by Ian McGuire
“What kind of scars?”
“Bad-looking ones,” he says, pointing at himself. “Here and here. Could have been a musket ball or bayonet. I’ve seen men come back from that war looking like they’ve been passed through a threshing machine. Arms and legs and hands missing. Holes where holes shouldn’t rightly be. Fucking gruesome.”
O’Connor remembers the man talking to Flanagan at the parade, the thick mustaches, the long dark hair, and the deep clefts gouged into his cheek and jaw like half-formed eyes or lips. A coincidence, he thinks, but not impossible.
“What day did your ship get in?”
“Wednesday. I’ve been staying on in Liverpool with a fellow I met. He thought he might have a job for me, but that didn’t come to anything.”
“And was this Byrne coming here to Manchester? Did he tell you that?”
“He said he might, but he wasn’t sure when. When we tallied up the winnings at the end of the voyage I owed him a few dollars, but I had nothing left, so I gave him my note of hand and he wrote down an address I could send it on to.”
“Show me.”
Sullivan goes through his pockets and finds the piece of paper. O’Connor reads it, looks at the other side, which is blank, then gives it back.
“Jack Riley’s alehouse, it’s one of the places they gather,” he says.
“So I was right?”
“Tell me more about this taking up arms. What did he say?”
“He said the milk-and-water men would talk and talk, but it was only bloodshed that ever changed the world. He said the war had already started, but the point was to make everyone in England realize it. I don’t remember all the rest. But I could go to that address he gave me if you’d like. I could ask for him there.”
“No,” he says. “You leave this with me. I’ll see about it tomorrow.”
“Those Fenians are just blatherskites and rabble-rousers, if you ask me. To be truthful, I don’t care for politics much at all. I’m too young and what does it matter anyway? The way I see it, some bastard or other will always be in charge, and whoever it is they will be looking after themselves first of all. Isn’t that right?”
O’Connor looks at Sullivan again, sitting there at the table, dazed with drink, talking just for the sake of talking, to fill up the emptiness. There is something about the eyes that reminds him of Catherine—the width between them perhaps, or the particular shade of green, he’s not sure exactly what, but it pains him to see it, this blood-borne echo of the dead. He wishes it wasn’t there, or that he could deny or ignore it.
“It’s time to sleep now,” he says. “I’ll take you over to the Town Hall in the morning and you can tell your story there.”
CHAPTER 5
Tommy Flanagan sits at a splintery corner table in the parlor of the Pier Head Inn on Albert Street with his best bull terrier, Victor, panting like a hot little engine at his feet. Tonight is the night of the monthly rat-match and the place is already filling up with dog fanciers and sporting men of all types and classes—coachmen out of livery and unbuttoned soldiers, shopkeepers and costermongers, gentleman gamblers, cabmen, and clerks. The waiters are shouting out orders for beer and battered fish, and the nervier dogs are growling at each other across the room, scratching the wooden floor and straining at their collars. Flanagan has owned some good-looking ratters in his time, but Victor is the finest yet. It is not strength, size, or stamina that counts with the ratting but eagerness, and Victor is deadly eager. Some dogs will kill a rat quickly, then pause and mope over the bloodied corpse awhile, sniffing or licking it like a child with a rag doll, and in that way precious seconds can easily be lost, but Victor doesn’t ever pause or mope, he presses on to the next rat and then the next one after that, as if he knows in his head that a clock is ticking. Such eagerness, in Flanagan’s opinion, is a rare gift of Mother Nature that can’t be trained in or bred for. He paid five shillings for Victor as a pup, and if he wins the match tonight he won’t sell him for a penny less than ten pounds, which will be a sweet profit, but also a just reward. For there are many who proudly claim to know a ratter when they see one, but there are precious few like him who have the living, panting proof to back that judgment up.
