can get me out. For once in my life I shall exploit my mannish demeanour to my advantage, use it to flee from these louts and outwit Gnome into the bargain. I creep to the range, dip my fingers into the ash and smear it over my face and hands. A man’s cap – Uncle Arthur’s, I reason – is hooked on a peg. I ram it on to my head.

  I take a deep breath and saunter out of the back door. As casually as I am able, I stroll through the yard and into the alley, whistling. I’ve gone no more than three paces before a hand seizes my elbow and twirls me around.

  ‘Where is she?’

  I am glad it’s the short chap. The taller of the two presents the greatest danger.

  ‘What are you on about?’ I say, affecting a gruff voice. ‘Get your paws off me.’

  He does not oblige. ‘Where is she, you blockhead?’ he says.

  ‘Me, blockhead? You, more like.’

  He deals me a prodigious shake. ‘You cheeky little—’

  ‘We can stand here and argue the toss if you want. While we’re at it, she’s legging it out of the front door.’

  His face falls. ‘The front?’

  ‘That’s where I sent her, isn’t it? Told her to get out there sharpish. I came to let you know.’ His grip loosens a fraction. ‘He was yelling for you. Your mate.’

  He swallows. ‘Joseph?’

  ‘You forgotten who he is?’

  He blinks, chews his lip and releases me. I resist the urge to run. He’d be on me in a trice. I stand my ground, heart hammering. He glances over his shoulder.

  ‘You,’ he snarls, jabbing my chest with a pudgy finger. ‘Stay right there. Don’t you move a bloody muscle till I get back.’