The Hanged Man Rises

by Sarah Naughton

  ‘He’ll take her to the river,’ Stitcher said.

  And then suddenly the hands were snatched away and Titus collapsed to the ground. Stitcher was gone, swallowed by the fog.

  Titus hauled himself upright, waited until the black spots had cleared from his vision, then set off at a run.

  He arrived outside the workhouse gate just as they were locking it. Taking one glance at the pinched and sour faces of the officials he did not bother to request entry, just kicked the gate open with all his might, sending them sprawling, then sprinted across the yard to the porter’s door.

  The porter was writing in a ledger and looked up in surprise as Titus burst in.

  ‘Bring me my sister!’ he bellowed.

  ‘How dare you! Get out of here this minute!’

  ‘Bring her now,’ Titus repeated, snatching up a letter opener from the desk and thrusting it towards the man’s quivering belly, ‘or I’ll skewer you like a hog roast.’

  ‘She is not here . . .’ the porter stammered, his face growing a lighter shade of puce.

  ‘Is she asleep? Go and wake her!’

  ‘The policeman came for her.’

  Titus blanched. He had told Hannah himself that Pilbury was much recovered.

  ‘When?’

  ‘No more than ten minutes since . . .’

  He flew out of the door and back into the thick air.

  But his mind, stricken with panic, simply could not organise the street names into their familiar pattern and he blundered about, doubling back on himself, going round in circles.

  Eventually he found his way to the Acre, but he’d been away too long, and the wicked tangle of streets punished him for it. Soon he was utterly lost, and blind in the fog. Stretching out his arms he took a few steps forward until he found the wall of a building. He stood with his back to it and peered into the grey. Someone was coming towards him. Stitcher? He shrank back and lifted a protective arm to his face, but the figure dissolved into swirling eddies. The air was filled with phantoms.

  He heard a whispering, very close by, and fear twisted his guts. The voices were all around him, to the left, to the right, beneath him.

  Then he let out a sharp laugh of relief.

  He was standing over the gutter. Oozing along beneath him was a babbling stream of human sewage. And there was only one direction it would be heading.

  He followed the gutter until it went underground – this meant he must be near civilisation for the well-to-do did not wish to see the passage of their own filth. Sure enough he rounded the next corner and came out into Victoria Street. Unable to see the edge of the pavement he blundered straight into the path of a carriage but it was barely moving thanks to the smog. The thoroughfare was as silent as the grave, and all he could hear was the rush of his own blood in his ears. Several agonising minutes later, his hands found the Broad Sanctuary street sign. Now he could smell the river. He set off at a run, rebounding off lamp posts and letter boxes, in the direction of the bridge.

  His eyes streamed in the cold and murky air, and his eyeballs ached with the strain of staring into the fog. He could make out nothing, not the soaring Abbey, the Houses of Parliament, nor even Big Ben.

  Surely, with a head start of just ten minutes, even given the time he had been lost, they could not have got here before him. He’d run all the way, and his heart was banging hard enough to blur his vision. He did not care if it gave out on him afterwards but it must keep working until he found them. And, if it came to that, until he killed Pilbury. He realised that in his hurry he had forgotten both the truncheon and the knife. He would have no means of attack or defence, apart from whatever stones or pieces of metal he might pick up on the beach. He hurried across what he thought must be St Margaret Street and onto the bridge, then got down onto his knees and crawled about until he found a loose brick at the edge of the pavement.

  Now he could hear the swish of the river. He was close.

  Voices in the fog.

  Perhaps it was just the murmur of the river. No, they were coming from the other side of the bridge. He willed his blood to stop rushing long enough for him to listen. They were close now, almost parallel, one deep, one high-pitched. His blood did stop then, and he heard his sister’s voice quite clearly.

  ‘So he is to be Constable Titus Adams!’

  She giggled. The deeper voice murmured.

  ‘What, down here?’

  Titus bounded across the road and did not stop until he slammed into the wall on the other side.

  ‘What the hell was that?’ Hannah squeaked. ‘It’s blooming creepy this fog!’

  ‘Hannah!’

  He blundered in the direction of her voice.

