For My Brother’s Sins

by For My Brother's Sins (retail) (epub)

  ‘The slop’s been in again,’ said the landlord. ‘Don’t worry,’ he added hastily to Dickie’s worried expression, ‘it were a few hours ago; he’s not here now.’

  ‘I’ve seen him already.’ Dickie knocked back his drink and asked for another. ‘A bit too close to home for my liking.’ He took his refill, then looked around again. ‘Oh, Christ! I see Growler’s in again; I could’ve done without that tonight.’

  Sammy grimaced. ‘Please, try not to touch him. We had a stranger in here last night what spilled ale on him – that’s his blood on the wall.’

  Bearpark slouched up to the bar and growled his request. Dickie moved away slightly and offered no greeting. Bearpark turned a basilisk eye on him. Dickie gave a tight smile, but still no comment.

  Of all the people, it had to happen to him. Some clown, laughing over a joke, shoved his friend in the chest and he fell back into Dickie who brushed against Bearpark. The drink he was holding splashed over the sides of the glass and speckled Bearpark’s tattooed hand. The man looked down dumbly at the affront, then slowly raised his eyes to Dickie who had whipped out a handkerchief and was dabbing furiously whilst muttering apologies. The landlord sighed heavily and began to remove the breakables from the bar top.

  Bearpark was still staring at him. He growled out, ‘I thought you knew: I don’t like people touching me.’

  ‘Ah, sure it wasn’t my fault, Mr Bearpark.’ Dickie jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. ‘This here fella behind me was the one who did the pushing.’ He looked around; the man had gone. When he turned back Bearpark’s fingers had risen to his face and had begun to rub at the crenellated nose.

  But before those same fingers could gouge out his eyes, Dickie’s knee shot upwards and caught the drunkard in the crook of his legs. Bearpark doubled over with a grunt – when he raised his bloodshot eyes the bar was completely empty.

  * * *

  ‘What’re you so nervous about?’ enquired Dusty. Dickie’s head had swivelled round every time the doorbell sounded.

  ‘If ye’d been with me last night ye wouldn’t have to ask.’ He told her about Bearpark and the detective, how he had escaped and was having to stay in an hotel.

  ‘But what does the policeman want with you?’ she demanded.

  ‘I didn’t wait to find out. Could be any one of a number o’ things.’ His head moved in a semi-circle as the doorbell tinkled again.

  ‘But you can’t live the rest of your life as though you’ve got a nervous tic,’ she told him. ‘And I’m certainly not going to spend my life watching the door.’

  Her implication did not strike him at first; when it sunk in he said wonderingly, ‘Does that mean what I think it means?’

  ‘That depends on what you think I mean it means,’ she answered coyly.

  He laughed then. ‘We could be here forever playing that game. Come on, Dusty, are ye saying ye’ll wed me?’

  Her eyes were warm and shining. ‘I’ve not decided yet; don’t push me.’

  But he could tell by her expression that she had decided, and grabbed her hands, squeezing them tightly. ‘Now don’t be having me on a bit o’ string, as me mother would say.’

  ‘Talking of your mother,’ she became serious. ‘Have you seen any more of her?’

  He released her and shook his head. ‘I was thinking of payin’ them all a visit of peace until this lot came up. She’ll not thank me for taking any more trouble to her door – always supposing she’d let me get that far.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you’ve decided to show her a little consideration at last. Look,’ she pleaded, ‘why don’t you go down to the police station and see what they want with you? I’ll come with you if you like.’

  ‘God love ye, is it mad ye are? They could slap me in the Castle for some of the naughties I’ve got up to.’

  ‘But surely it’s better to risk that than be wondering if someone’s following you all the time?’ she said earnestly.

  ‘What, risk being parted from you for another three years or longer? I think not.’ He pulled gently at one of her chestnut curls. ‘Look, love, I hate to leave ye already but I’d best be on me way. The longer I’m on the streets the more chance I have o’ being collared.’ He pushed out his chair and paid the bill, waiting while she collected her things then moving to the door. On the pavement he pecked her cheek and looked down at her fondly. ‘Will ye be waiting for me tomorrow?’

  She bit her lip. ‘Me – and half the police force. Oh, Dickie I do wish you’d go down to the station and get it sorted out. I shan’t be able to sleep for worrying whether they’ve got you locked up.’

