A Violent Man ( the story of Thomas Flynn )

by Michael Siddall

  *

  The next morning, a new day dawned in a haze of soft sunlight that crept slowly across the Nottinghamshire countryside. Birdsong filled the air and once again Thomas stood upon the walls of the Abbey looking out across the fields and meadowlands. The day was as beautiful and fresh as any other summer day, but it wasn’t going to stay that way for very long.

  Down the road in the distance through the shimmering heat haze two riders hooded and cloaked approached, followed by a long column of rising dust. He squinted against the light of the sun to recognise the horses because he couldn’t make out the riders faces. It was Dardo and Dody in a mile-eating gallop, heading his way. He waved and they waved back with an air of urgency. Suddenly they turned sharply leaving the Old Nottingham Road, taking a short cut across the fields, the horses’ manes streaming out, and having jumped the narrow river they soared across a large dry ditch and came to a shuddering halt at the gatehouse door. Both horses whinnied, bucking on the verge of sheer exhaustion, their coats lathered in sweat. Thomas stared down at his friends. ‘You rode like the winds to get here, what burden do you bear?’

  ‘A huge crowd has gathered in Gallows Square and they're planning to hang three men they believe responsible for the recent murders,’ said Dardo.

  Thomas stared hard at his friends, the grim news digested in silence.

  ‘They’re innocent,’ said Dody. ‘We know the men; they’re half-wits and not guilty of any crime. The angry mob just wants retribution. We've got to do something.’

  Thomas suddenly saw his dead father’s bloated face float before him as he considered his friends remarks and he nodded. ‘Yes, hanging is a bad way to go, particularly if you’re innocent. Not that anyone has ever told me of a good way to go,’ he said without hesitation. There was a gleam in his eyes and he looked like the fearless swordsman he once was. He turned quickly, disappearing from the wall. Moments later there was a loud creak as the Abbot opened the gates and Thomas was sat there astride his white stallion. The next moment all three men were in a thunderous gallop heading back down the Old Nottingham Road.

  *

  In Gallows Square the ringleader of the mob looked around him, scanning the angry faces. There was the light of madness in the crowd’s eyes. Some of the people were tall, some small, some fat, some thin, some young, some old – in fact all were completely different except for the look of pure hate in their eyes. It was fuelled by the desire to kill, and they didn’t really care whether the three men were guilty or innocent.

  ‘Hang them! Hang them! Hang them!’ the crowd chanted in unison as the men were dragged, kicking and screaming towards the scaffold steps, and as each reached them and began to struggle, the ringleader stepped forward, smiting them hard on the back of their head with an iron bar. Then, one by one, the mob hauled or dragged the men up the ten steps and tied their hands behind their backs. A noose was looped over their heads and tightened around their necks and the terrified men sobbed, whimpered and urinated in their patchwork leggings as they awaited execution.

  ‘Have you any last words, you sons-of-whores?’ asked the ringleader as he grabbed the gibbet release mechanism lever, tightening his grip.

  ‘We didn’t do it. We didn’t kill anyone,’ sobbed one of the men.

  ‘Please believe us. We had nothing to do with the murders,’ sobbed another.

  ‘We’re all innocent,’ announced the third man trembling uncontrollably, ‘for God’s sake don’t hang us.’

  The ringleader of the mob tightened his grip on the lever a little more, smiling at the men. ‘Frankly, I don’t give an owl’s hoot whether you did or didn’t commit the crime, because I’m going to hang you anyway,’ he whispered with a sneer. He hawked and spat in one of the men’s faces and laughed. The mob cheered and yelled. ‘Hang the lot of them.’

  The ringleader began to put his weight on the lever and the three men could feel the bolts beneath the trap door loosen, moving slightly. Again they sobbed and whimpered as the whole gibbet shuddered. He added more weight to the lever and laughed sadistically, enjoying himself as the gibbet shuddered again.

  Suddenly, the thunder of hooves roused the mob and the ringleader’s hand froze on the lever. Then the crowd all gasped with shock as three horses galloped towards them with the riders spurring them on, digging their heels into the horses’ flanks. Moments later, they came to a shuddering halt beside the scaffold steps and Thomas stared hard at the ringleader’s heavily tattooed face as his horse bucked, rearing high into the air. ‘Release the men, Mace, they're innocent of any crime,’ he said dismounting.