  And there she was. At the top of the steps. Her hair a mass of curls, like a crown of gold thorns. There was no-one with her. Had he already gone down? In that case they were safe.

  ‘Hannah!’

  ‘Jesus and Mary!’ she yelled, clutching her chest. ‘I thought you was a murderer!’

  He ran up and pulled her into his arms.

  She shook herself free, then leaned over the stairs that led down into the fog.

  ‘It’s Titus!’ she called down. ‘He was not too busy to come, after all!’

  Then, before he could stop her, she hopped onto the first step. Her foot and ankle were swallowed by swirling white.

  ‘Come down, Titus. Mr Pilbury says there is a tall ship coming by any moment, on its way to the Indies!’

  Titus grasped her arm.

  ‘It’s a lie! The ships can’t come so far up.’

  She stared at him in confusion and then gave a little gasp and stared down into the fog.

  ‘I’m all right, Mr Pilbury, I won’t slip. You can let go of me leg.’

  ‘Shake him off,’ Titus said urgently, grasping her arm.

  ‘But you said he was better . . .’

  ‘Kick him off, Hannah!’

  But she could not. She whimpered as a yank from below almost made her slip. Beneath them, the fog lapped at her bare leg.

  ‘Help me!’ she whimpered.

  Titus hurled the brick down into the fog but a moment later it thudded harmlessly on the sand and the grip on Hannah’s leg did not loosen. He thrust his arms under her, and wrenched with all his might. She screamed and a bone-white hand jerked into view, clamped around her ankle.

  ‘Rancer, let her go!’ Titus shouted.

  ‘Rancer? Who’s Rancer?’ she shrieked.

  The sinews of the hand flexed and then Hannah plunged downwards. As she slipped through Titus’s grasp he managed to catch hold of her hand before every other part of her was drowned in fog.

  Her wrist twisted this way and that as her body flailed.

  He heaved until stars exploded before his eyes while she screamed and screamed, but Rancer did not release her. Titus paused to catch his breath and steel himself for another attempt and at that moment he saw another presence closing in through the fog.

  Was this the accomplice; the one that had returned the whistle outside St Mary Rouncivall? The fog turned blue, as if it was dissipating to reveal a clear sky. Then the blue resolved itself into a woman’s dress.

  ‘Lilly!’

  ‘Am I in time? I went to see Francis . . .’

  ‘Pull off my boot . . .!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Pull it off!’

  He flung out his foot and she dropped down beside him. It took an eternity of fumbling with the laces before finally the huge, heavy thing thudded onto the pavement and lay on its side, the rows of hobnails gleaming along its sole.

  ‘Give me the boot, and take Hannah’s other arm,’ he said urgently. ‘That’s it . . . Now, pull as hard as you can!’

  Titus braced his leg against the bridge wall. His arm shuddered. Lilly groaned with the effort and Hannah shrieked. Then the shrieks became more piercing and her head and shoulders emerged from the fog. This was what he was waiting for, to ensure he did not harm her. He hurled the boot as hard as he could dire
ctly down into the swirling grey. There was a thud, a cry of pain, and then they were pulling against nothing. Hannah burst out of the fog and sent them tumbling in a heap on the pavement.

  ‘Get her away!’ Titus hissed. ‘I’ll wait for him.’

  ‘He’ll kill you!’ Lilly said, already pulling Hannah away from the staircase.

  ‘He’ll try. You must act quickly.’

  She nodded and vanished.

  Titus sat with his back to the wall. The wind was picking up and his hair whispered against the brickwork. The shadowy column of Big Ben was becoming darker and more distinct every moment. Soon the smog would be gone. Rancer would know his plans had been thwarted. Would the man that ascended the steps from the beach be just a confused and terrified Pilbury? If so their own plan was in tatters. Titus would have to tell Hadsley or Samson. Pilbury would go to the gallows or the asylum.

  A noise to his right, coming from the flight of steps. Scraping. A moan.

  He drew in his knees and held his breath.

  The scrape of grit against stone. Heavy breathing.

