He heard the earl's voice again: Would'st be king? First rip out thine own heart ...
No, he thought. You were wrong. First rip out someone else's heart. Someone innocent and good. After that, everything else will be easy.
He pressed his palm to his chest.
He looked at the man in the painting.
"Done, old boy," he said. "At last."
Chapter 43
The ancient hackney cab Fiona Bristow was riding in slowed to a halt. "No, not here," she told the driver, leaning forward in her seat. "Further up."
"Aye, missus, I know where the Bark is, but this is as far as I go."
"But we're still a good half mile away!"
The driver shrugged. "I'm happy to take you back west, but if you want to go down the Bark, you're walking from here."
"I'll pay you double the fare. Triple."
The cabbie snorted. "You don't have money enough to get me down there. Now, are we turning 'round or are you getting out?"
Fiona angrily slapped coins into the man's hand, opened the cab's door, and stepped down onto the Ratcliff Highway, a dangerous stretch of road lined with tumbledown pubs, cheap lodging houses, and chandlers' shops. A lone gas lamp sputtered a few feet away, illuminating a wan child scurrying out of a pub with a jar of gin, and a man carrying a basket of rats. The cabbie cracked his whip. He urged his horse on, rounded a corner, and was gone. Fiona stood where he'd left her, biting her lip, until a man ap-proached her, hands behind his back, asking the time.
"Sorry, I've no watch," she said, setting off before he got too close. "Stu-pid!" she hissed at herself.
She'd purposely dressed down, choosing an old skirt and mismatched cotton jacket. She'd worn her hair as she had when she was a girl, coiled and pinned. And yet she'd still managed to call attention to herself, and that was a bad idea in Limehouse.
Go back, a voice inside urged as she hurried down the street. Now. While you still have a choice.
Fiona ignored it. There was no choice. Not for her. There never had been. She'd known this day would come ever since she discovered her brother was alive.
Charlie was hers. Hers. He belongs with me, with us, she said to herself. He doesn't belong here, to these streets, these people, this life. He belongs in our home. At our table. At every Sunday dinner. She thought of all the things Charlie had never known. The years in New York that she and Seamie had had with Michael and Mary Finnegan. Reuniting with Uncle Roddy. Watching Seamie grow up. Standing beside her on the day she mar-ried Joe. Welcoming Katie. They had been taken from him, these things, because he had been taken from them. But she was going to get him back. Somehow, she was going to get him back.
Fiona followed the highway until it turned into Narrow Street. She could feel the river's damp breath on her skin, hear the mournful clanging of the buoys. The walk down unfamiliar streets that were pitted and pocked would have challenged anyone, never mind a woman who was five months' pregnant, but Fiona persisted. Charlie was in danger--grave danger.
Freddie Lytton was on the warpath. He was suddenly everywhere, doing everything, all at once. Determined to hold on to the Tower Hamlets seat, he had been visiting soup kitchens, the docks, and Whitechapel pubs, shaking hands and kissing babies. He'd renewed his call for a crackdown on crime north and south of the river. Police sweeps were picking up beg-gars, vagrants, even truant children, and herding them into jail cells already overflowing with thieves, ponces, and murderers. Police officers had al-ready ransacked both the Taj and the Barkentine. Fiona knew this because it was in all the papers.
She had paid a discreet visit to Michael Bennett earlier in the day to find out what he knew. He'd told her that two days ago Lytton had person-ally walked into every police station in his constituency--and a few that were not--promising advancement to the man who helped him nab Sid Malone. Every newly minted constable looking to make rank, and every sergeant looking for a desk job at the Home office, was beating the streets, leaning on informers, trying to get something--anything--on Malone.
Fiona had left Bennett's office distraught. She'd decided then and there that she must find Charlie immediately. Tonight. Joe was in Leeds on busi-ness and wasn't due back until tomorrow. She knew his feelings about her brother, and felt tremendous guilt over what she was about to do, but Joe didn't understand: Charlie was family. As much a part of her as he himself was, and Katie, and the new baby sleeping under her heart.
As Fiona continued east, the gas lamps grew sparser and the ruts and potholes more plentiful. She picked her way carefully down the street, frightened of stumbling or wrenching her ankle, protective of her unborn child. She had tried to find her brother at the Taj, but had had no success. She'd also tried Ko's--Bennett had told her Charlie often put in an appearance there--but had had no luck there, either. Bennett had warned her away from the Bark, saying that unfamiliar faces were not welcome there, but Fiona had assumed he'd meant male faces. She couldn't imagine any of Charlie's crew, hard men all, would find a woman threatening. She planned to find the publican and ask him to tell Charlie that she was there. She was certain he'd see her. She wouldn't leave until he did.
She was only about twenty yards from the Bark when she heard the footsteps. Someone was following her; she was sure of it. She could see the pub and knew that she'd be all right if she could only make it there. She picked up her pace.
"Oi! Oi, missus," came a voice. "Wait!"
She didn't wait. She broke into a run, but it was too late. A hand closed on her arm, jerking her to a stop.
