The Hanged Man Rises

by Sarah Naughton

  ‘Yeah,’ Titus said, ‘he can’t remember half of it anyway and . . .’

  He glanced up at Lilly’s face and his voice died. The flush had drained from her cheek and she was staring over his shoulder with an expression of utter horror.

  ‘Lilly? What is it? Is he back?’ he said, but she did not reply.

  He followed her gaze.

  Something was coming towards them, from the direction of the Acre. A strange, creeping thing. From it came whining, choking sounds that might have been speech.

  ‘Florence?’ Lilly whispered. ‘Do you hear?’

  But Florence did not come.

  The shape resolved itself into a person, slithering on its belly like a snake. Its head was bent but its arms worked furiously, the fingers clawing the ground and dragging the body forward.

  Lilly stood and backed away until she came up sharply against the wall.

  The figure crawled off the pavement on the other side of the bridge but tumbled forward in the process and landed on its back. The old woman was even more cadaverous than when Titus had last seen her. Every bump and ridge of her skull stood out painfully, every knobble of bone at her elbows and wrists. The tumour had grown so huge that it forced her head over to touch her shoulder. Righting herself with a grunt she continued crawling towards them.

  ‘Titus,’ Hannah wailed, ‘what is it?’

  But Titus’s attention was on Lilly, frozen against the wall. Her irises rolled back into her head.

  Mrs Rancer was now halfway across the road and Titus could make out some words.

  ‘Come, Hecate. Astarte. Baal. Mab. Rise, Judas, and engulf her. Lilith. Balor. Taranis. Nemain. Devour her . . .’

  The list of names continued. He recognised only one. The slayer of Christ.

  ‘What’s she saying?’ Hannah said, tugging at his arm, her eyes out on stalks.

  ‘She is summoning monsters,’ Titus said. ‘To destroy Lilly’s mind. Give me your spoon.’

  He held out his hand but she shook her head.

  ‘I dropped it!’

  The old woman was almost upon them. Thrusting Hannah back behind him he launched himself at her, flinging himself on top of her, and the two rolled over into the gutter. Her curses were replaced by furious screams. Old lady or not, he struck her twice around the face and she finally fell silent.

  He scrambled over to Lilly. The dreadful sightless eyes fluttered closed and she slumped to the ground, breathing heavily. He knelt beside her, speaking urgently, slapping her on the cheek. Her breathing began to ease.

  Behind him, Hannah was crying.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he murmured. ‘The spirits are gone. We’re safe.’

  ‘No, we’re not,’ Hannah shrieked. ‘Titus!’

  He spun round. The old woman was rearing up behind him like a cobra. As he sprang to his feet she raised Hannah’s sharpened spoon and plunged it into his thigh.

  Hannah screamed.

  He staggered backwards and came up against the balustrade of the bridge. The blade had gone into the tender flesh that was just healing after the stable boy’s attack, but this cut was far, far deeper. His blood drew an arc across the pale stone.

  Triumph gave the old lady some kind of terrible strength because somehow she managed to heave herself upright, grinning at him from that sideways head. Now she grasped Hannah by the hair and began dragging her towards the staircase.

  But at that moment something struck her from behind, sending her hurtling against the balustrade. Her bones crunched and there was an audible pop, as if something inside her had burst. Hannah tore herself away as a creature of nightmares took the old woman in its claws. The face that snarled into Mrs Rancer’s was no longer human.

  ‘Stitcher?’ Hannah whispered in disbelief, but the remnants of the boy did not hear her.

  He flung his head back and howled up at the blade of moon.

  ‘CHARLYYYYYYYYYY!’

  The scream died away and Stitcher lowered his head. Titus could not see his expression, only the awful horror of the old woman as she stared into his face. Her lips moved silently. Blood and yellow mucus seeped from the corner of her mouth.

  ‘Shall we go?’ Stitcher hissed.

  The old woman’s lips pursed. ‘W . . . w . . . w . . .’

  ‘Where?’ he said, and for a moment it was the old Stitcher’s voice: amused, arrogant, teasing.