  Fingers crept around the wall, inches from his feet. Then a man’s torso rose from the mist. He climbed onto the pavement and crawled forward on all fours, blood drooling from his nose and mouth, panting like an animal. Rancer’s presence seemed to have pushed its own features into Pilbury’s: the nose looked more bulbous, the jaw sharper and more brutal. Titus could see the reflection of black eyes in the pooling blood on the stones. Now he knew for certain. This was not Pilbury. The eyes met his and slowly the head turned.

  He was leaning heavily on his arms and it would take a moment for him to adjust his centre of gravity. Titus’s hand darted forward and snatched the handcuffs from Rancer’s coat pocket. Rancer hesitated, his attention caught by the glittering metal. It was enough. The cuff was around his wrist and Titus snapped the bar across. Now that Rancer understood what was happening he tore himself away, jerking the free cuff out of Titus’s reach. Titus sprang at him and they rolled onto the pavement, Titus ending up underneath. The weight on top of him was crushing, squeezing the air from his lungs. Rancer’s cuffed hand was by Titus’s head. Titus could feel the cold metal against his ear. This might be his only chance. Raising his arm he found the open shackle and thrust his own wrist inside then snapped the bar closed. For a moment both of them were still, then Rancer roared in fury, and started bucking and yanking to free himself. Somehow, Titus managed to turn the key in the lock, slide it out and toss it across the street.

  ‘So, you think you can hold me?’ Rancer bellowed. ‘I’ll tear off your arm!’

  ‘Get off him, beast!’

  The voice was Hannah’s. She kicked Rancer in the head and now the weight lifted off Titus as Rancer staggered to his feet. Titus was dragged along the pavement by the handcuff.

  ‘Hail, spirits of the . . . sacred . . . river,’ Rancer grunted. Titus’s knees scraped against the ground.

  ‘Stay back or I’ll skewer you!’ Hannah screeched.

  From the folds of her dress she drew out a spoon, the end of which had been filed to a point.

  Rancer reached forward and grasped her by the arm, driving his thumb into the tendons of her elbow. With a squeal of pain she dropped the weapon into the gutter. With his other hand he grasped Titus’s hair.

  ‘Two gifts. The gods will bless you tonight, Mother.’

  He turned and dragged them both towards the staircase.

  ‘From one who has passed beyond the realm . . .’

  The chuckle began so low it was just the rumble of distant thunder. Hannah was shouting too much to hear, but Titus caught the new sound immediately. As the mist darkened and he began to make out Lilly’s shape the chuckle took on a shrill edge of glee. Her face swam out of the fog. Her mouth was twisted into a smile but her eyes were dead, and the voice that came from her pale lips was the same harsh rasp that had so chilled him that night in her bedroom.

  ‘Ah, my boy. How I have missed you.’

  It was no more than a whisper, but Rancer froze.

  ‘Come, embrace me.’

  Titus threw himself backwards, catching Rancer off balance. Hannah must have sensed the opportunity for she pushed forward and the big man pivoted and swung round.

  ‘You shall have an apple,’ Lilly sang. ‘You shall have a plum. You shall have a rattle, when your daddy comes . . .’

  Where his leg pressed against Rancer’s, Titus felt a sudden warmth. Rancer had wet himself.

  Lilly raised her arms and the fingers hung, dead and grey, like the innards of a crab.

  ‘Come. You are no stranger to a corpse’s arms.’

  ‘MOTHER!’ Rancer howled.

  His voice echoed out across the river. Now that the fog had dispersed Titus could see it slithering all the way down from Tower Bridge. A black, hungry eel.

  ‘The witch still lives?’ Lilly said. ‘I see she has taught you her trade. Child killer.’

  ‘She made me do it,’ Rancer whispered. ‘They were gifts to the river gods, to prolong her life.’

  Lilly took a step forward.

  ‘Then we shall await her together.’

  Rancer whimpered, then jerked Titus forward as he tried to clasp his hands in prayer.

  ‘Our Father who art in Heaven,’ he began. ‘Hallowed be thy . . .’

  ‘Pray to the devil. He is your master.’

  Titus hissed into Rancer’s ear, ‘Leave Pilbury, now! Before it is too late!’

  But Rancer could not hear him. His eyes were on stalks. His skin grey and glistening.

  ‘Thy kingdom come,’ he muttered. ‘Thy will be done . . .’

  Hannah twisted away and was free.

