The Last Watchman

by Kevin Partner

  I lay there for a few seconds as the wheels of my mind began to turn again.

  “Grimes!” I called as, in my half-awake panic, I wondered if he had been taken in the night. The likelihood that, in such circumstances, I would also have been kidnapped did not occur to my befuddled mind as I leapt out of bed, threw on a dressing gown and flung open my door.

  I almost cried out in despair when I saw that the door to his room was ajar. I ran inside but could see instantly that he wasn't there. I darted back to the landing and was just about to run down the stairs when I heard his voice behind me.

  “My dear John, why are you so agitated? Are you ill?”

  I swung round, almost losing my footing on the top step before steadying myself by gripping the door frame. “I couldn't find you,” I spluttered. “You said you'd wake me.”

  “I judged your need for sleep to be greater than mine and it seems I was correct. You have not only slept through the awakening of our fellow tenants, but you've also almost missed the call to church.”

  I shook my head. “Church? No, I do not think so. Not this morning.”

  “I know what you crave, John, but the company of your fellow humans in the house of God would be better for you, I think.”

  I swept past him without another word and slammed the door of my room. He was correct, of course. What I desired above all else now was a drink. I could picture it in my mind's eye—a pint of something rich and brown. Or a tot, just a tot, of whiskey. Just enough to numb my mind and excise the memories of last night.

  Sitting on my bed, I looked around my tiny room. Had it really come to this?

  I had repeatedly squandered the advantages of being born into privilege until I found myself in a rented room on a second hand bed with indelible images of horror imprinted upon my memory. I knew that drink would mask them. It would bring temporary peace at the price of guilt, shame and the knowledge that I had taken one further step towards utter ruin.

  I don't know how long I sat there, wallowing in self-pity until my eyes finally rested on my tiny wardrobe. The door had been left open to reveal a pile of rags at the bottom and a single shirt hanging from the rail. I got up and shut the door, then cried out in surprise. There, on the front of the wardrobe, hung a suit of clothes. A smart suit. A Sunday suit.

  I ran back to the landing and there stood Grimes in a smart ulster that was open at the waist. Within I could see an open breasted jacket and a ridiculous bow tie. His hair had been brushed and tied in a pony tail that rested on his nape. The overall effect was more circus gorilla than devoted worshipper.

  “Since you had shown no signs of spending the money I gave you for a new wardrobe, I took matters into my own hands or, more specifically, those of the Derricks girl.”

  He was referring to Emma Derricks, daughter of the lodging house manager. A small young woman of pleasing countenance who had the fortune to favour her parents in neither appearance nor character.

  “But how did she calculate my size?” I blustered.

  Grimes shrugged. “She guessed. Perhaps she has taken an interest in you, John.”

  I recoiled from the idea that the daughter of a boarding house manager should have the impertinence to even consider me. Long developed prejudices are hard to shake off.

  “Now come on,” he said. “Your God awaits and we would not want to be late.”

  Unlike Grimes, who was obviously uncomfortable in his suit of clothes, mine felt like an old pair of slippers. It was as if I had been in disguise for years and could only now return to my true identity.

  I enjoyed the reaction I received from the few tenants we passed on the stairs and in the hallway. Two touched their foreheads in respectful greeting before recognising me and, with wide eyes, shuffling by. The longer I spent in those clothes, the higher my spirits rose and the more I felt my old self. Not that this was entirely a good thing, since it had been my old self that had brought me so low in the first place.

  We followed the stragglers into the moist air, across the road from the lodging house and through the iron gate, passing the new statue of Gladstone with his outstretched hand and then on to the church itself.

  I'd been there many times since I came to Bow—though not as often as custom required—and had always been struck by how dilapidated the place was inside. The air was damp and, aside from the shuffling of many feet, the dominant sound was the echoing of drips from the leaking roof. The organ music had ceased as we'd entered and, as we took our places in the rearmost pew, the vicar emerged from behind the pulpit. This was the one new object in the church, but this only served to underline the general shabbiness of the place. God would not have been impressed, I thought, adding a quiet prayer that he would keep the roof in place at least until the service was finished.

  Bow was a poor area then and now, and the congregation was mainly of the labouring classes with a few degenerates lurking in the shadows.

  “Dearly beloved,” the vicar intoned. He had a reedy voice and a tendency to chant his sermons. I tended to the impression that he enjoyed giving them rather more than the congregation enjoyed receiving them. “Grace, mercy and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ be with you.”

  I mouthed the responses, acknowledging my sinfulness and hoping for salvation, but as I did so the image of Williams' body hanging in that basement leapt into my mind and I did not discover the peace I sought. Instead, I found myself asking why God allowed such monstrous acts in his creation. Why didn't he act? Had Williams been such a wicked man that he deserved to die in agony? Or was God truly that callous or weak?

  We stood; we sat; we sang; we knelt; we received communion and we left. And still peace eluded me. I was only brought out of my reverie by hearing my name called as we shuffled out of the church.

  “Mr Makepeace?”

