‘You don’t want to know about that,’ said Hat.
‘I already do. Peskett strung up Mort Craggs years back, near popped his shoulders out.’
‘What else you know?’
‘Mort said Peskett got, quote, medieval with his arse.’
‘If it’s a quote, Marty, it would have to be medieval with my arse as in, That Reuben Peskett, he got medieval with my arse.’
‘I know what he said.’
‘Yeah but do you know what he meant?’
‘He wouldn’t tell me.’
‘We best talk,’ said Hat, and he gestured at the pallet inside the cell.
They sat themselves down on the tick, which was hardly softer than the timber underneath it. The cat jumped into Hat’s lap and Hat took to stroking its fur and the cat’s tail was twitching with delight. ‘You want the cat, nice and warm in your lap?’
‘No, they make me sneeze,’ said Sparrow.
‘What about dogs?’
‘What about them?’
‘They make you sneeze?’
‘No.’
The subject of sneezing seemed to be exhausted and the two men sat in silence for what seemed to Sparrow a very long time. Then Hat spoke. ‘That worm ain’t for you; you don’t got the machinery.’
Sparrow felt a little bit like he felt when Biddie Happ inspected his pizzle.
Hat said: ‘I seen Harp, we talked, know that?’
‘I didn’t know that, no.’ Sparrow’s hands were cold. The cat was purring loud.
‘I know you know what Harp knows, and maybe Griffin Pinney too . . . about the other side, this hideaway they got,’ said Hat in a whisper. He was leaning forward, close, his breath awfully stinky, and Sparrow could not understand why he would lean so, for there was no one else in the gaol, as far as he could tell.
‘I don’t know about that,’ said Sparrow. He could hear the voice of Griffin Pinney: You share a secret it is a bond of trust, you understand that?
He ran his tongue along his teeth. He liked having a tongue secure in his mouth, nicely connected to whatever it was connected to. He guessed it must be called the tongue bone.
‘You better know something,’ said Hat, ‘or you’ll go down for theft o’ this worm, caught in the act, I’ll see to it, I’ll see you behind bars, in perpetume.’
Hat had terrible teeth, few in number, mostly black, and when he smiled he smiled with his mouth wide open and he held the pose so it seemed like God had cast his face in stone and left Hat gaping for all time.
‘You wouldn’t do that,’ said Sparrow.
‘I seen you bag it, I seen you try to carry it off.’
‘I never did!’
‘You can tell that to the magistrates, your word against mine, and they’ll get Reuben Peskett . . . and he’ll swing you on that tackle if he has to, he’ll sling you on the hook. That or worse.’
‘Worse?’
‘Worse, yes, Reuben Peskett is, and here we come full circle . . . medieval.’
‘How so?’
‘Well, he has an instrument and it ain’t a violin.’
‘Tell me.’
Hat paused, ran his tongue across his black teeth and his gums. ‘It’s a rectal pear.’
Sparrow paused. ‘A what?’
‘A rectal pear, named for its shape . . . got a one-eighth thread top to bottom and a big wing nut at the fat end and the pear shape is four big . . . um . . . like petals on a rose, and the narrow end has a sharp point all greased up for rectal entry and then he turns the wing nut and the pear, that is to say the petals, they open like a flower and it’s hardly decent to say more so I’ll keep it at that.’
‘That’s no rose, a rose a beautiful thing,’ said Sparrow.
Hat’s voice dropped an octave. ‘In the humble opinion of Reuben Jiggle Teeth, so too is the rectal pear. Consider this Marty, long ago, so I’m told, that instrument was reserved for sinners guilty of carnal union with Satan, but Reuben does not consider himself restrained in any way by medieval particularity, he’s just partial to their methods.’
Hat smiled that awful smile, like his face was frozen.
‘You seen him use it?’
‘I seen it up an arse or two, yes.’
Sparrow swallowed hard. ‘What do you want?’
‘You tell me what’s on the other side.’
‘I thought Harp told you?’
‘You tell me.’
Sparrow knew he had to tell Hat something. ‘I’m told there’s a village.’
‘And?’
‘It’s embosomed at the foot of the mountains, on the other side. And there’s a river too . . .’
