The Last Legionnaire

by Paul Fraser Collard

  The garret room smelled. The damp was all-pervading, the room chill and miserable. Mould smothered the walls and much of the floor, the dark blue-black smudges all the decoration the place offered. The room could have been warmed, the fireplace ready to be stoked with fuel, but its occupant had no desire to see any more flames, even controlled and safe. So it was left undefended against the conquest of the damp and the mould, invaders as efficient as any British political officer at taking ownership of a land not rightfully their own.

  Jack lay on the single bed and stared at the ceiling. The days had gone by, one after another, their passing unremarked and barely noticed. He was almost recovered, the days of inactivity doing much to ease the pain of the worst of his burns, and to allow for the muck he had inhaled to be spewed into the pisspot by his bed.

  His right hand was still bandaged, whilst the left had a splint against his broken finger. With both hands damaged, he was unable to tend to his wounds himself, and was forced to rely on Mary to change his dressings. She spoke little when she ventured upstairs from her room on the floor below. Not even the garret’s musty chill could match her icy reserve. She dealt with him out of duty, nothing more, any compassion burned to a charcoal husk by the same flames that had taken both her place of employment and the woman she had thought of as a mother.

  Jack stared at the ceiling and conjured a face from a patch of mould above his head. It was the face of the man he would kill, no matter how long it took. One day Shaw would be found. Then he would die, the simple fact a small comfort as Jack let his body recover.

  Shaw dominated his thoughts, with much of his time spent imagining the man’s death. Jack had seen many men die, had watched as the final flicker of life departed their eyes. He fed his determination with the image of Shaw’s soul fleeing his broken carcass. It was a good image, the kind that could help a man find his strength, the kind that could give purpose to a life bereft of one once again.

  A knock at the door brought him to his feet. He crossed the room quickly before snatching it open, expecting to see Mary come to perform her duty as nurse.

  ‘Good afternoon, Jack.’ Ballard could not hide the hint of a flinch at the force with which the door was opened.

  ‘You.’

  ‘I am glad to see you on your feet.’ Ballard attempted something that could be construed as a smile.

  Jack made no attempt to invite his former master into the room. His body was healing, but his soul was still blackened. He was not ready to discover what plans Ballard had for his future.

  ‘I can return tomorrow.’ Ballard took half a step backwards.

  ‘No.’ Jack closed his eyes as he summoned the strength he would need. He could not hide away for ever. ‘You can come in, but I give you fair warning that you may regret it.’

  Ballard looked past Jack’s shoulder. His thin moustache twitched as he saw what waited for him. ‘It would be best if we have this conversation somewhere private.’ He sniffed as he finished speaking, his distaste obvious. ‘I have left Palmer downstairs. He does not need to hear this.’

  ‘You’d best come in then.’ Jack stood back and gestured for Ballard to enter. He noted the reference to Palmer’s presence in the building, Ballard cautious enough around Jack to have brought his bodyguard. ‘Sit wherever you want. I would recommend the chest by the window, but you run the risk of getting a splinter in your arse, so perhaps choose the bed; the spot there by the wall is the driest.’

  Ballard’s nose twitched as he ran his eyes over the choices Jack had indicated. Neither appealed. He offered a thin-lipped smile to his host, then approached the chest. ‘Could you not be bothered to light the damned fire? It’s colder than a convent in here.’

  Jack snorted at the comparison. ‘I wouldn’t know, as I’ve not had the pleasure of visiting one.’ He felt a flicker of enjoyment at Ballard’s discomfort. The major was a staff officer, his wars fought in comfort and far from the dirty business of the battlefield where Jack had found his place.

  ‘They are not the jolliest of places, Jack. I do not recommend you finding one to visit. Knowing you, you would probably steal away one of the novices, or else convince the Mother Superior to take you to her bed. Deflowering a bride of Christ would not be good for your soul.’

  Jack shook his head at such foolishness. ‘I doubt it would matter.’

  ‘No, perhaps not.’ Ballard sat down with exaggerated care. He paused, clearly waiting for something sharp to stab him. When it didn’t, he summoned a smile and gestured for Jack to sit too.

