Double or Die

by Charlie Higson

  Somehow, while he was gone, James managed to climb out of a window.

  After that there was a blank for a while. The next thing he knew he was walking. Walking, stumbling, falling, walking, stumbling, falling. And there was an irritating voice inside his head telling him not to stop.

  If he could keep his body moving he would be able to keep on fighting the poison. If he stopped he would die. It was as simple as that.

  He remembered standing by a burning brazier with some tramps, warming himself. He remembered someone giving him a mug of hot tea, but had no idea who it was, or where it had happened.

  He remembered stopping to be sick. Watching the tea drain away down a gutter.

  He remembered Chinese faces. Chinese shop signs. A glimpse through a door of Chinese men sitting round a table smoking and shouting and playing a game with dried beans.

  He remembered someone laughing at him.

  He remembered sheltering in the porch of a church.

  Somehow he acquired an overcoat, but couldn’t remember where it had come from. It was too large for him and was ripped in places, one pocket was hanging loose, but at least it helped to keep him warm.

  He remembered an argument of some sort, a fight, someone punching him, shouting. Afterwards, he had been left by the side of the road. He remembered crawling up against a wall where another policemen had found him. This one wasn’t interested in where he had come from and moved him on, jabbing him with his truncheon to keep him walking.

  Walking, walking, walking.

  Where was he going? Who did he think was going to help him?

  Rouge Callisto. Pritpal was going to be proud of him when he told his friend he’d solved one of the clues.

  Could he find Pritpal? How far was Hackney Wick?

  Too far.

  The red bear…

  Red.

  Slowly a name came to him. A memory. A boy. Yes. He lived here somewhere. In the East End.

  A friend.

  He did have a friend.

  That was something, wasn’t it? Something to hold on to.

  Red. Red Kelly. Did anyone know him?

  Light was coming into the sky. People were beginning to move about the streets. Did anyone know Kelly? A boy. About sixteen.

  Red Kelly…

  ‘Try this way… Try that way… Never heard of him… There’s some Kellys live down Canning Town way… Have you tried Stepney, son?… Do you mean old Brendan Kelly? Try Cable Street… Try Shadwell… Is he Irish? The Irish are all in Wapping… ’

  Thirsty. He remembered being thirsty. Drinking from a puddle. Lying on his belly like a dog. Sucking… Water…

  And then nothing. Just a troubled sleep, with endless nightmares. A man screaming in his face, a never-ending scream. A man with four black stumps where his fingers should have been.

  Part Three: SUNDAY

  20

  The Monstrous Regiment

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Search me.’

  ‘Who is he, then?’

  He could feel hands tugging at his clothing.

  ‘What’s he got? He must have something on him.’

  ‘Nah. Look at his coat. He’s a dosser.’

  ‘It’s a rotten suit he’s got on.’

  ‘Have you tried all his pockets?’

  ‘Yeah. Just some soggy old bits of paper with Chinese writing on.’

  ‘Is he a Chinkie, then? He don’t look like a Chinkie.’

  ‘He looks half dead.’

  ‘Let’s finish the job…’

  James opened his eyes, blinking in the harsh winter light. Black and brown shapes swam across his vision. He tried to focus, to see past the floating shapes. He saw buildings. People. Children.

  He was in a dingy yard behind a pub. Crates of empty bottles stood in piles. Soot-blackened houses loomed overhead. He was surrounded by a ragged group of girls. Some were tiny little urchins with pinched, wizened faces, some were much older with a hard, mean look about them. In the centre was the ringleader. A girl of about James’s age. She had large brown eyes, set far apart in her broad, heart-shaped face, and a wide, full mouth that seemed stuck in a mocking smile. Her hair was deep, dark red, and it flopped untidily into her eyes.

  She looked curiously at James and he looked back at her.

  ‘What you looking at?’ she said.

  ‘You,’ croaked James. His mouth was dry, his throat scalded.

  ‘Who gave you permission?’ said the girl.

  ‘No one,’ said James. ‘Why? Do I need permission? Who are you? The queen, or something?’

  ‘Don’t be cheeky,’ said the girl.

