Mersey Dark

by Michael Whitehead

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Tanner paced the small cell like a tiger, anger coursing through him. Evans death played over and over in his mind, the way he had crumpled to the dirt, neck twisted at such an unnatural angle. His wife and children would be waiting for him to come home and he never would, not now nor ever.

  How many of his fellow police officers had already given their lives in this fight? How many more would have to suffer before this all ended?

  He looked over at Templeton, the man had not moved since they were thrown in the cage. He had not uttered a word, nor moved a muscle. His calm in the face of such a sorry state of affairs both amazed and infuriated Tanner. He sat on the ground, eyes closed with his hands resting palms up in his lap.

  How could he be so placid? Why was he not raging, like Tanner himself. With all of his powers, all of his potential, why was he not helping them escape? Tanner pulled at the thick wooden bars just as he had done uncountable times since they had been locked up. From somewhere in the dark a man laughed.

  “Keep trying, copper. You’ll just be more knackered when he sends for you.”

  Tanner couldn’t see who spoke, or even where the voice had come from. The sounds echoed off the walls of the natural cave that housed the cage. He kicked at the bars as he turned and began to pace once more.

  “He has a point, Nelson. You should save our strength,” Templeton said, stirring from his meditation.

  “Oh finally, he awakes!” Tanner said sardonically.

  “I like to rest before I go into a fight,” the older man said, from his place on the ground.

  “What fight? We’ve lost, you saw how many men there were out there!”

  “There are many less out there now. I fear that while we have been down here, our friend Davidson has begun his assault on the people above. I believe we have been out manoeuvred, detective. He is a formidable opponent, that is unquestionable. We step into his trap, only to find the place we have just left is the place we are required the most.”

  Anger raged in Tanner at the thought of being outwitted, impotence ground at him heating his fury. “So we die in front of a few men instead of a few hundred, it makes no difference in the end, does it? We are still dead the moment that cell door opens,” he said through gritted teeth.

  As if his words had summoned them, two of Davidson’s men appeared carrying a lamp. They opened the door and stepped back, allowing the prisoners to move past them. It crossed Tanner’s mind to make them come to him, to make them drag him from the cell. He would fight them, make them pay for every step. But his body was a mass of bruises and he felt like one of his ribs might be broken. Even his breath caused him pain. He walked from the cage, just as they had known he would.

  The chamber was much the same as it had been. The fire still stood in the centre, unlit but promising heat and pain to come. The bodies had been removed, including Evans, which was a small mercy.

  Templeton had been right, there were less men, many less than there had been. They stood around the top level of the chamber, looking down at the two prisoners, who waited alone.

  “Show yourself, Davidson,” Templeton said. It was not a challenge, rather a request for the theatre to be over.

  “I take orders from no man, Templeton. I do things in my own time,” the voice said, echoing off the walls of the chamber and coming back to them from the crosscuts and crawlspaces of the sewer system.

  “If you have any idea, anything up your sleeve, I suggest you use it now,” Tanner whispered to his friend out of the corner of his mouth. Templeton remained still and silent, neither looking at Tanner or any of the men who surrounded them.

  As before Davidson appeared on the top level, his men parting to give him the room he needed. Now he wore what Tanner guessed was ceremonial dress, the adornments he had worn in his hair were now part of the clothes he wore. In one hand Davidson carried a short stick that was decorated with bright feathers, as was his braided hair.

  “Welcome, gentlemen,” he said in the same deep voice they had heard before. “Welcome to my home, I hope you like it.” The words reeked of sarcasm. He spoke as if he had just invited the two men in and they were his most treasured guests. Some of the gathered men began to laugh.

  Tanner said nothing, Templeton however looked up and smiled at the big man above them.

  “Really? Do we need all of the theatrics, Davidson?” He gestured to himself and Tanner. “We are fully aware of who you are and of what you are capable, and we intend to bring you to justice.”

  It should have been laughable, and one or two of the men who surrounded them did let out short but unconvincing barks of humour. Most however, stood there and looked in wonder at the man who had walked into their midst and stood up to the man they worshipped as a god.

  “You know who I am?” Davidson did laugh, his was a convincing, rolling chuckle that echoed off the walls of the chamber. “You have no idea who I am.”

  “You are a murderer, shall we start there?” Templeton said.

  “I have killed people, no doubt. I have taken lives and I will take many more. Compared to your precious British Empire? I could kill a thousand times as many people as I already have and do it every day for the rest of my life, I would still not come close to the lives you and your kind have destroyed.”

  “This is your justification to go on a personal crusade?” Templeton asked. “How many people are in the grave in the name of your revolution? How many have been killed to achieve a measure of restitution for the wrongs my people did to yours?” He paused and Tanner knew he was waiting for Davidson to begin answering so that he could interrupt him. He was surrounded by enemies, facing their leader, and still he had the upper hand, for now. Davidson did begin to speak, to answer the questions and as Tanner knew he would. Templeton spoke over his words.

  “Let me ask another question – how many of the people you killed are dead because of a personal vendetta?”

