by Sam Christer
‘You are fed, so let us leave things there, for today,’ he announced. ‘Go to your room. Rest. Think of what has been said. Contemplate the new you that has the opportunity to rise from within your old life.’
I rose, still chewing strings of meat caught between my teeth, and nodded politely.
Judgemental heads turned as I walked out of the orangery. This was no place for me. That Elizabeth woman was achingly beautiful but I vowed once I had my strength back, I would flee this dreadful place faster than a fox spotting a farmer with a gun.
Back in the room where I had regained consciousness, the bed had been remade in my absence, and the chamber pot, bowl, jug and soap all renewed.
A book had been left on a table. I supposed it to be some American nonsense that Moriarty wished me to ingest. A plain card on the top of the volume bore a handwritten note, which thanks to some basic schooling I was able to read.
Simeon,
Read what you can, when you can. A day without reading is a day of decay. Yours
Elizabeth.
I turned the card, desperate for more words from her, but there were none, only the title of the book: Queen Mab: A Philosophical Poem, by Percy Bysshe Shelley.
One look inside filled me with despair. I was used to rhymes and simple stories. Bible passages and prayers. Nothing like this. Clumps of long, intense words knotted my brain. Words and phrases I had never heard of hit me like intellectual slaps – tainted sepulchre – roseate morning – celestial coursers.
I threw the book on the bed.
Maybe I would get round to trying it again. Maybe I wouldn’t. If I did, then it would be solely to please Elizabeth and have her think kindly of me.
15 Days to Execution
Newgate, 3 January 1900
‘Open door, cell five!’
The alarming cry from the guard set off a stampede of heavy-footed gaolers down the corridors of the condemned wing. Whistles blew. Gates to the rest of the prison clanked shut and were locked down.
At first, they thought I had escaped then when a young screw poked his head into my cell he saw only the crumpled body of my attacker on the floor and shouted, ‘He’s dead! Lynch is dead. Someone’s offed him!’
The poor fool almost died of shock when I spoke from the depths of the shadows that covered my bunk. ‘Actually, I am very much alive. That corpse is someone else.’
The gaoler fled in terror. I should have guessed the next wrong assumption would be that the death had occurred as the result of some bold escape plan I had hatched and bungled. Older and meatier screws rushed in, brandishing sticks and fists but little intelligence.
‘I am chained!’ I shouted, raising my hands so they could see the manacles.
The action spared me a beating but still they bundled me face down onto the floor and pinned me with knees while they checked my restraints were secure and satisfied themselves that I was no danger to them. For once it was a relief to hear Johncock’s voice.
‘Boardman, Baker, get off him! Sit the bastard prisoner up so he can explain himself.’
Weight shifted off my shoulders and legs. Boardman, a screw in his late thirties, face ablaze with untrimmed red whiskers, turned me over and sat me up. He had hands as hairy as a chimp and I recognised him as one of the men who had previously beaten me. I also recognised the younger screw, Baker. He was a leathery strap of a lad, with the eyes of a rat and the smell of a skunk. He pulled at my chains and told Johncock, ‘The manacles are intact, sir. They’ve not been unlocked.’
Johncock raised his boot and inspected the sole. ‘Messy,’ he declared, pulling a sour face. ‘Messy, messy, messy.’ He rubbed his boot on the floor and then on my blanket. ‘Show me the dead man’s face, Baker.’
The younger turnkey angled the corpse’s head for the assistant keeper, but I could not see it, nor did I hear Johncock mention a name. All I could discern was that he wore no wrist or ankle restraints, meaning he was a trustee, a class of prisoner used by the gaolers for cleaning work, slopping out and any other chores they were too lazy to do themselves.
Finally, Johncock turned to me. ‘Why was this fellow in your room, Lynch? What happened here?’
‘I don’t know. I woke and he and another man were near my bunk.’ I nodded to the corpse. ‘That one attacked me. I held onto him to protect myself and I surmise his runaway friend stabbed him by accident.’