‘A village, embosomed?’
‘Yes, embosomed, so I’m told.’
‘And a river?’
‘A big river, yes.’
‘And the wilderness?’
‘You have to cross that.’
‘I know that you damned idiot, how do they negotiate the damn wilderness that’s what we want to know.’
‘We?’
‘I, me.’
Sparrow had the twin spectre of Griffin Pinney and Reuben Peskett strong in his thoughts. He was determined not to lose his tongue and he was equally determined not to suffer at Peskett’s medieval hand. ‘Believe me Hat I wish I knew. I hardly know anything.’
‘Who told you what you do know?’
‘Harp,’ said Sparrow. He did not want to mention Griffin Pinney.
‘How would Harp know, he’s dumb as dirt. He’d never get across.’
‘He ain’t dumb.’
‘A big river you say?’
Sparrow figured magnitude might add to the verisimilitude of his commentary. ‘Makes this one look like a midge,’ he said.
Hat shook his head. ‘I find that quite hard to imagine . . . in my mind.’
‘Me too,’ said Sparrow.
They sat quiet for a while. Then Hat smiled again. ‘The establishment here at the depot, the establishment in which I am but
a humble cog, would like to know how the bolters are getting across and by what means and under whose auspices.’
Sparrow thought hard about the mysterious word, auspices. He thought it might be French, it was so damn showy. ‘I know Shug didn’t get across and you hung him with that pony’s head strung on his neck.’
‘The body came away; did you know that?’
‘I heard. I’m glad he was good and dead when it happened.’
‘If I had my way I’d rather’ve hung Mort, assuredly the principal in that mischief,’ said Hat.
‘I suppose,’ said Sparrow.
‘Marty, if runaways are getting across it’s on the wing of mutual endeavour, that much is certain.’
‘I wouldn’t know.’ Sparrow sat himself up, stiff and straight, like a ramrod.
Hat’s fingers were in the fur under the cat’s chin. The cat was an old cat, shut-eyed and content, sinking into sleep, purring.
‘I heard there’s a lake . . . you heard that?’ said Hat.
Sparrow wondered if, perhaps, this was a trick. He did not want to say the wrong thing, as he so often did under pressure. ‘I haven’t heard that one, you know more than me.’
‘I know more’n Harp,’ said Hat, nodding. He seemed most pleased with himself.
‘What more?’
Hat kept nodding, like he had a big secret he was proud of.
‘Tell me, what?’ said Sparrow.
‘Mr Catley reports there’s mountain blacks who swear the western country has a big lake where the water is salt and whales are seen to spout and there’s a people there, white people, and they live a most comfortable existence principally on fresh fish and Indian corn.’
‘How does Mr Catley know that?’
‘I arksed him the exact same question. He said the savages imitated the whales as seen to spout upon breaching. He said the manner in which they did so, imitating the whales throwing up the water, and giving off the sound, was so completely satisfactory as to leave little doubt t
hey could have known of whales but from actual and faithful observation. You may not know it but they are fine mimics the savages, least, that’s what Mr Catley says. Him and the wildlife’s thick as thieves you know.’
‘Whales, Lord!’
‘That’s what I said.’
Sparrow was thinking, hard. ‘If there’s whales it must be connected to the ocean, way off, somewhere.’
‘Must be.’
‘My goodness, think of that,’ said Sparrow. For a moment he felt as free as he’d ever felt free, almost as far back as he could remember, back to Misty, at least.
Sparrow was about to depart the gaol but he was compelled to pause in the shadows of the corridor, for the punitive expedition under Peskett’s command had gathered on the square, loaded with rations and weaponry, intent upon bloody retribution for Thyne Kunkle, one of their own.
He snuck off when he could, wormless, slipped behind the barracks and sat himself down, hunched against the wall in a thin slice of shadow. But there was no good reason to tarry, so Sparrow hurried across the escarpment and crossed the bridge with not the slightest inclination to stop at the Tap. He followed the creek downstream with all haste, anxious to get to his patch and have a good think, but not far from the river he pulled up sharp. Ahead of him was what appeared to be a scrub wattle, flipping and flopping, angling its way up the slope.
