Jack felt a chill run down his spine. Yet still he turned his back on the man he feared. ‘Step inside, sir.’ He gestured for Sir Humphrey to go back into the scullery.
‘I shall not leave.’ Sir Humphrey hissed the words. ‘My son is my concern.’
‘Are you going to get him, then? Are you going to fight?’ Jack’s fear made him cruel. ‘No? Then stay out of my way.’ He lifted a hand and shoved Sir Humphrey. ‘You hear me. Keep out of the fucking way.’
‘My son . . .’ Sir Humphrey stepped back, driven by Jack. Yet still he pleaded, begging Jack to act.
‘I’ll bring you your son.’ Jack forced the confidence into his voice. ‘I give you my word.’ He thought Sir Humphrey would continue to resist, but this time he moved away, ceding the ground to Jack.
‘God give you strength.’
Lampkin cackled as Sir Humphrey invoked the name of the Lord. ‘Ain’t no God round this parts, your honour. There’s just men like me, and we ain’t beholden to no one but ourselves.’
Jack turned to face the man who had ruled his life for the past ten years. ‘Let me take the toff. It doesn’t have to end like this.’
‘Fuck off, boy.’
‘I ain’t your boy, not any more.’
‘Is that right?’ Lampkin stepped forward, flexing his powerful shoulders, turning his head on its thick neck first one way, then the other. ‘I reckon you had better prove you’re a man then, don’t you?’
Jack moved fast, darting forward even as Lampkin was speaking. Fear surged through him, settling deep in his gut like a lead weight, but it did not stay his hand. He punched, his right hand shooting forward, bellowing as it caught Lampkin on the cheek, snapping his head back. The sound of the contact was loud in the cramped yard.
He followed up with his left, driving the blow at Lampkin’s throat. He felt detached, as if watching the fight from afar. This time he missed his target but still landed a stinging blow on the side of Lampkin’s neck.
‘Come on!’ he roared, and struck again, going for the body. He felt the madness then, the searing joy of the impossible fight. He punched again and again, solid, driving blows to Lampkin’s chest, forcing him backwards, the grunts of pain the only sound that greeted the onslaught. His soul thrilled with the joy of landing the blows, his hatred unleashed into every punch. He savoured each one, the years of misery leading to this moment of victory.
Lampkin’s head dropped as he doubled over, and Jack smashed his knee forward, catching him full in the face, pulping his nose. It was a dreadful blow, Lampkin’s face a mask of blood. He fell backwards, his arms windmilling around him before he smacked down on to his backside.
Jack stayed where he was, his chest heaving with the exertion of the fight. He lifted his bloodied fists, holding them ready.
‘Get up. I ain’t finished with you yet.’ He snarled the words through gasps for air. The madness was upon him. He wanted to fight on, to pummel his fists into the man who sat and stared back at him through bloodied eyes. He wanted to kill.
But Lampkin was not done. He moved quickly, bounding to his feet in one lithe movement. A knife was in his hands, its sharp edge catching the light.
Jack saw the weapon, but he had no time to think as Lampkin charged at him, the blade aimed at his guts. He twisted to one side, his body reacting automatically. Lampkin saw him move and lunged again, aiming the blade at Jack’s throat.
Jack threw up an arm. The knife was moving fast, and it drove deep into his forearm. The pain flared white hot across his vision. He staggered, the agony like a living thing feasting on his flesh. Lampkin laughed, and came at him again, the knife stabbing at Jack’s eyes.
Jack felt the terror then. He ducked away, dodging the knife. But Lampkin was quick, and he slashed it back across Jack’s chest. The blow cut through his jacket, peeling back a flap of cloth, the tip scoring across his ribs.
Jack heard the whimper escape from his own lips as he felt the blood run down his side. He could not beat the knife. He knew then that he would die.
Lampkin pulled away, his breath laboured. His bloody face cracked into a hideous smile. ‘You always was a fool, you fucking by-blow of a doxy. Now I reckon you’ll die a fucking fool.’
