The Dolocher

by European P. Douglas

  Chapter 25

  The fire crackled and filled the room with brownish peat smoke and the smell of the country. Small bits of wood that had dried in the fireplace were added to the bundle and caused the bright flames that flickered pleasantly. Mullins looked at it and was lost in the dance. It had been a hard day’s work, and he was exhausted, too tired even to think about washing. All he wanted to do was sit and be warm and look at the fire until he felt the pull of sleep. This came quicker than expected, and he only noticed that he was about to nod off when he heard screaming.

  At first, he wasn’t sure if he was imagining it, and then he wondered for another second where it was coming from—was it in the row of buildings or outside in the street? He went to the door and opened it and found he wasn’t the only one who had done this. Most of the doors held a curious, frightened face, and they looked to him when he came out.

  “Someone’s being killed!” one of the women across from Mullins shouted at him. “Do something!”

  Mullins ran in the direction of the screaming, but it stopped before he got to the laneway it was coming from. As he rounded the corner, he saw someone was lying on the ground, and as he got closer he saw the blood and the torn clothes that had become so common in this city at night. He leaned down over her, and he saw that it was a girl he knew by sight, who lived on his street; she worked in the tavern on Francis Street. It was a horrible thing to see and like nothing he had ever even imagined before. He had to look away as he took her small, soft hand and began to say a prayer for her.

  “Get away from her!” a voice snapped at him. Mullins looked up to see three soldiers at the end of the alley. He stood up, blessing himself.

  “She’s dead,” was all he could think of to say.

  “Get back away from her, killer!” the same soldier answered.

  “Killer?” Mullins said. “I didn’t do this!”

  “Save it for the magistrate!” the lead soldier said, and they approached him with their weapons drawn. Mullins could see that they were careful in approaching him; he assumed it was because of his size and that they were afraid he would do to them what they thought he had done to this girl.

  “Show your weapon and throw it on the ground!” the soldier barked.

  “I don’t have a weapon. I didn’t do this!”

  More soldiers arrived at the other end of the laneway, and they too approached with caution. Mullins saw fear too in these men; he looked at his own hands and saw he had his fists clenched, as though waiting for a fight. He let them fall open by his sides, and he leaned back against the wall to soften his stance altogether. They surged forward, as though seeing an opportunity, and they wrestled him to the ground and shackled him. He didn’t fight them; he knew that would make things worse. It was hard though, as he felt their rough hands on him, and they spared no concern for him as they kicked and beat him as though he were, in fact, resisting them.

  As he was led away, he could see the eyes of his neighbours watching him from their doors and windows. The eyes were hostile in the dark, and he knew they all thought he had done this horrible deed. He wasn’t brought down his own street, where the people would have seen him leave after the screaming and could have told the soldiers that he was innocent, that he had been urged by them to try and save the woman.

  He wanted to say that the real killer was getting away, had slipped through their fingers while they were blaming him, but he knew there was no point. These soldiers didn’t care who was innocent or guilty; they brought you to the magistrate and let him decide.

  He looked up at the moon and he thought about how close he had come to seeing the Dolocher. He wondered what he might have been able to do if he had come across it in the action of killing that poor girl. Would he have been able to overpower it, or would he simply have been killed like everyone else who had ever seen it—everyone except Mary Sommers, anyway.

  A man he didn’t know caught his eye. He was a gentleman, and he nodded with an odd half smile on his face at Mullins as he was brought by. There was something off about him, something that made Mullins want to look at him some more, and when he turned, he could see that the man was still looking at him. The man met his gaze and didn’t let it drop until Mullins was bundled around a corner by the soldiers.

  He was halfway down Cook Street, passing his favourite cabin, when he realised that they were taking him to the Black Dog. At the gates, they knocked loudly, and a guard appeared at the hatch and asked what they wanted.

  “Open the fuckin’ door!” the lead soldier ordered.

  “Wait here,” the guard said, and he closed the hatch. For a minute there was nothing, and then they could hear the voice of a man, complaining about something. The hatch opened again, and another man peered out at the soldiers and then at Mullins.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Open the gate, Brick. This is a guest for you for tonight.”

  The gaoler looked at Mullins again. “You’re the blacksmith from just over there,” he said. “What did you do?”

  “Nothing,” Mullins said.

  “Shut up, prisoner!” the soldier said and slapped him across the face.

  “Why do you keep dumping people in here? Why don’t you bring him to the proper prison?” Brick whinged.

  “Just open the fuckin’ gate and stop moaning.”

  The hatch closed, and they could hear Brick muttering something about lazy soldiers. They heard the locks open, and the gate began to creak open to admit them. The soldiers pushed Mullins inside as soon as there was gap enough, and four of the six came in with him, the leader telling the other two to patrol the perimeter of the prison, and then the gate was shut.

  “Bring us up to the tower,” the soldier said, and Brick waved at the stairs and nodded for the guard to bring them up.

  His shackles made the steps difficult, but Mullins could feel how cool and smooth they were under his worn, soft-soled shoes. When they finally got to the top, he was pushed into the room, and the soldiers searched him.

  “No copycattin’ your hero,” the soldier said, but Mullins didn’t know what he was talking about, and he didn’t ask.

  The door clanked shut and was locked, but two of the soldiers stayed in the cell with him, and two more stood at the bars outside. He thought this was quite odd too, but he didn’t say anything, trying not to cause any problems for himself. He looked about the cell, and it was not as he had imagined at all. It was cleaner, for one thing. The floors were flat, worn stone, and no rats scuttled from corner to corner as damp patches gathered from unknown water sources. The hay on the bunk was not fresh but neither was it rancid and reeking of urine. He heard the soldier telling the guard to send for the alderman, and he went back down the stairs.

  Mullins had seen the alderman before, and he felt that he was an honourable man. Mullins would be able to tell his story and have this whole affair cleared up in no time. In the meantime, all he was able to do was rue how slow he had been and wonder if he could have saved that girl if he had not been so tired and sleepy when the first screams came to his ears. He remembered the scars of Mary Sommers and thought about how she had survived this beast.