  He shook his head firmly. ‘They’ll not lock me up. I went to a fortune teller the other day and she told me I’d be going on a long journey – d’ye fancy Botany Bay for your honeymoon, Dusty?’

  She slapped his arm. ‘Stop joking! Anyway, they don’t send people there nowadays.’

  ‘Then stop worrying your bonny little head. It’ll be neither summat nor nowt, to quote me mother again. I’m more anxious to know whether you’ll be here tomorrow or not.’

  She rose onto the balls of her feet and rubbed her nose to his. ‘Deranged as I am I’ll be here. Two o’clock as usual – and don’t be late else I shall think all sorts.’

  ‘Am I ever late?’ He smiled and watched her fade into the distance before turning to go, replacing his hat as he swivelled on his heel. With his other hand gripping his cane he had no way of stopping it. When Bearpark’s two-pronged thrust came he took the full force of it in his eyes.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  The hotelier gave him an old-fashioned look as he staggered past reception and up the stairway to his room, groping his way along the wall. Once inside he locked the door and, going to the enamel bowl on the wash-stand, lowered his face over it, spashing his swollen eyes with cold water. Apart from the excruciating pain he could barely see. Drying them tenderly with a corner of the towel he peered into the mirror. His slit-like vision saw two, ugly purple masses staring back at him. With a groan he made his way over to the bed.

  He did not know it, but Nettleton was touring the city’s hotels, asking to examine their registers. At the moment that Dickie collapsed onto his bed the detective was entering The King William.

  Nettleton turned his feet to the bar and requested a measure of light ale. ‘You here again?’ said the landlord, fulfilling the order. ‘You’ve had a wasted journey.’

  ‘Ah, one never knows.’ Nettleton took the tankard over to a table and sat down. He was none too pleased that the maid’s tip had proved a dud; but he could wait – he was good at that. The way Feeney had run had proved his guilt. Nettleton was never one to give up easily.

  The saloon was quiet today; there was only a morose-looking man by the fire and two others sitting at the table next to Nettleton’s. After a few pulls at his ale the detective struck up a conversation with the nearest man, starting with the weather and progressing to the salient factor. ‘You wouldn’t happen to know if Richard Feeney will be in at all?’ he asked casually. ‘Only, I owe him a jar and I like to pay my corner.’

  The man caught the slight shake of head from the landlord. ‘Richard Feeney, you say? Would that be the fella with the one eye?’

  ‘No-o!’ said his partner, sensing the drift. ‘That’s Freddie Feeney. Richard is the one with the wooden leg an’ the wolfhound.’

  Nettleton, guessing he was being set up, retreated to the bar for replenishment. When he turned back to his table the man who had been hugging the fire had moved. The policeman downed the tankard on the table and asked good-naturedly, ‘Can I buy you a drink?’

  Bearpark growled. ‘I’ll have a stout.’

  Nettleton purchased a glass of stout and took it back. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘You wanted to know about Feeney?’ said Bearpark, lacking the other’s niceties. ‘How much you prepared to pay?’ Nettleton placed two coins on the table and the other pocketed them. ‘You’ll find him at the café near the gaol, two o’clock
tomorrow afternoon.’ With that, he poured the whole glass of black liquid down his throat, pierced the detective with a fanatical look, then left the bar.

  Nettleton downed his own tankard and called, ‘Landlord! fetch me a brandy. I’m beginning to feel lucky.’

  * * *

  The long but fitful sleep had done nothing to ease Dickie’s discomfort. Moreover, the eyes were even blacker and swollen, their corners encrusted with yellow pus. He felt his way from the bed and staggered to the jug of fresh water which the chambermaid had placed in his room earlier and poured it into the bowl. He dabbed at the tender, puffed flesh, easing away the crusty discharge, raised his dripping face to the mirror, groaned, then went downstairs to purchase something to eat.

  A blurred glance at the clock showed he had only half an hour before he saw Dusty. Summoning a maid he procured a ham sandwich and went out eating it.

  It took ten minutes to get to the arranged meeting place. When he did he could see, despite his poor vision, that Dusty was in her normal seat – early, as she usually was. She had not noticed him yet, would not be expecting him for twenty minutes or more. He was about to go in when he caught sight of someone else. Nettleton sat holding a paper in front of him and looking highly conspicuous. Dickie backed away and moved on hurriedly, walking in no particular direction. Damn the man! He was everywhere.