  ‘The place where I have been since you took my brother.’

  He lifted her into an embrace.

  And with that he leaped over the balustrade. Her howl of despair was cut short by a splash, and then there was silence.

  Titus staggered forward, the blood still pumping from his thigh. Leaning heavily on the balustrade he hauled himself along to the flight of steps then stumbled down them, his bare foot sliding on the algae.

  ‘Stitcher!’ he cried hoarsely as he lurched down the beach. At the river’s edge he swayed a little, scanning the black water around him. But there was not enough substance left in those two creatures even for the merest ripple. The icy mud oozed up between his bare toes. Bending low to the surface of the water he spread his arms wide and made sweep after sweep of the foreshore, going deeper and deeper until he was moving on tiptoes and the stinking waves lapped his face, red with his own blood.

  Hannah’s voice drifted to him from the shore.

  ‘Come back! They’re gone.’

  Suddenly he felt more tired than he had ever felt in his life. The current lifted his legs and laid him out on the waves, as if they were a bed of feathers. His eyelids were heavy as the pile of damp linen in the corner. He tried to remember if he had done the stitching of Mr Tarrant’s hat or read Hannah’s bedtime story. It would have to wait now. He was so tired and the light was failing. The blanket billowed gently over his face.

  Then something tore it off and he was wrenched up out of the warm embrace of the water and into the biting air.

  ‘No!’ he cried, but the arms that imprisoned him did not loosen.

  ‘Stay awake, Titus,’ Pilbury’s voice said. ‘Don’t leave us now, lad.’

  His head lolled backwards as Pilbury carried him out of the water. The pain had gone but he was so desperately tired. If he might only close his eyes for just a few seconds . . .

  But a moment later he was slammed down on the beach.

  He blinked and opened his eyes. Lights burst at the corners of his vision, like exploding stars.

  ‘Stay awake, Titus,’ Pilbury said sternly, kneeling over him. ‘Hannah has gone for the doctor. Can you hear me, boy? Answer me!’

  ‘Yes,’ he mumbled.

  ‘I’m going to try and stem the blood loss. It may hurt.’

  Titus watched lazily as the Inspector stripped off his jacket and unclipped his braces. His right leg had gone numb and he felt nothing as the leather strap was wound around his thigh. Then Pilbury braced himself and pulled. Titus screamed and writhed as pain tore through him, but Pilbury held him down with both hands, pressing his shoulders into the hard pebbles.

  ‘Stay still! You will only weaken yourself further.’

  Titus rolled his eyes to the sky and the darkness closed in.

  When he came round again Lilly was bending over him, her face as white as the moon.

  ‘. . . There! He has woken again!’ she cried.

  ‘Where is Hadsley?’ Pilbury cried. He was standing a little way off, shirtless, holding aloft a flaming piece of wood.

  ‘Over here!’ he bellowed up at the bridge. ‘Hadsley!’

  Lilly too was scouring the bridge. Titus raised his hand and turned her face to his. His arm felt heavy as lead and he had to let it drop.

  ‘Look after Hannah,’ he murmured.

  Lilly struck away the tears from her cheeks and grasped his shirt in her fist.

  ‘Don’t you dare!’ she said. ‘You stay here!’

  He smiled as the shafts of moonlight that fell around her shifted and melted together until they seemed to be figures of light, gathering on all sid
es of him. Her hot tears splashed on his face. She was darkening, while the moonlight figures were getting brighter.

  He let his eyelids start to sink.

  ‘No!’

  The arms were snatched away and he heard quick little footsteps receding down the pebbles. He managed to force his eyes to open and he saw that she had begun to wade out into the river. When the water was up to her waist she stopped and tipped her head back.

  ‘Spirits, hear me!’

  A light wind whipped up the water and snatched at her hair. The moonlight on the wave tips was so bright it hurt him to look at them.

  ‘Too long I have troubled you. Torn you from your peace. Delayed your passage to the blessed realm.’

  She raised her arms and held them clasped above her, as if in prayer, and as she did so the wind grew stronger, blowing clouds across the moon, blotting out the light.

