The House Of Smoke

by Sam Christer

  ‘I like that story. Like it very much.’

  ‘Yet you sound sad. Have I upset you, somehow?’

  ‘Showing you the shades awoke some old memories, that’s all. And mixed with how you make me—’ I stopped before I said anything embarrassing.

  ‘Make you what?’

  My tongue was stilled.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Feel.’

  She laughed. ‘And how exactly do I make you feel?’

  Now I was lost.

  My foolishness had led me to a precipice that I was too inexperienced and afraid to cross.

  ‘Simeon?’ she pressed, saying my name in the softest of tones, ‘I asked you how I made you feel.’

  I stayed silent. That fragile ground beneath my clumsy feet crumbled a little more.

  ‘Just speak!’ she snapped in frustration. ‘Don’t censor yourself, just speak.’

  ‘I feel like you raise a storm within me. You make me want to be close to you, to protect and care for you—’

  ‘Oh dear.’ She cut me off with a small sigh. ‘I hope you do not have a crush on me. That would be awfully sweet but exceptionally awkward.’

  ‘I am sorry. I take it all back. I’m stupid. Forget what I—’

  ‘There is no taking back things like that. The professor predicted you might develop some affection for me but I thought him silly. Now I see I am the foolish one.’

  ‘Should I leave?’

  She nodded. ‘It is best you do.’

  I rose and felt a terrible shame. It was as though I had broken some priceless vase that even if repaired would never be the same again.

  ‘Simeon.’

  I turned. ‘Yes, my lady.’

  She smiled gently. ‘Thank you.’

  I was confused. ‘For what?’

  ‘For your courage. Many men go through their entire lives without saying what is in their heart. Many women never hear words as sweet as the ones you said to me today. So thank you.’

  Panic filled me. I had no reply. No mature response. I rushed for the door. Rushed outside. Kept on rushing, until I was far across the lawns and deep in the orchard, where I could roar at the clouds and be alone with my bursting joy, my sweet sadness and my intoxicating uncertainty.

  Twelve Days to Execution

  Newgate, 6 January 1900

  January the eighteenth. That infernal date with death was branded into my thoughts. No notion, no distraction, nor any precious memory could dislodge it; it was forever present and noisy in my troubled mind.

  Hanging day.

  I did not want to perish like that. Pinioned. Powerless. Impotent. Shitting my pants swinging from a rope. That wasn’t me. If I could not escape, then I wanted to go out fighting, grabbing at the throats and tearing at the eyes of my opponents.

  Hanged by the neck until dead.

  That’s what the old owl of a judge had hooted.

  But how long would it take?

  Ten, twenty seconds. Thirty? More? Was I destined to kick and spin for inglorious minute after minute? Or would my head pop clean off my body, as many wished it to?

  And what of the pain? How bad would it be? Worse than the most terrible beating I had ever endured? Than the bullet shot through the bone of my arm in Paris? Than the knife stabbed in my back in Dublin?

  I had broken someone’s neck once. Done it cleanly, quickly, just the way I had been taught. A perfect combination of speed and technique. ‘Twist and pull,’ I had been told. ‘Only hard and fast. Harder and faster than you’ve ever done in your life.’

  It had been good advice. The man I killed was much bigger than me, and it would have been a bloody battle had I not been so well instructed. But that was a lifetime ago.

  I looked at my hands and remembered all the flesh I had touched, both in anger and in passion. Fingers that gouged and choked had also stroked and soothed. Could these limbs have done better things? Could this brain have created rather than destroyed? I wished I had fashioned something of value. Nothing grand – perhaps just wood or bread. Good bread for good people. Fine furniture for fine families. Not for monsters like me, or those who made me this way.

  Or had I made myself what I was? Was it I and I alone who had sought out their instruments of evil and used them to shape myself?

  I picked up the long chain that was now permanently attached to the leg irons and manacles chafing my wrists. It stretched across the icy floor of the cell. Ran up through an iron ring sunk in the stone wall beneath the window, then back on itself into another ring set in the floor by the door. Its length enabled the turnkeys to pull me like a dog, to drag me back and forth across the cell whenever they wished to enter. It rendered me harmless. Or so they thought. I was confident I could pull it away from them, unless two of them held the chain when it went slack. Certain I could then, within seconds, loop it around one of my captors’ heads and strangle him long before any army of screws could stop me.

