"Stop it. Stop it now," she said. "Look at me. Look at me, Sid." He raised his eyes to hers. "I do love you. Do you hear me? I love you."
His fists were clenched so hard that the veins stood out on his forearms. His whole body was shaking. His breath was rapid and short. India knew he wanted to punch something, smash something. He'd held the pain in for so long, and now it was coming out and he was terrifled. She knew what to do. She would take it from him. All the rage and sorrow. All the poison. Slowly, gently, she reached for his fists. Softly, she smoothed them open.
"Let it out. Let it go," she whispered.
She put her arms around him and held him tightly. He tried to push her away again, but she wouldn't let him. She felt him dig his fingers into her back, felt his body shudder, then heard his sobs, harsh and tearing. His tears were hot against her skin. She held him and rocked him, whispered to him and kissed him and cried for him, but she did not let him go.
When his emotion was finally spent, he raised his head and looked at her. "Jesus Christ, India, what have I done?" he asked, wiping away her tears. "Dragging you into my life. I should have done the right thing that night at the Bark. I should have taken you home. Instead, I'm making you cry for all the horrible things I've done."
"No, not for what you've done. For you."
Sid was silent for a while, then he said, "No one's ever done that. Cried for me."
"No one's ever loved you like I do."
Sid could not look at her, so he looked at his hands.
"Tell me the rest," India said. "Tell me how you got to prison. And what you did when you got out. Tell me where you grew up. What songs your mother sang to you. What your father was like. Tell me."
He had to talk about it. He had to tell her. To trust her. It was his only chance. Their only chance.
She rose from the bed and refilled the two glasses on the night table from a half-empty bottle standing next to them. She handed him one. "Here," she said. "This will help." Sid drank deeply. He leaned back against the pillows and closed his eyes. And then he began.
His words came haltingly at first and then in a great gush. He talked for more than two hours, telling her about his life on Montague Street. His family. That his first name had once been Charlie. He told her about his fa-ther's death and his mother's. How he'd run away from the sight of his dead mother. How he'd lost touch with his family. India guessed that the memo-ries of them were still very painful for him. He told her how he'd fallen in with Quinn and eventually found himself stuck so deep into the life that there was no way out. He talked until his throat was raw. And when he had finished, he looked at her with weary, hollow eyes and said, "There. That's it. That's everything."
"Thank you," she said.
"I don't know why you're thanking me. It's all as ugly as hell. And telling it doesn't change a damn thing."
"Actually, it does. I know what you need now, Sid. You need to get away from here. Far away. Away from London and your life there. Away from England and all the horrible memories."
"Is that all? Why, let's move to the Riviera, then. I'll book our passages tomorrow."
India ignored his sarcasm. Her brow was furrowed; her gaze inward. "We could go away. We could leave London, the two of us together," she said.
"Oh, aye?" he said. "Am I mistaken, missus, or are you just about to open a clinic in Whitechapel?"
She turned her gray eyes on him. "I would leave it," she said, "for you."
"And close the doors on all those people? The ones you said you wanted to help?"
"The doors will stay open. Harriet and Fenwick and Ella can take over. At least for a little while. Maybe we'll come back one day. When things calm down. When people don't remember you anymore."
"Forget it, luv. The people you're talking about have very long memories."
"No, listen to me--"
"No, India, you listen to me. It's too late for me, don't you understand that? I'm a lost cause, but you're not. That clinic is your dream. And you've worked bloody hard to see it through. I won't let you walk away from it. You've built something wonderful in this fucking awful city. Something beautiful."
"Sid," she said quietly. "You are something beautiful."
He looked away from her, unable to speak, his eyes full of emotion.
India took his hand and squeezed it. "It's not too late. We'll start again. As Mr. and Mrs. Baxter. We'll go away. We could go to Scotland. To Ireland. Or to the Continent." And then she suddenly sat up straight and grabbed Sid's arm. "No ait!" She laughed out loud. "My God, it's been right there all along! Why didn't I think of it before? I'll tell you what we're going to do. We're going to begin again!"
India jumped out of bed, ran into the sitting room, then returned to the bedroom with a folder in her hand.
"My cousin called it the end of the world," she said excitedly. "Then he said he was wrong, that it wasn't the end of the world, it was the beginning. He said when he stood there, with only sea and sky before him, he felt like it was the very first day, and he was the very first person, and that there was no ugliness or evil in the world and nothing but beauty all around him."
"India, what are you on about?"
She opened the folder and handed him the photographs. "Remember these? This is Point Reyes, California," she said. "It's mine. I own it. That's where we're going."
Sid looked at the photos. She remembered how taken he'd been with them when he'd first seen them. He wanted to believe--in this place, in them, in a new life. She could see how much he wanted that.
"What would we do there?" he asked.