  The darkness was kind, the wind stroked his cheek, the beach seemed to undulate beneath him, rocking him like a cradle. Only his heart banged and banged, like a drum in his ear.

  ‘I have been a burden to you who wish to leave the cares of this world behind.’

  The wind was now strong enough to blow wet grit into his face but he did not have the strength to close his lips. There were other voices now – two men and a shrill child’s voice: Hannah’s.

  Bang, bang went his heart, but slower now.

  The world slewed. The dull colours of water and sky smeared. His body was entirely numb. Still, in the distance Lilly’s voice went on.

  ‘I swear I will leave you in peace, forever, if you will do one thing for me.’

  The wind howled around him as if it wished to pick him up and carry him off. He closed his eyes and let his mind drift. The sound of Lilly’s voice receded to a murmur. His heart finally quietened: a thud, then a scrape.

  ‘Do not take him with you. Let him stay!’

  Peace washed over him. His heart gave a flutter, then another frailer one. He was just a single tiny point of consciousness in a universe of blackness. And then that point blinked out.

  His heart whispered in the darkness.

  His heart stopped.

  . . .

  . .

  .

  And then his heart gave a single beat.

  It fluttered, then thudded, then banged.

  The point of consciousness rapidly expanded. His thoughts hurtled into focus and his eyes snapped open.

  Lilly stood in the river, facing him.

  She opened her mouth, but before she could speak pain crashed on top of him with the force of a speeding train. His head hammered, his lungs burned. His thigh was a huge throbbing, searing mass of agony that made him rear up and tear at the bindings. He took a huge gasp of air and screamed.

  They came over to him and he felt arms fighting him and voices barking at him and women sobbing and through it all a man laughing and crying: ‘It’s a miracle, it’s a miracle!’

  20

  He woke in a room with roses on the wall. The curtains were drawn but a fine line of brilliance between them suggested it was broad daylight outside. He wondered how long he had been asleep.

  Being careful not to move too quickly and worsen the dull ache around his temples Titus shuffled up on the pillows. His thigh throbbed but the pain was bearable and he could move his toes and stretch the muscles of his calf.

  He thought he recognised the room but couldn’t quite believe it. He needed more light to be certain.

  Pulling back the covers he slid his injured leg to the floor and gingerly put some weight on it. It throbbed a little more. Sliding the other leg down he stood up and swayed for a moment as the blood rushed from his head. He was wearing a pair of striped pyjama trousers and a white vest that was slightly too large for him.

  Taking a step forward on his good leg he leaned against the solid black chest of drawers below the window and opened the curtains.

  Sure enough, the room looked out over a garden. A young woman and a girl sat at a little table by a pond: the woman was drawing the girl. He watched them until his injured leg began to ache, then he turned and went back to the bed. A glass of water stood on the bedside table and he realised he was parched with thirst.

  As he was drinking, the memories flooded back to him. Replacing the glass he sank back onto the pillow and closed his eyes.

  A voice spoke from the doorway.

  ‘The wanderer returns.’

  He made to get up again.

  ‘No, lie back,’ Pilbury said, coming over. ‘You don’t know how close you came to . . . Well. How are you feeling?’

  The Inspector sat down on a stool by the bed. His face was pink with pleasure and, instead of his usual musk of whisky, he smelled faintly of soap.

  ‘Did they find Stitcher?’ Titus said.

  The Inspector’s smile faded. ‘They pulled him out of the river a few miles down from the bridge. The old woman washed up nearby. There will be time to grieve for him, but for now let us think of happier things. How are you feeling?’

  Titus closed his eyes for a moment and into his head came an image of Stitcher and Charly sitting on the wall outside their house: Stitcher holding up a gold pocket watch to spin in the sunlight, and Charly trying to catch the light that danced across his legs.

  ‘Titus?’

  He opened his eyes. ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Much better. I can be back at work tomorrow if they will give me a crutch.’

  ‘Tomorrow’s Sunday. And, besides, our stable boy is back to prime physical fitness, more’s the pity.’

  Titus’s heart sank.

