Avon Street

by Paul Emanuelli

  After a short interval there was a knock on the door and John entered before he had time to reply. ‘I wondered where you’d gone. I went out this morning to purchase the weapons,’ he said. ‘I’ve put them in my room. We should practise now.’

  The words chilled James to the core of his being. ‘I know how to use a sword,’ he said, ‘besides the noise would alarm Mrs Hawker.’

  ‘She’s busy in the kitchen. You may have some skill at fencing, but Wood will not fight as you are used to fighting.’

  James followed him upstairs. John produced the swords from beneath his bed and the two men began sparring. John could use a sword almost as well as James, though his technique was very different. Whilst James had the greater finesse, John was much the stronger. On the first occasion that the blades locked diagonally, John began pushing him back with his sword arm and shoulder. ‘Wood will always try to get in close, where strength counts more,’ John said.

  ‘Then I will sidestep or draw him on,’ James said, momentarily resisting the force John was exerting.

  ‘And how will you counter this?’ John said, producing a knife from his boot with his left hand and holding it under James’ chin. John laughed. ‘Don’t forget I will be your second. I’ll make sure as best I can that he has no weapons hidden about him before the duel, but you must watch his other hand as much as his sword arm. A punch may be as effective as a knife and a handful of dust can blind you for vital moments. He may try to kick you, or head-butt you in a clinch, use his elbows and forearm or sweep your legs. Harry Wood is no gentleman.’

  He sparred with John for the rest of the morning and they resumed practice again in the afternoon. Gradually James began to anticipate John’s strategies and ruses. ‘I can’t teach you everything in a day,’ John said after several hours of sparring. ‘But you learn quick and you’re good with a sword. Rest now and get yourself right for tonight.’

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  Belle stood in the wings, looking out on a full and silent house; a sea of faces held spellbound by one man’s performance. At that moment she knew she was probably the only one who was not watching Mr Macready. Instead she watched the audience’s wrapt stares, following him as he prowled the stage like a hungry predator, demanding their attention, sucking them into another time and place, commanding that they forget where and even who they were, and to accept that he was for that moment Macbeth. The audience was mesmerised, as though each one of them were alone; a privileged bystander in Macbeth’s cold castle, watching the dark tale unfold, watching the man who would sacrifice everything to be king.

  The rumours that had preceded him left little doubt as to Macready’s nature. Touring in America, he had argued with another actor and it had led to a full-blown bloody brawl between hundreds of their respective followers in which several had died. It was also common knowledge that he regularly fought with his manager, though it was equally well known that his manager was a rogue.

  Belle was still unsure as to whether or not she actually liked the man. He was moody and given to sudden fits of temper, but it did not matter what she thought of him as a man, for as an actor he had already changed her life. From the moment of his arrival he had taken command of the theatre and everyone in it and reminded her of what it was possible to aspire to as an actor.

  Cauldfield had managed to stand up to Macready for all of thirty seconds. He had greeted him on arrival in his usual way, introducing himself as the leading man, blustering and shouting in what he obviously believed was a convivial, but commanding manner. Macready had ignored him and when his blustering faltered he turned to him and told him he would not be required until rehearsals on the following day. Arrogance had met its match, in greater arrogance. When Cauldfield replied that he never rehearsed with the minor players, Macready said, ‘If you do not rehearse with the full company, then you do not share the stage with me.’ Cauldfield had been very quiet at rehearsals.

  It was the words that mattered to Macready and what lay deep within the character. Even when they were rehearsing and the theatre was empty it might well, as far as he was concerned, have been packed to the gunnels with the most appreciative audience possible. Belle watched his every movement and hung on his every word for days. She gradually felt her understanding grow and with it her sense of presence on the stage.

  The first night had been well enough received, but the audiences had grown more clamorous on each succeeding night and she had felt her confidence grow. So great was the demand that on the closing night they had put on an extra performance. It sold out within hours of being announced.

  Yet as she looked over now towards the stage box, a sudden dread swept over her; the theatre was packed but that box was empty and she had begun to think of it as Harcourt’s box, even though she had not seen him since the night of the assault.

  As the door at the back of the box opened she waited, half expecting to see Harcourt emerge and begin his mocking. She felt her confidence weaken. But when the door opened it was Mrs Macready that she saw, smiling encouragement. Then as she waited for her cue she felt as though someone else was watching her, yet she felt no fear but only comfort. The sense of being observed was so strong that she looked over to the opposite side of the stage, turned to look behind her. It felt almost as though her mother and father were there, willing her on. Then the feeling left her as she stepped out from the wings.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  James hugged Mrs Hawker for the second time that day. He told her he was going into town for a while. She seemed uneasy and he wondered if she suspected that something was wrong, but when he told her that John would be with him she looked decidedly more comfortable with his going out.

  They left the house before the sun had begun setting. John had reasoned that a walk through the city would help settle nerves and loosen limbs for the contest to come, and James was glad to be doing something other than waiting. He paid little heed to the comings and goings around them as they walked through still-busy streets and the sprawl of market stalls which seemed to increase and spill everywhere at that time of the evening.

