by Clare Clark
He sat for a long time, his pencil held over the paper, as the words that came next curled themselves into a fist in his head. His hand trembled as he touched the lead to the paper and the letters he wrote came out spidery and faint.
Did I kill him?
'May.'
William fumbled his open notebook beneath a pile of papers and scrambled to his feet. Lovick peered over the wall of his carrel, his half-moon glasses winking in the dim light.
'Sir.'
'Still here? It's late, you know. You should get home to that family of yours.'
William forced himself to smile. Yet again the thought of his son brought on in him a feeling of anxiety, bristling the hairs on his neck. Even the sight of one of Di's toys, abandoned on the floor, made him uneasy these days, although he could not say why. At home he was so filled with anxiety that he hardly wanted the boy out of his sight and at night he longed to have him sleep with them in their bed, but Polly kept Di determinedly away from his father. Whenever William spoke to him, he was sure he saw fear in the boy's eyes. His fear made William's agitation worse.
'Yes, sir.'
'Well, good night, then.'
'Good night, sir.'
William waited. He heard Lovick mutter his good nights to the clerks and his footfall on the stairs. Then, drawing the pile of papers towards him, he withdrew the notebook. A sheet of paper came with it. Across its head were emblazoned the words ENGLAND & SON. And suddenly, with a sharp stab of recollection, William understood. The swirling agitation in his belly hardened into a vortex that forced itself fiercely down into his gut. England had been there that night. There had been a fight. England had threatened his son. Di was in danger. William almost threw the notebook into the drawer and snatched the key from the lock. He had to get home. Dragging his bad leg in a limping run he was halfway down the stairs before it occurred to him. It had been more than two weeks since that night. The contract with Strowbridge had been signed perhaps two days later. Surely if England meant to hurt Di, to hurt any of them, then he would have already done it. The pressure of the vortex eased a little. Perhaps he had never had any intention of carrying out his threat. He had meant only to frighten William into giving him the contract. But the contract had gone elsewhere. Of what value would it be to England now to risk his own reputation to damage William's family? It was too late for that now. And his son was safe.
All the same. William paused, his hand upon the polished banister. Then, thoughtfully, he turned and went back upstairs.
Hawke's office was in darkness. By the dim light from the street lamp William wrote him a message, requesting an interview with him the following day, at Hawke's convenience. Then he went home. He could hear Polly moving about the kitchen. Quietly removing his boots William crept upstairs. Di was asleep in his low bed, his hair rumpled and his arms flung out. William watched him for a while and then, careful not to disturb him, he lay down next to him. The boy's breath was warm with the yeasty smell of fresh bread. If anything happened to him — William could not bear to think upon it. When Polly found him there he too was asleep. Her first instinct was to shake him awake, to order him out of the room, but halfway to the bed her step faltered. William's arm encircled his son and Di's plump hand was splayed like a starfish upon it, holding him close. On the pillow, their hair tumbled together. Their chests rose and fell quietly together. Polly sighed, adjusting the quilt so that it covered them both, and went to her bed alone.
The next day Hawke sent word to William that he was ready for him shortly before midday. William paused only to comb his hair and straighten his neckcloth. When he reached Hawke's office, however, Hawke was busy and William was forced to wait for some considerable time in an uncomfortable chair placed there for the purpose. His hands jiggled restlessly in his lap. The young clerk who occupied the cubicle outside Hawke's door stared insolently at him, giving him several thorough up-and-down looks in between excavating his dirty nails with a paperknife. At last Hawke summoned William in. When the clerk closed the door behind him the slam shook the door jamb and stirred the papers on Hawke's desk.
Behind the bulk of his desk Hawke clamped his hands together and stared at William. He did not invite him to sit.
'What is it you want?' he demanded. There was not the faintest pretence of courtesy in the question.
'It — it's about England & Son,' William began.
Hawke stood. Against the light from the window William could not make out the expression upon his face but his shadow fell upon William like a threat.
'Oh, it is, is it?' he said quietly and his dark eyes flashed.
'Yes, sir. No doubt Mr England will have been most dissatisfied with the award of the tunnel contract to the Strowbridge yard —'
'What are you suggesting, May?'
