Bowman lay down on the bed. The sheet and pillow stank. But at least it was his own stench, not the general stench of London.
It was noon when he woke, drenched with sweat.
On the table, he unfolded a cloth, cut some lard and bread, peeled a clove of garlic.
He remained sitting for the rest of the day, watching the light fade and the shadows lengthen. He did not leave his chair when night fell, did not return to his bed when the nightlights went out in the street, when behind the windows there was nothing but blackness and he could no longer make out the shapes of his hands lying flat on the table, beside the knife.
When the sunlight illuminated his room, he put on his uniform, locked the door behind him, went downstairs and came out into the street.
On Pennington Street, he opened the door of a tavern, ordered a beer and some porridge, then asked for an extra egg, which he broke on the side of the plate and mixed in with the hot oats. He tossed a coin onto the bar and went out again, passing the Fox and Hounds, which was closed at this time of day.
On Wapping High Street, the brick building was bathed in sunlight and, on the other side of the road, the Thames stank worse than ever before. It was seven-thirty and the men from the night shift were returning to the station. Those from the day shift were already there.
Bowman entered the guards’ room, looking through the windows at the dried-up river. His colleagues did not greet him. O’Reilly stood in front of him, took the time to glare at him, and cleared his throat as though he were about to spit.
“The superintendent wants to see you.”
Bowman waited for O’Reilly to move out of the way and went to knock on Andrews’ door, his helmet under his arm.
“You wanted to see me?”
Andrews was cleaning out his pipe with the point of a little knife.
“I heard about an incident on St Katharine’s Dock.”
“You want me to take care of it, sir?”
The superintendent looked up from his desk and smiled.
“An incident concerning you, Bowman.”
Bowman corrected his position as if he had been standing in front of a superior officer in the Company.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.”
“You and your colleagues are no choirboys, Bowman, but there are limits to what I can tolerate, even if the maritime companies are willing to turn a blind eye to your methods.”
“I don’t understand what you mean, sir.”
Andrews opened a drawer of his desk and took out a sheet of paper, which he pretended to read, letting the silence drag on.
“Two days ago, you had some problems with the supervisor at Corney & Barrow. Some of the warehouse employees say they saw you beat him up. Is this true?”
Bowman rolled his shoulders under his uniform and smiled.
“Is that the problem?”
“What happened?”
“Raymond, the supervisor, was working for a gang in St Katharine’s. It was the lads at Corney & Barrow who tipped me off about it. The bosses told me to teach him a lesson. Usual stuff, sir. Nothing more.”
“Did Raymond threaten you after you hit him?”
Bowman’s smile widened.
“He’s got a big mouth, sir, but I have nothing to fear from those quarters.”
“Very true, you do have nothing to fear anymore.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Raymond is dead. He was found last night, not too far from the Corney warehouses, his fingers cut off and his throat slit.”
Bowman blinked.
“I didn’t know.”
“You would have known if you came here more often to make your reports and receive your orders. Any thoughts on what might have happened to Raymond?”
“Gang members, sir. That’s how they do things.”
Andrews smiled in turn.
“And you’d know all about their methods, Bowman, wouldn’t you?”
Bowman felt the stumps of his middle and index fingers itching.
“I don’t see what you’re driving at, sir.”
Andrews smoothed down the report and let it fall onto his chair.
“Corney & Barrow have asked us to open an investigation.”
“What?”
“Into the murder of their supervisor.”
Bowman narrowed his eyes, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a half-smile, then fell back again.
“They’re the ones who told me to give him a good hiding, sir. It’d surprise me if they wanted anything done about Raymond. It was just a settling of scores, like you get every week. Nobody cares, sir.”
The superintendent folded his arms over his belly.
“I don’t like you any more than your methods, Bowman. I’m going to clear up this affair. Until then, you’re laid off.”
Bowman took a step towards the desk.
“You’re the one who asked for an investigation. The lads at Corney & Barrow couldn’t care less.”
“Soon, the companies won’t be able to give orders to the Metropolitan police anymore, nor to the Thames Brigade. They’ve been weakened by the end of the Indies monopolies. Their shareholders can’t keep control of Westminster forever. You and your like will be expelled from our ranks, Bowman, and we will have a police force worthy of the name. Your time is over. But if this is any consolation, you’re only the first of many. Go home and remain there until the investigation is over.”
“You can’t do that. I’ve got nothing to do with this.”
“You beat him up in front of witnesses who state that Raymond then threatened to kill you. You are not a man who takes that kind of threat lightly, are you? And don’t complain – you’ll still get paid for another week. You’ll be able to pay for your gin and your visits to China Court.”
Bowman unballed his fists and lifted his head.
“Give me two days and I’ll bring you the men who killed Raymond.”
Andrews stood up and turned his back on Bowman, looking through the window at the black Thames. Crows pecked at the belly of a dead sheep as it drifted slowly downriver.
“This stench will never go away. I think we’re going to have to get used to it.”
