Ill Will

by Michael Stewart

  ‘Fred, get that rope.’

  There was another man now and another gun.

  We were grabbed, jostled, tied to the cart and gagged. I tried to free myself, but it was no use. They put sack hoods over our heads. I could hear the men get onto the cart and gee on the horses. I could feel the cart move underneath us. Slow at first, then quickening.

  ‘He’ll fetch a shilling but she’ll fetch more,’ the bulbous man said. ‘I know a bloke who’ll pay a pound for a young’un like that.’

  ‘I know a fella who’ll pay two pound,’ another said.

  There was laughing and more talking. I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I tried to shift in my bindings but they were too tight. I tried to nudge closer to Emily but there was no give in the rope. The road was bumpy but as we travelled it got smoother. We journeyed on the smooth road for a long time, maybe half an hour, before the road got bumpier again. I had no idea where they were taking us or what they planned to do when they got to where they were going. I tried to halt my imagination from running wild.

  Eventually the cart came to a stop and we were taken off the cart and bungled into a room. I sniffed the air. It was musty. I could feel the hard ground beneath my feet and the hands of the men, grabbing me and pulling me across. I could hear objects being moved. The sound of wood against stone. We were jostled about again. Put them there. Grab this. Hold that. Here, give me that. Pushed down. Held down. Our hoods were removed.

  We were inside a shed of some sort. The room was lit by shafts of grey light that poured through gaps in the wooden slats. There were boxes and bags and some tools stacked against the wall. I looked over to Emily. Her eyes were wide with fright. Both our arms and legs were firmly bound with rope. Another length of rope tied each of us to the chairs we were sitting on.

  ‘Wait here,’ the bulbous man said, and he and the pointy man disappeared out the back way. The other two sat opposite us, pointing their guns at our heads. One wore a flat cap and the other had a red shirt with a rip in the sleeve. They each sat like that for some time without uttering a word. I could see Emily twist and turn her wrists every time the men looked away, trying to loosen the rope without success. I did the same.

  After a while, the man in the flat cap said, ‘How long are they going to be?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ said the other one.

  ‘I’m thirsty.’

  ‘There’s some ale in the kitchen.’

  The man in the cap got up.

  ‘You all right while I fetch it?’

  The man in the red shirt nodded.

  The man in the cap came back with a flagon of ale, took a sup, scrunched up his face, then passed it to his companion.

  ‘I think it’s on the turn.’

  The man in the red shirt took a slug. He sloshed it around his mouth, then swallowed.

  ‘It’s all right. Better than nothing.’

  ‘He’ll probably bring some more.’

  ‘Better had do.’

  I looked around the room. There was a rake, a spade, a scythe and a number of other implements, including a mattock. I thought about the mattock. It was a short-handled one, fixed to the wall with two nails. The blade looked sharp. But it was no use to us. There wasn’t much we could do tied up, and with guns in our faces. I glanced over to Emily and tried to give her a reassuring look.

  ‘I need a piss,’ said the man in the red shirt. He got up and wandered over to the corner of the room. He unfastened himself and pissed up the wall. I could smell the tang of his urine.

  ‘Do it outside, you dirty bastard,’ said the man in the cap.

  ‘It’s raining. Fuck that.’

  The two men laughed. The man in the red shirt shuck himself dry and buttoned up his breeches. He went back to his chair, picked up his gun and sat back down.

  An hour or two went by. The men finished off the flagon. They talked about inconsequential things. The man in the red shirt smoked a pipe. The other yawned and complained about having to wait so long. Eventually the bulbous man and the pointy man returned.

  ‘Well?’ said the man in the red shirt.

  ‘He won’t get here till tomorrow,’ the pointy man said.

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Fuck that.’

  ‘Let’s have some fun.’

  ‘No,’ said the bulbous man. ‘We’ll get more for a filly than a mare.’

  ‘Who’s to say she is or isn’t? He’ll believe what we tell him. As long as we’re careful not to mark her,’ the pointy man said.

  ‘I said no.’