  ‘Will this take long?’

  ‘It depends how difficult you are.’

  Jack growled at the barb, then plonked himself on the bed, leaning carefully against the rusty bedstead. His back was painful, the pit of his spine a constant wearing ache that had not been helped by his recent misadventures.

  ‘How are you?’ Ballard had seen the wince.

  ‘How do you think?’

  ‘Your hands?’

  Jack held them up towards Ballard as an answer. The splint used to hold his broken finger in place stuck up like a miniature flagpole.

  ‘Still sore?’

  ‘No, they fucking hurt.’

  Ballard winced at the invective. ‘I am sure that will pass. Keep the dressings clean.’

  Jack had no time for any more of Ballard’s doctoring. ‘Have you found Shaw?’

  ‘No, not yet. Palmer is looking for him.’

  Jack grunted. ‘He won’t find him.’

  ‘You would be surprised. Palmer is like a bloodhound. He can sniff out a troublemaker at a thousand yards.’

  ‘He’s not that bloody good. He let the bastard go.’

  ‘Really, Jack. You must not blame Palmer.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘We cannot kill everyone who crosses our path. As convenient as that may be.’

  ‘Why not?’ Jack repeated. He knew he was being difficult, but he did not care. ‘I’m going to kill that bastard when I find him, and I don’t care who sees.’

  ‘I am sure that is true. But I’m afraid it will have to wait.’

  ‘No it won’t. I am going to find him and then I am going to kill him.’

  ‘Time has not softened you then, Jack? You are still the same man I found masquerading as a dead officer in Bombay?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Jack refused to be shamed. He knew the manner of man he was. To his surprise, Ballard had looked pleased as he asked the question. Seeing such an expression on the face of the Devil made him wary.

  ‘I am glad to hear it. You are a man of unique talents, Jack Lark. They make you a useful fellow to have in one’s corner.’

  ‘I am not in anyone’s corner. Not any more.’

  ‘Is that so? I suspect you are keen to find employment, to find a place where you can belong.’ Ballard’s tone changed as he replied. He spoke softly, letting the words hang between them.

  Jack’s mouth opened to denounce the notion. But he saw the way Ballard was looking at him. The intelligence officer knew him well. Too well, it seemed, for he had spoken a truth that Jack was trying hard to ignore. He had been searching for a place ever since he had walked away from that funeral on a dusty hillside outside the broken walls of Delhi.

  ‘I’m a free man. I can do as I choose.’ Jack matched Ballard’s quiet tone.

  ‘Are you?’ Ballard studied him closely. ‘Are you truly free? Or do you carry your past with you everywhere you go?’

  Jack could no longer meet Ballard’s stare. He glanced up, finding the patch of mould where he had discovered Shaw’s face earlier, but the image had gone, the swirling patterns nothing more than the smudges of decay.

  ‘It’s not your fault, Jack. None of it.’ Ballard kept his eyes on him. ‘No man controls his own fate. Not you. Not I. Not even uncompromising fellows like Palmer.’ He tried to inject some humour, but his voice tailed off as he saw Jack’s reaction.

  ‘I do.’ Jack broke the silence, clearing his throat noisily before leaning forward to s
pit a wad of blackish phlegm into the pot by the bed. ‘I got my name back. That was my reward, remember?’

  ‘The papers weren’t destroyed in the fire, then?’

  ‘No.’ For the first time in a while, Jack glanced across at Ballard, who sat easily on the wooden chest, his hands folded neatly in his lap. ‘I’m not that foolish.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Cox and Cox.’

  ‘Along with a rather juicy deposit of funds, I expect.’ Ballard preened at the jibe, his fingers rising to stroke his moustache. ‘We never did look into quite how you managed to get hold of that casket.’

  Jack barked a bitter, humourless laugh. ‘That is long in the past. Not even you would stoop to dredging up such ancient history. I’m a discharged soldier with papers to prove it. I doubt I’m the only redcoat to come back from India with a penny or two to his name.’

