Retribution Road

by Antonin Varenne

  Bowman could no longer bear to look at Clements’ deformed face. In a single breath, he asked:

  “Have you tried working in the sewers?”

  Clements did not react, continuing in the same dejected tone:

  “I can’t. I wanted to. I asked, and even during the stink, that horrible time, I asked the sewer workers, but it was that smell, Sergeant, the smell of shit, like, like . . . in the c–c . . .”

  He could not get the word out. He stammered as he tried to talk about the cage. His whole body started to shake and he almost yelled as he moved towards Bowman:

  “The shit, it’s like . . . my smell, over there.”

  Bowman thought that Clements was about to collapse at his feet in the kitchen and have one of his fits.

  “You don’t understand, Sergeant. It’s as if I fear that I can’t stop, finding myself back there . . . You, you’re not afraid. You were never afraid. On the river, and then, there, afterwards. You don’t know what fear is.”

  Bowman retreated towards the entrance hall.

  “I have to go, Clements.”

  The former soldier stopped talking and suddenly looked terribly sad.

  “I understand. You have things to do. You look like you’re doing well – you’re nicely dressed, you must have a job. You have a family waiting for you, Sergeant, and you have to look after them. I understand. When you’re alive, you have to do those things – look after your family and work.”

  A smile lit up his face under the burned eye, the gaze fixed and milky next to the sad, living eye.

  “I’m glad that you’re here.”

  Bowman was at the door.

  “You’re leaving already?”

  Bowman rummaged through his pockets and took out a one-guinea coin, which he handed to Clements.

  “Oh! No, Sergeant. There’s no need, I’ll be fine, it’s nothing, just a tricky moment, but it’ll pass. You don’t have to worry about me. Even if it’s nothing to you, because I can tell you must have a good job.”

  Clements tried to push away the coin, but in the same movement he caught hold of Bowman’s hand.

  “For the girl, Clements. So you can buy her something. For your children. I have to go now.”

  “That’s very good of you, Sergeant. Very good. But you must come back to see me and we can talk some more. My wife’ll make us a nice meal and you’ll stay longer next time, alright?”

  Bowman withdrew onto the landing. Clements still hadn’t let go of his hand.

  “We could also visit you, Sergeant, and your wife could talk with mine, and your children could meet mine. Like friends. We hardly ever go out, you know how it is, but we could come and see you if you don’t live too far away. Where do you live, Sergeant? In Westminster, next to the park, I bet! We could go for a walk there. The children would love that. With what you’ve given me, I could buy them some nicer clothes, and a pastry to eat in the park. Is that where you live, Sergeant? Am I right?”

  “I have to go, Clements.”

  The former soldier released Bowman’s hand, and tears rolled from his eye.

  “Thank you, Sergeant. Thank you for coming. And this money – I don’t need it, I’ll be fine, but it’s so kind of you. You’re taking care of me. Like you did over there, eh? You haven’t forgotten us, have you, Sergeant? You’re coming to find us, aren’t you? To take care of us?”

  Bowman descended the first step on the staircase. Clements’ voice was getting louder and louder.

  “How you looked after us over there! You’re right, Sergeant – it’s better that my daughter isn’t here to hear us. How you looked after us, with the little boy, when you put the knife to his throat! It was so we’d understand, wasn’t it, Sergeant? That’s right, isn’t it?”

  Bowman moved away from him without turning his back, holding on to the banister and walking backwards down the stairs. Peter Clements yelled:

  “So we’d understand what it is to survive! Eh, Sergeant? That not everyone would get out alive and that we had to follow your orders! Bowman’s orders! So we wouldn’t die in the jungle! So we could go home! We had to kill the monkeys, Bowman! Kill them all and come home!”

  Bowman hurtled downstairs.

  Clements’ yells pursued him all the way to the ground floor.

  “We were afraid, Sergeant! You don’t know what that is! But we came back! You’re going to come back to see me, Sergeant! Are you going to come back?”