It will pain him to sell such a dog, but he needs the cash for his escape. This new man Doyle, the Yankee incomer, is already making ructions, nosing. He tells everyone he meets that his first appointed task is to root out all the spies in Manchester. When he first sees you, he shakes you firmly by the hand, gives you that fierce cockeyed look of his, with that wound set into his face for all the world like an extra arsehole, and whispers hotly in your ear that if you know anything at all, anything, however small, about the spies, then his door is open. Tommy Flanagan has always been careful about his business, he has covered his tracks well enough, but he’s not sure he has been careful enough to evade the concerted shrewdness of a loon like Doyle. Much better then, he thinks, much safer all in all, to take a little trip abroad, at least until the present situation calms itself. Let the bloodthirsty Yank find another man’s throat to cut.
Around nine o’clock, the landlord rings a brass bell behind the bar and calls the patrons upstairs to begin the contest. They enter a large, brightly lit room, with high, shuttered windows on both sides. The floor and walls are dusty and unadorned, and in the center is a circular wooden pit, ten feet wide and four feet high, painted white on the inside to improve the view. On a pitch pine table at the far end of the room, watched over by one of the waiters, are two large wire cages both crammed with a squealing mass of river rats, their dark pelts twisting and roiling about inside like the quickened surface of a peat stream in flood. When the dogs smell the keen, cloacal reek of the caged rats, they start up howling and barking and the large room is suddenly filled with a hectic, sharp-edged raucousness. On a signal from the umpire, the waiter carries one of the cages up to the edge of the ring and empties it out. Fifty or sixty newly released rats swirl and scurry around the floor like scalded tea leaves in a pot, then pile together into three separate twitching clusters at the perimeter as if for safety. The landlord calls for his stopwatch and the first dog is made ready.
Flanagan leans against the ring’s edge to watch the match proceed. The man standing beside him is making bets on every dog that comes into the ring. Five shillings here, ten shillings there. Every bet he makes he loses.
Flanagan looks at him. He’s surprised a man like that has such money to squander. His hands are calloused and his black jacket is cheap and threadbare. A laborer, he thinks, or possibly a journeyman. He must have won the money somehow, either that or stolen it. Whatever he is, he knows fuck-all about dogs.
“Let me give you a tip,” Flanagan says to him.
The man, who is holding a pewter mug of ale, turns and peers back at Flanagan as if he has done something peculiar or as if the very fact of his speaking is somehow untoward.
“What tip might that be?” he says.
“Put all your money on this one.” He nods down at Victor. “If you do it now, you could get double or treble what you lay.”
The man looks unconvinced. He is young, but his bottom teeth are sparse and carious.
“I don’t see you making too many bets on him,” he says.
“If I had money I would. I’m short today, is all.”
The man thinks about this, then nods and kneels down to look more carefully at Victor. He squeezes his hind legs and peers into his mouth, as if he knows what he’s looking for.
“He’s a strong little bugger,” the man admits.
“Ah, he’s strong enough, but it’s not the strength that matters most with the ratting, it’s the eagerness.”
“The eagerness, you say?”
“That’s right.” Flanagan looks around a moment, then points over to the other side of the room. “You see that bulldog over there. The white one, Hercules. That’s a nice
dog. He goes about his work in the right kind of way, neat and tidy, doesn’t dawdle or leave too many twitchers lying around the ring. He’ll kill you fifteen or twenty rats every time with no fuss or commotion. That’s what I call a decent, reliable ratter, but is he truly eager? Eager like Victor here is?” He looks at the man to let the question sink in, then shakes his head. “He don’t even come close.”
The man stands up, finishes his ale, and waves to the waiter for another.
“Everyone’s the expert,” he says.
Flanagan shrugs.
The next dog in the ring is a ragged-looking Airedale. It twists and writhes around in its owner’s arms, yipping and growling, as they wait for the signal to begin. Bets are being taken and the man next to Flanagan has his money out again. He puts five shillings on the Airedale to kill fifteen or more. Flanagan sniffs and shakes his head.