"Where's your manners, missus?" a rough voice said, spinning her around. "Didn't you hear us calling? We was trying to make your acquaintance."
"Let go of me!" Fiona said, trying to pry the fingers off her arm. They belonged to a heavyset man. A lad of no more than sixteen was with him.
"I'll have that," the man said, catching her left hand and pulling her wedding ring off her finger. He thrust his filthy hand into her skirt pocket, searching for money. Then he moved his hand inside the pocket, groping between her legs.
"Stop it!" she cried.
The man leered. "You're a pretty one, ain't you?" He pushed her against the wall of a dark, crumbling wharf and kissed her. His hands traveled over her breasts.
Fiona wrenched her face away, sickened and terrified.
The man turned to his companion. "Billy, go on in without me," he said. "Me and me new friend here are going to take a little stroll."
"Please!" Fiona screamed after the boy. "I'm pregnant. For God's sake, help me!"
Billy hesitated.
"Get out of here!" the other man shouted. Billy did as he was told, slinking off, head down.
Fiona screamed as loudly as she could, desperately hoping someone would hear her. The man slapped her. He grabbed her arm, twisting it behind her back until she cried out. "Any more noise and you'll get worse. Understand?"
"Please, please let me go," she sobbed. "For decency's sake."
"Never heard of her," the man said. "Move," he ordered, pushing Fiona toward a flight of wooden steps that hugged the Bark and led down to the water.
Fiona walked, her legs trembling. Don't anger him, she told herself. Don't provoke him. He'd hit her once; he'd do it again.
Halfway down the rickety wooden steps, she stumbled. The man jerked her upright by her twisted arm, sending another jolt of pain through her body. She cried out again. The man fumbled in his pocket. He took out a filthy handkerchief and gagged her.
Fiona's mind was racing, searching for a way out. Nobody knew where she was. He could do anything to her and no one would know. Her free hand slipped down protectively to her belly. No matter what, she had to survive. She had to make sure her baby survived.
She reached the end of the stairs, stepped down into the mud, and stopped. Still holding her arm, the man pushed her toward an old stone building that seemed to be sinking into the mud. She realized it was the Barkentine. He walked her to a narrow door at the far end of the building, opened it, a
nd dragged her in after him. It was dark inside. He fumbled in his pocket. She heard him strike a match and then a lantern hanging on the wall over her head was glowing.
With one swift, brutal motion, he tore open her jacket and blouse and then his hands were on her, all over her. Fiona wanted to scream with revulsion. She looked around as quickly as she could. She saw old, moldering barrels, coils of rope, a shovel, and in the far corner a flight of stairs. They led to the upper floors of the Bark, she was sure of it. If only she could get to them.
The man turned her around roughly and bent her over a beer barrel. She could feel the barrel's rim pressing into her belly. She tried to beg for her baby, but her words were muffled by the gag. The man held her wrists with one hand and lifted her skirts with the other. He tore off her knickers, then kicked her legs apart. Hot tears scalded her cheeks.
I'm sorry ...I'm sorry ... she sobbed wildly, thinking of her baby, of Katie, of Joe, but it was too late now.
The man unbuttoned his fly and pulled at himself, grunting. Fiona felt him against her. There was a sudden stamp of feet above them and the braying of an accordion. A mighty thump rattled the door at the top of the stairs. The man raised his head and glared at the ceiling, his small eyes nar-rowing. He grabbed Fiona's wrist and dragged her to the middle of the room. With her free hand she tugged at the gag, trying to pull it off, but he had knotted it tightly. Her fingers went to the knot, scrabbling at it.
The man bent down, grabbed an iron ring in the floor, and pulled. A trap-door opened. The lantern's flame cast just enough light for Fiona to see the top of a set of iron steps leading down into a deep black tunnel.
"Go on. Get down there," he said, motioning to the steps.
Fiona knew if she went into that tunnel she would never come back out. He would rape her and when he was finished he would kill her. She thought of her daughter, and her husband, of never seeing them again, and then she lunged at the man, clawing at his eyes.
He fell backward and hit the floor hard, surprised by the suddenness of her attack. Fiona fell with him, but his body broke her fall. She quickly scrambled away, stood up, and used both hands to tear at the gag. She got it loose, tossed it away, and ran for the staircase. The man saw her and sprang to his feet, blocking her.
He nearly caught hold of her again but she was too quick for him. She backed away, opened her mouth, and screamed, "Help! Help me! Please, somebody!"
She stopped, waiting for the sound of footsteps, of voices. But there was nothing, only more raucous laughter, music, feet pounding out a hornpipe on the floorboards. No one was coming, no one would help her.
The man eyed her menacingly. "I'm not playing games. Get down those steps."
She screamed again and again, in fear, in an agony of remorse, in sor-row. And then, wondrously, the door at the top of the stairs opened.
"Help me! Please!" she shouted.
There were heavy footsteps on the stairway, and then a male voice, deeply Cockney, bellowed, "What's going on down here?"
A young man emerged from the stairwell into the dim light. He was thin and rangy-looking and Fiona was immediately afraid of him. She tried to run past him and up the stairs, but he grabbed her wrist.
