‘Bugger me with a blunt stick,’ murmured Patrick, staring at the table on which lay a chicken, nude and trussed. ‘Where in Heaven’s name did ye get that?’
‘What d’yer mean, where did I get it? It’s me Christmas present to you. I saved up all me pennies to buy yer that.’
‘Guess who’s coming to dine with us – Prince Albert.’ Thomasin gave a snort of derision. ‘You never ’ave any spare pennies, they’re all spent down at The Ham and Firkin.’
John made a pretence of taking the bird away. ‘Ungrateful wretch. If yer don’t want it…’
‘I don’t remember sayin’ that.’ Thomasin made a grab for the bird that John held above his head out of her reach. ‘Aw, come on, John, let’s ’ave it, she begged, dancing round him.
‘Not until yer apologise for the insinuation that I pinched it,’ he told her sternly. ‘The cheek o’ the woman,’ he said amazedly to Patrick. ‘She’s callin’ me a thief as well as a liar.’
‘Aye well, I know you better than most,’ said Thomasin, a twinkle of laughter in her grey eye, then, ‘Oh, all right I’m sorry – now will yer give it us?’
John lowered his arms and she seized the fowl. ‘I still say yer didn’t buy it,’ she laughed from a safe distance and stuck out her tongue.
John sat down. ‘Tsk, I don’t know. What sort o’ friends ’ave I got that don’t believe a word I say? Yer try an’ do ’em a favour an’ this is how they treat yer.’
‘I’ve said I’m sorry,’ replied Thomasin. ‘Here, cleanse your tongue.’ She handed him a cup of coffee.
John leaned over the table and stared down into the brown liquid, reliving the events that had provided him with the chicken.
He had been strolling along past Raper’s shop, minding his own business, when pandemonium erupted. Raper and his brother had received that morning a consignment of chickens and geese to slaughter for Christmas fayre. Assisted by Jos Leach, they unloaded the crates of fowl from the cart and began to transfer them to the abattoir in Britannia Yard. Unfortunately – or fortunately, depending upon one’s viewpoint – the witless Leach knocked one of the crates to the floor. The sound of splintering wood reached Raper’s ears and he lumbered out into the street to investigate.
‘Jesus Christ!’ he roared. ‘Yer fuckin’ great useless pillockin’ idiot.’
Leach threw himself at the escaping hens as the captive geese honked their appreciation, hoping he would let them out, too.
‘George!’ bellowed Raper. ‘George, come an’ give us a hand!’ Even as he yelled he knew that it was hopeless; brother George was as deaf as a post and was busy in the slaughterhouse.
A brown hen cocked its head and studied the stealthily approaching figure with a beady eye. Raper lunged at the bird which flew six feet into the air, a strangled squawk amid a flurry of feathers. The butcher hurled another string of abuse at the apprentice’s feeble attempts to recapture the birds.
Meanwhile, John looked on in alert amusement, awaiting an opening. Suddenly it came in the form of an urchin who had somehow managed to stalk and capture two chickens and now raced off with a bird under each arm.
‘Stop, thief!’ cried Raper, trying to lift his portly body from the road, where he had fallen in another vain attempt at capture.
‘I’ll catch him, Mr Raper,’ shouted John and gave chase, swiftly following the boy along Walmgate and into Paver Lane.
‘Follow him, Jos,’ ordered Raper, finally managing to stand upright. ‘I don’t trust that bugger.’
Leach turned a vacant stare at the butcher and indicated the birds. Raper clapped a hand to his forehead and looked at the sky. ‘What ’ave I done to deserve ’im?’ he asked, almost in tears. ‘All right, yer stupid get, go-get-my-brother.’ He mouthed the words exaggeratedly. ‘Happen he’ll be able to catch these little swines.’ He sat down at the roadside and glared at the escapees who now roosted in various buildings along the street.
The urchin used numerous tactics to evade capture, all to no end. Unable to gather sufficient speed with the chickens under his arms he soon felt John’s hot breath down his collar.
‘Come ’ere, yer thievin’ little devil.’ John made a grab for the boy as he darted between some tinker caravans. He caught him, puffing triumphantly as he swung the culprit around to face him. ‘Nah then, if yer gimme them chickens back, mebbe I’ll think twice about callin’ t’Law.’