  ‘Come on. It’s been a long day. We could all do with something to unwind.’

  The bulbous man shrugged. ‘Suppose it would be a shame to waste what we’ve got.’

  ‘I’m going first,’ said the pointy man.

  ‘Fuck off. Why should you go first?’

  ‘It was my idea.’

  ‘It’s my cart and my nags.’

  ‘We’ll toss for it.’

  ‘Did you fetch some ale?’

  ‘There’s some on the cart. I’ll get it later.’

  The pointy man walked over to where Emily was tied. He took out a knife and cut through the rope that was holding her to the chair. He hoisted her over his shoulder; she strained her neck around, looking at me with terror-filled eyes, but there was nothing I could do. I pulled with all my might. I was fixed firmly to the spot. I could see her wriggle in her bindings. Her body jerked as she fought impotently against the rope. The man disappeared with her into another room.

  ‘No marking. Do you hear me?’

  ‘Wait for me.’

  ‘And me.’

  All four men disappeared.

  I had to free myself somehow. I had to get to Emily. I studied every detail of the room. I looked at the mattock again. It was only a few feet away but that seemed like a long way from where I was sitting in my present state. But if I could shuffle across I might be able to rub the rope along the blade. I rocked quietly but the chair didn’t move. I stretched my legs so that the tips of my toes made contact with the floor of the shed. I managed to move the chair only a fraction of an inch, but it was something. The effort strained my muscles but I persisted, until I’d managed to drag the chair several inches. I was still a long way from my target but I needed to rest. There was no time to rest though. I fought fatigue and the stabbing pain in my calf and thighs. I could feel muscle rip.

  I could hear raised voices and laughter. I thought about Emily and the men.

  I tried again. I managed another three or four inches before I needed to rest once more. Again, I fought the urge. Faster, come on, move. I was in agony with the effort but I carried on. Eventually I made it across to the mattock. I managed to nudge the chair around so that I could reach it. I rubbed the rope frantically against the blade, praying I wasn’t too late. It was thick rope and it took a lot of effort but I got through the fibres enough and broke the chair free from the bindings. I turned around and, in a frenzied state, worked on the ropes around my wrists. It was slow going but eventually they came loose as well. I took the mattock to the ropes around my ankles. Eventually I was free. I picked up the mattock and stumbled over to the door where the men had disappeared.

  It was a darkened corridor, with a dim grey light at the end. In the distance I could hear muffled voices. I hurried along the corridor as quietly as I could, until I came to an open door. I peered in. It was a kitchen, with a cooking range in one corner and pans hanging from the ceiling. There was a three-legged stool next to the range with a flintlock on top. In the middle of the room was a wooden table. The chairs had been pushed to the sides of the room, and one of them was knocked over, lying on its side. Emily was spread across the table, jerking and wriggling. Three men held her down. The pointy man was standing behind her. His belt was by his feet, coiled like an asp, and next to this a flagon. The man had his back to me, but I could tell that he was fumbling with the buttons on his breeches. The other three men were looking away from where I was standing.r />
  ‘Thirsty work, this,’ he said, and reached for the flagon.

  I ran at the man as he raised the flagon to his lips and launched the narrow end of the mattock into the back of his skull. I heard bone crunch. The man dropped the flagon and it shattered on the stone-flagged floor. He collapsed on his front, his arms splayed. The three others turned to look at me. Their expressions shifted from shock to anger. The bulbous man let go of Emily and looked over to the stool where the flintlock lay. He made a run for it. I intercepted his path, swinging the mattock around so that the sharp end embedded itself into the man’s forehead. It stopped him in his tracks. He fell to his knees, a wedge-shaped gash bleeding where the mattock had chipped out a chunk of his skull.

  The other two men were running at me. I lifted the mattock again, but as I swung it around, the one in the red shirt caught hold of my arm. As he did the capped man kicked me hard in my chest. I was thrown against the wall. The red shirt swung his fist and it connected with the side of my head. I dropped the mattock and fell to the floor. The man grabbed hold of the mattock and lifted it high, about to drop it down into my cranium. As he did, I heard a bang. The back of his head exploded. Blood and brain spattered the wall. The man dropped the mattock and crumpled onto the flags.