  ‘What are you talking about, we have signed confessions?’ countered Mace.

  ‘I’m sure you have. And I can see how you got them, by the bruising on the men’s faces. Let them go home to their wives and children, you’ve had your fun,’ Thomas said with a snarl.

  ‘God’s teeth man, they’re guilty as hell and this mob wants blood,’ Mace snapped back.

  Dardo and Dody sat their horses in silence, blinking nervously. The gathered crowd were definitely out for blood and it didn’t seem to matter whose it was.

  ‘I see you for what you are Mace. You were Ozhan’s lackey and now you're his son's lackey. Well, Nottingham is our home and we'll defend it against cutthroats like you,’ said Thomas, a steely glint in his eyes. ‘You may have the face of a demon, but I have the speed and power of one.’

  Mace was a giant of a man with huge muscled arms and a barrel-chest who could crush most men’s bones by simply grabbing them, and Thomas had grated on his nerves for a long, long time. He laughed. ‘By God man, you think too highly of yourself.’

  Thomas’ eyes were fever bright as he considered the comment. ‘And you are a mindless aberration of nature without a conscience, living only to inflict pain upon the weak and innocent. But bear in mind – you ugly son of a bitch – that I’ll always be here to protect them,’ he snapped back.

  For a heartbeat Mace stood stock-still, and then he yanked the lever and the three men fell through the trap door of the gibbet, kicking and screaming. ‘Then let me see you protect this trio before they fade away,’ he said.

  Thomas lapsed into silence, staring into Mace’s glittering eyes. Then he drew his hunting knife from the hidden scabbard of his boot, throwing it without a second thought. ‘Rot in hell you miserable bastard,’ he snapped, drawing his swords as he vaulted up the scaffold steps in one huge leap. The hunting knife missed Mace and slammed into the upright of the scaffold by the side of his head. He drew his sword and stormed forward. Thomas leaned to the right, his left foot slamming into the giant man’s stomach, hurling him from his feet and he slumped to the gibbet howling in pain.

  Dardo and Dody sat their horses, mesmerised by their friend’s speed, while Mace struggled to his knees and climbed to his feet. ‘You scum-sucking bastard,’ he snapped, slicing air wildly. ‘I’ll kill you, you whoreson.’

  ‘Not if I kill you first,’ countered Thomas, spinning on the spot with both of his blades slicing through the hangman’s ropes like butter, cutting the men free. They fell screaming into the shadows beneath the scaffold steps.

  Mace attacked again, his sword slashing towards Thomas’ head, but the two short swords flashed up to parry the stroke. However, Mace was ready for the move and spun to his right, slamming his fist into Thomas’ face, who staggered back, vision blurring. Then he aimed a slashing cut at his head again, but Thomas surged upright, his left-hand blade snaking out pricking Mace’s stomach, tearing skin and muscle. He reeled back in shock. ‘You better kill me, because I swear I’m going to kill you,’ he snapped.

  Thomas grinned. ‘You’re not that good.’

  Mace launched himself forward, the move catching the other by surprise, and before he could respond his blade slashed down almost decapitating Thomas, missing him only by a hair’s breadth.

  It was then that Dody let fly with his sling, striking Mace high on the head, staggering him. He fell from the scaffold in an unconscious s
tate, striking the floor heavily and the mob began to disperse immediately. Thomas breathed a sigh of relief.

  ‘There was a time when I almost fancied his chances,’ he admitted.

  ‘Inactivity can make fools out of the best of us,’ said Dardo wiping the sheen of sweat from his brow, ‘and you've been in prison for a whole year.’

  Thomas nodded. ‘That’s true, and quite a profound statement for you to come out with.’

  ‘He’s been brushing up on his English language as well,’ said Dody.

  Thomas laughed. ‘That’s good to hear, his grammar was appalling. The last time he wrote me a letter he doubled a negative, split an infinitive and left out the commas.'

  Dody laughed too. ‘Well now he can prattle on with perfect punctuation.'