The boy was unimpressed by this show of generosity and shot the man a look of defiance. ‘I know your game, ye’ll not take ’em back to that fella, ye’ll eat ’em yerself!’
John tried the gentle approach. ‘Look, son,’ he put his hands on the boy’s shoulders and looked him in the eyes. ‘I’ll overlook that remark, seein’ as ’ow yer only a lad an’ don’t realise the seriousness of yer offence. Yer could be transported for this yer know.’ A faraway look came into his eye. ‘Just think, yer might never see yer mam an’ dad again.’
The boy stuck out his jaw. ‘D’ye think I’m bothered about that?’
This called for sterner measures and John sneaked a look down the lane, anxious that Raper should not arrive yet. He grabbed a fistful of the boy’s ragged shirt and hauled him close to his face. ‘Now look, yer little shit, if yer don’t gimme them birds I’ll ’ave to alter yer appearance somewhat.’
The menace in his voice finally sapped the boy’s courage and he thrust the hens at John who grasped them firmly by the legs and swung them upside down. The helpless creatures hung in silent mesmerisation, dizzy from the sudden rush of blood to their heads.
‘There’s a good lad, didn’t hurt too much, did it?’ John grinned and retreated.
‘Bastard!’ shrieked the urchin, dancing around like a demented frog. ‘I do be tellin’ me daddy, he’ll be using your guts for bootlaces.’ He ran off to complain to his father as John strode briskly away, the wings of his captives flapping uselessly against his legs.
Ducking through a snicket to avoid Raper he made his way home. Making sure that he was unobserved he swiftly despatched the hens and flung them onto the kitchen table, startling his wife and sending up a cloud of flour. Then she picked them up and tossed them aside as though he brought home chickens every day of the week; nothing he did could surprise her after ten years of marriage.
Returning by the route along which he had come, John strolled back into Walmgate. By this time Raper and his brother had succeeded in recapturing the birds and were dealing with the rest of the crates. Leach watched them unconcerned that they no longer trusted him to assist. Idly raking a finger around his wide nostril he wiped the outcome onto his jacket.
‘Ah, Jos.’ John strode up, hands in pockets. ‘Can yer give Mr Raper a message, ifit’s not too much to ask?’ The question was met by a gormless nod.
‘What message would that be?’ The butcher appeared from the alleyway.
‘Oh, Mr Raper.’ John threw up his hands in mock despair. ‘That lad gave me the slip. I searched all down Paver Lane but I reckon he must’ve slipped into one o’ them tinkers’ caravans. Thievin’ devils them tinkers, yer know. Sorry I couldn’t help.’ He touched his cap and departed.
Raper frowned and snorted, then delivered a hefty slap to Leach’s head.
‘I’m not payin’ you to sit on yer arse all day, go get some bloody work done!’
John returned to the present as Thomasin tapped his shoulder. ‘Are yer gonna sit there watchin’ that coffee all day? I’ve got work to do yer know.’
He grinned. ‘Right, I’ll be off. Will I see yer tonight for a jar?’ This to Patrick who looked at his wife.
‘Oh, go on,’ she told him. ‘Seein’ as how it’s Christmas an’ I’m feelin’ charitable – but don’t you be keepin’ him out all night, Thomo.’
Patrick let his friend out. ‘Where shall we meet?’
‘The Bay Horse first,’ John shouted from across the yard. ‘Tara.’
‘You’re sure ye’ll be all right on your own?’ asked Patrick, kissing the back of her head. ‘I�
��ll only have the one or two.’
‘Or three, or ten,’ she scoffed, then, ‘If I said I wouldn’t be all right would that make any difference?’ She removed his hands from her waist in order to prepare the vegetables for dinner. ‘Aye, I’ll be reet – as long as it is only one or two. I get a bit worried if yer late.’
* * *
Small flakes drifted gracefully to earth as Patrick shouted his goodbyes and closed the door. Earlier he had fulfilled the promise he had made to Father Kelly to take Erin to Mass, now he was going to keep his other appointment. By the time he had crossed the yard the snow was beginning to lay, clothing the grime with a virginal freshness. He entered The Bay Horse, shaking the glistening snow from his hair and looking round for his friend.
‘Over ’ere, Pat!’ shouted John, and Patrick passed between the drinkers to join him.
