Signals of Distress

by Jim Crace

  Scipio had nothing to report on the first Saturday of the new year, but on the second he had ‘double news’, of a large black drummer in the regimental band, and of an itinerant boxer – ‘an American, by all accounts’ – called Massa Hannibal. So it was thanks to Scipio that Aymer was outside the King’s Hall on the following Friday. And thanks to him as well that on the Friday night, Aymer Smith put on his boots and tarpaulin and went to see the boxing contest in a district of the city that he’d never seen before. As it turned out, Massa Hannibal was not an African, nor American. At most he was an octoroon. His accent was Italian. His hair was straight and greased to slide the blows. The blackest things about him were the bruises on his cheekbone and his arms from the previous night’s fight. He’d zinced his chest with horizontal stripes, he wore bead anklets and he babbled some invented African language when he came into the ring. His opponent – King Swing – was a bald man, bandy and unbruised. All the money went on him.

  Aymer had only come to check on Massa Hannibal. He didn’t wait to see the fight. He gave his ticket to a wheedler waiting at the door. He was in a hurry to be home. It had been easy to find the warehouse where the fight was held. All he’d had to do was to follow those carriages with only gentlemen inside, and then stay with the crowd. But getting back into the quarter of the city where he had rooms was not as simple. He couldn’t find a chair to take him there. And none of the rattling four-wheelers, drays or raddle horses waiting outside seemed equipped for passengers. There were no drivers, anyway. They’d bought cheap seats at the fight and weren’t for hire.

  The warehouse was on marshy ground below the river, amongst workshops and surrounded by ditches which weren’t successful in their main task of taking human dung away. The smell was stifling, but still the place was busy with people (and their pigs and dogs) who didn’t mind the smell of waste and poverty enough to build their slum courts somewhere else. Aymer followed alleyways that went uphill. That was his strategy. He was bound to find the upper town that way, but as he walked and left the marshes behind, his fears increased. The homes were scarcely lit. Each contained dark figures hunched around low light.

  Laughter and loud voices went from house to house, through open doors and windows. Aymer didn’t feel concealed by the darkness, but disclosed. Low light throws long shadows, and Aymer’s shadow corrugated down the alleyways, dipping into homes, flattening on the walls of beer houses and tommy shops, running up front steps, and slatting across the faces of people watching from their windows. The dogs were large and importuning, bounding out and barking at him with their haunches in the air and their tails on springs. Slab-faced women – making baskets from the marshland reeds – whistled at him. Men didn’t step aside immediately when he asked for room to pass, but offered him their bottles or their pipes, or asked what he was looking for. Their friendliness was frightening. What might it lead him to? Where might it end? He was glad that he was dressed so democratically. They might mistake him for a wagoner and not consider him a man worth robbing or beating up.

  He must have said good evening fifty times and forced a hundred smiles before he reached the first paved street and the reassuring sound of decent shoes on stone. Well, it had been an adventure, he decided within a few minutes – not one that had located Otto, perhaps, but one that was an education. One ought to know the city of one’s birth, including those parts that were not well furbished. He doubted that Matthias could boast of such a visit, not at night at least. And Perfidious Fidia? Well, Fidia hadn’t been anywhere. Aymer looked forward to telling them about the boxing contest and enlightening them about the common, marshy end of their city. ‘It would be wrong to regard as low and mean in character those people whose homes are low and mean in build,’ he might say, and (stealing one of Parlour George’s saner comments) he could add, ‘A man is not a horse because he happens to be born in a stable. The Romans did not crucify a horse, I think.’ He was smiling broadly now.

  WILLIAM BAGNALL and his brother Bagsy had followed Aymer to the boxing match. Bagsy had, in fact, put a half-crown on King Swing to beat the ‘African’. He wasn’t pleased when Aymer occupied his seat for only five minutes and then – inexplicably – left the warehouse before a single blow had been thrown. There would be an opportunity outside to throw some blows themselves, but Bagsy would have liked to see how Massa Hannibal would cope with Swing’s right hand. Still, there were debts to clear and a sovereign to be made, from Walter Howells in Wherrytown. And all they had to do was give this man a beating, and send proof.