“I’d go low with a dog like that one,” he says. “Too much fizz in him, I’d say. Not smart enough. He’ll chase the rats about instead of taking out the easy ones.”
“If I’m ever short of a smart opinion, I’ll know where to go looking,” the man says.
“Good money after bad, that’s all I’m saying.”
They watch the Airedale go to work. It starts off well but then becomes distracted by the noise and commotion of the ring. By the end, there are ten dead rats and six others that are bloodied but still moving.
Flanagan puffs on his pipe and feeds titbits of tripe to Victor to keep him calm. He can hear the man cursing beside him, but he keeps his own counsel. The next dog up is a bow-legged Staffy, grizzled around the nose with a scattering of bite scars across his face and chest like moth holes in a blanket.
“How about this one?” the man asks him. “Too old?”
Flanagan shakes his head.
“What the fuck do I know?” he says.
“I’ll give you half the profit if I win it. Half is fair enough.”
“He’ll do better than the Airedale but not by much.”
“They’re offering ten.”
“Go higher and keep your fingers crossed.”
The Staffy is slower than the Airedale but fiercer and less flighty. After he kills a rat, he gnaws and shakes the stricken corpse awhile, then tosses it aside and looks around for the next. With a minute to go, there are nine black bodies curled up like fat commas on the whitewashed floor, and the dog’s short muzzle is dark red and dripping.
“Go on, you little beauty,” the man shouts out. “Go on now, you vicious bugger.”
“He’s got some pepper in him that one,” Flanagan agrees. “He’s not so quick about the ring, but he’s plenty cruel.”
The Staffy kills two more rats, then, just before the umpire blows the final whistle, kills a third to make twelve dead in all. The man roars out with laughter, dances a jig, and slaps Flanagan hard on the back. They have a drink together with their winnings and then another drink for luck. The man, who says his name is Henry Dixon, agrees that he will bet all the money he has left on Victor at eight-to-one to win the rat match outright. He reaches into his pocket to check how much he has, and pulls out a folded-up five-pound note and some coins.
“Someone remember you in their will, did they?” Flanagan asks.
“I had a bit of luck,” Dixon says. “You know how that goes.”
He must have stolen it all, Flanagan thinks. Clubbed or garroted some unexpecting bastard in a back alley, then rifled his pockets. A man like Henry Dixon, with his grubby hands and staring eyes, doesn’t come by that amount of money in any lawful fashion.
“Some men drop things, others pick them up,” Flanagan says. “You have to keep your eyes peeled, that’s all. You never know what you might find lying in the gutter.”
“Oh, I keep my eyes peeled right enough,” Dixon agrees. “Not much gets past me, I swear.”
“You found a nice fat wallet somewhere, by the look of it,” Flanagan says, nodding at the money. He can tell that Dixon is drunk enough to want to boast about his crimes. All he needs to do is egg him on a little more.
Dixon laughs.
“There was a wallet involved, true enough,” he says. “But that wasn’t the half of it.”
“Pocket watch?”
Dixon shakes his head.
“I can’t tell you all what happened. There are other parties involved and I’ve been sworn to secrecy.”
Before Flanagan can press him any further, the umpire calls out for Victor to enter the ring. Flanagan picks him up, and the two men push their way through the dense crowd. The seconds, who are speckled with rat blood and have their trouser bottoms cinched with twine, take a minute to clear out the maimed and dead rats and then restock from the rusted wire cages. When Victor sees the fresh rats skittering around and sniffing and biting at themselves, he starts to rant and kick out in his urge to get to them. Flanagan grips the hot, shuddering body like a sack of treasure and waits. The umpire counts down from ten, then blows the whistle, and Flanagan tosses Victor forward. His claws scramble on the deal floor as he lands, and the screaming rats explode outward in a burst. He kills eight in the first minute, ten in the second, and ten more in the third. When the time runs out, there are only six rats left alive in the ring and the onlooking fancy are hooting and hollering and banging their fists on the side panels. Flanagan has seen better ratters than Victor, he knows it, but not many, and not around these parts. After a showing like that, he will get ten pounds for him now, he is sure of it, and if Henry Dixon can be enticed to make a bid, it might be a good deal more.