  ‘Your sister will be delighted to see you back with us again but before I fetch her, there’s something I would very much like to discuss with you.’

  Pilbury looked down at his hands for a moment, turning them over and gazing at the lines that criss-crossed the palms.

  ‘The night of your injury,’ he said finally, ‘I can remember nothing of it.’

  He looked up and searched Titus’s face. Titus kept his own expression neutral.

  ‘Lilly told me it was the woman, Mrs Rancer. And that she was drowned by the brother of one of the victims.’

  He rubbed his face with a hand that trembled a little.

  ‘I will not ask you again, I swear. First thing tomorrow I will get Hadsley to examine me. But please, Titus, tell me what happened.’

  So Titus told him.

  He told him that Lilly had summoned the latest victim who confirmed Pilbury’s suspicions that Mrs Rancer was continuing where her son left off. The old woman’s sickness had been faked all along, Titus assured him: she was not the weak, dying thing they had all thought but hale and hearty as her son. He described how he and the Inspector had used Hannah as bait and then followed the two of them to the river, where Pilbury had arrested the old woman in the act. She admitted everything, claiming that the murders were sacrifices to the river gods to prolong her life, but before they could take her back to the station Stitcher appeared and seized the old lady, leaping from the bridge to drown them both.

  Pilbury accepted it all, frowning and nodding slowly throughout, as if trying to recall his own part in the proceedings. Afterwards, aside from the birdsong in the trees outside the window, all was quiet for some time.

  ‘Why was Lilly at the river?’ Pilbury asked eventually.

  ‘We asked her to come and tend to Hannah afterwards.’

  ‘It was madness to risk Hannah’s safety like that,’ Pilbury muttered. ‘What was I thinking?’

  He slumped against the wall, gazing into the fireplace, his expression troubled.

  ‘You seem a lot better, sir,’ Titus ventured. ‘Perhaps your distractedness was simply absorption in the case.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Pilbury said, then gave a weak smile. ‘And I have been drinking far too much whisky.’

  Before he could say more, there was a cry from the doorway and a moment later something powerful struck Titus in the chest. For a moment he could not breathe and his ribs felt
as if they were about to crumple.

  ‘Hannah!’ Pilbury cried. ‘Be careful!’

  The weight was lifted and Hannah stood beside the bed smiling almost shyly.

  Their eyes locked for a moment.

  ‘Lilly told me everything what happened,’ she said clearly, ‘and I don’t mind a bit.’

  So she had been hoodwinked too. This was probably a good thing. It was questionable whether she could be trusted with the truth.

  But then she winked at him. Titus’s eyes widened, then he smiled.

  ‘Good girl,’ he murmured.

  He pulled himself up to a sitting position. He wouldn’t let Hannah see him weakened. She’d only take advantage.

  ‘And tomorrow we move back to our new home in the Acre.’

  Hannah shot a look at Inspector Pilbury.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘Hannah told me that you were saving money for a cellar room in Old Pye Street.’

  ‘That’s right. If you don’t mind giving me my wages then . . .’

  ‘Titus. Those cellars are uninhabitable.’

  Titus stared at him.

  ‘The Tyburn runs beneath the Acre, and not very deep beneath. After heavy rain the cesspools flood and sewage bubbles up into the basements. You’d be dead from cholera by the spring.’

  Titus blinked. His mouth had gone very dry. He could feel Hannah watching him, waiting for him to speak, waiting for him to explain how they would avert this new disaster.

  ‘Well, you see, Titus,’ Pilbury went on, drawing his pipe from his pocket, ‘I have been thinking about this whole situation.’

  He pulled out the tobacco and began loading the bowl. Its moist fragrance drifted across to Titus, smelling unbearably of home and warmth.

  ‘I don’t suppose I ever told you, but I had a daughter once.’ He tamped down the tobacco. ‘She would be Hannah’s age now.’

  Hannah stared at him in astonishment.

  ‘Yes,’ he said to her, ‘the room you are sleeping in was hers.’

  Titus sensed where this might be going and his heart leapt at the same moment his throat tightened. They would be separated, but she would live the life he had always dreamed she would.