  They’d thought, when Walter Howells’s letter had arrived before Christmas, that it would be a simple matter. They would intercept this Aymer Smith outside the Soap Works after dusk. It wouldn’t be hard to identify him. They merely had to ask one of the workers. And then there were a hundred alleyways and dark corners thereabouts where they might lay hold of him. They’d waited three evenings running at the works, but their quarry had already left, mid-afternoon. On the fourth day Bagsy Bagnall went alone early in the morning and, for a ha’penny, discovered from the works caretaker that Aymer Smith observed no timetable these days but could be recognized from his thin figure, his tarpaulin coat and his walking boots. He lived alone, Bagsy was informed, in rooms above the assay house in Whittock’s Court.

  ‘Don’t sink into a conversation with Mr Smith, unless you must,’ the caretaker warned. ‘He has such words, your head’ll spin.’ Bagsy Bagnall was amused by this. He knew whose head would spin. It wouldn’t be his.

  Bagsy waited at the entrance to the court that afternoon. He was cold, but he was happy to be idle. He’d burned two pipes of best Virginia and helped himself to a purse from an unattended carriage before Aymer returned home, and no mistaking him. If ever there was a man deserved a beating, he was it. Look at the clothes he wore. Look at that bony, educated face, those soft and fussy hands, that self-esteem. Bagsy, hidden in the gateway, waited to see which door in Whittock’s Court led to Aymer’s rooms. When Aymer was about to step into the hallway, Bagsy shouted, ‘Mr Smith!’ Aymer turned around and peered into the empty court. No one. He had half expected to see Otto standing there.

  The Bagnalls had left Aymer in peace over Christmas and the New Year. There was other work to do. Will Bagnall had obtained a list of which local gentlemen and wives would be attending the major balls and concerts of the season. ‘They’re out, we’re in,’ he told his brother, choosing to burgle the houses of the younger people who might be expected to stay late. They’d made a decent haul of jewellery, some silverware, some gold, a cavalry sword, and had only been discovered once, by a housekeeper who, at midnight, should have been asleep. Bagsy had to knock her down and gag her with a curtain sash. But by the middle of January Will Bagnall was keen to settle his accounts with Walter Howells. So on that Friday of the boxing bout, they’d followed Aymer from his rooms, and gone with him down to King’s Avenue. They’d endured the marching band, and waited while he inspected the musicians on the steps of King’s Hall. There’d been an opportunity, when Aymer was returning to his rooms, for Will and Bagsy to finish their business. Whittock’s Court was both dark and deserted. They could give him a good dextering, leave him and his bruises on the steps of his front door and be away within two minutes. What could be more pleasing and efficient? But they’d been too slow with their decision and Aymer had been too speedy with his key.

  They’d followed him that Friday evening too, though there was little opportunity to confront him, with so many people walking in the same direction for the fight, and so many carriages and conveyances about. If the streets had been full of ladies or children, then no matter. But to give Aymer a beating in the presence of men distinguished only by their shared regard for pugilism wouldn’t be sensible. Nor was it sensible to set about him in the marshy alleyways around the warehouse. The people there would be quick to lend a hand to Aymer. Two men on one? They wouldn’t tolerate it in their slums. So the Bagnalls waited for the quieter streets of the upper town before they went t
o work. They were certain that Aymer hadn’t known that he was being followed. They’d walked quietly in the muddy lanes. But surely now, with their stolen leather shoes resounding on the paving stones, he would notice them a few yards to his rear and try to get away.

  They didn’t give him the chance. They ran at him and swept him off his feet into a stable yard. They banged him up against a wooden door. The horse inside backed away and snorted in the darkness. ‘Your name? Your name?’ they said to him. If he had answered Robert Norris, say, or Ralph Parkiss, would they have hesitated and held their punches, fearful of making a mistake? Will Bagnall might. He only had his brother’s word that this tarpaulin was their man. His brother’s word wasn’t worth much. But nothing would stop Bagsy now. It didn’t matter whom they’d got inside the stable yard, or what his name was. Bagsy wanted to express himself. He’d missed the boxing for this. He’d squandered half a crown.

  ‘What do you want?’ said Aymer. He was winded and could hardly speak.

  ‘Shut up!’ said Bagsy. He took a short length of solid, six-ply rope out of his pocket, gripped both ends and pressed the middle tightly across Aymer’s throat. ‘Just say your name. Say it. Say it.’