"I'm a doctor. People always need doctors."
"I'm not."
"You can cook. Keep house. Knit socks."
"You've missed your calling. You should write fairy stories. You're bloody good at telling them. You almost make me believe them."
"They're not fairy stories! We'll go there, Sid. You and I. There's an old farmhouse there. We'll fix it up. Live in it. We can start again."
"Aye, luv," he said wistfully.
"We will," she said fiercely. "Do you believe me?"
"India..."
She took his face in her two hands. "Say it! Say you believe me!"
Sid opened his eyes, but said nothing.
"There is such a thing as redemption, Sid Malone. And forgiveness. Even in this world. Even for you. You can start again, if you choose to. You found a way into the life, you can find a way out. I'll help you."
Looking into his eyes, so deeply green, so full of pain, India willed him to imagine a new life. A new start. A future different from anything he'd ever known.
"Believe me?" she asked again.
"Yes, India," he finally said. "I do."
She kissed him hard, then took off her clothes and slipped beneath him. They made love more passionately than they ever had. And when they were finished, Sid rested his head against her chest. She put her arms around him and told him they would go as soon as she got the clinic open and running. In two weeks' time. Three at the most. They'd take a train to Southampton and then a ship to New York and then another train west--all across America, all the way to California. She would give him one of the photographs to keep with him, to remind him of their future.
"We'll like it there," she said. "I know we will."
Sid didn't answer. She looked down at him. His breathing was deep and steady. And his head was heavy against her chest. His eyes were closed. He was asleep. Finally asleep.
A fresh volley of rain battered against the window. India looked out at the tree branches waving crazily in the wind and the dark skies beyond them. Her eyes were fierce as she watched the storm, daring the thunder and lightning to do their worst. And the black night. And the city and everyone in it.
Sid needed her and she would be there for him. Loving him. Protecting him. No matter what it took, no matter what she had to sacrifice, they would begin again. There were beginnings, not only endings. She would show him that. Make him believe it. They would
leave the past behind. No one would hurt him ever again. He was hers now. Hers. And she would never let him go.
Chapter 57
"You have to tell her!" Willa Alden shouted at a fitting-room door in Burberry's outfitters in London's Haymarket.
"No" came the muffled reply.
"What are you going to do? Just disappear? Send a postcard from the South Pole?"
The door to the fitting room banged open. Seamie Finnegan clomped out barely recognizable in a pair of baggy trousers, an anorak, and a balaclava-- all made from Thomas Burberry's patented waterproof gabardine.
"Oh, very stylish," Willa said.
"Burberry isn't stylish, it's durable," Seamie replied, pulling the bala-clava off. "And warm."
"I hope so. You're going to freeze your bum off."
"Why, Willa, do I detect a note of jealousy?" Seamie asked.
"There's nothing to be jealous of. You haven't made it to the Pole yet."
"I will."
"We'll see."
"Crikey, Seamie. Can you believe it? Scott, Shackleton, the South Pole--and you'll be there for all of it." That was Albie.
Seamie looked in the mirror. An explorer looked back at him. He couldn't believe it. Not at all. It still seemed like a dream.
Only two weeks ago, he was standing outside Ernest Shackleton's home in the wind and rain, trying to convince the man to take him on the Antarc-tica expedition. Shackleton had finally taken him inside and fed him breakfast. They'd talked for two hours. He was very curious to hear about Seamie's sailing experience and his winter climbs in the Adirondacks. By the time the maid had cleared the breakfast dishes, he still hadn't said yes, but he hadn't said no, either.
Five days later the lad who was to be the cook's assistant was arrested for public drunkenness. Two days after that Seamie received a letter at 12 Wilmington Crescent, the Aldens' house, inviting him to join the expe-dition. He'd opened it--in the privacy of his room--and learned that he was to be the cook's assistant. He let out a whoop, then ran straight down the stairs to tell Albert and Willa.
It was the worst dogsbody job possible. He'd be nothing but a scullery maid--peeling potatoes and scrubbing pots--but Shackleton promised him that he'd get off the ship and trek into the interior with the rest of the crew. He would make history, for he was certain Scott and Shackleton would find the Pole--how could men like that fail at anything? It was an opportunity of a lifetime and nothing and no one was going to stop him from going.
"What, exactly, would happen if you told Fiona?" Albert asked now.
"She'd go completely crackers. She doesn't want me to leave school."
"But what's she going to do? You've already made your decision. She's your sister, after all. Surely she'd understand."
"You don't know Fiona. I wouldn't put it past her to show up at the dock and try to drag me off the boat by my ear."
Seamie frowned at his reflection. He wanted to tell Fiona, he knew it was the right thing to do, but he also knew he'd be in for an epic battle. If only he could send a telegram from the boat. Or find some other way to tell her early enough so that she wouldn't worry about his absence, but late enough so that she couldn't stop him.