‘Oh, you surmise do you?’ He laughed at me. ‘Proper gentleman you think you are with your surmising.’ He stepped over the blood and kicked my leg. ‘Well, I surmise there was no other man. There was only you. You, this dead fellow and some ill-conceived notion to escape that went fatally wrong.’ He put his boot up on my bruised ribs and pressed. ‘Now, speak with honesty, Lynch, or so help me God, I will kick the words out of you a syllable at a time.’
‘Do you really think I would still be in this stinking hole if another convict had been able to open the door for me?’ I winced through a sharp pang of pain and added, ‘Had I been in possession of that shank and been fit and able to spring to my feet, then I promise you it would be sunk in one of your men’s chests, not that dead imbecile’s, and I would be free by now.’
Johncock glowered at me. He knew I was telling the truth. If I had been stronger and that passing turnkey had come five minutes later, there would have been a lot more blood on the cell floor than the spatter he had walked in.
‘Get him out of here.’ The assistant keeper banged his knee into my face as he walked past. He stopped in the doorway and told his men. ‘Put Lynch back in his original cell; we’re done mollycoddling him. Then lock this door. Don’t move the stiff until I’ve got to the bottom of what happened here.’
Derbyshire, September 1885
Moriarty’s grizzly companion, the fat, old wrestler Michael Brannigan, came for me just after dawn. As I guessed he would. Men like him know the rewards that the element of surprise can bring.
But I had been ready for such an eventuality. I had risen a good hour earlier, washed and changed into the clean clothes that had been left in my room for me, and I was sitting on my bed full of smiles.
He held the door open and smirked. ‘So, you can dress yourself. That at least is something. Now are you ready to do some work?’
‘Are you?’
‘You would be well-advised to show me some respect.’
‘Is that right? Even the young and ignorant, like me, know respect is earned, not freely given.’
He headed out of my room and I followed, feeling much stronger than yesterday. Last night, I had eaten well. Stayed clear of ale and wine. And aside from a fevered dream about Lady Elizabeth had managed a refreshing seven hours of sleep.
Brannigan took me past storerooms and larders, out of a tradesman’s door and beyond the entrances to coal bunkers an ice house that was in the process of being filled with fresh produce. We walked briskly around the side of what I saw for the first time was a splendid three-storey Jacobean mansion. The walls were made from a fine blue-grey stone, matched with golden brown lintels and steps. Carefully trimmed ivy aspired to grow higher than the bedroom windows where it had been halted by diligent gardeners. Above tall windows perched grim gargoyles, their ever-open eyes keeping vigil over the vast grounds beneath them.
Presently, we came across a warped and weathered barn with a broken roof through which the sky could be frequently spied. Skipping ropes lay coiled like sleeping snakes on a straw-covered stone floor. Behind a stack of hay bales stood a slackly roped-off ring.
Brannigan caught my stare, looked across to the arena and laughed. ‘That’s not for you. Not unless you want to die before breakfast.’
I walked towards it. ‘I am a young and fit boxer and you are a fat and old wrestler. I know washerwomen who could beat you as easily as their clothes.’
He had been in the process of heading away from the ring but turned now and approached me. ‘They haven’t told you about me, have they?’
‘What is there to tell that your
fat stomach and wasted arms haven’t already said? Age has caught up with you and made you half the man you were. Am I right?’
‘You’re as cheeky as fuck. That’s what you are.’ He looked me up and down. ‘Boxer are you? Self-taught?’
‘I was trained by one of the best.’
‘Where would a toerag get such tutorage?’
‘In the workhouse, by a great fighter of African descent.’
‘African? Now you’re havin’ a bleedin’ joke.’ Brannigan spat on the ground. ‘I am a Romany.’ He punched his heart with pride. ‘That makes me tougher than any bloody African, or for that matter a mouthy piece of London shite like you.’
‘Then let’s see.’ I pointed to the ropes. ‘Or have we got up this early just to swap insults?’
‘We got up to train you, and we should get on with it.’ He flapped a hand dismissively at me. ‘You’re not ready to fight me. Happen you never will be.’