  Bowman slammed the door of the building behind him and stopped on the pavement, where he drained half of his flask of gin. On the pavement opposite, in her patchwork overalls, with her gaunt, exhausted face, Clements’ daughters watched him. The child continued to stare at him, a pale, filthy, little ghost straight from one of her father’s nightmares. Bowman wiped his mouth and walked away from Lamb Street.

  By the time he got back to the hut, night had fallen. He took off the jacket, unbuttoned the shirt, and threw himself at the supplies that Frank had brought him. He pushed away the food and uncorked a bottle of Gordon’s.

  7

  The last known address for Private Buffalo – Christian Bufford – was near Walworth.

  Bowman got dressed, discreetly left the cabin and wove his way between the warehouses of Dunbar. He took a series of back alleys through Wapping, making a detour to avoid the docks and the streets patrolled by Andrews’ men, then turned towards the Thames and crossed London Bridge. He found himself on the south bank, in the broad streets of Southwark, and stopped outside a shop window displaying headless mannequins wearing hunting outfits. Inside were other mannequins, leather and oilcloth jackets on crossbars, fox-hunting uniforms, riding boots, rifles hanging on wall racks and a collection of daggers behind a window. The shopkeeper let him walk alone around all these items, while he took down weapons to show to a gentleman in a coat. The man held the rifles one after another and, legs slightly apart, eye glued to the sights, turned in a circular movement, aiming the gun all around the store. Startled by the sight of the rifle’s double barrels pointed at him, Bowman bent down and hid behind a display case of shoes. The aristocrat laughed and lowered his weapon.

  “Don’t worry, it’s not loaded!”

  The shopkeeper laughed too. Bowman stood up, grimacing as he tried to smile, and an assistant approached him.

  “How can I help you?”

  Bowman pointed to a dagger behind glass, a straight blade with a false edge, about eight inches longer.

  “This one.”

  “A very good model. We have some slightly less expensive straight blades of equal quality, sir, if you prefer . . .”

  “This one.”

  The assistant opened the glass case and showed Bowman the knife.

  “The handle is cherrywood, the guard and pommel are nickel silver, and the blade is tempered steel. The knife is from one of the best armouries in the country, and the engravings were made by a master craftsman in London.”

  Before handing him the knife, the assistant said:

  “This prestige weapon ’costs six pounds sterling, sir.”

  The handle was just the right size for his right hand. Bowman passed it to his left hand. Even with two fingers missing, he had no problem holding the knife, which was light for a dagger of this size, nicely balanced and with a perfect edge.

  “I’ll need the sheath too.”

  The assistant remained suspicious until Bowman took ten pounds in coins from his pocket.

  Bowman put the weapon in his belt and looked at the racks of rifles.

  “That last one the gentleman was trying . . . can I see that?”

  The assistant took down a rifle and showed it to him.

  “This weapon, sir?”

  “What is it?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I don’t know this model.”

  “It’s new. An American rifle.”

  Bowman took it in his hands. It weighed almost nothing.

  “How does it work?”

  He handed it back to
the salesman who put a box of ammunition in front of Bowman and gave him a demonstration. The bullets were copper, about an inch and a half long, finished with a lead point. Bowman turned one between his fingers.

  “The bullets are central percussion, coated with a copper sheath. The primer, the charge and the bullet are assembled. You load it like this.”

  The assistant moved the lever, positioned under the butt, half cocked the hammer, slid the barrels forward and pushed the cartridge into the chamber in less than three seconds.

  “What kind of range does it have?”

  “With a .44 calibre, you can hunt small game. At a hundred and fifty feet, the accuracy is excellent. It will go through a half-inch plank from up to sixty feet. It does not have a very long range, but this new technology is proving very popular. The ammunition too is imported from the United States by the Wesson company.”