  The musing was empowering. I was a caged lion. Disorientated by the strange and cramped habitat but still lethal. Respected for my explosive and unremitting violence.

  Such imaginings – the worst of me – were all I had left to cling to.

  A rattle of keys in the cell door turned my head. ‘Stand away, Lynch. Get to the back of your cell! Face the wall!’ The shouting came from Briggs, my gaoler for the day. He was as round as an ale barrel but weak. Even the strain of opening the door showed on his bloated face.

  I stood obediently by the window. Felt the chain pull tight. He took an age to fasten it at the other end. ‘You have a visitor,’ he announced.

  For a moment, I did not turn. I wanted to savour the expectation. Was it Holmes, returned to question me? Johncock, full of new ways to hurt and belittle me? Or the man I really wanted to see: Moriarty.

  ‘Mr Lynch.’

  The voice was not one I could place from memory. I watched his shadow climb the wall I was facing. No hat. Tall. Clad in some long cape.

  I turned and saw an old cleric. Wispy white hair fell over the dandruff-sprinkled shoulders of his long black cassock. A face red from either the wind outside or an early belt of rum greeted me. ‘I am Father Deagan.’ He stretched out his hand. ‘Father Francis Deagan.’

  I raised my manacled wrists. ‘I’d shake your hand, Father, but as you see, that’s a little difficult.’

  ‘Slacken his chains, man,’ the priest demanded. ‘Give the poor creature some dignity.’

  Briggs loosened and reset the chain, then banged the door shut in protest as he left.

  Deagan immediately took my palm and clasped me tightly. ‘May God have mercy on you. The Prison Ordinary told me you were a Catholic and I hoped that I might be of comfort.’

  ‘I was, Father. Was. A very long time ago. And only as a child.’

  ‘He said he visited you on remand and found you praying.’

  ‘Complaining more than praying, Father. It did me no good.’

  He smiled. ‘It is not too late to rediscover the path to the Lord.’

  ‘Oh, with the greatest of respect, I think it is. You know why I am here and what I have been convicted of.’

  ‘I do. And I know that it is not so very long ago that these walls and the hangman’s noose once punished priests like me for the “offence” of being a Catholic. Criminal acts are seldom what they seem.’

  ‘Mine is. And be I Catholic, Protestant or Jew, I am damned for my most dreadful crimes.’

  ‘Not so. God forgives the smallest and the greatest of sins. Not unconditionally, of course. But He forgives.’

  ‘So even the Lord has conditions in his contracts.’

  He saw the joke and smiled. ‘Only one.’

  ‘And it is?’

  ‘Repentance.’

  ‘Repentance?’

  ‘Yes. It means being contrite. Turning your back on sin. Regretting what you have done and wishing you had not done it.’ He studied my face and saw that he had struck a nerve. ‘Tell me, my son, do you repent? Do you feel contrit
e and wish you had not lived the life you have?’

  I gave him an honest answer. ‘I am not sure I do. There are people still alive that I dearly wish dead and people dead whom I very much wish were alive.’

  ‘That is not the answer I was searching for.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Only God has the right to make or take life. You might have the will and strength to kill another man, but you have no right.’

  ‘Father, I understand that. Maybe I do regret the life I led. I wish I could have written poetry and painted, had many children, grown old and been a grandfather. But it was not to be.’ I glanced pointedly to the barred window. ‘Maybe this is what was meant to be. If there is a God, then perhaps his grand plan for me is being played out.’

  ‘Then let me take your confession, heal your soul and prepare you for the moment you meet your maker.’

  ‘I am not ready for that, Father. Not now. Perhaps not ever. But thank you for coming here today and for not judging or berating me. That in itself has lifted my spirits.’

  He bent his head respectfully. ‘Then I will leave you to contemplate and will seek to try again.’