  I turned, surprised to find Grimes behind me. He stepped out of the way and a well-dressed man wearing a top hat and pristine black coat ploughed through the crowd of penitents like Moses parting the Red Sea. He was tall, heavily built, with a full beard of wiry brown hair flecked with grey. His small eyes were magnified in a pair of round spectacles that danced on his nose as he talked. He had an air of restrained jocularity about him, though I also perceived that here was a man of inner strength.

  “You are John Makepeace, are you not?” he said, his hand enveloping mine as he shook it.

  I nodded. “I am. You are Mr Bryant, I believe.” I had seen him in church before, from time to time, though I knew him to be a Quaker by birth. He it was who had paid for the statue of Gladstone to be built.

  “I wondered if my eyes were deceiving me. It is good to meet thee, John. If I may be so informal as to use your prénom?”

  “Of course,” I responded, moving a little closer to him to allow the stragglers to pass.

  Soon enough, we were alone in the churchyard—Bryant, myself and Grimes—though I suspected the vicar was lurking somewhere nearby since it seemed unlikely that he would lose sight of his principle worshipper and chief benefactor.

  “In that case, you must call me Theodore.” I had a flash of white teeth as his beard parted in a smile. I suspected at least half of them were ivory.

  “This is my friend, Mr Grimes,” I said, gesturing to my companion. I realised as I did so that I didn't know his Christian name. His eyes creased in barely disguised mirth as he realised this.

  Bryant turned to him and held out his hand. “I'm pleased to meet you, Mr Grimes.”

  “I am called Ichabod,” Grimes said as he shook. The scene reminded me of a grizzly bear meeting one of his polar cousins in the wilderness.

  “Ichabod? The inglorious one? Unfortunate.”

  Bryant, who gave the impression of being a man rarely short of words, subsided.

  “Perhaps,” Grimes responded with a smile. “Also quite possibly justified. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have an appointment to keep. I will see you back at our lodgings, John.” He said this last to me before heading alo
ng the path towards the iron gates.

  “You keep strange company,” Bryant said as he watched Grimes stalk away.

  “He's a good man,” I responded. “Though he is certainly unconventional.”

  Bryant continued to follow Grimes with his eyes until he'd disappeared from view. “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” He stroked his beard as he spoke but then abruptly snapped out of his contemplation and turned back to me. “Now then, John, when did you last see your father?”

  I confess this question took me entirely by surprise. I opened my mouth to respond, but he spoke first.

  “It isn't seemly for a man and his father to become estranged. No-one profits by it, and I speak as one who should know. My father and I barely spoke for many years, though we continued to work in the factory. He died before I could make my peace with him. I regret it, John, and do not wish it for you.”

  I shook my head. “I have nothing to say to my father, Mr Bryant, and I respectfully ask that you do not seek to advise on such matters. You cannot know the state of affairs between us, or the reasons for our current situation.”

  He seemed shocked at the vehemence of my response. “Come now, John, there must be some hope? Did our Lord not preach forgiveness? It is a worthy deed.”

  “Perhaps, but then I am a flawed man and am not ready to forgive.”

  Bryant paused for a moment as if making up his mind about something. “I understand; truly I do. Perhaps this is not a discussion for now, especially when standing in a damp churchyard. Would you be willing to meet again when time allows? Merely to speak as friends, or as two sons of tyrants?”

  His teeth shone again, and I could think of no reason to refuse.

  “I'd be delighted.”

  “Good, good. Where shall I send my card?”

  Shame flooded my face. I did not want to reveal that I lived in the lodging house for working men immediately adjacent to the church. “You can leave a message at Micawber's—the coffee house.”

  Bryant's brows came together. “I would not divulge your address to your father, John, you may trust me on that.”

  “Nevertheless,” I said apologetically, “I would prefer to pick up any message there. For the present, at least.”

  “That is, of course, your prerogative. Well, it has been very pleasant meeting you and I shall send my card shortly. Fare thee well, John Makepeace.”

  I shook his hand. “Go with grace, Theodore.”

  Then it was my turn to watch in contemplation as he strode out of the church and up Bow Road towards, no doubt, the factory. So much for the day of rest.

  It had been an odd encounter. Bryant had suggested that there was more to Grimes than met the eye and I couldn't help thinking that this supposition could apply equally to him.

  The Choice

  When I returned to our lodgings, I found Grimes in our new sitting room. He'd moved two chairs and the little desk from his room and had also clearly thought nothing of entering my bedroom and liberating the moth-eaten easy chair which was now positioned in front of the fire next to his.

  I shook off my ulster and settled down in front of the glowing coals, warming my hands as he sat with his head in The Sunday Times. Smoke curled up from behind the paper.

  “Emma has made a pot of tea,” he said with a jerk of his head toward a small table in the corner.

  “Emma?”

  He sighed. “Emma Derricks. You really must make more effort, John. I have engaged her as a domestic helper. I trust you do not object?”

  “Of course not,” I said, heaving myself out of the chair—which, despite its shabbiness, was comfortable enough—over to the small tray. “What are you looking for?”

  “Anything. I would hardly expect last night's tragedy to make the papers as it'll certainly be hushed up, but I can see no other reports.”

  I returned to the chair and sipped my tea. “What would you expect to see? Is there anything about the so-called Ripper?”