  The three friends all laughed and then the heavens opened, making the mob disperse even quicker. It began to pour with rain and thunder rumbled overhead. Moments later they were all huddled under the scaffold tending to the three wretched men that Mace tried to hang.

  ‘Were we glad to see you,’ one of the men said with a sigh.

  ‘Thought this was my last day on earth,’ said another, his eyes misted with tears.

  The third looked traumatised and couldn’t utter a single word. He just stared into space as if in a trance.

  *

  At the Dog and Duck the next morning, Thomas awoke early in the faint light of dawn. Rolling to his feet from his bed he left Lira and the children fast asleep and dressed quickly, swinging his sword-belt around his waist. And as the sun rose in the west the temperature began to soar. It was going to be a hot day – but it was also going to be a day he would never forget.

  For over a year life had dealt with him unkindly and he had endured much pain and suffering in prison, and sometimes even the thought of death had a kind of sweetness to it that he could almost taste. However, his warrior’s spirit and stiff resolve had brought him back from the brink of madness and begun healing his mental scars. Now though, he was still confused and uncertain about his future, and about the future of Nottingham. All he knew for sure was that Master Gallus brought him up on stories of heroes and chivalry, and no hero would ever give up on his cause – no matter what.

  He had woken cold and shivering, the murderer’s insane laugher drifting into his mind. ‘I know your every move,’ the voice now mocked.

  Thomas ignored the disembodied voice. ‘And I know yours and will avenge the dead, for I'm a swordsman and not a killer of women,’ he countered. He looked down into the flickering flames of his fire, trying to visualise every detail of the murderer. However, he had never once seen the murderers face in his dreams or visions because the killer purposely avoided mirrors and windows, which might cast his reflection, and with such sombre thoughts in his mind he was finding it increasingly difficult to sleep at night and it showed in his face.

  He sighed letting his thoughts drift. ‘You really do exist and I'm not insane, although I sometimes wish I were. But one day very soon I'll recognise you, and then you'll be locked away or hanged for your heinous crimes,’ he said. To this there was no reply, only the same mocking laughter in his mind.

  With the dawn came pangs of hunger. Lira woke and spent an hour in the kitchen preparing breakfast for the whole family, including Dardo and Dody, and later at the breakfast table she dished out steamed fish with broccoli and cauliflower, smothered in cheese sauce as the loud voice of the Abbey bell tolled across the land.

  Sitting comfortably, propped up on their elbows they all sipped barley water as they listened to her telling Olivia stories of her father’s past exploits. Dardo and Dody were included in her stories and her ability to weave such tales enthralled them, but Thomas looked decidedly bored. He had not only lived them – but had heard them told a thousand times. He pondered for a moment, seeming limp, weary, befogged of mind and fatigued in body and he shrugged. ‘Must we listen to this over the breakfast table every morning?’ he snapped. ‘I'll tell you straight, I don’t feel like I can hear this one more time.’ Thomas’ voice was so harsh that everyone at the table jumped and Olivia began to cry.

  ‘Did you not sleep well last night, my love?’ asked Lira.

  ‘I didn’t sleep at all,’ he snapped back.

  ‘Why so?’ she said trying to calm Olivia at the same time.

  Thomas sighed. ‘I need help,’ he said, standing, and he shuffled towards the kitchen door. Lira got in front of him. His face was resting in his hands and he was sullen. A smile hardly ever lit his rugged countenance these days. Austere with himself he drank gin when alone to mortify the sick images in his mind.

  He shrank back from her with a hissing intake of breath and they exchanged glances. She heaved an irrepressible sigh. ‘Good God, I don’t know what to do any more. I’m at my wits end!’ she snapped. She began to cry and ran from the room.

  Dardo and Dody ruminated awhile, surprised by their friend’s utter despair. Olivia screamed and began to cry again, and their hearts sank and their hands trembled as they tried to comfort her, but she wouldn’t be comforted.

  In the afternoon of that same day a warm wind blew in from the west and heavy clouds moved slowly across the sky as Thomas swung the bar-room door open. He looked dishevelled; dreadful and had obviously been drinking gin. Dardo and Dody were tidying up inside the inn, polishing the pewter goblets ready for opening time later that night. Startled, both men jumped a foot. ‘Jesus, Thomas,’ snapped Dardo, ‘you nearly gave me a heart attack.’

