‘Is that so?’ Mary’s cheeks were colouring now, her rising temper increasing the tempo of her words. ‘You know that, do you? You know about Shaw, about how bloody dangerous he is?’
‘I know that we don’t need him or any other bugger who happens to take a shine to this place.’
‘Why’s that, Jack?’ She tossed his plate on to the table. ‘Are you staying around, then? Are you going to guard this place night and day? Because that’s what it’ll take to keep us safe from that bastard.’
‘I’ll do it. If that’s what it takes.’ He saw Mary take a deep breath as she brought herself back under control.
‘You don’t know the half of it. You don’t know what that man is capable of, or what price he sets for protecting us. It ain’t just your ma who pays. Oh no, we all dance to that bastard’s tune.’
Jack had a fair idea what price Mary would be paying. It shamed him, but he felt his determination harden. None of them would dance to Shaw’s tune any longer. ‘I know Shaw’s type. He’s all piss and wind. He doesn’t scare me.’
‘Maybe he should.’ Mary looked at him, searching his face for something.
‘I’ve done things, Mary.’ Jack looked away, unable to meet her gaze. He felt the iron shackles tighten, the protection against what he had seen strengthening once more. ‘Shaw is just a man. I’ve killed many like him.’ His voice tailed off. ‘I’ll take care of this place. You, Ma, your boy, you’re all safe now.’
‘You going to promise me now, Jack? Just like you did when you were a boy. You going to promise that you’ll always be here, always looking after me?’ Mary contained herself with difficulty, holding her temper in check. She turned away, then began to walk towards the scullery door.
‘Stay where you are.’ The order stopped her in her tracks. It was given with the snap of authority, the voice of a man used to being obeyed. ‘You’ve had your say. Now you’ll listen to me.’
Mary turned to face him, leaning against the doorway. She met his stare, her eyes defiant, her anger glimmering just beneath the surface.
Jack took a step towards her, and then another. ‘You know nothing about me. What I’ve done. If you did, you would know that I’m not frightened of Shaw, or of any other thug that happens along. If you knew where I’ve been, the battles I’ve fought in . . .’ He felt dizzy. He barely saw the woman in front of him. His memories were breaking free of their manacles and they surged through him. He saw them then, the faces of the men he had killed. In his mind he relived the moment when death came to claim them. Alongside them were the faces of those who had died around him, the friends struck down, the lovers lost.
‘I’ll keep you safe.’ His voice changed. He sounded cruel, the bitterness of what he had seen, what he had done, now released. But still he walked towards her, his hands reaching out to take hold of her once again.
‘Safe. There ain’t no place safe round here, not with Shaw around.’ There was no sympathy in her reply, only fear. ‘You think that because you’ve been in the wars he’s going to leave you alone? I’ve seen him at work. That man is a killer, and I reckon he enjoys it, too. You and him, why, you both look just the same to me.’
Jack took hold of her shoulders. Now that he was close to her, he could see the furrows in her skin, the dark patches on her cheeks half hidden under rouge, and the puffy grey pouches around her eyes. He let her go. He suddenly felt cold. He had summoned the memories, releasing them from their cage, and he found he could no longer speak. He walked away, his boots loud on the rough wooden boards.
Mary did not let him go in peace. ‘I’ve got a boy now, Jack. My Billy is all that matters. I’ve got to give him some sort of a chance, some kind of a future. I cannot let you put that at risk.’
‘I hear you.’ Jack did not turn to look at her. He picked up his sword, which he had propped against the wall behind his chair. It was the weapon he had taken into the breach at Delhi. It felt snug in his hand, the feel of the hilt under his fingers familiar. Acting on instinct, he drew the blade, the steel whispering out of the leather scabbard that kept its edges sharp.
He turned then, the blade alive in his grip. He looked back at Mary and saw the fear on her face as she faced him. He revelled in the feeling. He wanted to show her what he was, what manner of man he had become. He was a killer, returned from war, and he was frightened of no man alive.