  ‘Please do not waste your time …’

  He laughed. ‘You are a captive audience. Such things are rare and present opportunities that must not be squandered.’

  I laughed along with him.

  ‘So, be certain that I will return. Your soul may yet be saved.’

  ‘I have no soul, Father. I sold it to Satan a long time ago.’

  ‘Then we must get it back.’

  I watched him leave then listened for the door to close and the locks turn and bolts slide. One at the top. One at the bottom. One in the middle. They missed none. I stared at the recessed hinges. Old and rusted, but firm.

  I kept on staring.

  There had to be a weakness. Most doors I had come across had a weakness. And if they didn’t, then the men behind them certainly did.

  Derbyshire, September 1885

  I spent the afternoon skulking in the orchard. Climbing the bigger trees. Biting and throwing sour apples at large black crows come to peck fallen fruit. When I was done with them, I edged up as high as the laddered branches would allow and there in the thinned-out foliage gazed at distant hills and forests.

  I thought about the police in London and how vigorously they might be hunting me. About Elizabeth and whether she could ever feel towards me the way I felt towards her. And the Chans. The mysterious Chinese family I had heard Sirius and Surrey talking about. Were they really a threat to Moriarty? He seemed so rich and powerful that it was difficult to imagine him being bettered by anyone.

  My reflective state was broken by Brannigan’s voice booming from below the boughs of the tree. ‘What in sweet Jesus’s name are you doing up there?’

  He was dressed in his usual filthy vest and baggy training pants. Pleasingly, his sweaty face now showed bruising from the punches I had landed during our fight. His right eye in particular was a satisfying riot of purples and reds.

  ‘Nothing,’ I finally replied. ‘Just looking.’

  ‘Then get the fuck out of that tree and do your looking down here.’

  Reluctantly, I descended. At the bottom, I rubbed my hands on my trousers to clean them of dusty bark and sticky apple juice. ‘Is there some law against climbing trees?’

  ‘Yes, my law. Now, what were you up to in those branches?’

  ‘Like I said, I was just looking.’

  ‘At what?’

  ‘Them hills,’ I pointed. ‘Them big ones over the other side of the fields.’

  ‘That’s Dovedale over there. Big one is Thorpe Cloud.’ He looked at me suspiciously. ‘Shouldn’t you be in lessons with Lady Elizabeth?’

  ‘She wasn’t feeling well, so we stopped and I came out here. Had nothing else to do.’

  ‘Right then, if you’re at a loose end, I’ll find you something. Follow me.’

  My heart sank.

  Brannigan left the orchard at a brisk pace, while I deliberately lagged behind. The longer it took to reach wherever he wanted to go, the less time there would be for me to do whatever he had in mind.

  It soon became evident he was suffering from a bad cough for every hundred yards or so he had cause to stop and bark out disgusting mouthfuls of phlegm.

  ‘If you’re not feeling well, Mr Brannigan we don’t have to do anything.’ I called him Mr to soft-soap him a little. ‘I can go back to the house if you prefer.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I prefer.’ He quickened the pace again. ‘I prefer you don’t talk too much. I prefer that I could spit you away like that horrible cud. But thanks to the professor, I can’t. I am stuck with you.’

  ‘I fear we are not going to be friends, then?’

  ‘That mouth of yours is most unfriendly. It will get you killed one day. Not that I care. But I do mind if it endangers others close to me. So learn to shut it. Listen and don’t speak. Do you understand?’

  I deliberately didn’t answer. If silence were to be my new weapon, I intended to use it immediately.

  ‘Do you understand?’ He stopped and clenched a massive fist.

  I halted and shifted my weight. Balanced myself. Lifted my hands into a boxing stance.

  His eyes lost their intensity and instead sparkled with amusement. ‘You would, wouldn’t you, you little bastard? You really would fight me again.’

  ‘In a blink,’ I answered defiantly. ‘And to my death if necessary.’

  He laughed. ‘It may well be necessary. But not today.’ He winced a little and put his big hand to his chest to quell another bout of wheezing.

  ‘What’s that?’ I pointed at a tattoo on his bicep. ‘Some kind of sailor’s tat?’