  ‘Help me up,’ said James.

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ James tried to get up, but she pushed him back.

  ‘Who are you?’ she said.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said James. He felt as if a ring of iron was being slowly tightened around his head. His ears were singing and there was a stabbing pain in the small of his back.

  ‘Let’s do him,’ said one of the girls, picking up a bottle. ‘He’s not from round here. He’s a foreigner.’

  ‘He sounds posh,’ said one of the smaller kids. ‘Who is he? What’s he doin’ ’ere? He’s not a tramp. He’s posh.’

  ‘Let’s do him,’ repeated the girl with the bottle. ‘And do him good.’

  No matter how bad he felt – and he couldn’t remember when he had ever felt worse – James wasn’t going to lie here and be done over by a bunch of girls.

  He struggled to his feet.

  The girl prodded him with her bottle.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ said James. ‘I don’t hit girls, but in your case I’m willing to make an exception.’

  She jabbed him harder and James instinctively lashed out, slapping the bottle out of the girl’s hand.

  She calmly picked it up by the neck and smashed the end off it, then swung it at James who managed to duck out of the way before hooking her legs out from under her with his foot. She fell heavily and James tried to make a run for it, but his body felt sluggish and clumsy. He barged someone out of the way, but was grabbed, spun around and kicked. Another girl got hold of his hair and yanked his head back, pulling him over.

  He was sent sprawling into a pile of crates, but he saw a length of wood, which he managed to pick up. He stood and kept the girls at bay with it, whirling it around in the air.

  How long could he keep this up for? Not long. He felt weak and light-headed. There were too many of them, and a big part of him told him that he mustn’t hurt girls.

  ‘This is our turf,’ said the ringleader. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ said James. ‘And who are you exactly?’

  ‘We’re the Monstrous Regiment.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got no argument with you,’ said James.

  ‘We’re going to give you a hiding, anyway,’ said the girl. ‘It’s what we do.’

  ‘You can try,’ said James, but even as he said it, someone snatched hold of his piece of wood and wrestled it off him. The next thing he knew he’d been pushed to the ground and he felt a boot in his side.

  This was bad. He was down and defenceless. The state he was in, they might kick him to death. He put his arm around his head to protect it and curled into a tight ball.

  ‘Get him,’ spat the girl with the bottle. ‘Mash him up good!’

  Then a familiar voice rang out.

  ‘Oi! What the bloody hell’s going on here, then?’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me you was James Bond? Why didn’t you tell me you was Red’s mate? We was halfway to kicking your lights out, you daft sod. Why didn’t you say nothing? You’re James Bond. You sorted out the bloke what killed Alfie? You’re a hero, you are. Red don’t ever stop talking about you. Why didn’t you say something?’ James couldn’t speak. The girl had him in a bear hug so tight she was in danger of cracking a rib. ‘Let him breathe, Kel,’ said Red Kelly, who was standing a little way off watch
ing with an amused expression on his scrunched-up, bony face. At last the girl let James go and he coughed feebly.

  ‘You all right, mate?’ said Red. ‘You look like death.’

  Red was a skinny boy of sixteen, with an explosion of bright carrot-coloured hair blossoming from the top of his head. James had met him at Easter on the sleeper train to Fort William. Red had been travelling to Scotland to try and find out what had happened to his cousin, Alfie, who had disappeared. James had helped him and the two of them had become firm friends despite their different backgrounds.

  ‘It’s not my fault,’ said the girl. ‘He was like that before we started on him.’

  Red put an arm around the girl’s shoulders.

  ‘Allow me to introduce my darling little sister, Kelly,’ he said.

  ‘Doesn’t she have a first name?’ said James, rubbing his side where he had been kicked.

  ‘That is her first name,’ said Red. ‘Me mum and dad christened her Kelly. Kelly Kelly. Kelly’s an Irish name. Means warrior. They obviously thought it suited her.’

  James looked at the girl. She wiped her nose and looked back at him, holding his gaze with her big, clear, brown eyes.

  ‘We heard there was someone looking for Red,’ she said. ‘We didn’t have any idea who it was. An outsider, was all we knew. We thought it was trouble.’