Sparrow approached with some caution until, up close, he could see a dog snared in the cover, its tether ravelled round the stem.
The dog was a wolfhound, long-legged, shaggy, barely a yearling in Sparrow’s estimation. He was a mess, battered and bruised. One side of him was entirely muddied up and one eyelid so caked with muck it was stuck shut, like dried blood on a scab. Sparrow worked the tether free and he sat with the pup. He ran his hand over the creature checking for wounds, found a few cuts but nothing in the way of real hurt.
His guts began to churn. This was not just any pup, this one belonged to the wolfhound bitch that in turn belonged to Henry Kettle, the sole brindle in the litter, pretty as a picture save for the caked mud and the weary mien. ‘You must be starved,’ he said.
The pup was whimpering and squirming about, trying to nuzzle its way between Sparrow’s knees and, failing that, it was flailing a paw at the muddied eye. Sparrow took a hold of the paw. ‘I’ll fix that,’ he said, but he knew he couldn’t because what he needed was a wet rag. Soak the eyelid and wipe off the slurry.
Sparrow looked around. Not a soul. He shaded his eyes, squinting into the sun, saw a hawk circling most languidly.
At the water’s edge he squatted down and dunked his sweat rag and squeezed it out and held it, poultice like, to the muddied eye. The pup struggled to be free and then fell still.
The mud was coming away and the pup began to work the eyelid, blinking, and licking Sparrow’s fingers at the same time. That felt nice and it made Sparrow smile. ‘Stop that,’ he said, but he didn’t really mean it.
His legs were tiring, squatting in the mud in that fashion, but he did not mind. He felt a contentment that was most unfamiliar. ‘We’ll scuttle on home, you and me,’ he said. He wondered if, perchance, it was providence wrought this miracle, for surely this was a miracle and surely this was a sign. He held the dog tight and he whispered: ‘You and me we’re gone, gone, bound for the other side.’
24
The long shadows of evening in ascendance marked the ground as four men came off a twin-masted lugger, a forty-footer with a lateen mizzen sheeted to an outrigger. Folk on the terrace did not fail to notice their arrival, for one of these men led a willowy girl on a tether decorated with coloured ribbons.
The newcomers made enquiries as to the location of Alister Mackie’s tavern. They took themselves up the switchback path and crossed the square to the Hive.
They gathered within, the girl pulled forward as they made a line at the counter.
Sprodd came in from the kitchen, licking his fingers. He sat himself in the barber’s chair. Fish took to his chair under the stairs, rocked back against the wall, his shaded eyes locked on the girl. Sam straightened himself, stood tall as he could behind the counter.
The girl was tethered to a freckly, bull shouldered man with a head of sparse and bristly hair. The tether was a heavy, laid thing, the end of it wrapped around his fist. ‘You must be the queen bee,’ he said in an accent that Sam associated with flaxen plaits and the pillage of monasteries.
‘That’s me,’ said Sam.
The patrons chuckled and turned away, intent upon their dice and their grog, occasionally scratching at their ankles or whacking the back of their necks, pipe smoke and slush-lamp fumes like tendrils curling into the air.
Two of the newcomers were twins, weedy creatures with pale skin and frizzy brown hair and immature, wispy beards that did not belong on a grown man’s face in Sam’s opinion. He could tell they had no education for they had mean little eyes that never rested. One of them said, ‘If you want her you can have her, she’s for sale.’
The girl looked up and Sam saw she had the palest green eyes, with faint bruising around one of them, and a ripe scar on her forehead. She was olive skinned and she had a put-upon look about her that Sam picked in a trice. Her dark hair was wispy to the fore and otherwise fashioned in a knot at the nape of her neck, the bob skewered with a long wooden pin, the head of the pin carved in the form of a feather.
She was uncommonly tall and Sam reckoned she would be quick, like a fawn; quick and ready to flee at the drop of a hat.
‘Yes sir, have a good look.’
‘Who are you then?’ Sam set four small tumblers on the counter.
‘I’m Nimrod Parsonage, I’m the twin with the good hands.’
His brother held up his left hand, a bulbous stump with just one stubby finger and a nub for a thumb.