"Hold on a mo', missus," he said. "What happened?"
"Please let me go," she sobbed, terrifled and hurting.
"In good time. I asked you what happened."
"He...he grabbed me in the street. He robbed me and then he... he forced me to--"
"Is that you, Frankie?" the man quickly cut in. "We was just havin' a bit of fun, that's all."
Frankie squinted at him, then said, "Well, if it ain't Ollie the nonce. Out of prison already?" His eyes went back to Fiona, taking in her ripped clothing, the marks on her face. "What's the matter, Olls? Can't find any kiddies to diddle?"
The man laughed nervously. "You take her first, Frankie. Go on. I'll have her afterward."
"Shut up, you filthy sod."
"Please," Fiona said. "I came here to see Sid. Sid Malone. I'm a friend of his. I have to see him. Can you take me to him?"
Frankie's face darkened. "You're with the doctor, ain't you?" he said. It sounded more like an accusation than a question.
"The doctor," Fiona repeated. She was frightened and confused. She hadn't understood the question.
"I thought so," Frankie said angrily. "You meddling bitches can't leave well enough alone, can you? Causing trouble wherever you go. But you don't care, do you? It's all a game to you. You enjoy slumming. Gives you a thrill, rubbing elbows with villains. Gives you something to talk about at your tea parties. Want to live the life, do you? Well, here you go, then."
Frankie released her wrist and picked up a barrel stave.
"No, please no," Fiona begged, raising her hands.
But it wasn't meant for her. Instead, Frankie swung the stave straight into her attacker's face. There was a wet, sickening crunch as his mouth exploded in a spray of blood, spit, and teeth.
Fiona screamed. She closed her eyes and pressed her hands over her ears, but she couldn't block out the man's cries. It went on and on and on, until she thought it would never stop. And then it became moaning, and then there was nothing, no sound at all. She lowered her hands and opened her eyes. The man, Ollie, was on the ground, motionless.
"No," she moaned. "Oh, God, no."
Frankie was standing over him, sides heaving. He dropped the stave, turned to her, and grinned. She was backed against the wall, crouched down. Frankie walked to her and crouched, too, until his face was only inches from her own.
"Enjoy that?" he asked. "Still want to mix in our world?"
"Please let me go," she sobbed, hysterical now. "Please."
"You've messed him right up, you lot," he said. "He's turning his back on his friends, his business. All because of you. He belongs here. With us. Not with you. So here's a message for you: Leave Sid Malone the fuck alone." He grabbed her chin. "Do you hear me?" he shouted.
Fiona tried to pull away from him, but he tightened his grip. "I said, Do you hear me?"
"Yes," she cried.
Frankie stood. "Go on. Get out of here," he said. Then he disappeared back up the stairs.
Fiona thought she would choke on the stench of death. Her head swam, her vision blurred. Faint and you're done for, a voice inside her said. Get up. For Katie's sake, for the baby's, get up!
She forced herself to stand. She was too afraid to climb the stairs, too afraid she would see him again if she did--Frankie. She hurried to the riverside door, past the motionless body and the blood puddled under it. She trudged through the river mud, pulled herself up the wooden steps that hugged the Barkentine, and found herself once again standing on the cob-blestones outside of the pub.
I'm alive, she thought. Thank God, I'm alive.
The realization, sudden and bracing, got her moving. She stumbled, started walking, then, hands holding her torn jacket together, she ran. As fast and as far as she could. Away from the Barkentine and what lay in its basement. Away from the man called Frankie. Away from her brother. Down Narrow Street and into the dark London night.
Chapter 44
India sat on an overturned tea chest in the Moskowitzes' yard. Her face was flushed. Her sleeves were rolled up. She had a howling child in a half-nelson.
"Martin! Stop your bloody squirming!" the child's mother yelled.
"Hold still now, Martin, that's it. I've got a sweetie for you if you do," India wheedled.
She aimed a pair of tweezers at Martin's right ear, willing her hand to be steady. Insert them just far enough and she could grasp the dark mass deep inside. Too far and she might puncture his eardrum.
Two chickens ran past, clucking loudly. Mrs. Moskowitz leaned out of the kitchen window and shouted for potatoes. A dog barked in the alley at the bottom of the yard. A cat screeched. Then a rubbish bin went over, clanging loudly against the cobblestones. India took a breath and shut it all out, her attention focused completely on the boy's tender ear.
"Do you like chocolate buttons, Martin?" she asked him, turning his head slightly to take better advantage of the light. "Or allsorts? I've lemon drops, too. And mint humbugs."
Martin stopped squirming at the mention of humbugs and India saw her chance. Two seconds later he was in his mother's arms, howling again, and India was examining the mass pinched between the prongs of her tweezers.
"A collar button," she said. "That explains the pain, Mrs. Meecher. We'll give the ear a wash with carbolic and you do the same at home for a week with salt water, and he'll soon be right as rain."
Martin sniffed loudly. "Humbugs," he said, eyeing India reproachfully. "I like humbugs."
Winter Rose, The Page 44