  ‘And me,’ said Dody clutching his chest.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Thomas looking bewildered.

  Dumbfounded by his sudden appearance, both men watched him stagger across the room drunk. He sat down at his usual table with his back to the wall, casually appraising his surroundings through reddened, bleary eyes and his friends were saddened that they could do nothing to help him.

  For a whole year life had been uneventful in Nottingham while Thomas had been rotting in jail, but now things were taking a very different course in a bizarre twist of fate. Not only were innocent women being raped and brutally murdered by a crazed killer, but their best friend was ill, suffering insane visions and he was his own worst enemy, having let the demon drink take a firm hold of him. Now he was usually too drunk to stand on his own two feet. Worn with pain and weak from the prolonged hardship of prison life, he was leading a comfort-less, meaningless existence, spending such money as he had on gin while his kith and kin had no choice but to let nature and destiny run its own natural course.

  ‘Poor devil,’ whispered Dody sympathetically, understanding the magnitude of his friend’s recent misfortunes.

  ‘Indeed he is,’ agreed Dardo watching Thomas fumble through his pockets with a dreamy, vacant expression in his eyes, searching for his gin bottle.

  Then he sprang to his feet with a cry of drunken pleasure when he had found it. Popping the cork he took a large swallow and slumped back down. The chair rocked and almost tipped over. ‘Ha, ha,’ he cried slapping his hand on the table in front of him. ‘I nearly missed the chair that time.’ He closed his eyes and fell into a drunken stupor.

  ‘What are we to do with him?’ asked Dody sitting down on a high three-legged stool, pushing another one in Dardo’s direction with his booted foot.

  He too slumped down onto the stool looking weary and saddened. ‘We have to leave him alone and hope things will come right.’

  The next few days were a blur of activity for Dardo and Dody as they cleaned, polished and repaired everything at the Dog and Duck. Thomas however, would lie upon his bed for hours on end in his room, hardly uttering a word or moving a muscle from morning to night, and he always had the same drunken expression on his face and the same dreamy, vacant look in his eyes.

  Finally, on the fourth day, Thomas rose from his bed and walked over to the window. It was a foggy, cloudy morning and a grey veil hung over the houses like a reflection of the stark streets beneath them as he stood looking out into the busy road, and he was
suddenly aware of heavy footsteps ascending the stairs. There was a loud rap at the bedroom door and a deep voice asked, ‘Are you awake Thomas? Are you getting up?’ It was Dardo and he sounded impatient.

  The colour drained from Thomas’ face and his hands were shaking. He coughed nervously, looking dreadful and he was experiencing regular flashbacks of the systematic, brutal beatings he had endured while in jail, besides having his insane visions of murder. Now he no longer looked like the strong, noble hero he had once been, and in his mind he could still hear the dungeon guards laughing as they tortured him on the rack and with the thumbscrews. It still unnerved him badly.

  ‘Thomas, are you awake? Are you getting up?’ Dardo’s voice came again.

  ‘No,’ the other shouted back. ‘Go away. Go away.’ He grabbed a poker from the fireplace, holding it above his head ready to strike anyone who came through the door. His hands were still shaking. ‘Go away or I’ll break your head,’ he flared.

  Outside the door, Dardo frowned. ‘Can I come in and talk?’

  ‘Go away and leave me alone.’

  ‘I just want to come in and talk. I want to help,’ said his friend sympathetically.

  ‘I don’t want to talk and I don’t need your help, so go away. I’m alone in here and like it that way,’ Thomas snapped angrily.

  Dardo sighed, slumping against the door frame, not knowing what to say or do to help his friend. Inside of him was a mixture of frustration, sympathy and anger, and it seemed as if their thrill-a-minute, fast, fun, adventurous life had finally taken its toll and ground to a shuddering halt, because of some inexplicable turn of events that neither of them had any control over? He turned, head lowered, marching dejectedly back down the stairs while Thomas, hands trembling, breathed a sigh of relief and placed the poker back in the fireplace. He slumped back down onto the bed and fell asleep and once again the dreams of powerful faceless enemies, murder and horrific screams of the dying swamped his mind.