‘Who did that?’
‘God in his wisdom,’ said Crispin Parsonage.
Sam did his best to look unimpressed. He was about to fill the final tumbler when the fourth man, a wall-eyed character, declined, covering the rim with his hand. In his other hand was a pelt, rolled up and tied with twine. ‘My innards are cankered,’ he said. ‘I need a lining for the stomach.’
‘Get him some milk,’ said Sam. Fish scuttled off down the corridor.
‘I am looking for Alister Mackie,’ said the abstainer. He was staring at the picture of Yetholm on the Bowmont river. ‘I am Jonas Wick,’ he said, as if Sam should know the name.
‘Never heard of you.’ The pain in Sam’s groin was ruining his day. He pressed his fingers hard into the bulge beside his privates. He leant on the counter to take the weight off.
‘I hear he makes salt wholesale, for the government. I hope that’s true,’ said Wick.
‘That’s true, he’s got boilers downriver.’
Fish was back with a pickling jar half full of warm milk.
‘Exactly where?’
‘Near the mouth, you sailed right past,’ said Sam.
Mackie surveyed the new arrivals from the corridor by the stairs. He saw the girl and the tether and he picked out Jonas Wick in an instant. The others were foreign to him.
‘You look hale,’ he said to Wick as he came forward.
‘And you look thin and gaunt as ever I’ve seen,’ said Wick.
The girl had taken hold of one of the ribbons and she was chafing the cloth between her fingers. Fish was poised on a stool, lighting a swing lamp as evening came on.
Mackie pointed to the landing. ‘Follow me.’
As Wick followed Mackie up the stairs he was reminded of the girl. ‘You take that halter off her now, Gudgeon, and you sit her down nice and quiet.’
Gudgeon worked the knot loose and took the rope from the girl’s waist. Sprodd vacated the barber’s chair and the girl was seated there in the pale grey light of the mullioned window.
From the stairs, Mackie saw her face when she looked up at him. His hand closed on the bannister so he might steady himself.
Later Fish would say
he thought the chief constable had turned to stone and Sam would say Alister had briefly lost all colour in his cheeks and Cuff, too, would proffer an opinion only to be reminded that he was, at the time, asleep by the cookfire in the kitchen.
Jonas Wick felt obliged to assist. ‘You know her,’ he whispered.
‘No,’ said Mackie.
‘Look again.’
A mosquito was supping on the back of Mackie’s hand. He swatted it. He pointed in the direction of the barber’s chair and spoke with an authority familiar to the trade. ‘See no disrespect comes to this girl under my roof,’ he said.
His words were sharp and hard whenever he gave orders, but what the girl heard was the borderland burr.
‘Small world, Alister!’ said Jonas Wick, his hands in the air like a Methodist in rapture. He turned his head close to Mackie’s ear. ‘That’s Beatrice Faa,’ he whispered.
She was taller than her mother and not so dark but she had her mother’s slender frame and something in that singular face issued forth the likeness of Jeannie Faa such that when Mackie looked at this girl he saw the mother as if it was yesterday, then the daughter, and then the two somehow merged, the one dissolving into the other.
Fish hurried to the girl in the most unhurried fashion he could conjure as the two men took themselves upstairs. He wiped the back of his neck with his bench cloth. He stood close so he could smell her. ‘If he’s selling you, then he must’ve bought you?’
The girl did not answer.
‘You want a tot I’ll get you a tot.’
The girl nodded.
Fish brought her a tot and she sipped at it, closed her eyes.
‘It ain’t rubbish, we do not sell rubbish at the Hive, we don’t water down nothin’ neither.’
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘What’s your name?’
‘I am Bea.’
‘Like a bee, bzzzzzz.’
‘Just Bea.’
‘I should not make jokes,’ he said. ‘I do not have the facility to deliver them with any conviction . . . I’m told moreover that I lack the timing.’
She smiled.
Fish found it hard not to stare at her. He found her willowy beauty quite disturbing. His eyes roamed across the folds of her garb, the loose-laced bustier over worn-out linen and the raggedy skirt of faded blue. ‘I like blue,’ he said.
The Making of Martin Sparrow Page 13