He saw Mary step away, as if he was about to strike her down with the sword that he held with such ease. He sheathed the blade, and closed his eyes. He heard the door open, then close, and once again he was alone.
‘What’ll it be?’
‘Half-quart, please, mister.’ The young girl was too small to see over the bar. She held up a glass jar, balancing it precariously on the counter and following it with three grubby pennies.
Jack put the jar under the tap, the action instinctive, and looked down at the blue eyes peering up at him. The girl could not have been much more than six years old, but she was old enough to be sent out to fetch gin to see her mother through the night.
He glanced outside. He could not see to the other side of the street. The particular was bad that night, the fog smothering the city in a dirty yellow shroud.
‘You got far to go, love?’
The girl sniffed. Her nose dripped and she used a corner of the grubby grey shawl that engulfed her tiny frame to smear it away. ‘Nope.’ The answer was wary. Even a child knew to evade such a question.
Jack smiled at the answer. The girl could not live far from the palace and he reckoned she would be all right. It was too early for the footpads, and the other denizens of the night-time streets too would be waiting before they came out to ply their trade, targeting anyone foolish enough to be abroad in the rookery when darkness set it.
‘Hurry home, love.’ Jack filled the jar, then flicked its stopper back in place. ‘Don’t you dawdle now.’
‘I won’t, mister.’ The girl’s hands reached up to steal the bottle away.
The crowd was thin enough for Jack to see her stop to steal a sly sip from the bottle before she wrapped her mother’s old shawl around her shoulders and left the palace.
‘She’s a good girl, that Eve. Her sister is that trollop Abigail that my Billy moons after.’
Jack smiled at the mention of Abigail. He had seen her around the palace of an evening. She was attractive, in a dark, feral fashion. He had noticed Billy’s infatuation with her. It reminded him of his own youth, and the hours he had spent dreaming of a life with Mary.
‘Now that Abigail works, young Eve looks after her old ma.’ Mary kept up her tale even as she served another customer. ‘She got the chokey last winter; God alone knows how she survived. She’s a tough old bird, but it’s hard on her kids. Still, they look after each other well enough.’
Jack grunted. Mary knew everyone’s story. He did not care to hear each sorry tale. ‘It’s quiet tonight.’
‘Particular’s bad.’ Mary reached to pull across the wicker basket containing the small dark cakes that young Billy laced with salt each morning. She inspected the contents, poking one with a finger, before pushing the basket back to the far side of the bar. ‘Best give everyone a bun. They won’t last till the morrow. They might keep a few of the buggers back for another pennyworth.’
Jack shook his head at the mercenary tactic. He was slowly getting used to the running of the palace and the long hours spent standing behind the counter. He had been back nearly a month and had worked every day, taking his meals in the back room and sleeping in the attic bedroom that had once been his. Life was becoming routine.
He had not completely forgotten his former trade. He looked across to the shelf that ran beneath the counter to check that the holster, and the revolver it contained, was in place. He had not forgotten the man Shaw, either. The weapon was loaded every day and unloaded every night. He kept it to hand, ready for the day when Shaw would return. He did not fear the inevitable encounter; in fact he looked forward to it. He found himself glancing up
when the bell above the palace’s door jingled. He felt the same pang of disappointment every time he saw it was just another punter, another lost soul come to claim the liquor that dulled their senses enough for them to endure another day of their miserable existence.
He willed Shaw to come. The days were beginning to blur together. There was little to separate them, the grinding and monotonous routine of running the palace the kind of drudgery he had not known since his first weeks in the army. There was little chance of change, his future suddenly mapped out and ordered. Shaw’s reappearance would give him the chance to show his worth and reveal his darkest talents. And it would put an end to the tedium.
The bell rang. Jack’s head snapped up on cue. He sighed. It was a fat-hipped woman and her friend, the sound of their gossiping just about loud enough to carry over and grate on his ears.
‘What’s wrong with you? You waiting for someone?’ Mary had not missed his reaction. ‘What’ll it be, my loves? A pennyworth each of the Bairn’s Favourite, if I’m not mistaken.’