Jack wanted to scream, his terror bubbling away just below the surface. His mind recoiled from the idea that he might be about to die. He stepped back and the rapier caught at his heels. He stumbled and nearly fell, but his hands grasped its hilt, and in desperation he tugged it free of its scabbard.
He turned back, hefting the strange weapon. His fear burned bright, but the weight of the rapier felt snug in his hand. ‘Come on then.’ He fanned the flames of his hatred. ‘You want to fucking dance: let’s dance.’
There was time to see a flicker of fear on Lampkin’s face before Jack slashed the rapier in a wild arc, cutting it through the air in front of him.
Lampkin laughed as he watched the blade go wide. He was still laughing as he stabbed the knife forward, driving it at Jack’s chest in a short, economical strike that was so much more effective than Jack’s wild swing.
Jack could do nothing but throw the rapier back across his body. He had no idea how to fight with a blade, but by some miracle he caught the knife, deflecting it away.
Lampkin’s eyes went wide as his attack slid past its target. Jack saw the opening and punched the hilt of the rapier forward, smashing it into Lampkin’s face, every ounce of strength he possessed behind the blow. The heavy hilt ripped a great flap of skin from Lampkin’s cheek. The big man staggered, the power of the blow rocking him back on his heels. Jack went after him, punching the hilt forward, smashing it into the same spot before bringing his arm back and lashing out again. Blood splattered across his hand, but still he attacked, bludgeoning Lampkin to the ground, beating aside the hands that lifted in a pathetic defence. Again and again he punched down, using the rapier like a cudgel, the steel edge forgotten as he beat Lampkin senseless with the heavy hilt.
‘Stop it! Stop it! You’re killing him.’
Jack felt small hands pulling him back. He staggered away, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
His mother pushed past. She dropped to her knees beside the body Jack had left on the ground, sobbing as she bent low and scooped up the battered head. Blood smothered her skirt and ran over the hands that cradled Lampkin’s face, yet she still leant forward, holding him close and pressing the ruin of his flesh to her chest.
‘You’ve killed him!’ She screamed the words, her face lifted towards her son, the accusation stripping away her dignity. She sobbed then, great shudders coursing through her body.
Jack felt nothing. He had never seen so much blood, yet it did not cause him an iota of dismay.
‘He would have killed me!’ He spat out the defence, the anger that had driven him in the fight slow to depart. ‘It was him or me.’
‘Get out! Get out!’ His mother was raging now. Her face was smeared with tears and with Lampkin’s blood, but her eyes were sharp and they stared in accusation at her son. ‘Get out!’
Jack could not move. He stared at the blood splattered over his hands, the evidence of his crime revealed.
Lampkin groaned. The sound wavered, like the first wail of a newborn. Somewhere underneath the mask of blood, he was alive.
Jack felt his mind harden. He had administered the beating, and now he would face the consequences of his actions. ‘You have to choose, Ma. Him or me.’
His mother paid him no heed. She bent her face low, murmuring, her lips brushing against Lampkin’s cheek.
‘You’ve got to choose, Ma.’ Jack raised his voice, forcing the issue. ‘Right here and now. Him or me.’ He spoke slowly, his words falling into the silence.
At last his mother turned to face him. She looked from her son, and the man he had become, to the man he had left broken in the dirt. She took a breath. ‘I choose him.’
Her words were like iron. Jack felt them hit him harder than Lampkin’s fists. They settled deep.
He did not wait to hear any more. He pushed past a stunned Sir Humphrey, who had moved forward to attend to his son, and slid back the bolt that secured the rear gate. He turned as he opened it, taking one last look at his mother. Her eyes lifted to meet his. They were glazed, the horror of the night engraved upon them. She held his stare, looking deep into his soul before she turned away, breaking the bond once and for all.
‘Go. Do not come back.’ She spoke the words firmly. She did not look at him again.
Jack knew that his days at the gin palace were over. He bent low and got his good arm under Edmund’s shoulder, his left on fire from the wound he had taken from Lampkin’s knife. With Sir Humphrey taking Edmund’s other side, they hauled the boy to his feet, draping his arms around their shoulders. Then together they began the long journey to Bishopsgate, and the hackney carriage that would take them away from the place that had been the only home Jack had ever known.