  James gave a quick snort of laughter. ‘It is trouble,’ he said. ‘Big trouble.’

  ‘Wherever you go there’s trouble,’ said Red. ‘Look at you. What the bloody hell happened this time?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ said James. ‘And I’m sorry to say, I don’t think it’s over yet.’

  James suddenly felt faint and he swayed on his feet. Red caught him, then wrinkled his small, pointed nose.

  ‘Gordon Bennett,’ he said. ‘You don’t half stink, Jimmy-boy. You been on the booze? You look drunk as a fiddler’s bitch. We better get you settled, mate. We don’t want you to drop dead on us. We’ll get you inside and cleaned up, find you some grub and you can tell us all about it.’

  Red hammered on the back door of the pub until a bald, fat man in a stained vest opened it. They’d obviously woken him up and he had a thunderous look about him.

  ‘Red?’ he snarled when he saw who it was. ‘What you doing here at this hour? Get lost.’

  ‘Leave it out, Lou,’ said Red. ‘This is James Bond.’

  ‘James Bond?’ said Lou and his face lit up into a wide, gap-toothed smile. He gripped James’s hand and pumped it up and down. ‘James Bond. You’re a hero round these parts, son.’

  ‘So I’ve heard,’ muttered James.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ said Lou, dragging him through the door. ‘I’d be honoured to have you in my pub.’ He stopped suddenly and bellowed. ‘Maureen! Get your arse down here. We’ve got company.’

  Pale winter sunlight was struggling to shine in through the grimy windows and failing. The pub was dark. It had a bare wooden floor scattered with sawdust. There was a battered assortment of ill-matched tables and chairs. The walls were greasy and the ceiling had been turned brown by tobacco smoke. A sour-sweet smell of alcohol, cigarettes and sweat hung in the air

  Lou cleared a space for James at a table whose legs had been heavily repaired over the years.

  ‘What can I get you?’ he asked. ‘Beer? A fortified wine? Spirits? How about a nice gin? Nothing’s too good for James Bond.’

  ‘No. Please,’ said James as he was gripped by a spasm of nausea. The very mention of the word ‘gin’ had brought him out in a cold sweat. ‘Just a glass of water would be fine.’

  ‘Water?’ said Lou. ‘Never touch the stuff meself. But I’ll get you some.’

  ‘And get some nosh,’ said Red. ‘He looks like a feller who could do with some breakfast. Don’t worry, we’ll have a whip-round later.’

  ‘No, no, no,’ said Lou. ‘This is on me. As I say, nothing’s too good for James Bond.’

  Lou disappeared behind the bar and James heard him shouting at someone in a back room.

  Red sat down at the table.

  ‘I told everyone,’ he said, with a lop-sided grin. ‘People round here are very close. You help one of us, you help all of us. You hurt one of us, you hurt all of us.’

  James’s eyes were sore and gritty, his head throbbing, his throat raw and dry. He was cold, sick and exhausted. But here was a friend. Someone who could help him. Since splitting up with Perry he had been alone. And this run-down pub felt like the safest, most pleasant place in London.

  ‘I’m sorry we was going to kick your teeth out,’ said Red’s sister. ‘You mustn’t mind us. We don’t have the same manners as you posh folks.’

  Manners? James remembered how Sir John Charnage had tried to poison him. People were pretty well the same the world over as far as he could tell. A man might try to kill you with a posh accent, or he might try to kill you with a cockney accent, or a German accent, or a Russian, but it was all the same. Everyone was out to get you.

  Lou brought a glass of water and James sipped it slowly. The cool, clean liquid tasted like the most marvellous thing he had ever drunk. It slipped down his throat, soothing the dryness and calming his churning stomach. He could feel it entering his blood and cleaning out the poisons. Washing around his body.

  ‘So come on, then’ said Red. ‘What’s your story?’

  James took a deep breath and started to talk.

  ‘It all began,’ he said, ‘when we got a visit from the Head Master in my room at Eton…’

  It took him a long time to tell them everything and when he finally finished, Red let out a long low whistle.