  Having plenty of time to play with he decided to walk around for ten minutes – Nettleton’s presence in the café might be just a coincidence. When he went back, Dusty was still there. So was the detective. Dickie was forced to walk straight past, and trod the streets for another fifteen minutes. But his return to the café met with the same result.

  On his third trip past he caught sight of Dusty’s worried consultation of the clock just above her head, and was gripped by indecision. He couldn’t possibly go in there – but he had to see her; if he didn’t she would think he had stood her up. Once again he doubled back to tread the pavements, then made a last effort.

  Nettleton was still there, ordering another cup of tea. This time Dickie continued walking, it was pointless hanging round. His feet carried him over Castle Mills Bridge, under Fishergate Postern and up George Street to Walmgate. He had decided now to spend an hour in a pub, giving Dusty time to get home or go back to the warehouse, then go and see her there and explain. She would not like it, he knew, him not turning up like that. He could feel her reaction now.

  He downed anchor at The Lord Nelson, bought a tankard and a meat pie and sat down to wait. During the afternoon the faces of the clientèle mutated. Dickie’s weeping eyes flitted to the door each time it swung open. The clock on the wall said ten past four. Dusty would be at home now, or at the warehouse. He would try both places shortly. He was curious to know whether Nettleton’s presence at the café had been a coincidence, or had somebody tipped him off? If the latter were true the detective would in all probability follow Dusty when she left. That made things rather precarious. He would have to tread very carefully when he went to call on her himself.

  He went over to the bar for another drink and glanced up as an argument developed between the landlord and a slattern who had been pestering the customers.

  ‘Haven’t I warned you before not to do your touting in here? You’ll have me out of business.’

  The woman leaned drunkenly over the bar and looked at him pleadingly. ‘I was only after someone to buy me a drink.’

  ‘And who’s going to waste their money on a decrepit sot like you?’ the landlord wanted to know.

  The woman’s raddled cheeks flushed even deeper. She pulled herself upright in the manner of drunks. ‘I’m not stayin’ here to be insulted – I’ll go to The Black Horse.’ She hoisted her nose at the landlord’s laughter and swayed past Dickie who, feeling a pang of unaccustomed pity, offered to stand her the drink she wanted.

  She courted him gratefully. ‘You’re a gennleman, sir – I’ll ’ave a gin.’

  ‘You’re scraping the bottom of the barrel, aren’t you?’ said the landlord as he handed Dickie the drinks. ‘Take my advice, son, don’t pay for anything else but drink – she’s riddled with it.’

  Dickie smiled and, going to the table she had chosen, handed the dirty old harlot her gin which she saw off expertly then shivered. ‘Oh, thank yer, sir! I fair needed that.’

  ‘Would ye like another?’ He surprised himself, and her also.

  ‘You are indeed a gent. I’ll ’ave another o’ them.’ When he passed her the second drink she asked his name and he told her. ‘Mine’s Bertha. Bertha Sunday.’ She caught his look of recognition and misinterpreted it. ‘I’ll bet you’re thinkin’ what a bloody silly name, aren’t yer?’

  He shook his head disbelievingly. Could this jaded old slattern really be the same who had conducted his initiation to manhood?

  ‘You’re lookin’ at me funny,’ she slurred. ‘Whasamatter?’

  ‘Don’t ye know me?’ he asked incredulously.

  ‘Cor! the men I’ve been with I can’t be expected to remember all on ’em. Customer, were yer?’

  He nodded. ‘Ye could say.’

  She squinted at him closely. ‘Must say, my memory fails me badly. I’m sure if I’d had an ’andsome toff like you I would’ve remembered.’

  ‘It was a long time ago.’ He buried his inexplicable disappointment in the tankard.

  ‘What did yer say yer name was?’ she asked again, scratching her knotted hair. He repeated it. ‘Dickie. Dickie.’ The lines of concentration stood out on her forehead. ‘Nah! Can’t for the life o’ me recall yer.’

  ‘I was fourteen an’ you were seventeen,’ he prompted.