  Aymer gave his name as best he could, but couldn’t say it clearly.

  ‘Give us something with your name on it,’ said Will Bagnall.

  ‘Hurry up.’

  ‘Haven’t anything.’

  ‘Do what he says!’ Bagsy, who wasn’t the tallest of men, pressed his rope more firmly on Aymer’s throat. He brought his head down sharply on Aymer’s chest and at the same time brought a knee up into his groin. Aymer’s legs gave way. He was as tall as Bagsy Bagnall for a moment. Then shorter. Then on the ground.

  Will searched the pockets of Aymer’s coat. All he found was a half-sovereign and some pennies. He knelt down on the cobbles and the straw, put his hand on Aymer’s head and said, almost gently, ‘Aymer Smith? Is that your name?’ Aymer nodded. ‘Have you been recently in Wherrytown?’ A groaning Yes. ‘It’s him,’ Will told his brother.

  ‘I know it’s him.’

  ‘Go on, then. Get it done.’

  Bagsy kicked Aymer once, on the shoulder. His ankle twisted with the force of it.

  ‘We hear you’re a thief and not a gentleman,’ said Will Bagnall, while his brother shook his foot in pain. ‘We hear you don’t settle your accounts. So we’re settling them for you. Speak one word of this and we’ll visit you again. We know your rooms in Whittock’s Court … and we might call on you at any time. And you’ll get a whipping.’

  Bagsy was more careful with his second set of kicks. He aimed for Aymer’s softer parts, his chest and stomach, then his buttocks, then his legs. He stopped and stepped back. ‘That’s it,’ he said. Aymer wasn’t badly hurt, just bruised and terrified. He groaned and stretched out on the ground.

  ‘Good boots,’ said Bagsy.

  ‘Get ’em then.’

  Bagsy pulled up Aymer’s legs and tugged off his walking boots and his hose. He let the legs drop back onto the ground. Then, as a final flourish, he stamped on Aymer’s ankles and his feet. The tarsi cracked. Walter Howells had asked for broken bones. The Bagnalls had obliged. He’d asked for broken teeth as well. Bagsy found a cobblestone and brought it down on Aymer’s mouth. Aymer had never known pain so fierce and concentrated. His mouth was wet and red and stony. The Bagnalls collected two of his teeth as evidence for Walter Howells that they’d made a decent job of it. They covered Aymer in straw, then left the yard. If they hurried they might get back to the warehouse before the boxing finished. If King Swing had won, there’d be some winnings to pick up. Easy money, easy times.

  Aymer Smith had wet himself. His bladder had been kicked and bruised. When he regained consciousness and found enough strength to limp, barefoot, for help, his trousers were soaked and icy cold. He didn’t look the least like a gentleman who’d encountered some misfortune. He looked more like a beggar in a dirty wagoner’s coat, lame and urinous, and with a black hole for a mouth. He leant against the outer wall of the stable yard. He couldn’t stand without the wall. He tried to call for help, but couldn’t make the words.

  The first people to notice him crossed the road. The second – a group of high-collared bucks who’d been at the boxing match – pointed at him, stared for a few moments and stayed away, leaving Aymer in an empty street. At last a carriage stopped a few gates down but, even though Aymer waved his hands, the coachman wouldn’t look at him, and soon had driven off. What could Aymer do to save his life? A man who thinks he’s at death’s door when he’s only got a cold, or who wears a sling when all the bruising on his arm has healed, is not the sort to shrug off such a beating. He must, he thought, have lost several pints of blood already. His liver and his heart had been damaged, he was sure, punctured maybe. His face would be beyond repair. He’d have to hide behind a scarf. He’d be an invalid. Aymer had to save himself, and quickly, or (he imagined) he would bleed to death, or die of cold, or his organs would give out. There was a doctor who had rooms opposite his own in Whittock’s Court. But Whittock’s Court was far away, and uphill. Twenty minutes’ walking even for a healthy man. Two minutes, though, at his wounded pace, would bring Aymer to his brother’s city house. It was just a street away. He had no choice. He’d rather be with Fidia than die. He held on to the wall and, moving one limb at a time, as if he were scaling some treacherous rock face, he traversed along the pavings and the wall until he reached his brother’s wrought-iron gates and pulled the night bell with both hands.