  There was another bang. I looked and saw the capped man hold his chest. His hands were red. Emily was standing five or six feet away from him, clutching the flintlock, which was smoking. The man staggered towards her, muttering something. I picked up the mattock and finished him off.

  The room was swaying. I looked about me. The flags and walls were decorated with spats of blood, brain and bone fragments. And acrid smoke hung in the air. I could smell blood and gunpowder. I dropped the tool and went over to where Emily was standing. I reached out for her, but she balled her fist and punched me in the gut. I let her go at me, punch after punch. In my gut. In my chest. I didn’t fight back. I let her punch me until she had no energy to punch me any more.

  I grabbed hold of her and held her tight. I could feel the strong rhythmic pulse of her heart beating beneath my own. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’ I stroked her hair.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ she said, as I let go of her.

  I nodded. The shots had been loud. There could be other men nearby. We had no time to waste. I went over to the sink and took a cloth. I hurriedly rubbed the gouts of blood from my face and surtout. I threw the cloth down and made my way to the doorway.

  ‘Wait,’ she said.

  She went over to the corpse of the bulbous man and retrieved my purse from his pocket. She handed it to me. She spat on the man and kicked him in the face.

  ‘Cunt.’

  We ran out of the room, along the corridor and into the shed. We opened the shed door. The nags and the cart were outside.

  ‘Let’s take these,’ Emily said.

  ‘We can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’ve told you, we get caught for stealing a horse, it’s a hanging offence.’

  ‘And killing four men isn’t?’

  ‘A squire thinks more about his horse than he does a farm labourer.’

  ‘We don’t even know where we are.’

  I looked around. We were on the grounds of a small farm. Stone walls marked out two fields. One with horses, the other barley. I looked to where the sun was whitening the clouds.

  ‘This way.’

  I led the way along a path that trailed to a gate, then along a cart road. We walked for miles along that road, then miles across country before we came to the Irwell once more. We were back near Barton Bridge and had to re-walk the last six or seven miles we’d gone before we were grabbed by the men. My feet were rubbing raw in my boots. We walked slowly, side by side. I wanted to say something to Emily to comfort her, but I didn’t know what. Instead we walked on in silence. I knew what it was like to fear for your life. To have no one in the world. I knew what it was like to feel shame. To feel like dirt.

  I’d had it bad. She’d had it worse. And I’d let her down. There was no conceivable way I could ditch her. No, I couldn’t leave Emily now. I was sure of that.

  Eventually the built-up walls by the side of the river started to fall away, and the locks that had been constructed along its length to stem the tide were running out. The banks giving way to salt marshes. We were in the mouth of an estuary. There were strange birds wading in the sand. Lanky-legged like heron and whaap, with long thin beaks, like woodcock and jack snipe. They prodded the sand, and turned stones with the ends of their bills. I could smell the salt in the air and knew that we couldn’t be that far now from the coast. I had another blister forming behind the ball of my left foot. Emily was limping along behind me. I waited again for her to catch me up.

  ‘We’ve not got long to go now,’ I said.

  I got no response. I carried on walking. My feet felt like they were on fire. Burning and throbbing. On and on we walked. The path beneath seemed to get harder with each step. The water to our right mocked us with its coolness. I looked back. No Emily. I stopped. About twenty yards down the path, Emily had collapsed by the side of the path. I tried to stand up straight. I traipsed back across to where she lay.

  ‘Come on. It can’t be far.’

  Nothing.

  I bent down and shook her gently.

  ‘Come on, Emily. You’ve got this far. You can do it.’

  ‘Can’t.’

  ‘Yes, you can.’

  ‘Can’t.’