  She cackled. ‘Blimey, it were a long time ago!’ Then was suddenly serious. ‘’Ang on a mo, it’s comin’ back. You’re not the cocky little devil what had no brass, are yer?’

  ‘The same.’ Dickie grinned widely, ridiculously pleased that she had remembered.

  ‘Oh! Now it all comes back to me.’ She clutched his knee and her hand remained while she reminisced. ‘By, what a time we had, didn’t we? Aye, I do remember yer now. Had my eye on yer at the fair, I did.’

  ‘Yes, an’ when ye discovered I had no money ye weren’t too pleased!’

  ‘Gerraway!’ She nudged him. ‘I knew all along you had nowt. Yer don’t think I’d let meself get taken in like that, d’yer?’

  ‘Ye mean, ye let me think I was getting away with a free ride when that’s what ye had in mind all along?’ He began to laugh, forgetting for the moment about Nettleton. She joined his laughter. He propped his chin with his palm and stared at her closely. It was pitiful. She was only three years older than himself – about twenty-four – and already her profession had added fifteen years or more to that figure. She looked older than his mother.

  ‘Dickie.’ She snuggled up close to him. ‘How about you an’ me goin’ someplace for a reunion?’

  He flinched, then pulled away. ‘Sorry, Bertha, I’ve got things to see to.’ He changed the subject. ‘Hey, did ye ever get that place ye promised yourself? The cottage at Dringhouses?’

  ‘Does it look like it?’ she replied sombrely, and took a pull of her gin. ‘I haven’t even got the place up Cross Alley now; got chucked out. I tried gettin’ off the game once. Went to the Refuge in Bishophill, but I couldn’t stand it. They were really strict and I like a bit o’ fun.’

  ‘Where’ve ye been living since then?’ he asked, snatching a glance at the clock.

  ‘Here an’ there,’ she replied noncommittally, then: ‘Eh, your eyes aren’t half a mess. How did yer get ’em? Somebody’s given you a right purler by the looks of it.’ He told her the culprit’s name. ‘Oh, my good Christ!’ she murmured fearfully. ‘Then I hope he doesn’t come in ’ere an’ catch the pair of us together ’cause he’s after me an’ all.’ He asked the reason. ‘He’s my bully – leastwise he was, self-appointed, like. I got sick of him beating me up so I never went back one night. Took all the money I’d earned an’ all.’ That couldn’t be much, th
ought Dickie, looking at her pitiful appearance.

  ‘But you’re in the wrong place if ye don’t want to see him, Bertha. He’s a regular of all the pubs down this way.’

  ‘Blimey! I didn’t know that; I haven’t seen him for ages. I normally stick to the Nessgate pubs but they got sick o’ me an’ turfed me out.’ She finished her drink. ‘I’d best get goin’ while I’m still in one piece – you an’ all if yer don’t want another brayin’.’

  ‘No, I’ve had all I’m going to get,’ said Dickie, emptying his tankard. ‘Once Growler’s dished out his punishment that’s it – finished with.’

  ‘Not if he sees yer with me, it isn’t. I’m off, are yer comin’?’

  He stood up. ‘Where will ye go?’

  ‘I dunno.’ She eyed him plaintively. ‘I thought yer might take pity on me, us being old flames, like.’

  He sighed inwardly. This was the last thing he wanted to be lumbered with. ‘Sorry, Bertha, I’d like to but I can’t. I’m staying at the George in a single room – an’ pretty soon I’ll be getting wed. It wouldn’t look too good to my fiancée if she found me with another woman, would it?’

  ‘Oh. No, I suppose not,’ she replied disappointedly, then recovered herself. ‘Oh well, congratulations, Dickie. Be happy. I’ll mebbe see yer sometime. Thanks for the drinks.’ She gave him one last desirous look, then left.

  Shortly after her departure Dickie left also, making his way back to the hotel with the intention of having a meal then visiting Dusty. But before this could happen, something else occurred.

  He had just eaten and returned to his room to change when there was a frantic tapping at his door. ‘Don’t smash the door down, come in!’ he shouted, pulling on his boots and getting up from the bed. He sauntered over to the mirror as the person burst in. Her reflection made him spin round in shock.

  ‘Good God, woman what’re ye doing here? More to the point, how did ye get past the sentinel downstairs?’