I turned and walked to the ropes. ‘I’m getting in the ring. Follow me and fight, or else be off and feed that fat gut of yours somewhere I can’t see you.’
There was no answer.
His bluff had been called. I was young and fit and he clearly didn’t fancy a beating this early in the morning.
I was toying with the ring rope when Brannigan kicked my legs from under me and hurled his big old body down on me like a carriage filled with clinkers. Air whooshed from my lungs.
He hauled me upright. Grabbed me by the throat and testicles and lifted me above his head like I was a sack of flour. The pain was excruciating, but nowhere near as agonising as when he threw me into the post of the ring.
I feared he’d broken my back and was still working out how injured I was when he reached down for my wrist.
I snatched it away and rolled into the ring.
Brannigan ducked the rope.
I got to my knees.
He kicked a boot at my head.
I caught it and twisted hard.
He spun and fell.
I was on my feet before he was. But only just.
He rose in a crouch and ran at me with his head down.
I hit him with an uppercut that would have felled an elephant.
It didn’t even rock him. He ploughed into me, barged me across the ring.
When we hit the ropes on the other side he stamped his foot, shifted his weight and slammed my entire body into the ground.
I made an involuntary noise that fell pitifully short of the agony I felt.
Brannigan dragged me upright, locked his arms behind my back and squeezed. That’s all he did. But he squeezed so powerfully that I was unable to breathe. He hoisted me further up. Got a better grip. Increased the pressure and pain.
I pulled my elbows free and smashed them on the top of his skull.
He dropped me.
I doubled up. Sucked in air, while I could. The blow to the skull should have knocked him out, but it hadn’t.
Brannigan came running.
I dodged this time. Focused.
He turned, sighted me.
I stepped forward and snapped a punch into his face.
His jaw was like granite; he rubbed his chin and grinned.
I bounced to the right, smashed a left into his temple.
Pain barely registered on his face.
My right whipped out two more jabs, then came a rock-breaker of a left. His lips bust like a dropped tomato, but still he didn’t go down.
Brannigan spread his arms wide. Spat blood through busted teeth.
I bounced on my feet, kept moving.
He lunged.
I circled him.
He grabbed at me, missed.
I drove a fist into his face.
A second punch hit his temple. A third, the bloody mass of lips and teeth.
The old wrestler closed the space between us.
I spun away, dodging a grabbing hand, and smashed my left into his cheek.
He grabbed and held me. Butted my nose. Giant hands locked again behind my back.
My arms were trapped. My eyes streamed. Blood snotted from my nostrils.
The hurt that followed was unbearable. The best I could do was hold my breath and hope he quickly ran out of strength.
He didn’t.
Pain tingled through my arms and chest. I blew precious air from my mouth and he shut off the last space in my lungs.
‘Should I choke you to death?’ he whispered into my ear. ‘Or bite through your neck and have you bleed out like a slaughtered chicken?’
I struggled. Kicked.
‘Choke, I think. Choking is always more certain.’
My lungs were on fire. Flames scorched my throat. The back of my eyelids blackened and I lost consciousness.
My limp body hit the ground and I was aware of nothing until a bucket of cold water brought me spluttering back to life. I raised my head and saw it had been thrown by Mr Gunn. Another followed from Miss Breed.
I gasped. Covered my face. Spluttered some more.
When I removed my hands, Brannigan was standing by my feet, urinating over my legs. ‘You owe me your life, you little bastard. Your life and your respect.’
I made no attempt to pull away. He was right. I deserved to be pissed on. The fat, old man emptying his bladder had soaked up the best of my blows. He had swallowed pain like it was naught more than sugar and could have killed me without breaking sweat.
‘You have it,’ I managed, my voice raw with hurt. And then I added the word he had wanted to hear. ‘Sir.’
He shook the last drops of his steaming urine on me, fastened up and stepped back. ‘Get out of my sight and clean yourself up. You’re a disgrace.’
Getting up was easier said than done. My ribs felt as though they had been ground into dust and I struggled to rise further than from my knees.
