‘Ma!’ He screamed the word, the smoke burning his throat the moment his mouth opened. ‘Ma!’ He cared nothing for the pain, and he called again even as the smog choked him.
‘Jack!’
He barely heard her at first. Flames flickered across the ceiling, scorching and burning. With a great roar a huge piece fell, a pulsing mass of flames that thundered down, sealing off the door that led to the back yard.
‘Ma!’ He moved, seeing nothing, groping in the darkness. His boot thumped against wood, fallen plates and glasses crunching underneath his smouldering soles. Then he saw her, lying on the floor under the table. She was curled into a ball, her body wrapped around something that he could not see. It hurt him to see her so, helpless and vulnerable, her pride meaning nothing against the fire that he had started as surely as if he had lit the match himself.
It took him no time to get to her. He reached for her, his only thought to pull her to safety. But she swatted him away with her arm, the gesture awkward and feeble.
‘Take him!’
For the first time he saw what it was his mother was curled around. It was Mary’s boy, and he was either dead or dying, the smoke as effective a killer as a cannon loaded with canister. She pushed the small body towards him.
There was no time to think. Another great wave of flame engulfed the ceiling, filling the room with still more choking smoke. Jack took hold of the boy.
‘Go!’ From somewhere his mother found breath. She screamed at him, urging him away. ‘Get out!’
He scrabbled backwards, dragging the boy with him. He couldn’t breathe, and his chest was burning, as if it too were on fire. Somehow he got to his feet, his legs shaking with the effort. The boy weighed little, but still he staggered, tottering away from his mother like some ancient crone.
He took no more than a single step before he turned. The desire to run was fierce, the need to suck in the clean night air nearly more than he could resist. But he would not leave her. Not for a second time.
‘Come on!’ He spat out the words as he balanced the boy’s weight in his arms. He could not beckon to her, could not summon her to him. He could do nothing but stand there, the still body of the boy held tight, his head bowed as he struggled to see her through the blackness.
‘Get out!’
Her last words came as a screech. He barely made them out before there was a great groan from the ceiling. It fell in one enormous burning mass, the flames searing through the dense cloud of smoke, sparks thrown up in a wicked explosion. It engulfed her, burying her beneath the inferno, her final command cut off.
Jack forced himself to move away. There was no thought in his mind save the desire to live. It lent him the strength to place one foot after the other, his lungs burning as his throat closed completely. He refused to die, to let himself fall. It would not end here.
He felt a strong hand pulling at his shoulder. He staggered, not understanding. Somehow he kept his footing as he was dragged through the doorway, his awkward burden threatening to fall at any moment.
In the light of the flames, he saw that it was Palmer who had followed him into the fire. The larger man took him by the arm and hauled him on, both of them crouching as the flames rushed around them. Palmer got them moving quicker, and they stumbled away, ducking and twisting through the flames. When they reached the window, Palmer turned, half lifting, half pulling Jack and the boy he carried over the sill and out.
Jack’s legs gave way and he sprawled to the ground, the boy dumped without ceremony amidst the shards of glass. He lay there, the pain surging through him, until he could bear it no more. He jackknifed, his legs curling into his stomach as he retched and coughed in a fit that refused to end. It went on and on, his body fighting to breathe as he spewed filthy black muck on to the ground.
No one came to his aid. He could hear the crowd, their shouts and cries; he sensed people around him, boots clattering past as someone ran for the boy he had dropped. The fit went on, the coughs racking him. He was powerless against them, his strength spent, and he lay there covered in filth as he puked out the contents of his stomach.
‘Drink this.’
Something was pressed to his lips. Liquid poured into his open mouth, filling it, scouring away the bile. He coughed, then spluttered, then puked again on to the boots of the man holding the bottle to his face. More liquid came, filling his mouth, the ginger beer grabbed from a street seller overwhelming his senses. Somehow he swallowed, choking down the vile crud that was suffocating him. He opened his mouth, desperate for more, and snatched the bottle, gulping down the liquid it contained with the desperation of a starving newborn. Then he collapsed, his face hitting the ground.