Ale flowing freely, the pall of smoke that was suspended above their heads in a grey blanket, the buzz of festive spirit, all subscribed to the steady intoxication of John and Patrick. Two drinks became three, three became five, until their empty glasses on the bar merged with those of the other drinkers and became innumerable.
‘Shall we have a change o’ scenery an’ visit The Mass Glakers’ Arms?’ slurred Patrick, wondering why John cackled drunkenly at his words.
They lurched from the bar, steered an unsteady course to the door and went outside. It had stopped snowing. In Walmgate the gaslight caught the silvery whiteness to set it sparkling with diamonds. The men pulled up their collars against the cold that sliced through their thin clothes and made their winding way to The Glassmakers Arms. Difficult though it was to gain entry to the busy inn, what with drunken revellers blocking the doorway, Pat and John elbowed their way to the bar.
In all innocence they had entered a lions’ den. As they leaned against the bar, raising their glasses yet again, they were closely observed by a keen pair of eyes. Hugh Fallon knew instantly that one of these men was the one he had seen fleeing with the chickens as his son had dragged him from the caravan. Unable to catch up with his son’s tormentor the Irish tinker had bided his time. The world in which they lived was small and there was a more than even chance that their paths would cross at some point. That point was here. He raised his glass, eyes never leaving the laughing face at the bar and watched, waited.
Patrick was refusing John’s entreaties to have another drink. ‘John, I loves ye like me own sweet darlin’, but I’s already had three more than I should’ve – or was it four?’ He banged the glass down on the counter. ‘Me dear little wife’ll be thinkin’ I’ve left her. She’ll be sat there with murder in her heart an’ a shillelagh in her gentle hand, ready to give me six heads.’ He wavered unsteadily then, placing one foot in front of the other in drunken deliberation, he made for the door. John unwillingly gazed at his empty tankard, then followed his friend, swaying and weaving through the crush.
The sharp eyes noted their departure. As the door swung shut behind them Fallon lifted his glass, draining it in one gulp. He tapped his drinking companion on the forearm and inclined his head towards the door. In their purposeful stroll to the exit the two men halted at a group of drinkers and indulged in brief conversation. Then, accompanied by four more men, they slipped out into the night.
‘Me an’ Fin’ll go this way.’ Fallon indicated Fishergate Bar, his voice cutting the darkness with its harsh, grating quality. ‘Two o’ yese can circle round by Long Close Lane, the others can take Lead Mill Lane. We’ll cut off their escape.’
They went their separate ways. Fallon and Maguire moved through the ancient stone arch, their senses honed despite the drink in them. Fallon lifted his head. The breeze had carried sounds of inebriated singing to his alert ears. The hunters exchanged satisfied glances and followed the sound to Margaret Street where two men swayed and reeled from one side of the road to the other. Their loud chanting echoed between the rows of neat houses, bringing an angry complaint from one irate resident.
Maguire and Fallon pressed their bodies close to the cold brickwork while the man leaned out of the window and hurled abuse at John and Patrick. Then the window slammed shut, allowing the hunters to resume their stealthy pursuit.
Blithely unaware of the impending danger John and Patrick danced on. ‘Merry Christmas!’ shouted the former at two men who loomed up before him. The greeting was met by an unfriendly silence. The friends tried to focus on the blurred images that blocked their path, sensing that something was not quite right.
‘An’ did ye think ye’d get away wid it, Englishman?’ The rasping voice made them rotate slowly to find two more men behind them.
‘I don’t take, pal.’ John stared in puzzlement at the big man who had spoken.
‘What the divil is this about?’ asked Patrick.
Fallon picked up the lilt in his voice. ‘’Tis no argument I’ll be wantin’ wid another Irishman, there’s just the business o’ two chickens to be sorted out wid dis English fella here.’
The pieces of the puzzle came together and the awful truth dawned. John felt the adrenalin stir up inside him and an abrupt state of sobriety ensued. ‘Ah… it were your lad, I suppose?’ he ventured weakly.
‘It was. An’ ye see, Hugh Fallon is not a man to stand by an’ see his son manhandled.’
‘I’m sure we can come to some arrangement, Mr Fallon.’ John stared at the large men who surrounded him.
‘Oh, I’m sure we can,’ Fallon agreed. ‘If ye’ll just be lettin’ me have me property back I might even consider lettin’ yese go.’
Patrick, though still befuddled with drink, began to grasp the situation.