  The normality of life took James aback, as if a part of him expected ordinary activities to be suspended in deference to his circumstances. But his own life, he realised, no matter how real its problems, was largely a matter of indifference to the world in general. He might well be at the centre of his own universe, but he was forced to accept that he was largely irrelevant in the lives of even this small pocket of humanity. Yet at that same moment his sense of being was never stronger and the value he placed on his own continued existence had never been greater.

  The noise of the factories backing onto the river by Pulteney Bridge fought and fused with the sound of the weir below. As he and John walked on, across the bridge, neither of them even glanced at the shops that lined its sides, staring straight ahead, oblivious to their surroundings. At the beginning of Argyle Street they reached the entrance to the narrow winding steps which tunnelled beneath the buildings lining the road to the river beyond. Brendan was waiting for them.

  ‘Are they there?’ John asked.

  ‘They are so,’ Brendan replied. ‘And they’ve kept to their word, as far as I can tell. There’s two of them and Diarmuid’s been keeping a watch on Caine’s house. If there was any sign of more joining them then he was to let me know, but I’ve heard nothing.’

  ‘Get back home now,’ John said.

  ‘Please watch out for Father Sean, and tell Diarmuid the same,’ James added. ‘I have an uneasy feeling about Caine.’

  Brendan shook hands with them both. ‘We’ll watch his back and God be with you.’

  The passageway down to the river was dark and damp and James hesitated as he led the way, allowing his eyes to accustom themselves to the sudden darkness after the glow of the gas lamps in the street above. The steps were slippery and the smell of damp and urine heightened the pressure of the grimy sweating walls.

  Feeling his way cautiously, step by step, James emerged from the t
unnel and came out on a half landing where the remainder of the steps straightened before descending to the riverbank below. The light was better now, and he could see the way more clearly. James was turning to speak to John when the lead ball shot past his ear like an angry wasp, the sound of the blast echoing almost instantaneously in his head.

  He ran down the remainder of the steps and along the riverbank in the direction he judged the shot to have come from. A second gunshot rang out, muffled by the sounds of the factories and the weir. He heard John stumble and fall behind him and turned to check if he had been hit, but John was already getting to his feet, waving him on. James ran towards the sound. He could now make out the shapes of two men standing in among the trees which lined the riverbank. ‘You killed my brother!’one of the men shouted.

  As James reached Harry Wood, the man was desperately trying to reload his pistol. James launched himself at Wood’s waist and they both went crashing to the ground. From the corner of his eye he saw John Doyle making for the other man, Wood’s second. The man turned and fled down the riverbank and John set off in pursuit.

  James had winded Harry Wood as he tackled him. He knew at least for a moment he had the advantage. But they were wrapped too close around each other and James’ punches made little impact on Wood’s torso. Then Wood tore his arm from beneath his body and raised his pistol. He only caught James with a glancing blow to his head, but the shock of the blow was enough to stun him momentarily. He felt his strength draining, and his grip on Wood’s body loosened.

  Wood leapt to his feet and began kicking him in the stomach and chest and legs. James curled instinctively into a ball to protect his head and reached out with his right hand to grab Wood’s leg. He managed to throw him off balance, pulling him crashing down on top of him. Struggling to hold Wood down, he could already feel the man tearing himself free, getting to his feet again.

  As he looked up James saw Wood pull the long knife from the sheath at his belt. He felt strangely calm, almost resigned to what was about to happen. Then he heard the shout. Wood turned, distracted for a moment. James brought his right leg back and kicked him in the groin, sending him reeling back towards the river, doubling with pain.

  By the time Wood had recovered, John Doyle stood facing him, his own knife drawn. The two men circled, each waiting an opportunity to strike, then Wood lunged forward with a loud cry. John brought up his left arm and caught hold of the wrist of Wood’s knife arm with his right, but dropped his own knife in the process.

  Both men were strong and struggled for control of the knife. John brought his knee up into Wood’s stomach, but as the man went down his weight pulled John after him. The two men rolled across the ground and John turned the knife towards Wood’s chest. James watched, unable to move, not knowing how to intervene as their bodies locked together.

  Wood let go of the knife and left it behind them. James fought to regain his breath as he struggled to his feet and picked up the knife. The two men were now rolling away from him with increasing speed towards the riverbank. By the time James reached them, they had plunged over the edge and into the deep waters of the river below.

  He could see the two bodies in the river now; the undertow from the weir was pulling at them, throwing them around like wooden dolls. Wood was hanging onto John, neither man able to raise their heads above the waters for any length of time. Then both of them were sucked under the thundering dark chaos of the water.

  James fought the impulse to dive in. There was nothing he could do from here other than to be pulled into the current himself. The pain of the kicking he had received wracked his body as he struggled to move. He ran as fast as he was able down the path at the side of the river. His chest felt as though every breath of air had been sucked from it. He took a deep breath and the pain knifed through his expanding lungs.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  As the evening drew on, Caine tried to shake himself from his melancholy. He was in the foulest of moods as he had been for days now. Everywhere he looked there seemed to be problems. He was back to having to send the men around in twos again, after three of them had been attacked in two days. It seemed to have stopped now, but he couldn’t take chances and yet everything seemed to take twice as long to plan and organise.