  Brannigan flexed his bicep so the inked image grew. ‘Do you have no idea what it is?’

  ‘A flabby arm marked with a black triangle that has a red ball inside it.’

  He slapped it proudly. ‘It is a drop of blood, not a ball, you young fool. And the symbols represent our brotherhood. This a very special tattoo.’ He looked at me scornfully. ‘Mucus like you should never be considered for such a badge of honour.’ He added bitterly, ‘but apparently the professor thinks you should.’

  ‘Fuck you! Fuck your tattoo and fuck the professor. I don’t want—’

  His massive hand grabbed my throat. Fingers found flesh faster than I could blink. Shock hit my brain. Air bulged in my throat. Brannigan’s reach was so long, the desperate punch I swung fell inches short of his face. I kicked out – my foot failed to reach him.

  Hot with anger, he raised his big muscular arm and forced me up onto my toes. ‘I told you to listen and not speak. Now if you value what life you have left you will obey me.’ He lifted me clean off my feet. My toes twitched in the air.

  Fortunately, Brannigan began coughing again and it was so severe he had no choice but to drop me.

  I stumbled as my feet hit the ground. Gasped for air.

  He fell to his knees and vomited. Panted for ten or twenty seconds then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘Sour ale,’ he announced as he rose. ‘Get up. We set out to do something, so let’s get it done.’

  I followed him again, my hands nursing my throat as we walked. When we next halted we were at the far side of the estate, where crops grew and farm animals were penned.

  ‘Pigs, cows and bulls over here.’ He pointed them out. ‘Over there, chickens, ducks, geese and rabbits.’

  ‘The professor likes his pound of flesh,’ I noted.

  ‘Spread out in front of you is all manner, shape and size of life. Young, old, weak, strong, small, big, parents and children, brothers and sisters.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Choose which one you want to kill.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me. Every day, from now on, you will perform this task. So make your choice.’

  ‘Then it’s a rabbit or a chicken.’ My eyes roamed the pens. ‘I’ve killed both b
efore, but only to stay alive, to eat.’

  ‘This is no different. You are learning to kill, in order to stay alive. Take your pick.’

  I knew from experience that cornering a chicken was trickier as they could fly as well as dart around. ‘Rabbit.’

  ‘Rabbit it is.’ He walked towards the pens.

  I followed. ‘Do you have a knife?’

  ‘No knife. Just your hands. Your hands are the only weapons you are guaranteed to have. You must learn to use them to their fullest abilities.’

  The wire cages were as tall as me and ran for maybe ten yards. Inside was a line of rough wooden hutches where fat parent rabbits lay with their offspring. Cabbage leaves, straw and excrement were scattered across the stone-flagged floor that prevented them burrowing away.

  For a moment Brannigan rested on the fence, then he unpegged the door and let me in. ‘Be quick about it.’

  More than a dozen rabbits bounded back to hutches or corners. I wondered if they were used to the sight of cooks coming here to gather them for dinner.

  I had used rocks in the past. Caught the animal, held it and despatched it quickly. There was no such implement of death inside the wire cell.

  ‘Get on with it!’ came the shout from outside.

  Rabbits scurried away. I had to run right, left and right again before I cornered one. It wriggled in my hands and kicked to escape. I stroked it. Beneath the soft fur, a heart beat furiously and in young, black eyes I saw a reflection of myself.

  ‘Don’t make me have to come in there!’ shouted Brannigan.

  Anger flashed inside me. I remembered something from a long time ago, from a period I had hoped never to recall. I dangled the animal by its ears and then chopped the back of its neck viciously with a rigid left hand. I dropped it to the floor, where it lay motionless.

  Slow, sarcastic slaps of applause came from outside the wire, then Brannigan let himself into the pen.

  He walked straight to a corner and grabbed a rabbit. ‘Let me show you a better way.’ He grabbed a large rabbit. Held it tightly by the back legs. Slid his fingers down and around the neck. Pulled hard and twisted. There was a cracking noise, and the rabbit’s head lolled loosely in his hand.