  ‘Dance to your daddy, my little laddy . . .’ Lilly sang in that dreadful rasp.

  As she came closer her breath was rank with the same stench that had filled the room in Fulham.

  ‘Kiss me, Joey.’

  Rancer moaned. Titus braced himself to hold him, though the man seemed too weak with terror to think of escape.

  Lilly’s hands closed around Pilbury’s face, then she bent into him. Her lips parted.

  Rancer’s free hand flew up to his face and tore at the iron grip on his cheek. His chest shuddered as he tried to scream, but the sound was muffled. Lilly drank it down.

  The blue dress was drenched in sweat. Cords of bulbous veins snaked across every part of her exposed skin, throbbing rapidly. It suddenly occurred to Titus that she might not survive this ordeal and his heart clenched.

  Her face pressed in, pushing Rancer’s jaw wider and wider.

  Far away, in some lost country, Titus heard Hannah crying.

  Pilbury’s body suddenly convulsed and Lilly’s head snapped backwards.

  Then Titus was falling, a great weight on top of him. His forehead struck the pavement and the weight pinned him. Had Rancer broken free? If so they were all doomed. Rancer would overpower him and Hannah and finish what he came here to do. Then he would kill and kill until he was found out and Pilbury was hanged.

  He managed to heave himself out from beneath Rancer’s body.

  But it was not Rancer’s body.

  Inspector Pilbury lay on his back, taking great gasps of air.

  ‘Sir?’ Titus croaked. ‘Mr Pilbury?’

  Pilbury’s head rolled sideways and he gazed at Titus. The river stink had gone from his breath, to be replaced with the sweet familiar fragrance of whisky.

  ‘Titus?’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘What . . . is . . . happening?’

  But before Titus could formulate a reply, Pilbury’s eyes rolled back into his head and he fainted.

  Hannah skidded to her knees next to Titus. She produced the key to the handcuffs and expertly unsnicked them. Removing the cuff from his wrist she was about to fasten it on Pilbury’s when Titus stopped her hand. She looked at him as if he had gone mad.

  ‘I’ll explain later. Please, trust me.’

  And, for once, his sister did as she was told.
>
  The policeman breathed deeply and peacefully as the colour seeped back into his face like a sunrise.

  The two children got up. And then Titus remembered Lilly.

  She lay on the pavement, seemingly motionless, but when Titus ran over he saw that her face was alive with shadows and shapes. One minute she would open her clear dark eyes and attempt to speak, the next they would become grey and glassy.

  ‘Lilly! Say something!’

  For a moment she looked up at him and seemed to know him, but then her eyes focused on something he could not see.

  ‘Depart,’ she said quietly in her own voice. ‘We are done.’

  The whites of her eyes reddened and her bloodless lips bent into a smile.

  ‘Farewell.’ The voice was like dead leaves blowing away.

  For a moment her whole body was tugged upwards, as if a line were attached to the bodice of her dress, and Titus thought she might actually rise into the air. But then she slumped back and her eyes opened, clear and brown. She smiled.

  ‘He’s gone.’

  Her smile faded as she saw Pilbury’s body at the top of the stairs and she struggled to get up.

  ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘Only fainted, I think.’

  She hurried over and bent her face to Pilbury’s.

  ‘He’s breathing!’ She turned back to them. ‘We must decide what to say when he wakes. When he finds out what he has done . . .’

  ‘He must never find out!’ Titus said urgently. ‘It would kill him. He’d feel like he had to confess to them, and then he’d go to the gallows and it would all have been for nothing. Besides, it wasn’t him that did the murders – we know that – those that did the killing have been punished for it. He was just as innocent as the children.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Hannah said from a little distance away, but when Titus beckoned her over she wouldn’t come nearer.

  ‘It wasn’t Mr Pilbury that grabbed you . . .’ he called quietly across to her.

  ‘Yes it was, I saw his face.’

  ‘No. It was someone else. Someone evil who had got inside him. I’ll explain properly later but for now just keep your mouth shut and go along with everything we say, all right?’

  Hannah hesitated, then nodded.

  ‘We can say it was the old woman,’ Lilly said. ‘That she’d faked being sick all along.’