The menace in Hawke's tone was unmistakable.
'I wished only to suggest that he consider tendering for the Abbey Mills contract, sir,' William rushed. 'There is a considerable requirement there for London brick and, given his competitive prices, England's yard would stand a reasonable chance of success.' He cleared his throat, looking down at his hands. 'I would do what I could to help him, sir. I should like him to know that.'
He was answered with a mocking bark of laughter. William's heart sank.
'You should, should you?' Hawke said with grim amusement.
He snorted again. William watched uneasily as Hawke straightened up and turned to look out of the window, stretching and pulling at his fingers. Beneath his dark whiskers a muscle twitched. William waited.
'Is it true that you threatened Mr England's life?' Hawke asked at last.
'No! If there were threats made they were on Mr England's side. Surely you don't think —'
Hawke waved away William's words.
'If I see him I'll be sure to let him know you wish to make amends. Although such overtures may by now be a little late.' His mouth extended into a strange stretched smile. 'I fear that your problems with Mr England may be just beginning.'
'I should like to hope, sir, that we might put our differences —'
'Should you? Well, I commend your optimism.'
Hawke tapped a brass bell set into the top of his desk and immediately the office door swung open and the clerk appeared. Hawke busied himself with some papers on his desk. His mouth twitched.
'Ah, Spratt, good. Bring me the month's records,' he instructed without looking up. 'I am due to report to the Board this afternoon. Good day, Mr May.'
William hesitated.
'Good day, Mr May,' Hawke said again, sharpening his consonants.
There was nothing for it but to leave.
'Good day, sir,' William murmured.
Spratt the clerk smirked impertinently as William limped out of the office, and rested his inky hands on his heap of leather ledgers.
'He didn't give you so much as the time of day, then,' Spratt observed.
William didn't deign to reply. Haste had made him foolish, he saw that now. He should have known that Hawke would not forgive him for what he had seen. Although Hawke knew himself to be safe from May, given May's inferior position and the absence of any proof of misconduct, it was inevitable that Hawke would always regard him as a dangerous adversary and any interest in Hawke's business as hostile and unwelcome.
As soon as he was back in his carrel William scribbled a note. The content of the letter was direct and unambiguous. He had no wish for bad blood to persist between himself and the brickyard owner. He regretted the failure of England's to secure the original contract for the sewer project but considered there were a number of other opportunities within the aegis of the Board's work that Mr England might find to his advantage. He therefore suggested an interview at Mr England's convenience during which he, May, would be able to provide him with further details. Summoning a messenger, William instructed that the envelope be delivered to the Battersea brickyard at the earliest opportunity. Before the messenger had left the room he was tapping his pencil impatientl
y against his teeth, wondering how soon he might expect a reply.
'Your report, Mr May, sir.'
Donald Hood stood at William's shoulder, holding a sheaf of papers dolefully in one hand. Hood was a pale man with greasy skin who looked as though he had been moulded from candle wax. His nose ran like a long drip down the middle of his face and his shoulders drooped unevenly, as if, during his manufacture, a draught had caused the candle to melt more on one side than the other.
'Well?' William demanded, swinging round to snatch the papers and searching the apprentice's face. 'Did you find anything?'
'As you suspected, sir, there is evidence of further subsidence.' Hood's voice had a nasal quality but otherwise it was quite without expression, and he gave every word he spoke precisely equal emphasis. 'Since the inspection carried out last June the condition of the western section of the tunnel has perceptibly deteriorated —'
'Yes, yes, but did you find anything? Anything of importance?'
'Well, yes, sir. Initial examination of deposits would appear to indicate that, in direct contravention of Board directives —
'Did you carry out a complete assessment? Of all the smaller sewers?'
Hood's shoulders sank a little lower and his mouth slid downwards in mournful reproach.
'Begging your pardon, sir, but if you will permit me to draw your attention to the Board directives issued in September of last year, you will be as aware as I am myself that not even the flushers are now permitted to enter the minor sewers, them being of particular danger, sir.'
'So you are saying you did not?'