  “Every man who has been a slave, every person who has felt the heel of the British Empire on their back has a personal vendetta. What shame is there, that my vengeance stand for all? I fight for everyman here, as I fight for myself.”

  Tanner watched as Templeton turned, amazed at the poise and fearlessness the man was showing. He pointed up toward a man in the crowd, a young man with red hair and freckles that were just visible in the light of the lamps.

  “What of this man, or this one?” He asked as he walked along beneath the line of men. “Will you ever get to their personal vengeance or will you ask them to die for you first? Will you put aside your own fight in favour of theirs, or have you just sold them into another form of slavery?”

  Tanner was sure Templeton had gone too far this time, that the man above them would order his men to fall on them, or bring in one of his creatures to tear them apart. Davidson did not move for a moment, he simply stood, looking down on them, showing his teeth through a tight grin.

  “These men fight for me because they know I lead them to freedom. They know they are not slaves, they are soldiers. They fight for me because I offer freedom, true freedom. They know that simply being able to walk the streets is not the same as being free. They know that the innocent people, as you call them, are no better than cattle on a farm.”

  “Cattle? For a someone who confines his men to this dark, dank pen, you speak of freedom so easily.” Templeton waved his arms about him, indicating the tunnels.

  “What of you, policeman? You are quiet, do you have nothing to say?” Davidson asked.

  Tanner looked up at the man who had wrought chaos on the city and asked the first question that came to his mind.

  “Why did you kill Victoria Whitchurch?”

  “She was just one in a long line. Her father was one of the men who kept me in captivity, he killed my father, so I killed his daughter. It is to be the way of things in my new world, a man will pay for his actions. The rich will no longer hide behind the rule of laws that they have created, they will pay to the han
d of natural law.”

  “But you got the wrong person, Davidson, did you know? The woman you killed had nothing to do with the man who killed your father. She was innocent,” Tanner said.

  Tanner could see that the man was taken aback by the news, but he recovered quickly.

  “There is no such thing as innocence. She was part of the system that holds people like us to the ground.”

  “How easily you throw away your principles,” Templeton interjected. “You justify your killing so easily. How long before you decide that no life is worthy of saving, that everyone who does not join your cause the enemy? How long before you let your creatures free to kill as they please?” There was a silence between the two men. It held for a long time, each staring at the other, a battle of wills that Tanner knew he would be powerless to win, if it were him.

  It was Templeton who moved first, not because his will was weakest, but because he had something to say, “You already have reached that point, haven’t you? That’s your next step, to let your army free, to kill at will, to rip the heart out of this town. Then what? The country? The Empire? How long before you are satisfied?”

  “I will not stop until this brand I wear means nothing!” Davidson shouted. It was the first time that he sounded like he had lost control of himself. He tore the fur from his shoulders and showed the men below him the livid white burn that Sir Thomas Richmond had given him so many years ago. “I will not stop until every vestige of your corruption and perversity has been driven from the earth. When I can look on this scar and find nobody to blame for its being, then I will rest.”

  “You’re not a leader, you’re not a revolutionary, you are a maniac!” Templeton shouted, finally showing his own temper. “You will murder thousands of people whose only crime is that they live in a country where the rich and powerful have made laws that have hurt you and your kind.”

  “They have a choice, they can side with me, they can denounce your government, they can turn their backs on your Victoria as she sits on her bloody throne.” Davidson began to pace back and forth, causing his men to step back and give him room, Templeton did not turn to follow him.

  “I grow tired of your self-indulgence. Have done with it all and do what you will. I understand that you suffered, I understand that you have lost. Which of us haven’t felt some loss in our lives. People die every day, what makes your suffering so much worse than any other? What justifies you to do what you are doing?” Templeton asked.

  Davidson dropped to the ground in front of Templeton, the fall was more than twice the height of a man but Tanner saw no discomfort on his face as he landed. He moved toward Templeton, so that their faces were inches apart. He held his gaze for the longest time, then stepped toward Tanner.

  “You know of suffering? You know of loss? They slaughtered my people, they burned their bodies. You know nothing of suffering.”

  He turned toward the fire and raised his hands. Flames rose from the stacked wood, roaring into life. Heat blazed into Tanner’s face, forcing him to step back, Davidson stood before the flames, showing no sign of discomfort.

  Tanner waited for the moment when he would be dragged to the flames and thrown to his death. Instead he began to see images, pictures in the flames. He saw a gathering of men, and between them a man who looked so much like Davidson that he could only be his father.

  The picture grew, Tanner began to feel himself enveloped by the scene before him. Sounds followed the pictures, people speaking, even the chirruping of night insects and the birds that fed off them.

  He watched as the dark-skinned man was thrown to the ground, the moon high in the sky above them, blotted out by a passing cloud. The man, so surely Davidson’s father, was thrown to the stony ground, causing a trickle of blood to run into his eye. The whole scene was lit by a fire, so similar to the one that burned but a few feet away.

  A younger, fatter version of Sir Thomas Richmond appeared among the men, demanding to know what had happened. He spoke to a man, naming him Whitchurch, then learned that the slave on the floor was called David, at least that was the name his masters had given him.