  The assistant gave the rifle back to Bowman. He lifted it, leaning the butt against his shoulder, and pressed his cheek to the wood. Through the sights, he aimed at a headless mannequin dressed in fox-hunting gear: red jacket and white breeches.

  “Is sir interested? You may try the weapon if you like.”

  Bowman did not move, the barrel remaining aimed at the mannequin’s red torso. The rifle was loaded. His index finger stroked the trigger.

  “Sir?”

  As he stared at the jacket, the target blurred and his eyes stung. He opened his fingers: the sweat left damp traces on the wood.

  “No need.”

  When he left the shop, his hands were still trembling. He saw Bufford again, on the Joy, when he’d tried to cut open Peavish’s belly. The presence of the dagger against his hip reassured him a little bit. All the men on the list might be as mad as Clements, but they wouldn’t all be as skinny. Bufford was dangerous. Bowman tightened his maimed hand around the knife’s handle.

  *

  When he found Searles Street, he thought to himself that he must have made a mistake; that he must have misread the address or got the wrong district. The address was that of the largest house on the street. A garden behind ten-feet-high railings, a forged-iron gate, ten windows on every floor, with curtains, flowers climbing up the façade of the building, six huge chimneys, sculpted stone bondings, a front door that was wider than Frank’s hut, and, along the side of the house, a driveway, sealed off by another gate leading to the carriage door.

  Bowman crossed the street, paused for a moment outside the gates, hesitant, frustrated, then left again. Passing the carriage gate, he saw a boy in an apron, holding a pail and shovel, scooping up dung from the cobbles. Bowman looked around him and whistled to the stable boy.

  “You there! Is this Christian Bufford’s house?”

  “What?”

  “Bufford.”

  The child, from the other side of the railings, looked suspiciously at Bowman, who took twopence from his pocket.

  “There’s only his wife.”

  “His wife? She lives here?”

  The boy turned towards the house, then back to Bowman.

  “Well, yes.”

  “I have to see her.”

  The boy frowned.

  “You can’t, sir.”

  Bowman dangled two more coins in front of him.

  “Go and tell her that there’s a friend of her husband’s outside. Someone who knew him a long time ago, in India.”

  The child scratched his head, took the coins and went off towards the carriage door. A few minutes later, he reappeared at the end of the driveway and, standing next to a servant in a black dress and apron, pointed to Bowman. The woman walked up to the gate.

  Bowman touched his hat with his fingertips.

  “I didn’t mean to scare the boy. It’s just that I know Mr Bufford, and I need to see him.”

  The servant stared at him for a moment, frowning.

  “I don’t know who you are, sir, but my husband is dead. Please leave.”

  Bowman burst out laughing as he realised his mistake.

  Bufford’s wife turned her back on him and began to walk away.

  “Wait! I didn’t know. I must talk to you.”

  She stopped and came back towards him.

  “My husband is dead. I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t know who you are.”

  “Sergeant Bowman. I was with Bufford on the Healing Joy. We were together. In Burma.”

  The woman put a white hand on a bar of the railings.

  “Bowman? Is that what you said?”

  “Arthur Bowman. I was with your husband.”

  “I remember your name. He spoke about you.”

  Bufford’s wife was pretty, with dark eyes and smooth skin. She looked tired but healthy, and her teeth were good. Her hair was tied in a bun.

  “I have to talk to you. It won’t take long.”

  The woman turned back towards the house.

  “My master and mistress have gone out, but you mustn’t stay too long.”

  Bowman followed the woman, watching the movements of her dress as she walked. Her hips swayed attractively under the fabric. The servants’ quarters were on the other side of the house, at the end of another garden, as big as a park. A long, single-storey building, adjoining the stable. A brick cottage with five doors, with two little windows between each one. Bowman could make out figures behind the curtains, watching him and Bufford’s widow as they passed.