“Sir, you know I’m good at my job. I’ve got more experience than the other lads put together. We may not always see eye to eye, but you know what I’m capable of.”
Andrews stuffed his pipe with Asian tobacco and lit it, and the smell of it filled the office.
“Exactly. And I couldn’t care less about your past, Bowman. Your life story doesn’t interest me. You are suspended until the investigation is over.”
“And who are you going to put on this stupid fucking investigation?”
Andrews did not react to his rudeness, but Bowman guessed from the tone of his voice that he was smiling.
“I haven’t thought about that yet.”
“It was just a question of time. You’ve been looking for a reason to get rid of me.”
“Yes.”
“Let me look for the . . .”
“Dismissed, Bowman.”
“Let me do my job. I can’t just sit there and do nothing.”
“If I have to tell you to leave one more time, you’ll be in even more trouble than you are already.”
The Great Stink had created the conditions for a massive general strike, and if the protesters’ demands had not yet taken form, they were undoubtedly simmering, threatening with each passing day to boil over.
The Lords sitting in the House knew this – knew that they must set the machine in motion once again before it was too late.
The anger grew and the madness spread. Lunatics wandered the streets, surrounded by a world that at last matched their delusions. Their hallucinations had become premonitions, their insanity a form of prescience. The mad – along with the preachers – were now the new prophets of London.
Men still of sound mind collapsed, caught up by their morbid fears, rendered catatonic. They shut the
mselves up at home, barricaded their windows or chose a solid beam to which they could attach a rope. Among the still silent protest, suicides became more and more common.
Arthur Bowman found his place somewhere between the angry workers, the lunatics yelling that they’d known this was coming for a long time, and the men overwhelmed by terror.
No more shifts, no more gangs to hunt down. A man with nothing to do, no purpose in life.
Sitting at his table, Bowman brooded.
Andrews and his phoney investigation. He should ignore the superintendent’s orders. He should find the culprits himself. The men who had murdered the supervisor.
Bowman knew that would do no good. Andrews would find something else. Another pretext.
He bought gin, which he started drinking in the mornings, so he could numb himself, avoid thinking, so he could sleep dreamlessly and calm his anger. His nightmares returned.
This murder case would not hold up. The river would start flowing again and he would get his job back. He’d catch Raymond’s killers and throw them in the Thames with a rock around each of their necks. He’d take care of the vermin on the docks. Anything to get his body moving again.
But always his thoughts spiralled back to the same point: Andrews was not going to let him off the hook.
After a week, he increased his alcohol consumption; started buying laudanum. That tincture of opium changed his nightmares into dreams. They were all the same, but at least he could face them without fear. The effects dissipated, and his anger returned. He woke up screaming.
He could bump off Andrews.
He could go and talk to him. Tell him to give him his job back or he’d smash his skull in.
He went back to the Chinamen. The pipes, stronger than the laudanum, kept him calm for a few extra hours.
It was no longer possible to escape sleep. Bowman went round in circles, fighting against the memories that swarmed over his boredom like worms over gangrene. The pains of old scars returned, his back slumped, his legs folded under his weight when he walked to China Court, and it hurt to ball his fists. Bowman had not realised, until now, to what extent this daily routine, the discipline of working for the brigade during the last five years, had been responsible for keeping him going.
He fell asleep with his forehead on the table, collapsed sideways on his bed and woke up covered with sweat, the taste of blood in his mouth because he had bitten his cheeks while he was dreaming.
When he went out that evening, after two weeks of rumination, hallucinations and intoxication, his decision was made. He would go to Wapping. Outside, he realised that it was the middle of the night. That Andrews would not be at the station. That he was very close to China Court.
To the fat Chinaman who opened the door, Bowman threw enough money to pay for four pellets. No dreams tonight. He would go and see Andrews tomorrow, when he felt better, stronger. He would get on his knees in front of the superintendent and beg him to give his job back, give him his life back, to poor Sergeant Bowman who could no longer sleep.
At dawn on July 14, black clouds moved towards London, travelling over the Thames from the east. It had been a humid night; warm winds had blown through the city and the sky had clouded over. When the sound of the first thunderclaps echoed overhead, the houses filled with noises. The city was barely awake and already a strange agitation reigned over it.
Bowman, staggering, left the Chinese quarter. He drained his bottle of gin and threw it against a wall. The legs of his uniform trousers were covered with dust, his shirt gaped open over his chest, and a blond beard, scattered with grey, covered his cheeks. His police cap askew on his head, he suddenly stopped dead, balancing on his heels for a moment. Still caught in an opium haze, waiting for the effects of the gin to snap him out of it, he blinked his eyes.
Faces passed windows, doors swung open and crowds of people poured out into the streets, still grey with night, yelling at the tops of their voices. He was startled by something hitting his cap. Arthur Bowman looked up at the sky and a drop fell onto his lips, which he immediately wiped with his sleeve.
Around him, people screamed:
“It’s coming!”
Men perched on roofs like lookouts shouted themselves hoarse:
“The rain!”