  They questioned David, beat him when he didn’t show reverence and even threatened to throw him into the flames of the fire. Finally he admitted why he had tried to run away. His son was sick and he wanted the local doctor to tend him.

  Why, Sir Thomas demanded had he not wanted the plantation doctor? David answered that the village doctor knew how to speak to the family spirits. He spoke of his beliefs - angering Sir Thomas’ Christian sensibilities.

  Finally, they fetched the boy. David’s son was no more than twelve years old and in the midst of a raging fever. Tanner watched as David was given a devil’s choice. Let the plantation doctor tend his son and be punished for running away, or have him sent to the doctor in the village and be put to death.

  It was no choice, Sir Thomas knew it, and so did the men who stood above the slave. They laughed at him, knowing their master had won this battle of wills. They did not understand the love of a father for his son, and the hatred of a slave for his master. David made his choice, shocking the men around him. He would give his life to save his son.

  He saw Sir Thomas order the boy branded, the red hot crest of his family burned into his skin. David was forced to his knees, forced to watch as his son was disfigured, marked with his owner’s brand forever, like cattle.

  The boy screamed, waking from his fevered dreams to a world of agony. He screamed again as he was carried into the darkness of the night, leaving his father behind. As he was carried away, a rope was slung over the branch of a tree and his father’s hands were tied.

  The noose pulled tight as four men took up the slack, and the last thing David saw before his breath was torn from him was his son disappearing into the darkness.

  Tanner saw the scene and horror overtook him. He felt the pain and suffering of father and son, he understood the injustice of it all.

  “You see nothing,” Davidson said from behind him. In the flames the story continued.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Saint Helena 1826

  The boy struggles in the arms of the man who carries him away from his father. Fever makes his head swim, he is barely able to keep away from the sweet seduction of darkness. Overhead, the moon comes from behind her cloud, and he is sure there is shame on her face for what has happened here. The pain of the burn that has marked his flesh forever is immediate and raw. It is the only thing that keeps him from the lure of his fevered dreams.

  Over the shoulder of the man who now carries him, he sees a rope thrown over the branch of a tree, then the men are lost from sight. He cries out for his father, for loss, for pain, then his body is wracked with shivers and his head swims toward darkness. He is lost to the world for a time.

  He blinks back the pain, awakes for the briefest moment and sees a rocky path, above him the stars look down in ambivalent splendour. The arms that carry him are not careful, they might be carrying a sack of grain and not a child. It is the briefest glimpse before darkness claims him once more.

  When he awakes he is aware of the sea. The low shuffling noise of the waves as they pull shale and shells back into the water’s embrace. He is still being carried but now the arms are tender and caring.

  “Lie back, boy. I have you now, I will take care of you. What is your name?” The woman asks. He knows but can’t tell her, his voice is lost in the swirling void that appears when he opens his eyes. The pain of his chest fights with the fever for control of his senses. The pain wants him to punish him, to scold him, but the fever wants to envelope him in bitter-sweet oblivion and for now the fever triumphs.

  Blackness brings dreams. His father hangs from a tree, swinging in the evening breeze. The boy steps toward the body, sharp blades of stunted grass cutting at his feet. He is scared of his father for the first time in his life.

  Step by step he gets closer, feeling the fear building in him like the fever that is trying to kill him. His father’s
eyes are closed, which is a relief. His skin looks blue in the moon light and it moves as if vermin are eating the flesh beneath. It boils and rolls as if rats are burrowing into his father’s body. He wants to scream but his voice is lost.

  The eyes open, but they don’t look at the boy, they stare off into the distance. As he looks blood spots appear in his father’s eyes. First they are just speckles then the whole of his eyes are bleeding.

  He is speaking but the boy can’t hear what he is attempting to say. He is trying, trying to hear what his father’s words. maggots began to fall from his lips, spilling on to the floor. They crawl toward his bare feet, writhing at his exposed flesh. If they touch him, he will die.

  “Son.” It comes to him out of the blackness, his father’s words, “Son...son...son.”

  He drifts up from his dream and into the light of morning. The smell of the sea is fresh in the hut where his bed lies. Above him a large, friendly woman with gentle hands and bright eyes is looking down on him. She is not really old, but is older than any of the slaves on the plantation. He will not realise it for a long time, that this is because the slaves never live long enough to become old.

  “Welcome back to us, son. I thought we might have lost you last night.”

  The boy says nothing, his head still swims with images of his dead father. He doesn’t know it now, but he will see those dreams for the rest of his life. His dead father will haunt him, trying to tell him something that he will never hear.

  “You are David’s son, aren’t you?” the woman asks. He thinks for a moment and knows that what she is saying is true, so very true. In fact, this is all he will ever be. His name until now is meaningless to him, he is Davidson.

  “That is what I want to be called,” he says to her through cracked lips. “My name is Davidson.”

  She smiles and raises a cup to his lips, the water inside is cool and clean, “It is a good name, you should wear it with pride. My name is Isabella.” He smiles at her as she lifts his hand from the bed and kisses the back. Sadness still holds him firmly in its grip, but for now Isabella has gladdened his heart.