He lay there then, his breath coming in painful shallow gasps. The macadam was blissfully cool on his cheek, and he felt the first chill of the night air seep into his scorched body. He had nothing left, and he went still, his eyes shut against the pain.
He had no idea how long he lay there before they came for him. Strong hands turned him on to his back, then eased him into a sitting position. His head lolled forward, but he forced himself to look up. It hurt, his eyes two orbs of pain, but he recognised the face that was in front of him.
Ballard rocked back on his haunches. ‘Are you alive, then?’
‘No.’ The single word was followed by another bout of coughing.
Ballard shook his head. ‘I thought you were dead.’
Jack did not try to speak. He just looked at Ballard. The officer’s face was streaked with soot, his pristine uniform filthy.
‘Here, drink some more of this.’ Ballard held another glass bottle to Jack’s lips.
He drank gratefully. Only when the bottle was drained did he stop. For the first time he noticed the flap of skin hanging from the palm of his right hand, which was covered with grotesque yellow blisters.
‘The boy?’ The words hurt him. But he had to know.
‘He lives, Jack. The boy lives. You saved him.’
Jack shook his head in denial. ‘No. It’s all my fault.’ The drink was reviving him. From somewhere he summoned the will to do more than lie on the road. He reached awkwardly with his left hand, using Ballard’s arm to help lever himself to his feet. His head swam and his vision greyed, but somehow he stayed there, his fingers clasped firmly on the sleeve of Ballard’s jacket.
The crowd cooed as they saw him rise. He could not tell if it was in approval or disappointment, but he did not care. He thought only of the small body lying no more than a yard away, and the woman who sat beside it.
‘Mary?’ He called to her, the words coming out as little more than a croak.
She turned at her name, staring at him as if he were a stranger, just a man from the crowd drawn like an oversized moth to the flames. Then her eyes narrowed and she looked away. But there had been enough time for him to see the loathing in the flat gaze.
Jack stared at the wreckage. It was no longer smoking, the persistence of the constant thin rain that had arrived in the small hours of the morning enough to dampen the last signs of the blaze that had destroyed the palace. The scorched timbers mocked him, the tumbled-down walls all that was left of his mother’s pride. There was little else left standing, the fire raging uncontrolled until the rain had come. The gaudy splendour of the palace had been consumed by the inferno that not one soul doubted was no accident.
Her body was gone, as was that of the Prussian, Schmitt. Jack had not spared himself the sight. He had stood with the rest of the onlookers as the husks had been dragged out, the twin lumps of twisted charcoal bearing no resemblance to the people they had been only the previous day. He had not intervened as they were taken away. His final glimpse of the woman who had given him life was a singed and blackened claw protruding from underneath the hemp sack that had been used to hide the hideous sight of her corpse from the dozens of children drawn to the wreckage.
The crowd had melted away now that the drama was long finished. Even the most persistent of the street sell
ers had packed up and gone, the opportunity to make a penny or two from working the crowd now past. Ballard and Palmer had left with them. They had spoken to Jack, he knew that, but their words were forgotten. He did not know where they had gone, or if they would return.
He heard the footsteps of someone coming to stand beside him. He had been left alone, the dispersing crowd steering a wide path around the man in the tattered officer’s scarlet. One kind soul, a woman he recognised as a regular of the palace, had come to him and bound strips of cloth around his raw and blistered right hand. She had departed, but still he did not move; he simply stood and stared, his mind empty of every thought except one.
‘You need to come away.’ Mary spoke with a voice devoid of compassion. ‘You’re doing nothing standing there.’
Jack did not acknowledge her presence. He continued his lonely vigil, his eyes tracing a path over the destruction.
‘You should be doing something. Not standing here in the rain.’
Jack could find nothing to say. He held his emotions close, already starting the process of burying them away.