Epilogue
‘I’m looking for Sergeant Tate.’
‘Over there, old son.’ A short, pugnacious sergeant looked Jack over like a man appraising a horse. ‘You taking the shilling?’
Jack held his breath. He glanced across and spotted Sergeant Tate sitting at a corner table, a young boy staring sadly at the quart of ale in front of him. Tate looked as smart as ever. The immaculate scarlet uniform was just as Jack remembered, the same undress hat with its three ribbons perched at a jaunty angle on his head, its thick gold chin strap held in place beneath his bottom lip.
‘A lad like you should join the dragoons, not the bloody foot-sloggers.’ The stout sergeant reached out and clapped Jack on the shoulder. ‘You get your own horse in my lot. Can you imagine that? Like a lord you would be.’
‘Leave him be, Sergeant Flynn, one of mine he is,’ Tate’s familiar voice called out.
Jack saw the smile as his presence in the Mitre and Dove was spotted. ‘Come and take a pew, Jack-o, my lad.’ Tate waved him over. ‘We’ve got space for one more.’
Jack did as he was bid. He moved more freely now his wounds had healed. The Ponsonbys had been good to him, but their charity had to come to an end, and so Jack had said his goodbyes and stepped back into the world, ready to fend for himself again. Now he slipped on to the bench next to the whey-faced young lad, who stared at his beer as if it were the source of all his suffering.
‘I knew you’d come, Jack-o. Didn’t I always say it?’ Tate seemed pleased to see him. He reached out a hand and laid it on Jack’s arm. ‘I heard about you and your ma. I reckoned you’d come to me. You want that shilling, old son?’
Jack nodded. He felt the claws of the future take their grip around his soul.
Keep reading for an exclusive extract from the third in the Jack Lark series
THE DEVIL’S ASSASSIN
Out in January 2015
You can also follow Jack Lark as he becomes THE SCARLET THIEF, out now
1854: The banks of the Alma River, Crimean Peninsular. The men of the King’s Royal Fusiliers are in terrible trouble. Officer Jack Lark has to act immediately and decisively. His life and the success of the campaign depend on it. But does he have the mettle, the officer qualities that are the life blood of the British Army?
And in his adventures as THE MAHARAJAH’S GENERAL, out now
Jack Lark barely survived the Battle of the Alma. As the brutal fight raged, he discovered the true duty that came with the officer’s commission he’d taken. In hospital, wounded, and with his stolen life left lying on the battlefield, he grasps a chance to prove himself a leader once more. Jack will travel to a new regiment in India, under a new name. . .
Chapter One
The valley was the perfect place for an ambush. The rider scanned the steep sides with concern, his hard grey eyes roving over the heavy boulders that littered the slopes, wary in the face of the imagined danger. He saw the places where men could hide, the positions where he would disperse his soldiers if he were not the one riding through the narrow, gloomy defile.
A small avalanche of stones caught his attention. Each fast-moving boulder kicked up a puff of dust, the thin, dry soil easily disturbed after so many months without rain. There was nothing to hold a man in his grave, the arid, friable surface reduced to so much sand.
The rider moved his hand carefully, unbuckling the holster on his right hip. He reached inside and wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his revolver, the metal hot to his touch. He felt the gun’s weight, its solidity reassuring. It was ready to fire, the five barrels loaded with care that morning, each one sealed with a thin layer of grease to prevent a misfire. The rider had learnt never to leave anything to chance. He could never be sure when the dacoits who roamed the high ground and preyed on the unwary and the unready would try to take the lone traveller who rode the barren lands. So he prepared for battle each day, priming his weapons and hardening his soul.
His eyes were never still as they roamed over the hidden crevices, his senses reaching out, searching for danger. He stopped his horse and listened. At first he heard nothing, the lonely quiet of the high ground pressing around him. He was thinking of slipping from the saddle and putting his ear to the ground to listen for movement when he heard the rumble. It sounded distant, like an early-morning express train far in the distance. His sable mount twitched its ears, sensing its master’s unease, its right foreleg pawing nervously at the soil as it was ordered to wait.