  FIDIA WAS horrified. Her nightman, Samuel, had come into the house, wearing his boots and carrying his lantern. Two rules broken. He’d not observed any of his ‘procedures’. If he had something urgent to communicate, he should – in the absence of Matthias and his valet – have summoned Emma, the housekeeper. She would have written a note for Fidia and called a maid to deliver it on a hand tray with a curtsey and a cough. Instead the nightman had knocked roughly on her drawing-room doors while she was entertaining friends and sharing the latest indiscretions over cards and Madeira, and had come into the room, even before she’d rung her bell. What must her friends, Mrs Bellamy and Mrs Whittaker, have made of it?

  ‘I hope this matters, Samuel,’ she said.

  ‘So begging you, ma’am, it’s Mr Aymer at the gate.’

  ‘And selling pudding by the quarter yard?’

  ‘No, ma’am. I’ve left him in the porter’s room, and he is in no condition to walk a step but wants me to help him come inside.’

  What, drunk? she thought. This was embarrassing. Mrs Whittaker could take the gold rosette for gossiping. This would be common knowledge throughout the city, and much embroidered, by breakfast-time.

  ‘Then leave him there, if he will not come himself,’ she said. She turned towards her cards again as if her brother-in-law was not worth the worry. Whatever his business, it could wait.

  ‘I cannot leave him, ma’am.’

  ‘Good heavens, Samuel! You should not bother us. I am entertaining for the moment. Tell him that Matthias is away at the estate this evening and that I will join my husband there tomorrow. So Monday is the earliest that we can spare any time for him. He knows our timetables. Tell him, yes, that we can see him Monday.’

  ‘He might not last till Monday, ma’am, the state of him.’

  Fidia raised her eyebrows for her guests – exasperated and embarrassed, but trying to appear amused. Aymer was a trial for her. She had no patience left. She laughed. She said, ‘The family cuckoo. Can’t leave me in peace for five minutes.’

  ‘Perhaps you ought to see he is quite well,’ said Mrs Bellamy. Mrs Whittaker nodded in agreement.

  ‘Oh, I suppose I must disturb myself if we are to enjoy our privacy at all. Excuse me, ladies, while I attend to this,’ said Fidia. She would attend to Samuel, too. He needed reprimanding and reminding that his place was out of doors. ‘Samuel is disposed to overcolouring the simplest things,’ she told her friends. ‘Where is my shawl? I shoul
d not want to take a chill …’

  Samuel, for once, was not exaggerating. Aymer was a dreadful sight. He looked as if a horse had kicked him in the face. Fidia had to take him in, no question of avoiding it – he was related. What had her brother-in-law done to deserve such a bloody face? She was in little doubt that the beating was deserved. She would have liked to have rapped her little fists on Aymer’s jaw herself, on many occasions, if only to keep him quiet. He wasn’t talking now, though. His breathing was constricted, and he was moaning like a chimney pot. Was he sleeping, or unconscious?

  ‘Why didn’t you express his situation, Samuel?’ she demanded. ‘You have caused me to seem cruel. I don’t believe that he is drunk at all. What made you speak of it? There is no smell of drink. He is not a drinking man besides, despite his oddities. You had better hurry straight away to Fowlers and fetch the physician, if there is one on a Friday night. Do hurry up. Haste is only vulgar within the house. You may run. And do not thrust your hat back on your head. It is rowdyish.’

  A boy was sent to call sedans to take both of her visitors home. Emma made a bed up on the second floor. (‘Not the good sheets, Emma. Mr Smith is bloody, and …’ She would not say what else.) The servants carried Aymer up two flights of stairs, his bare feet covered with a napkin. They put him on the bed, still in his coat, and Emma sat with him until the physician arrived, a little after eleven and a little the worse for drink. Fidia sat in her drawing room, and waited. She couldn’t concentrate to read. It would not do to practise her piano or go to bed. She played patience and finished the three half-glasses of Madeira while, two floors above, Emma and the doctor stripped her brother-in-law, washed him with warm water, applied poultices on his bruises, cauterized his wounds with candle wax and checked his ribs and limbs for breakages. They missed the fractured ankle bone, but that would mend without them anyway and provide him with an interesting limp.