There are two more dogs to try before the prize can be given, but everyone knows that Victor has won it. Flanagan enjoys his triumph for a while, then looks around for Dixon. He finds him downstairs in the parlor, drinking whiskey and looking gleeful.
“That’s a fine dog right there,” he says, pointing at Victor, “and no lie. Forty rats, was it, in the end?”
“Forty-four.”
“Forty-four!” Dixon shakes his head and whistles. “Would that be a record for the Pier Head?”
“Close enough, I’d say.”
Dixon is so full of drink now that he barely needs any prompting. All Flanagan needs to do is keep his nerve and stay patient.
“So, what will you take for him?” Dixon bangs his hand down on the tabletop. “Give me your price.”
Flanagan tries his best to look amazed.
“He’s not for sale,” he says. “I couldn’t part with him.”
“Come on now. He’s not a lapdog, he’s a ratter. A good one, I’ll give you that, but don’t try to tell me he’s not for sale because you’re soft on him.”
Flanagan shakes his head and winces, as if the very conversation pains him.
“A fellow upstairs offered me fifteen pounds just now, but I told him the exact same thing I just told you.”
“Fifteen? You wouldn’t be telling tales, would you? You Irish can be slippery bastards. I know that.”
“I’ll take you up there to meet him if you like. He’s a smart fellow who knows his dogs, but I told him just what I told you. The dog’s not for sale.”
Dixon scratches his chin and shifts about in his chair. They hear some cheering from upstairs and then the long blast of a whistle. Flanagan gets up from the table and offers Dixon his hand.
“I’ll pick up the prize now,” he says, “and then I’ll be away.”
Dixon stands up too. His eyes look off-kilter and he sways a little before finding his balance again.
“Oh no, you don’t,” he says. “You wait here. Just give me a minute and I’ll be back with my winnings. You can finish off my whiskey while I’m gone.”
Dixon points him back down into his chair and, after a measured pause, Flanagan sits.
When Dixon comes back, he is patting his waistcoat pocket and smiling like a goon.
&nb
sp; “Nothing like winning a nice fat wager,” he says. “Best feeling in the world.”
He slumps down, picks up the empty whiskey glass, peers into it like a telescope, sighs, then waves for another.
“So, the fellow upstairs offered you fifteen pounds, did he? And you told him the dog wasn’t for sale, whatever the price?”
Flanagan nods.
“That’s right.”
Dixon leans forward until their noses are almost touching.
“I know what you’re up to,” he says, “don’t think I don’t know. But I can’t blame you for it. A man has a dog to sell, he wants the best price, I understand.”
“I don’t want to sell him. I told you that.”
Dixon snorts derisively.
“Listen,” he says. “I could offer you seventeen pounds or eighteen, and you might take it and you might not, but let’s not bugger about. I want that dog and this is what I’ll give you for him.”
He takes his bundled winnings from his jacket pocket, deals out twenty pounds on the table between them, and leans back in his chair.
Flanagan waits a moment, then takes the money and hands Dixon the leash.
“He’s a good dog,” Flanagan says. “I wouldn’t part with him for a penny less.”
Dixon smiles and half-hitches Victor’s leash around the leg of his chair.
“If I set my mind on something, I’ll get it done,” he says. “One way or t’other, I’ll get it done. No bugger stops me. That’s how I am.”
The parlor is filling up now. Waiters are taking final orders, the landlord is shaking hands and making promises for next time. Flanagan puts the money in his pocket and starts to stand up, but Dixon puts a hand on his shoulder and pushes him down again.
“Have another drink,” he says. “Don’t be rushing off like that.”
“I’ll have one more, then I’ll be on my way.”
“One more my arse.”