'Of course not, sir.' Hood blinked slowly, his waxy eyelids appearing to melt over his protruding eyes, and shook his head. 'It would have been in clear contravention —'
'Oh, for the love of God!'
William could contain his impatience no longer. He snatched the documents from the startled apprentice's hand and promptly dismissed him. There was no help for it. He would have to go down there himself. The ink was barely dry on the Strowbridge contract. If questioned he would claim that something in Hood's report pertaining to brick deterioration had aroused his concern. It would not be difficult to think of something. But he could not go down alone. If he was not to arouse suspicion he would need to follow Hood's precious Board directives to the letter. Besides, he would require witnesses. Seizing his coat he limped as fast as he was able up one flight of stairs to the set of rooms where until recently he had had his carrel and carefully peered in. The door to Hawke's office stood open but, to his relief, there was no sign of its occupant, or of the young clerk who served as his gatekeeper.
William crossed the room, nodding to the one or two men who raised their heads as he passed. They nodded vaguely in their turn and forgot him, as they had always forgotten him. Upon the opposite wall were pinned a substantial number of charts and diagrams, each representing a section of the scheme currently under development. William quickly found the one he was looking for. There was a team of flushers scheduled to enter the system at Regent-circus at a little after two o'clock. He checked his watch. That gave him less than thirty minutes. William hurried towards the staircase, almost bumping into Hawke's young clerk who was carrying a dish of something covered by a stained cloth.
'Looking for Mr Hawke again, sir?' Spratt enquired, his eyes glinting with curiosity. 'Bit of a glutton for punishment, ain't you?'
'My business with Mr Hawke is quite complete, thank you,' he replied stiffly. Straddle-legged in the doorway Spratt made no move to step aside. Instead he smirked as William squeezed past him, his sharp eyes watching the surveyor as he made his awkward descent of the staircase. At the landing William was forced to pause to catch his breath, one hand upon the banister. Despite himself he looked up. Spratt smiled slowly and, after wiping his nose luxuriously on the back of one hand, raised it in a languid wave. William felt his neck redden. Hurriedly he limped down the remaining stairs.
The small wooden shed had a tarpaulin roof and was one of a number erected for use by the flushers as a shelter and as a place to store the necessaries of their trade. This one stood at the north end of Regent-circus, tucked into the passageway known locally as Flower-lane, although as far as anyone knew no flower had ever been fool enough to try its luck in the alley's sour mud. When a sleepy-looking flusher answered William's knock William explained his requirements and was accordingly, and with some ill grace, provided with the necessary uniform for descending into the system. His coat and trousers the flushers hung unceremoniously from a rusty nail banged into the shed's wall.
'So, where's it precise-like you got to get to?' the ganger frowned when he arrived moments later. He was well acquainted with William and had a grudging respect for the surveyor's knowledge of the tunnels and for the composed poise he showed underground, but his arrival added an unwelcome burden to the day's responsibilities. 'There's rain expected and the tides ain't favourable.'
William repeated his story. In the course of his duties one of the apprentices had come across some brickwork of particular interest in one of the smaller tunnels. William was keen to see it for himself but the apprentice, unfamiliar with the layout of the sewers and anxious to be restored to ground level, had been unable to give William precise instructions as to the location. He would therefore be greatly appreciative if an experienced flusher might be made available so that he might attempt to verify the apprentice's report. The ganger sighed.
'One hour. That's yer lot. And if we drop the lid you scarper.'
William agreed. His scalp itched with excitement and dread. They would find the body, he had no doubt of it. Fastening his lantern to the front of his apron he followed the sleepy flusher down the iron ladder into the system.
Immediately he stepped into the stream his heart started up a frenzied thumping in his chest. Above him the iron hatch clanged shut, extinguishing the daylight. William stood in the pale circle of light from his own lantern and breathed in the foul dank air. Usually the smell calmed him, but this time he felt the nausea rising in the back of his throat. His hands trembled. He thrust them into the pockets of his apron and clamped the muscles in his legs so that they might move more decisively against the drag of the water. Upriver the flusher's light bobbed and swung. William rolled his feet through the mud, pushing on, trying to catch him up. Always in the tunnels he had pursued solitude but now he had a child's longing for the flusher's solid warmth beside him, for the comforting stink of his sewer-stiff clothes and the stale reek of ale upon his breath, for the reassuring pat of a hand upon his shoulder. But the flusher was too far ahead of him. He was so cold, that was the trouble. The damp chill crept into his bones and he ached painfully in the half-healed wound in his leg. His skin was alive with gooseflesh.