‘Would it be the chicken I had for me dinner he’s talkin’ about?’
John nudged him. ‘Ssh! Don’t get him any madder, yer silly bugger, ’ave yer seen size of him?’
‘Sure I knew! I bloody-well knew ye hadn’t bought it. ’Tis a hidin’ ye’ll get off Tommy when she sees ye.’
Fallon intercepted. ‘An ’tis a hidin’ he’ll be gettin’ off us if I don’t get me birds back soon.’
‘I’d give ’em to yer if I could,’ pleaded John. ‘But we’ve eaten ’em.’
‘Sure, there’s nothing left to discuss then, is there?’ Fallon looked at his comrades.
‘Four against one, that’s not very fair, is it?’ asked John.
‘Your friend looks like he can handle himself,’ was Fallon’s reply.
‘Now wait a minute.’ Patrick presented his palms. ‘’Twas none o’ my doin’.’
‘Pat, yer me mate, yer not gonna let ’em gimme a bazzackin’, are yer?’
‘Sure, I’ll give ye one meself when I get ye home,’ replied Patrick strongly, and at the same time jerked his elbow back to catch one of the tinkers in the stomach. Grabbing his friend from under the nose of the surprised Fallon he raced off towards a nearby alley.
John laughed in nervous relief as he was dragged behind Patrick. ‘By God, that were bloody close.’
‘Shut up an’ keep runnin’,’ gasped Patrick, stumbling into the alley. ‘If we stick to these passages we’ll lose them.’
But the tinkers knew these passages too. At the other end of the alley stood another two shadowy figures. The runners’ boots skidded on the stone floor as they tried to retrace their steps… but there would be no escape. There stood Fallon and his cronies, blocking the exit.
John swore under his breath and watched the men’s swaggering approach, twisted smiles of arrogance on their swarthy faces. The look that Patrick threw him needed no words of interpretation, he understood the Irishman’s anger.
‘Christ, I’m sorry to get yer mixed up in this, Pat,’ he said, waiting for the first blow to fall.
‘’Tis a bit bloody late for that,’ answered the other. ‘Right now I’m concerned with gettin’ out o’ here in one piece. I think we should try an’ charge them. When I shout the watchword get your thick skull down and point it at them – ’tis the only thing dense enough to make an impression.’ He filled his lung
s with deep, calming breaths then, as the tinkers drew closer, he gave his signal and both men charged headlong towards the end of the alley, crashing into the oncoming tinkers in their flight.
It was a splendid effort but totally ineffective against six ruffians. They fell to the floor, enveloped by musty, tinker flesh. Patrick writhed in agony as a vicious knee sank into his groin. A curious buzzing sound filled his ears, bringing the bitter taste of beer to his throat. Kicks and blows rained down upon the fallen men, forcing from them weird animal noises of pain. Rolling up like hedgehogs they tried to protect vital organs but to little effect. Another excruciating pain seared through Patrick’s body, dealt by a rock-hard boot that crashed into his ribs. Then mercifully he felt himself float lightly away from the pain as a black miasma of unconsciousness descended.
John was not so fortunate.
* * *
It had begun to snow again. Soft white feathers drifted to earth, dissolving when they made contact with the warm hand that protruded from the alley. The steady trickle of melted snow on his fingers reached the sensory cells of Patrick’s brain and a groan slipped wearily from his lips. An attempt to force his eyes open was met by abrupt and agonising pain. Its source was indiscernible, seeming to occupy every nerve in his body. The effort of trying to raise his head made him cry out and he lay still for a moment, turning his head to watch the white, hypnotic descent. Gathering what little energy he had left he raised his punished body onto his elbows. His head felt as though it was inhabited by a hundred sledgehammers that pounded his brain every time he moved it.
No longer was it night; the grey sky of morning hung oppressively over him. With great caution he tested his aching limbs. Remarkably they appeared to be in working order, albeit somewhat unsteady. A sharp, violent thrust as he tried to straighten bore evidence of more than one broken rib, bringing tears to his eyes. When his vision cleared the sight of so much blood set his belly a-shake. It was everywhere: the walls, the floor, some had even sprayed out of the alley, still faintly visible under the new layer of snow, staining the whiteness in scarlet assault – but the majority of the dark, congealing liquid formed an ominous pool around the head of his friend.
A Long Way from Heaven Page 21