  Then there were the housebreakings that Harcourt had set up. The first of them had gone well enough and they’d carried away a tidy amount of silver plate, but the second had been a fiasco. Harcourt had knocked a saucepan from the kitchen table on their way in and all hell broke loose. They got away all right and without injury, but the house had supposed to have been empty and it wasn’t. Some flunkey had raised the alarm and they had ended up taking nothing and having to run. And there was still the worry of the third job. He’d put it off as long as he could, but Harcourt was still demanding it be done before Lansdown Fair.

  Caine wanted to hit out at someone; to get rid of his frustration. He realised there was no one now he could rely on to do anything. Harcourt was leaving and Harry Wood could think of nothing but taking revenge on Daunton. He couldn’t trust Jeb anymore, either; he always seemed to be sneaking around sticking his nose where it didn’t belong.

  He found himself thinking about the robbery of Harcourt’s house and the safe being opened. There was only one man who could open that safe without a key and that was Charlie Maggs. He was a cunning one, that Maggs. It’s strange how he hadn’t seen him for months and then he turned up on his own doorstep, in The Pig and Whistle. There’d been something odd about him that day, and that stranger with him.

  Caine tried to compose himself, taking up the newspaper and sitting in his favourite chair by the fire, but he had barely sat when Jeb burst into the room. ‘There’s a pick-pocket at the front door, someone we’ve done business with, says he has important news, but he’ll only speak to you.’

  Caine stormed up the stairs and opened the door. The man took one look at him and for a moment Caine thought he was going to run, ‘Well, what have you got for me?’ Caine said.

  ‘Beg pardon, Mr Caine,’ the man said, ‘but there’s a little Irishman up at The Pelican in Walcot Street. He’s drunk and telling everyone who’ll listen that he’s got a gang.’

  ‘What’s his drunken talk to do with me?’ Caine asked.

  ‘He says he’s robbed your men and driven them into hiding.’

  Caine pushed a sovereign into the man’s outstretched hand and turned to Jeb. ‘Fetch Harry Wood.’

  ‘Harry went out a while ago with one of lads … Lem, I think,’ Jeb replied.

  ‘You’ll have to do then,’ he spat. ‘Send the men out to find Harry and lock up and come after me. You’ve faster legs than mine so make sure you catch me afore I get to The Pelican.’

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  Below the weir James saw the two bodies emerge from the pounding waters. He dived in, striking out towards the nearest of them, hoping it was John, the shock of the cold water momentarily numbing his pain.

  John’s body was limp and motionless when he reached him. James grabbed hold of the collar of his jacket and began swimming back to the bank. For a moment he thought he felt him responding, but it was only the current dragging at his body.

  As he dragged John’s lifeless body through the mud of the riverside, James heard a cry and looked back across the river. Harry Wood’s arm was raised above the surface for a second or two. James walked back to the river’s edge, feeling the mud dragging at his legs, draining the last of his strength, the stench of the river effluent driving the last of the air from his lungs, but when he looked up again the surface of the river was unbroken and Harry Wood was nowhere to be seen.

  James wrapped his arms around his chest to ease the pain and made his way back to John’s body. He was lying on his front, his head to one side, his face to the ground and his mouth and nose barely clear of the mud. Seizing hold of his jacket collar again James dragged him clear of the mud and up to the path, laying him on his back.

  It was as though the movement had reki
ndled some life in John and seconds later he began coughing and spluttering. James feared he was choking. Kneeling closer to him he pulled his arms forward forcing John’s body into a sitting position. John struggled for a moment, gulps of river water spewing from his mouth as he struggled to breathe.

  ‘You’re alive!’ James said.

  John punched him weakly on the shoulder, still coughing. ‘And it must be thanks to you,’ he said. ‘All those years at sea and I never learnt to swim.’ He was smiling now. ‘Where’s Wood?’ he asked.

  ‘Drowned, there was nothing I could do.’

  ‘It’s as well,’ John said. ‘There was a powerful amount of hate in the man. He’d not have rested till he’d killed you.’ John struggled to his feet.

  ‘You should stay still for a while until you’re recovered,’ James said.

  ‘No, we need to be away from here as quick as possible and take away any trace that we’ve been here. I owe you my life, James.’

  ‘You owe me nothing,’ James replied, ‘I have only repaid a little of what I already owed to you.’

  The two walked down the pathway, each with an arm around the other, though neither was capable of providing much support. They retrieved the two swords and picked up Wood’s pistols and knife that lay at the side of the riverbank and replaced them in the velvet bag. There would be no evidence that any fight had taken place that night, save for the body in the river. Wood’s body would be badly bruised, no doubt, but he bore no wounds to indicate anything other than a drowning.

  ‘What happened to the other man?’ James asked.

  ‘I left him up the path.’

  ‘You didn’t kill him?’ James asked.

  ‘No,’ John replied. ‘We faced up to each other and then he looked like he was going to run. I couldn’t have him fetching Caine, so I caught him and hit him. I don’t know if it was the blow or the fall that knocked him out, but he’s still alive.’

  With what little strength they had left the two returned to the road and made their way home.