Up ahead the flusher stopped and waited for William to draw level. As the circles of light from their lanterns converged and thickened William felt the dread recede a little. Despite the brutish nature of his work and the smear of grime across one cheek the sleepy flusher had a gentle face. Together the two of them would find the body. And together they would return to ground level. There was nothing to be afraid of.
'This way?' The flusher jerked his head to the right. William nodded, pausing gratefully to catch his breath, but already the flusher had moved off again, his light striping the walls and glinting on the ploughed surface of the water. Between him and William, the darkness closed the tunnel like drapes. William struggled along the channel behind him, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His own light was dim and strangely smoky. There was something wrong with his lantern. Alarmed, he shook it and the flame guttered. A skittering plunge of panic dropped away inside him, so abruptly that he was certain he would fall through it. He clenched his face into a tight knot and gripped the handle of his lantern with his damp hand so that his knuckles stood up in yellowed points like teeth. He must not let himself look down. The body. He had to find the body. If he found the body he was not mad. If he found the body he could get out.
'Wa
it, please wait,' he called hoarsely to the flusher but his words were sucked down beneath the tumbling rush of the stream. His head dipped and swirled as the shadows around him dipped and swirled, dizzying him until he was certain he would vomit. It was so cold. He could not feel his feet, his fingers. He had to find the body. He had to get out of here. And now the old darkness started to fill those cold empty places, its desolate blackness rising like smoke up the chimneys of his legs. The cravings tightened his skin and dried his mouth, peeling his gums away from his teeth. His skin itched. The screams were rising in him, faster and more powerful than ever. They poured in their feral hoards from the darkest places in his soul and they could not be stopped. They slashed through his veins. They set his bones on fire. They pressed into his head as though they would smash his skull like an egg. He was powerless before their merciless onslaught. They were all he could hear and taste and feel and see. He had to let them out, before they destroyed him. But this time it was not the knife he longed for, not the knife that he knew would bring him relief. It was the body.
Further along the tunnel the flusher paused again, waiting for William to catch up. Ahead of him was a narrow channel, barely three feet high. The flusher's lantern swung as he turned to face William and as it swung the light snagged on something concealed a few feet into the tunnel. It was pale, almost white. And then it was gone, lost in the darkness. But the perfect image of its swollen fleshiness remained, scored in great deep gashes into William's self. The body. It was the body.
Frenziedly he pushed past the flusher with such roughness that the man stumbled. Tearing the lantern from the front of his apron he held it aloft. Then, with a strangled cry of triumph, he sank to his knees, so that the stream smeared its foul contents across his chest, and forced his way into the tunnel. The light bounced off the walls, throwing back a white glare. Fungi. The walls were padded with fungi, bulging and bloating from the crumbling walls. Their cold decaying stink pressed into William's nostrils and swelled inside his head. The body. He had seen the body. Pressing his knees into the black sludge he pushed further into the tunnel. The fungi seemed to swell around him, deadening sound, closing him off. Their puffy pallor surrounded him, everywhere hinting at dead flesh and yet concealing it. William felt sickened and confused and then, abruptly, wild with rage. Viciously he struck out at the wads of fungi with his lantern. The casing brought down lumps of spongy flesh. Again and again William struck, carving his way into the low tunnel. And then, abruptly, the glass smashed and the light went out. William was in perfect darkness. He hurled the broken lantern away. The body was here. He had seen it. He plunged his arms into the stream, his fingers raking through the filth, and broken glass sliced into his fingers. The pain steadied him a little. Struggling on his knees, he pushed on into the black tunnel, ripping at the fleshy walls, thrusting his hands over and over into the mud beneath the stream.