‘You killed her. Near killed my boy, too.’
‘It’s my fault.’ The words hurt him. They were the first he had said for an age, and they tore through the ruined lining of his throat like razor blades.
‘Of course it’s your fault. I told you . . .’ Mary’s voice wavered, but her eyes blazed with a barely controlled anger. ‘I told you what would happen. But that didn’t stop you, because you knew better. You, with your fucking red coat, and your sword, and your bloody toy gun. You, the fucking war hero, knew better than me, a washed-up doxy with a bastard boy.’ Her hand rose, a single finger pointing towards the smouldering rubble. ‘You take a good long look at that. You see what you brought here. What you did.’
‘I know.’ Jack did not hide from the accusation. He told himself it meant nothing, the price that others had paid for his decisions just another notch alongside the hundreds already cut deep into his soul.
‘I said you were a cold bastard, Jack Lark. Your own mother dead and you don’t even shed a single damn tear.’ Mary’s lips twisted as she spoke, as if she were chewing on something foul.
Jack stayed silent. He knew death. They stood there side by side in the rain.
‘You killed your own mother.’ Mary broke the silence. ‘The one person in this world who loved you, and you killed her.’
Jack did not reply, but the words etched themselves deep in his soul. His mother had done her duty, had done the right thing by him. Hers had been a tough love; a love that was delivered with smacks and cuffs around the ear as much as with anything more caring. But she had loved him. It was why he had come back, and he had seen it again every day since he had returned. At least, he thought he had.
The grief settled. He stored it away, locking it up with the rest, his mind building the barriers around it that would keep it shackled and hidden. It would stay there, festering in the darkness, never forgotten, but at least constrained.
‘What are you going to do?’ Mary pulled at his arm, making him look at her. ‘Where will you go?’
Jack met her gaze. ‘I’m going to find him.’
‘Him? Shaw?’ Mary’s hand dropped to her side. ‘It’s over, Jack. He won. Look over there if you don’t believe it.’
Jack shrugged. He tasted the desire for revenge. It was flavoured with smoke, and with burning.
Mary’s gaze did not leave his face. ‘I have to get back.’
‘Where’s Billy?’
‘Maud took us in.’
Jack remembered that Maud was the woman who had bandaged his hand. She lived opposite the ginny, coming in a dozen times a day. His mother had sometimes let her help tidy up, even though the old lady was past doing anything useful for more than a few minutes at a stretch.
‘We can’t stay there,’ Mary continued. ‘The old dear hasn’t got two farthings. I need to find us a place, thanks to you.’
Jack shook his head, wincing in pain as he did so. ‘I’ll take care of you.’
‘Like you did before?’ The words came laced with scorn.
Jack could not meet her gaze. ‘I’ll see you right.’
‘You will.’ It was a statement, not a question.
Jack felt the exhaustion then. The need to find a place to rest was making itself known in every battered fibre of his being. He wanted to hide away, to bury himself somewhere until he could breathe without such agony.
‘I’m going back to my boy. I’ll wait for you to send for us. Like it or not, we are your responsibility now. You threw away everything we had, so you are going to make it right. You have to.’
Jack understood the anger behind her words. Yet he heard something else. He heard fear. Mary had lost her employment and her home. In the rookeries, that was enough to start a decline that would end on the streets. Without money, life became unsustainable. If she could not find work, then the only option was the living death of the poorhouse. Her child would be taken from her, severing the tie between them for life. Mary’s world had been shattered by the events of that evening; events that Jack had set in motion the minute he had taken his first step over the threshold of the palace all those weeks before.
‘I’ll do what is right.’ He gave the promise. He saw her chin lift, her battered, sorry pride still there.
‘You had better.’ She spoke firmly. There was no trace of grief, no hint of the approach of tears. Her words were as hard as iron.
He saw her head turn as someone approached them, the first to dare to do so. It was Palmer, his deerstalker held in front of his belly. His thick tweeds were covered with black smoke marks, but his face had been recently cleaned, although inky streaks remained behind his ears and under his chin.