  “Oh yes, the paper's full of theories on that score. No, what I'm looking for are the seemingly mundane crimes. The actions of our enemies are quite deliberate and the death of the first policeman was planned to cause terror and to catch my attention.”

  “Your attention? What do you mean?”

  He lowered the paper. “I am the last watchman left, John. Once I am eliminated the truce must end, and the streets of London will run with blood.”

  “I don't understand,” I said. It felt as though I was groping in the dark, unable to find the one missing piece of the puzzle. “Why would the end of the agreement mean such chaos?”

  “We have had thirty years of peace and prosperity. The end of the truce will necessarily see both sides vying for supremacy in the new world order, and, besides, I think there are other powers behind this.”

  This was too much. Far from making things clearer, Grimes was simply introducing new mysteries. “What other powers?” I asked, taking no care to mask my impatience.

  “I cannot speak of it yet.”

  I leapt out of my chair in a rush of nervous energy. “Grimes!”

  “I am sorry. Please trust me when I say that I cannot tell you more at present, but that I will do when I can.”

  Feeling like a fool standing there in front of the fire pointing at him, I diverted myself to the window and looked out on the dingy London streets below. “Tell me this, then, if you feel able,” I said. “Why at the theatre? They could have ambushed us in the basement of the White Rose and ended the truce then and there.”

  He stood beside me, his heavy hand on my shoulder. “A good question, John, and one that is central. Suffice it to say that it seems our enemies wish for more than just my death. They seek my humiliation. They wish to play.”

  That was his final word on the subject that afternoon and I tired of sitting with his taciturn form, so I decided to stretch my legs while it was still light. My path led me to the King's Head but didn't lead me home again until late in the night.

  “I cannot be held responsible for his welfare, Grimes! He is lucky to be alive.”

  I heard the voices but didn't wish to open my eyes. It felt as though the bed I was lying on was my own and I could also tell that I was fully clothed—in fact I was still wearing the suit I'd gone to church in... yesterday? My head felt as though it were a smith's anvil and my mind was a fog as I tried, unsuccessfully, to piece together the events of last night.

  “You did him a kindness, Valentina, and I will not forget it. I'm sorry, I should have watched him more closely. I was too wrapped up in thought.”

  I heard the rustling of Valentina's dress and felt the heat of shame as I imagined what a pathetic sight I must make. “You are both being shadowed—surely you must know this. He must not be allowed out after dark unaccompanied and especially when he has this addiction. Had I not intercepted his pursuer, you would have lost yet another follower. I do not know why you continue this habit of taking on human apprentices, it always ends badly.”

  I thought about the revolver he'd given me and how many of my predecessors had owned it and died despite it.

  “I believed he was different,” Grimes said. “I was wrong.”

  “No!” I shouted, pushing myself up on the bed but succeeding only in falling out of it and sprawling on the floor.

  I heard footsteps moving toward the door. “You are a fool, John Makepeace, and if you do not master your addiction, it will be the death of you.”

  The door slammed shut and I lay there, unmoving, in my humiliation.

  In that moment, I felt more alone than ever before. I hadn't noticed the gap in my life that Grimes had filled until now, as I risked losing his friendship.

  But for now, I simply remained where I'd fallen, my mouth dry and bitter, a thumping in my head. I prayed for sobriety, and fell asleep again.

  He was waiting for me in the living room of our apartment as I shuffled in later that day. I had awoken to find my mouth stuck to
the coconut matting that served as a carpet in my bedroom and a desperate urge to relieve myself. My chamber pot being almost full, I trudged down the stairs to the outside privies, emptied the pot and my bladder, washed my head under the cold tap that stood beside the toilets and filled my water jug before returning to my room.

  I felt a little more human, though no less ashamed of myself, and was now at least dressed respectably—for a working class labourer.

  He sat facing the door as I entered.

  “Grimes,” I said, but he raised his hand and I fell into silence.

  “Come in, John.”

  He gestured to my chair. He'd placed it opposite his and I couldn't help noticing his sense of theatre. Stabbing pains like a thousand needles punctured my side and I stumbled, but he didn't come to my aid. I steadied myself and fell into the chair.

  “If it were within my power to transport you somewhere away from this danger, I would do so,” he said. “The evidence so far insists that you are not fitted to be in the game at all and yet I believed you had it in you, and I am rarely wrong. This is puzzling.”

  I said nothing, but merely sat there, holding his gaze and breathing heavily as my head continued to throb.

  “For now, however, I have no means of sending you to safety and so I offer you this choice.” He waved a hand at the table where just yesterday a pot of tea had been set. Today, a bottle of whiskey sat there.

  “These rooms are the safest place in London for you. The fortifications will be completed today, and you may remain here with that bottle for company while I seek to carry out my mission. If I succeed, then, on my return, I will arrange passage out of the country to a place where you will be a stranger and, therefore, as safe as anyone else. If I fail, then there will be no escape for anyone, and you may wait here until the dark tide overtakes you.”

  I looked across at the bottle. I had no desire for it at that moment, though I knew that I would soon enough.

  Again, I did not say anything. I watched him, feeling that these few minutes would set the course for the remainder of my life, however brief that might be.