Jack glanced away, reluctant to witness the look of pleasure on the women’s faces as Mary remembered their favoured choice of gin.
‘We need more glasses.’
Mary made the request sweetly enough, yet Jack still bristled. He was discovering that the role of potboy was not much to his liking. He had been an officer, a man others looked to in the bleakest moments of battle. Now he took orders from a former whore, his tasks the same ones he had learned as a child.
Still, he did as he was told, squatting to the floor to begin pulling glasses from the back of the deep shelf hidden under the bar. The bell rang again. It was a constant sound in the palace. A large number of their clientele took their gin away with them to drink on the street or back in their homes. He presumed the pair of gossips Mary had served had slipped away. He did not get up, but kept at his task, pulling the stacks of glasses closer to the front edge of the shelf so that they would be readily to hand.
‘Jack.’ Mary said his name very quietly. There was no mistaking her tone.
‘Good evening, Mary, what a fine night for mischief.’
He recognised the voice at once. His wish had been granted. Mr Shaw had returned.
The patrons of the palace were no strangers to violence, or to the men that orchestrated it. They bustled out, Shaw’s Prussian escort pushing at a body here and there to speed their exit, his heavy oak cudgel held ready, the silent threat enough to make even the old scurry away. Not one person stayed behind to help. It was the way of the rookery. Survival was all.
‘Where is he?’ Shaw snapped the order. He did not come close to the mahogany counter, but held back, his enforcer moving to stand behind him, covering his back.
Mary’s hand pushed down on Jack’s shoulder, an attempt to hold him in place out of sight.
‘I don’t know where—’
He cut her off by rising to his feet. ‘I told you not to come back.’ He kept his tone even, as if asking what measure of gin Shaw required. He was oddly pleased that Mary’s first instinct had been to keep him safe. It proved that her affection for him had not totally crumbled away.
‘Hiding behind a woman’s skirts, are we, chum? That’s not what I expected of a man like you.’
‘I suggest you leave.’ Jack felt the tension in the air. Violence had crept into the palace in Shaw’s shadow.
Shaw ignored the order. ‘Of course, Mary’s behind is a fine hiding place for a man.’ He leered at her. ‘I reckon I’ll be paying you a visit later tonight, my girl. I fancy a little comforting.’
Jack glanced at Mary. Her reaction to the vulgar reference was well hidden.
Shaw tried to provoke a better response. ‘You weren’t complaining last time I had you on your back, were you, Mary? Screaming to the rooftops you were. Why, I think I still have the marks.’ He made a ploy of looking over his shoulder, as if he were able to inspect his own back.
‘Shut your mouth.’ Jack felt the first stirrings of anger. He swallowed it down and kept it bottled tight. He would not release it. Not yet.
Shaw laughed, a humourless bark. ‘You make a lot of demands for a cove who’s just arrived round here. I’d hoped you would’ve learned who you were dealing with by now. Maybe even learned a little respect.’
Jack held himself in check. He recognised the feeling that Shaw was awakening. It came to him in battle. It was the madness that drove him into the worst of the fight and kept him alive when any sane man would have given in to the slaughter. The memory of what he became thrilled through him. He felt the temptation to release it, to give the madness its head. He wanted to show Mary what he was, what he could become. Yet somehow he stayed still, holding the emotion under tight rein.
‘I’ll tell you one last time. This is our place. Always was. Always will be. We don’t need your kind.’ He was pleased his voice came out with an even tone.
‘My kind.’ Shaw cocked his head to one side. ‘Why, I don’t think you like me. I don’t think you like me at all. Not like old Mary there. She likes a taste of me, don’t you, love? Aye, there you go, blushing like a fucking virgin, as if you don’t know what I’m talking about. But you know all right, you know what we gets up to, what you like to do when there isn’t anyone look—’
‘Enough!’ Jack reached down to slip a single glass into his hand. His holstered revolver was on the far edge of the shelf to Mary’s right, well out of his reach. ‘Now get out!’ He barked the order, his hand tightening around the glass. He did not expect to be obeyed.