‘Good evening, love.’ The large man addressed himself to Mary. ‘Is your boy recovering?’
‘He is,’ Mary replied with surprising politeness. ‘Thank you for what you did.’
‘It was nothing.’
Jack scowled. He saw Palmer look at the ground as he spoke to Mary. The older man appeared uncomfortable.
Mary smiled. ‘You saved him. I owe you my son’s life.’
‘I bloody saved him.’ Jack spat out the words, even though they hurt like the very devil.
‘You bloody put him there.’ Mary turned on him, her thin smile twisting to a sneer.
‘It’s not Jack’s fault, love.’
It surprised Jack that Palmer would speak up for him. He tried to read the man’s expression. Palmer’s features showed the wear of his years. His broad nose had clearly been broken a number of times. The rest of the face was fleshy and covered with fine pockmarks, the legacy of some childhood illness. Jack had never seen him look anything other than composed, no matter the situation. Yet now he seemed as awkward as a boy asking to hold a whore’s tits for the first time.
‘It bloody well is his fault.’ The sharpness returned to Mary’s tongue. ‘I warned him what would happen, but he is too bottle-head stupid to listen. Now his own mother is dead, and her blood is on his hands as surely as if he had cut her throat himself.’
Palmer winced at the tirade. He did not argue his point and turned instead to face Jack. ‘The major told me to tell you that he has found you lodgings.’ He dipped his head as he looked at Mary. ‘For you too, love, and your lad. I am to take you there.’
‘Now?’
‘Now. It’s not far.’ Palmer addressed himself to Mary. ‘You want me to help with the boy?’
Mary nodded. ‘He’s not got the strength. Not yet. You’ll have to carry him.’
‘All right.’ Palmer was unconcerned.
‘Is this place clean?’ Mary asked, a hint of uncertainty in her voice.
‘It’s clean enough.’
‘I’ll go get him ready.’ She flicked a finger in Jack’s direction. ‘That useless loaf can show you where we are.’ She did not bother to look at him, but lifted her tattered skirt and walked quickly away to prepare her son for t
he move.
‘She doesn’t like you very much.’ Palmer made the observation when Mary was far enough away not to hear him.
‘No. Not any more.’
‘Pity. She’s a tidy one.’
Jack had no interest in Palmer’s opinion. ‘You need to find him.’
‘Who’s that then?’
‘The man who did this. The man you let go.’
Palmer barked with laughter. ‘What? You wanted me to snuff him out?’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m not a murderer. I leave that to you.’ Palmer’s eyes narrowed as he spoke.
‘Unless the Devil tells you to.’
‘Aye. Maybe.’ Palmer did not bat an eyelid at the accusation.
‘So find him.’
‘Only if the major tells me to.’
Jack felt the first stirrings of anger. ‘Why’s that? Can’t you do anything without his say-so?’
‘I reckon I know what I’m about.’ Palmer’s voice did not change. ‘I don’t need you telling me what’s what.’
‘So that’s it? Don’t you have a mind of your own?’
Palmer said nothing.
‘Fuck me.’ Jack sagged. He felt broken. ‘You’re nothing but a useless fucking toady.’
Palmer laughed off the accusation. ‘And you ain’t nothing but a mewling turd. I’ll let you off, for the moment. I reckon that smoke addled your wits, such as you had.’ He leaned forward, his face looming towards Jack’s. ‘But call me that again and so help me I’ll rip your fucking throat out.’
He pulled away and stood straight. ‘You’d better show me this house where that poor woman’s boy is laid up. Then you can follow me.’ He gave Jack a grim smile, then gestured with his hand to encourage him to move.
Jack looked at the calmness in Palmer’s eyes. They both knew the older man could make good on his threat with one hand tied behind his back. He did what he was told and went to find Mary and her boy.
The Last Legionnaire Page 9