The rumble increased, the noise building steadily. The rider tightened his grip on the reins, shortening them and bunching them together so he could hold them in his left hand, his right clasped firmly around the hilt of his revolver.
He sensed movement to his left and tugged hard at the reins, pulling on the heavy metal bit forced into his horse’s mouth. He jabbed star-shaped spurs into the animal’s sides, forcing it into motion so quickly that its hooves scrabbled at the stony soil. As it lurched away, he saw the source of the movement . The heavy boulders kicked soil high into the air as they picked up speed and thundered down the sharp sides of the valley. They gathered momentum as they hurtled towards the solitary rider, careering down the slope, knocking other lesser stones from their precarious perch so that they created an avalanche that roared downwards in a wild melee of dust and stone.
The screams of the thugs echoed around the cramped confines of the valley as they unleashed their ambush. Ever since William Bentinck had taken over as governor of Bengal in 1830, the British authorities had brutally suppressed the followers of the cult of Thuggee. These worshippers of the goddess Kali had been the target of a concerted campaign to eradicate them, until only a few scattered bands remained, their brutal ritualistic killings a threat only to those foolish enough to travel the wild and lonely roads far from the influence of the British.
The rider reined his horse hard round, blinking away the dust that rolled over him. The inhuman shrieks of the ambush rang in his ears, drowning out even the heavy thump of his heart. The familiar icy rush of fear flushed through him before settling deep in his gut. There it twisted, churning his insides like a beast fighting to be freed, but imprisoned, held captive by the barriers he had constructed to contain it.
The first thug leapt over the fallen boulders, screaming like a banshee as he charged the rider, the naked steel of his talwar catching the sun as he flashed it overhead, readying the first blow.
The rider lifted his right hand. The fear was controlled, the bitter calm of experience overriding the terror of the ambush. The thug was close enough for the rider to see the animal snarl of hatred on the man’s face, the bared teeth as he howled his wild war cry, the bearded face beneath the stained pagdi twisted with rage.
The revolver coughed as the rider pulled the trigger. The bullet thudded into the thug’s face, smacking him backwards as if his feet had been pulled away sharply by an invisible rope. His corpse hit the ground like a rag doll, the contents of his skull spread wide, staining the dusty soil red.
The other ambushers did not hesitate. The rider had time t
o see the dirt on their faded robes, the tears and the rents in the worn fabric. The next face filled the simple sight on his revolver, the same visceral expression of hatred looming into view for no more than a single heartbeat before he pulled the trigger once more.
The man was punched to the ground, the revolver’s heavy bullet tearing through flesh and bone with ease. The second would-be killer crumpled, his pathetic, twisted corpse left lying no more than a yard away from the first.
The two remaining bandits rushed the rider. He got off a third, wild shot as they came close, but the deadly missile cracked past the ear of the nearest thug to score a thick sliver of stone from one of the boulders that had been meant to crush the rider into oblivion.
The rider gouged his spurs cruelly into his horse’s sides, forcing it to lurch forward. He rode at the surviving bandits, charging his enemy. They closed at a terrifying speed, coming together in a sudden blur of movement. The bandits had no time to slow their wild attack and the rider was past them before they could react. The treacherous ground gave way under their boots as they tried to turn to face him. One slipped, his curse the last sound he would ever utter.
The rider had forced his mount into a tight turn the moment he had burst through the pair of bandits. He let the still-smoking revolver fall from his hand and drew his sword. It was a fabulous weapon, the kind found in tales of valiant knights and beautiful damsels. Writing flowed down the length of the steel blade, the swirling script etched deep into the metal. The golden hilt wrapped snugly around the hand of the man wielding the sword, its dark red sharkskin grip mottled and stained from use.
It was the blade of a prince and it cut through the fallen bandit’s neck, slicing through the gristle to leave his head half severed, the blood darkening his filthy robes.
Jack Lark: Rogue Page 8