‘No.’ Shaw lifted the cudgel and pointed it at Jack. ‘That’s not how this goes. We don’t take orders from a mewling prick like you.’ He nodded to his man.
The bulky Prussian moved swiftly to obey. The oak shaft he carried was a simple but effective weapon. He made straight for the fireplace, lashing out the moment he was in range, his cudgel driving against the mirror on the wall above the mantel. It smashed into a thousand pieces that rained down in a spectacular, chinking shower. He swept the weapon along the mantel, sending a pair of brass candlesticks flying, before turning away with a great snort and kicking out with his heavy boots, smashing the simple stools lined against the far wall for those punters that wanted to stop to sip at their gin. In one quick movement, he seized the nearest table and hurled it against the wall, the wood splintering, the broken shards falling noisily to the floor.
Shaw strode forward, his face twisted in a snarl. ‘This is what happens when you cross us. You see it!’ Again the cudgel jabbed out to point at Jack’s breast, and Shaw cackled as his man continued to smash anything he could find, his delight at the violence obvious. ‘And there ain’t nothing you can fucking do to stop it.’
Jack was moving before a plan of action had fully formed in his head. He felt a flash of elation as the chains fell away to release the demons they held in check. He bounded over the bar, his backside sliding across its top, glasses knocked flying by his flailing boots, adding to the sound of chaos unleashed.
The Prussian had left his graveyard of furniture and was already approaching the bar, his cudgel ready to smash the glasses strewn on its top. He came at Jack as soon as he leaped across the counter.
Jack ducked away the moment his feet hit the floor, and the wild, sweeping blow scythed above his head. He heard the explosive grunt as the man missed his target, the heavyset body jerking as the Prussian sought to bring his weapon back down on to the crown of his opponent’s head.
Jack was slow. He had not fought for months and his instincts were buried so deep that they came out creaking and protesting. But he had time to dash the rim of the glass hard against the bar’s edge before he tried to spin away. He nearly made it, his body starting to come to life, but the cudgel caught him on the shoulder and he fell, his body thumping heavily into the wooden floorboards.
‘Jack!’ He heard Mary scream his name as he went down, followed by Shaw’s roar of delight at seeing him beaten so easily. The Prussian grunted again as he recovered from t
he impact, and readied another blow.
Jack scrabbled on the floor, his dignity forgotten. His knees scuffed across the wood, his motions frantic and barely controlled. It was the big Prussian’s turn to laugh as he lifted the cudgel above his head, readying the crushing blow that would put an end to the farce. The heavy oak shaft whistled down, the powerful strike rushed but still vicious enough to stave in Jack’s skull.
It missed.
Jack was moving faster now. He had seen the blow coming, so he stayed low, then twisted his body to one side. As the cudgel slid down past his right hip, he rose to his feet roaring like an inmate of Bedlam. The shard of glass in his hand was viciously sharp, and he drove upwards with all his strength, the improvised weapon cutting deep into the Prussian’s belly. He had aimed true, the ragged glass piercing the soft flesh above the big man’s groin.
The Prussian screamed, an inhuman roar of agony and shock. Jack drove the glass deeper, twisting his wrist to gouge through fat and gristle. He released his weapon, then pushed the Prussian backwards, the glass buried deep. The man staggered away, both hands clutched to the tear in his flesh six inches above his balls. Blood was pulsing over his clasping fingers, a great wave that smothered his arms to the elbow. Then he crumpled, his scream trailing off to little more than a pathetic whimper as he curled around his wound.
Jack stood back. He could feel the heat of the Prussian’s blood on his hand. He took a deep breath, caring nothing for the gore that splattered the sawdust-covered floor. He pointed a single bloodied finger at Shaw, who had stood transfixed as his henchman was struck down in the passage of no more than a dozen heartbeats.
‘Time to dance.’
He took a second breath, then did what he always did.
He attacked.
Shaw rallied fast. He bellowed as Jack came at him, then lashed out with the cudgel, the blow short and sharp.
‘Come on then!’ he cackled, his face twisted with delight. ‘You fucking want some!’
The Last Legionnaire Page 4