  ‘Do you go looking for trouble, Jimmy-boy?’ he said. ‘Or does it just find you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said James. ‘But I don’t seem to be able to avoid it.’

  Lou’s wife, Maureen, a short, round woman with a huge wart on her cheek, had brought in a chipped plate with a wedge of pork pie, two slices of hard, dry bread and a lump of stale cheese on it. James forced some down, though chewing was difficult and swallowing harder. The bread kept forming into a sticky ball in his mouth and he had to wash it down with more water.

  ‘So do you know the Paradice Club?’ he asked

  ‘Yeah, course,’ said Kelly, leaning back in his seat and scratching himself. ‘It’s down in Poplar. Everyone round here knows about it. Worst kept secret in the East End.’

  ‘And Sir John Charnage?’

  ‘Always knew he was a wrong’un,’ said Lou and he spat on to his floor.

  ‘The Charnage Chemical Works has been there for at least fifty years, hasn’t it, Lou?’ said Red.

  ‘Probably more like seventy,’ said Lou. ‘Bad place to work, it was. About the worst. All them poisons in there, and the fumes and the gas. Men was always dying there. There’s a saying, when someone dies you say, “They’ve gone to work at Charnage’s”.’

  ‘Why would anyone want to work there, then?’ asked James.

  ‘No choice,’ said Lou. ‘You only went to work for Charnage’s if you couldn’t work no place else. And still you’d see them queuing up at the gates of a morning. These are bad times, boy. There’s no work around. Men will do anything to survive, to get a few coins to put bread in their babies’ mouths. They knew it was killing them, the men who went there. The chemicals would burn your lungs, get into your brain, but men would figure out, maybe they’d get sick, but at least their families would live. At least their children would have grub.

  ‘Old man Charnage, Sir John’s dad, he was a terror. Wasn’t a week went by without you’d hear of someone else falling sick, or getting blinded or just dropping dead. But Charnage claimed he was one of the best employers in the East End. And he had connections. He was a rich man. He paid people to turn a blind eye and look the other way. By the time the old man died and Sir John took over, it was too far gone, though. No one would work there any more. All Sir John could get was foreigners from the docks, fresh off the boats. It couldn’t last. He closed down
, and started to lose all his family’s money. He was a gambler, and not a very good one. That’s why he built his illegal gambling club, the Paradice, to try and make some money back.’

  James had been concentrating so hard on the story he hadn’t noticed that while they’d been talking the pub had filled up with people. And now, when the newcomers saw that the conversation was over, they started to approach the table in ones and twos. They all wanted to shake James’s hand and buy him a drink, but he refused anything stronger than ginger beer.

  James struggled to keep up with the endless parade.

  ‘This is me Uncle Jack and me cousin Dave, these are my brothers Freddie and Dan, this is little Joe, this is big Joe, oh look, it’s me Auntie Claire, and there’s Jerry…’

  James sat on the bench with his back to the wall, drenched in sweat and shivering. The room seemed to be closing in on him from all sides, narrowing and darkening. The din of voices in the pub boomed and echoed. He wanted to crawl into a corner and curl up and not wake for a hundred years.

  He felt a hand on his arm and turned to see the face of Red’s sister, Kelly. She had a concerned look.

  ‘You all right?’ she said.

  ‘Not really, no,’ said James. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said Kelly. ‘You drank enough to kill an ’orse last night. Come on, I’ll get you out of here. When the Kellys get together, sooner or later there’s always a fight.’

  She pulled him up out of his seat and they left by the back door.

  James was glad of the fresh air, but standing up had made him dizzy and his legs felt as if they were going to collapse under him. The bright light hurt his eyes.

  He leant against a wall and breathed heavily.

  Kelly put her hand on his shoulder. ‘You gonna make it?’

  ‘Not sure.’

  She gave him a wry smile. ‘Red said you was tough,’ she said. ‘You gonna let a little drink slow you down.’

  James raised his head and smiled back at her. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m not. What time is it?’

  ‘One o’clock,’ said Kelly. ‘I just this minute heard St George’s chime.’