  She took a key from the pocket of her apron, opened one of the doors and told him to go inside. On top of the warm stove was a kettle. The woman made tea. The place was in perfect order. Two doors opened onto the main room. Two bedrooms. And the kitchen facing the large garden. At the back, behind the trees, a pergola was visible on a large terrace: the masters’ house. If Bowman had tried to describe the woman and her home, he would have said that they were the exact opposite of Bufford, who had been dirty, coarse and brutal.

  She poured the tea into a cup and placed it in front of Bowman, with a sugar bowl and a little spoon.

  “I didn’t know about Bufford. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  “Please, don’t speak too loud. You can hear everything through these walls.”

  Bowman looked stupidly at the wall.

  “Alright.”

  Then he observed the woman’s face again and lowered his gaze to the cup. He didn’t know what to do with it.

  “What happened?”

  She broke down in sobs. In an instant, her pretty features grew distorted. She took a handkerchief from her sleeve and brought it to her nose.

  “Elliot . . . Elliot died in June.”

  Realising that he hadn’t taken off his cap, Bowman hastened to put it on the table.

  “Elliot?”

  “Our son.”

  “Oh . . . I didn’t know about that either.”

  She blew her nose. And even that, Bowman thought, she did prettily.

  “He was eleven. He drowned in the garden well, during that dry spell this summer. They had to open it up because there was no more running water. Christian . . . Christian was angry because he said that the well was too old and dangerous, but they needed someone small to go down there.

  Not knowing what to say, Bowman drank a mouthful of tea, which he had to spit back out.

  “The wall collapsed. Elliot was trapped at the bottom. Christian – and the others, everyone – we didn’t know what to do. He drowned almost in front of our eyes.”

  Snot ran from her nose. Bowman took the flask from his pocket and offered it to the widow. She shook her head. Before putting it back, Bowman drank some.

  “Christian, he couldn’t get over it. He said it was his fault. He went mad. He also said it was the master’s fault that Elliot was dead, for wanting water to wash in when we were dying of thirst. They hired some stonemasons to rebuild the well, and at the same time they brought his body out . . . The rats, sir. There was hardly anything left of him because of the rats.”

  This time she made animal-like moans, which choked her throat with sobs
. Bowman wanted to stand up and leave, but she kept talking and grabbed his arm.

  “You knew him, my Christian! You were there with him. You know how hard it was to come back, don’t you? He wasn’t like that before he went away. He always had a bit of a temper, but not like that. He said he would come back from India with money, that I wouldn’t have to work here anymore, that Elliot would be able to go to school. That was why he joined the Company and left us behind. But when he returned, he had these dreams, these nightmares. And these scars, my God, what they did to him . . .”

  She would not let go of Bowman’s sleeve. The knife in his belt was digging into his side, but he couldn’t extricate himself from her grip in order to put it back in place.

  “He went mad with grief after our son’s death. He was too fragile. You knew him. You understand what I’m saying, don’t you?”

  Bowman remembered Bufford, at his side, attacking the junk, yelling savagely, sticking his bayonet into Burmese bellies, screaming with joy in the pouring rain.

  “I knew him, ma’am. A good lad.”

  “He couldn’t bear it. With the heat and that terrible smell, he left.”

  Bowman leaned forward.

  “Left?”

  “He left us to join Elliot. You were with him in that forest, weren’t you? You fought together. You know he was a good man. If he left us, it’s because he couldn’t bear it anymore, because it was better that way. It’s a sin, to take your own life, I know. But if he chose that, it must have been the right choice. Don’t you think?”

  Bufford in a cage, fighting another prisoner to the death so he could steal his rice. Biting his ear and spitting the bits out. Or maybe he even swallowed them.

  “It was for the best, ma’am, I’m sure it was.”

  “He has to be forgiven, doesn’t he?”

  “How did he . . . leave?”

  “The simplest way, sir. To join Elliot, he took the same path.”

  Bowman gulped.

  “The well?”

  She collapsed on the table, holding Bowman’s arm tight against her cheek, wiping her snotty nose and her eyes on his new jacket.

  “And the rats, those vile beasts . . .”