He felt a tug at the back of his anorak. Willa was pulling it straight, smoothing it across his shoulders.
"You need a smaller size," she said.
Seamie snorted. "Do not."
"You do. It's meant to be worn with some room, not too much."
"How do you know?"
"She's in here every week," Albie said. "Hanging her nose over tents and rucksacks."
Seamie watched her as she adjusted his sleeves. Their eyes met in the mirror.
"You have to tell her. You know you do. It's cruel not to. You'll feel terri-ble," she said. Willa was right, but her being right didn't make his task any easier. Looking at her, he suddenly had a brainstorm.
"No, I won't feel terrible. Because I'm not going to tell her," he said. "You are, Wills."
"I'm not!"
"Please, Willa. You have to. Fiona likes you. Always has. She'll take the news better coming from you than she would from Albie."
"Forget it, mate. Don't even think about me doing it," Albie said.
"I'm going up to Dundee with Shackleton next month. After Christmas. We're going to look at the ship. It's being built especially for the expedition. All you have to do is wait until I'm gone, then go and tell her."
"She'll twig pretty quick that I was in on it," Willa said. "Puts me in a bit of a bad spot."
"I know. I know it does. And I'm sorry. But it's better that way."
"For you."
Seamie winced. "Yeah, I guess so. But for her, too. It would be so much better than her finding out from a letter. Or a telegram."
"Oh, Seamie. You wouldn't tell her by telegram, would you?"
"Only if there was no other way. Please, Wills. Do this for me."
Willa deliberated and Seamie waited, knowing better than to push her. She was her own girl.
"All right, then, I'll do it," she finally said. "On one condition."
"Anything."
"You do the same for me one day. When I go to Everest, you tell my mum."
Seamie smirked. He opened his mouth, ready to tease her, to tell her that was one condition he'd never have to meet, but the look on her face stopped him cold. She was serious. She meant it. Her green eyes held his fast, and looking into them, he had the sudden, unsettling feeling that he was seeing himself--his fearlessness, his adventurous spirit, his own rest-less, questing soul.
"All right, then," he said. "It's a deal."
Seamie turned back to his reflection. He stood tall, puffed his chest out, and adjusted his trousers. He heard laughter. Willa was still looking at him, her eyes merry and challenging now.
"Better stop preening and start packing, kitchen boy," she said. "If you don't take the South Pole, I will. Just as soon as I finish with Everest."
Chapter 58
"Frankie?"
"Aye, Des?"
"There's a bloke here wants to speak with Sid. Says he's the new MP."
"Has he got the prime minister with him?"
"He ain't joking. Says either he sees Sid right now or he's coming back tonight with two dozen rozzers and taking the place apart."
Frankie looked up from his cards to Oz, seated across from him, then to Desi.
"The fucking cheek. I'm sick of this. Who is this tosser? Tell him to come over here so I can kick his arse for him."
Desi motioned for Joe. He approached the table and said, "Are you Frank Betts?"
"What's that to you?"
"My name's Joe Bristow. I want to see Sid Malone."
Frankie turned around in his chair. He looked Joe up and down, noting the work clothes he was wearing--and the prybar he was holding. "Leave your barrow outside, did you?" he asked.
Ozzie snickered.
"I know all about you, Frankie. I know about the Firm. And I know you burned my warehouse down."
"Don't know what you're on about, mate."
"I just want to talk to him. That's all. I want to come to an understanding. Now. Before we butt heads. Before it's too late."
Frankie snorted. "You want to get off on the right foot, is that it?"
"Something like that."
Frankie took a sip of his porter. He didn't offer Joe one.
"If he's not here, then tell him to come see me," Joe said. "Any time. My office is on Commercial Street. Number eight. All I want to do is talk. He has my word on that."
A sickening panic flared inside Frankie. He felt threatened, not by Bristow himself--he was soft, had to be--but by what he represented--the straight world and its sudden pull on Sid.
"Listen, Frankie--"
"I ain't listening, mate, so fuck off and peddle your pears," Frankie said, turning back to his card game and his pint.
The next thing he knew the table was gone, smashed to pieces, and his pint with it. Joe stood next to him, prybar raised. "You listen
ing now?" he asked.
Frankie was on his feet in a flash, his heart pounding, fists twitching. He threw a hard right. It caught Joe in the belly, doubling him over. Joe dropped the prybar and Frankie bent to grab it, intending to open Joe's skull with it, when Joe unexpectedly reared up and roundhoused him. Light exploded behind Frankie's eyes; he went down. He groaned in pain, holding his head. It was a street fighter's trick. Bristow had meant for him to go for the prybar. The bloke was from East London. He should have remembered that. He opened his eyes. When his vision finally cleared, he saw that Joe was leaning over him.
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