It seemed to him that he could hear, among some English voices, words that he didn’t understand, in a language he vaguely remembered. More raindrops fell on his face and shoulders. His mouth began to move and, amid the yells of the crowd, no-one heard his voice: “Keep the powder dry.”
Lightning flashed, close by, turning the streets and rooftops white, casting pale shadows on the cobblestones. A massive electrical explosion accompanied it, and Bowman threw himself against a wall. The wind was blowing more strongly now in the street. He smiled.
“Pagan’s armies . . . they’re coming . . .”
A door opened next to him and a woman shrieked:
“The fourteenth of July! The fourteenth of July!”
When she saw the policeman, her face twisted with hatred and delight; she leaned towards Bowman and screamed at him: “The revolution is coming! It’s Bastille Day in London!”
He ran off, trying to regain his balance, pursued by the woman’s laughter. As he arrived in Wapping Lane, a bolt of lightning flashed behind the buildings, just above the Thames. It was like a sign, as if God had struck at the heart of the city and its evil stench. The storm hit London and in an instant everything was drowned. Bowman could no longer see more than ten feet ahead. He stopped running, put out his hands, and fumbled for a wall.
Little children ran past, yelling with joy, and disappeared. The noise of the storm covered everything. Gutters filled up and cascades of water began pouring from the rooftops. Bowman walked in slow motion along the brick wall, pushing away the images of red eyes that surged from the rain. Through the bars of sewers, the shit of London rose to the surface, carried upward by the rain and rushing over the streets in torrents, ridding the city of its pestilence, its madness and plots, its theories and science: God the saviour was transformed into God the shit-collector.
Bowman reached the locked door of the building, took his pass from his pocket, entered the police station and walked straight to Andrews’ office. The superintendent was not there. Bowman stood for a whole minute inside the room, dripping with rain, swimming with nausea, unable to recall what he had gone there to do. He moved through corridors, into other rooms. The station was deserted. All the constables must be outside, celebrating the arrival of the rain or controlling the flood of people. Dragging his feet, he crossed the guards’ room and looked through the windows at the Thames, and the image of that river under the storm made him take a step back. He bumped into a table, then collapsed and huddled up in a corner.
The rain hammered down on the building, rapping at the windowpanes. The wind gusted under doors and windows. Bowman buried his head in his hands and cried out to cover up the sound of the monsoon and the screaming of men as their fingers were chopped off, their nails torn away, their skin burnt.
He kept this up until he had no breath left, then stood up, leaning on a table, and puked up all the alcohol in his stomach. He wiped his mouth and it seemed to him that silence had descended again.
Or perhaps it was because his eyes had found something to cling to and his thoughts had been stopped in their tracks, fixed on an image that seemed to belong neither to his dreams nor to reality. A child of about twelve years old, who looked like Feng’s little slave.
Yes, it was him, standing in the doorway.
Bowman leaned his head to the side and whispered:
“The sharks in the river . . .”
He smiled at his dream.
“. . . They didn’t eat you?”
The child moved towards him. Bowman did not understand what he was saying. He was terrified, the little slave, but Bowman was happy to see him again and smiled to reassure him, to apologise for having tossed his corpse in the water, in the river that was flo
wing there, just behind those windows battered by the monsoon. The boy must have just got out of the water because he was soaked, but he was alive, and the corpse stench in the air was dissipating now. What could he be saying that Bowman did not understand?
“It’s in the sewers.”
The child had to stop being scared like that. Everything was going to be alright; the sounds of battle had ceased and Feng was dead. There was no need to tremble anymore, there was nothing left to fear. Or perhaps he was remembering the sergeant’s knife at his throat and worrying about that. He shouldn’t – Bowman wasn’t going to hurt him anymore. But what was he talking about?
“It’s in the sewers. I don’t want to go back.”
Bowman leaned his head to the other side.
“What are you saying, child? I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
The child no longer wore his canvas trousers. He had found some boots that were too big for him and a pair of overalls like the ones worn by the shit-collectors.
“Don’t be scared, child. Everything will be alright.”
Bowman moved forward, and the child took a step back.
“I can’t go back there.”
Bowman understood: the boy was just afraid of being alive after staying in the water with the sharks for so long.
“You won’t go back, don’t worry. You’ll stay with me. The rain will stop and we’ll be able to go back downriver. We’ll float to the estuary and then return to Madras. The two of us.”
“Sir, I don’t know what you’re talking about . . . Where are the coppers? Are you a copper or not? It’s in the sewers. I don’t want to go back there.”
Bowman felt a pain behind the scar on his forehead. His stomach contracted again; he leaned forward and threw up for a second time. When he looked up again, eyes squinting, he recognised the guards’ room, the tables and chairs, the windows streaming with rain.
What was he doing here? A child stood and stared at him.
“What are you doing here?”
There was shouting in the street. Startled, Bowman turned around. He had to get out of here before his colleagues arrived. He looked at the child.
Retribution Road Page 9