  Ballard’s hand stopped moving as he contemplated Jack. ‘Those discharge papers of yours.’ His fingers resumed their motion, moving back and forth over his moustache like a cat wiping its paw across its ears. ‘Did you ever look at them? I mean, really look at them? They are a valuable commodity to a man like you. A man keen to leave his past behind him.’

  Jack scowled. He did not like the change in Ballard’s tone. ‘I looked at them.’

  ‘Did you take a peek at the signature?’ Ballard goaded him.

  ‘Stalker signed them.’ Jack had checked his papers a dozen times. Ballard always had his own agenda. He did what suited him and nothing more. Jack had learned that the major’s mind concocted schemes that others had no chance of understanding. His fellow officers on the staff had given him the nickname of ‘the Devil’, a moniker that Jack had deemed perfectly fitting from the moment he had first heard it. With Ballard, nothing was certain, his scheming brain working at a different speed to that of mere mortals. But Jack was certain of one thing. General Stalker had signed his discharge papers. Stalker had been the commander of the division he had served in during the campaign against the Shah of Persia. He had died shortly after the battle outside the village of Khoosh-ab, killed by his own hand, a sad and ignominious end for a fine career soldier.

  ‘Did he now? Why, that truly is an amazing feat.’

  Jack felt Ballard’s grip closing as surely as if he had placed his fingers around his throat. ‘Why?’ He choked on the single word.

  ‘Well, the poor fellow had been dead at least a whole day. A corpse signing a set of discharge papers, well, that is nothing short of miraculous!’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Ballard smiled. It was like a fox spotting the door of the henhouse left ajar. ‘The date, Jack, the date! Did you check the date of the signature?’

  Jack closed his eyes against the pain. ‘No.’

  Ballard rocked back. His hands moved as if to clap, but stopped halfway when he saw the look on Jack’s face. He composed himself. ‘They were dated after poor Stalker had killed himself. They are fake, Jack. Fake papers for an impostor; even you must see how fitting that is.’

  Jack let his head fall back so that it rested against the wall behind the bed. Ballard had humbugged him.

  ‘The devil really is in the detail, Jack.’ Ballard could not resist aiming the barb, using his own nickname with relish.

  ‘So what do you want?’ Jack did not bother to hide the bitterness in his reply. Ballard held all the cards, just as he always had. He had given Jack back his name. At the time it had been everything Jack had wanted. Now it appeared to be nothing more than a trickster’s sleight of hand.

  ‘I want you, Jack.’ Ballard leaned forward as he replied. ‘I told you once before that I do not care for petty crimes. I am involved in other affairs. Affairs that need not worry about such details. I have a new mission, one where you would be of much use to me, if not invaluable. I want you to come back to work for me.’

  ‘And if I refuse?’

  Ballard sat back, the chest creaking as he shifted his weight. ‘Then there is the small matter of some funds at Cox and Cox deposited in the name of a certain Jack Lark, a man the army believes died back in ’54. If an army agent, especially one as respectable as Cox and Cox, were to discover that a sizeable deposit had been made in the name of a dead soldier, well, they would have no choice but to freeze that account. Should a man then present himself claiming to be that very same soldier, then I am sure our good and respectable friends at Cox and Cox would be duty bound to have him reported, and I suspect his fate would look rather bleak. Especially when he is found in possession of a set of forged discharge papers.’

  Jack knew his former master was more than capable of making good on the threat. Then he would have nothing. No home, no money and not even a name. He kept his eyes on Ballard, who sat no more than a yard away. It would be an easy thing to kill him, to throttle the life out of the man who appeared to have his fate tucked safely in a pocket. If Ballard were no longer around, there would be no one who knew the truth of Jack’s discharge. The money he had stolen and placed at Cox and Cox would still be his, and no one would be any the wiser. His last link to his past would be severed the moment Ballard drew his final breath.

  Ballard kept his eyes on him. This time he did not smile. ‘Palmer is just down the stairs, Jack.’

  ‘You think I would kill you?’ Jack snorted even as Ballard read his mind.

  ‘I think you would contemplate it. You would not be the man I know you to be if you did not.’ Ballard paused. ‘I notice you did not say try to kill me. Do you believe it would be so easy?’