‘Nothing is broken,’ mocked Brannigan. ‘I was instructed not to hurt you too badly. The professor has a soft spot for you. Ain’t that so, Sirius?’
‘As soft as your heart, Mr Brannigan.’ He looked at me. ‘Either that or he simply doesn’t want the trouble of having to dispose of his ugly, useless carcass.’
‘Ignore him,’ said Miss Breed, helping me to my feet. ‘He’s either all charm or all hate. There’s no in between with Mr Gunn.’
He tipped his hat at us and walked off towards Brannigan, who had also turned his back and was now a good five yards away.
‘Let me help you inside.’ She draped my arm over her shoulder and allowed me to lean on her for support.
To my embarrassment, Miss Breed guided me all the way to my room and even to my bed. I made a pained noise as I sat on the mattress and slowly leaned back. She lifted my feet, unhooked my boots and then tugged at the bottom of my urine-stained trousers.
‘No!’ I shouted. ‘I am quite capable of doing that.’
‘I don’t think you are.’ She grinned, then yanked them all the way off.
I grabbed a sheet to cover my embarrassment.
It seemed to amuse her. ‘If it makes you feel better, Mr Brannigan pissed all over Sirius during their early days together.’
‘It doesn’t.’
‘It will. Eventually.’ She threw the trousers down near the window. ‘If you like, I can make you a poultice.’
‘Poultice?’
‘It is a medicament of bread and herbs …’
‘I’m not hungry.’
She laughed. ‘It’s not to eat, you idiot. It’s for your chest. You put it against your ribs and it draws the bruising out and takes the pain away.’
‘I don’t want the pain to go away.’
‘That doesn’t make sense.’
‘I need the pain. Need it to remind me how much harder I have to try tomorrow, when I take that old beast down.’
‘You don’t fight him again.’ She moved closer to me. ‘No one fights Michael Brannigan twice.’
‘I will.’
‘Then you are even more stupid than I thought.’ She started to walk awa
y then turned. ‘Do you know who he is? Why you, me and Mr Gunn are here?’
‘No. I don’t know. We are all criminals, I suppose. Rounded up by an even greater rogue.’
She shook her head in dismay. ‘You need to do some thinking. Grasp what we have all done and what unites us. Then you will know why you must never challenge Michael again.’
‘Why don’t you save me all that trouble and just tell me?’
‘Because that’s not my place.’
‘Excuse me, miss,’ said a woman’s voice from the doorway. ‘The professor has sent me for him.’
‘He is all yours,’ answered Miss Breed, stepping aside. ‘I am quite done with him.’
A young maid in a black and white uniform with a frilled apron and cap entered the room. Over her arm lay a long flannel robe in a dark chocolate colour, trimmed with gold piping.
‘I am sorry to disturb you, sir. I am Jane, one of the Between Maids.’ She had a voice as soft as the dimple on her chin. She laid the robe on the bed. ‘The master says you are to wear this while I fetch your soiled clothes to the bathhouse and leave them there to be laundered.’ She nodded politely. ‘I will wait outside, sir, while you dress.’
Jane left and I struggled to my feet. The beating was already stiffening my joints and putting on the robe, which was a good few inches too large, was an agony. I tied the belt then gathered the soiled garments and joined her.
The route she took was long and led to the end of the west wing, where she relieved me of my soiled clothes and opened a door. ‘This is the bathhouse, sir. I will leave you here.’
I thanked her and walked into a room filled with steam. Through the mist I discerned the outline of various tubs. Plungers. Roll tops. Slippers. All on a raised wooden platform.
Out of the fog came a voice and a small moustachioed man. ‘Please be careful, sir.’ He took my arm. ‘I am Bailey, head of Heating, Bathing and Laundry. Watch your step there. That’s it. Take it slowly. We have four sunken baths, two cold and two hot, and you almost took a very chilly dip.’ There was a hint of glee in his voice as he guided me along the platform. ‘The professor told me you were to be soaked in hot seaweed for twenty to thirty minutes to help you recover from your altercation. After that, you must use the plunge pool to cleanse and close the pores. Here, let me help you in.’