  I took her in my arms and carried her. The extra weight made my feet burn up even more. Each step was like being branded with a red-hot poker. I took one at a time. Each step another victory. The road seemed endless for the last hour of that journey. I was walking so slowly that a snail could have overtaken me should he have had the inclination. My thoughts were single words. Sand, stone, dirt, road. One foot. Then another. Keep going. Left. Right. Left. Right. I kept my eyes to the ground. Willing my feet to move. First one, then the next. Keep doing that. Till you get there. Every now and then I would look up. But mostly I looked down at the dirt road. The dust and the stones. My boots. Somehow, I became vaguely aware that we had reached a town by the coast.

  The dockside was bustling but I was too tired and worn to take any notice of the bustle. I laid Emily on the grass, then rested a while. I bought us both a bowl of broth from a street vendor and collapsed by the stall near to Emily. There were merchants and dockers, sailors and pedlars. Kittiwakes careened in the breeze. Gulls gyred above luggers. I let the broth revive me, dispensing with the thible and supping straight from the lip of the bowl.

  I walked over to the dockside, leaving Emily to rest. I saw an old man mending a fishing net.

  ‘This is Liverpool, right?’

  The man laughed. He attached more twine to the shuttle.

  ‘Close.’

  ‘This isn’t Liverpool?’

  ‘You’re in Runcorn, mate. Liverpool is over yonder.’

  He pointed east over the estuary with the shuttle.

  ‘How do we get there?’

  ‘Swim.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘Course I am.’

  ‘Then how?’

  ‘You can catch a ferry.’

  I noticed that the accent of the people around me had changed. They had the same harsh nasal tones as Sticks. I made further enquiries. There was a ferry departing in ten minutes. A penny each. I went back to where Emily was slumped on the grass, too tired to spoon the broth into her mouth. It lay by her side untouched. I explained our error.

  ‘We’ve got to catch a ferry.’

  ‘I can’t move another inch.’

  I could see she was in no fit state. Instead, I took some broth on her spoon and held it to her lips.

  ‘When I was young, younger than you are now, I caught a fever. Mrs Earnshaw had just died of a fever and there was talk that I’d go the same way. Mr Earnshaw was still deep in grief, so Nelly nursed me. Every day she would sit by my sleeping pl
ace and feed me broth. She’d tell me stories of when she was a girl and Mr Earnshaw was a young man. He was a bit of a one, according to Nelly. She called him a “rum’un”, whatever that meant. She told me that Mrs Earnshaw didn’t know the half of it. Said it was just as well she had died without knowing. Day after day she’d bring me broth, until I gained my strength. Cathy would come to see me too. She’d sit by my sleeping place and tell me stories. After a few weeks the fever broke and my brow began to cool. I was back on my feet shortly after that, but I don’t think I’d be here today if Nelly hadn’t taken pity on me.’

  Emily nodded. I fed her all the broth, then left her once more while I found us digs for the night. I didn’t stray far, while I made enquiries, making sure I had her in my sight all the time. When I returned for her shortly after, she’d already ligged. She was curled up on the grass, sucking the broth thible like a dummy.

  I let Emily have a lie-in the next morning. I couldn’t have shifted her if I’d wanted to. Eventually, after breakfasting on porridge and kippers, we set off for the dock. Emily came around as she scoffed her grub.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I said.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  She shrugged.

  All that way. Afterwards. She hadn’t said a word. I wondered if she blamed me. Perhaps we could have cadged a lift earlier. We could have paid a boatman. We had enough money. There had been plenty of opportunities. I should have known there was something suspect about the men. There was something conspiratorial from the outset. All that whispering. I should have trusted my instincts. I shouldn’t have shown my hand. It was foolish getting my purse out like that. Letting them see the size and weight of it. I couldn’t allow anything like that to happen again. I would have to be much wiser from now on. I looked over to Emily again. I had failed her. I wanted to say something else, something that would make it better. But what can you say, Cathy?

  Eventually I took hold of her hand and said, ‘I’m sorry.’

  She just shrugged.

  ‘Look, Emily, I promise you from now on, no matter what happens, I’ll keep you safe from harm. I promise you that nothing bad will happen to you again.’