  For the first time, Jack managed a tight-lipped smile. ‘Yes.’

  Ballard reacted with mock surprise. ‘You have seen me in action.’

  ‘That’s why I know it would be easy.’ Jack had seen Ballard fight; indeed, the major had once saved his life. But Ballard was no warrior.

  ‘Yet you have not so much as moved a muscle.’

  ‘I am thinking.’

  ‘So you have changed.’ Ballard smirked at his quick retort. ‘I do not recall you being very good at thinking before you act. Remember the munshi?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You don’t recall that man you captured.’ Ballard lifted a finger and gestured at Jack’s face. ‘He gave you the smaller of your two scars.’

  Jack’s hand rose on instinct to touch the blemish. The larger one, the gift from Delhi, hid most of it. ‘No. I don’t recall.’ He gave the lie easily.

  Ballard read him well enough not to say anything further. Instead he got to his feet, tugging hard on his uniform trousers to smooth out the creases that had formed as he sat.

  ‘I shall send Palmer to collect you tomorrow morning at eight.’

  ‘I have not agreed to work for you yet.’

  ‘You and I both know that you will.’ He looked straight at Jack. ‘You have no choice.’

  Jack let his eyes bore into the major’s. His blackened soul felt empty. ‘I am done serving.’

  ‘What about Mary and her boy?’ Ballard spoke softly.

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Without me you have nothing.’ Ballard played his last card. There was no sense of triumph in his tone. He was in control, just as he always was. ‘How will you look after them without money?’

  Jack lowered his gaze. Ballard was correct. If he could not access the funds deposited at the army agent, then he truly was penniless. His actions had destroyed Mary’s home and her employment. If he did not take care of her and her son, their future was as bleak as his own. He summoned the will to look up and face Ballard again. ‘I have no choice then.’

  ‘No, Jack, you really do not, but do not feel bad about that.’ Ballard’s expression was one of concern, not victory. ‘I want you to help me. Do that and all this will be forgotten.’

  Jack searched Ballard’s face. He did not know if the major spoke the truth. But he found it did not matter. ‘They cannot stay here. I will have to find them somewhere better to live. Or do you have plans for them too?’

 
‘Now that is your first sensible question.’ Ballard paused as he pondered. ‘They could be useful.’ The decision was made quickly. ‘She can come with us, her boy too.’

  ‘So where are we going?’ Jack asked the question that he knew Ballard wanted to hear.

  ‘Why, my dear, Jack, I thought you would have guessed. We are going on a little journey.’ Ballard gave his best attempt at a smile. ‘We are going back to war.’

  Jack was bored. He threw the previous day’s Times back on to the drum table at the side of his chair before getting up to walk to the window. The rain beat steadily against the glass, the staccato rhythm echoing through the small anteroom that he had sat in for the last two hours. At least the room was warm, a fire burning away merrily in the corner fireplace. The flames still made Jack uncomfortable, but the warmth was pleasant and he was glad to be indoors on such a filthy day. As much as he chafed at the waiting, he could not deny how good it was to be somewhere that felt significant.

  Palmer had collected him at eight, just as Ballard had ordered. Jack had been brought to Ballard’s offices by hackney carriage, and there he had been left to kick his heels until Ballard returned from a meeting somewhere else in the labyrinthine building not far from Trafalgar Square. The journey with Palmer had been completed in silence.

  Jack had told Mary where he was going, and that he had found them all employment. The conversation had taken place through a barely open door. Mary was reluctant to admit him into the room she shared with her son. Billy was recovering, but it would still be days before he was well enough to be up and about. Jack had glimpsed the boy over Mary’s shoulder, his guilt flaring as he saw the lively urchin laid up under blankets, his eyes dull and listless.

  ‘Good morning, my dear Jack! Good morning indeed!’ The door to the room was thrown open and Ballard bustled in, a look of satisfaction plastered across his face.

  ‘Good afternoon.’

  ‘Now, now, do not start our day together with such churlishness,’ Ballard admonished. ‘I have enjoyed a successful meeting with our sponsor and I will not allow you to sully my mood.’

  ‘Our sponsor?’