by Ian McGuire
Dixon calls for the waiter, and the waiter brings them two more whiskies and two pints of ale on top. Victor growls at him then barks, and Flanagan reaches down to scratch between his ears.
“Do you want to know where I got that money from?” Dixon says. “I’ll tell you the story if you’d like.”
“I thought you didn’t dare.”
Dixon leans forward across the table and whispers.
“I can’t give you the fellow’s name, but I’ll tell you what he looked like. Big American, he was, nasty scar on his face right there.”
Dixon jabs a forefinger into his cheek and smiles. Flanagan puts down his glass.
“You robbed him?” he says. “You robbed the American fellow?”
“Christ no. That’s not a man you’d ever want to rob. Try to rob a man like that and you’ll end up the worse for it. I partnered with him, that’s all. He needed something and I helped him get it, and he paid me nicely for my troubles. Very nicely indeed.”
Dixon is swaying a little in his seat, twitching occasionally and licking his lips now, like a dog tangled up in a dream. Flanagan finishes his ale and wipes his mouth with his sleeve. He knows very well there can only be one American of that description in Manchester. The fucker Doyle is everywhere, he thinks bitterly, everywhere at the same time. The man’s like the holy fucken ghost.
“What did he need?” he asks.
Dixon squints at him for a while, then wrinkles his nose and holds out his right hand, finger and thumb an inch or two apart.
“A little piece of paper,” he says. “A little piece of paper with some writing on it.”
“Writing?
“Names. Dates. Don’t ask me what it all means, that’s no business of mine, but let me tell you one thing.” He leans forward again and lowers his voice to a growl. “Some poor bastard’s going to catch it soon enough, and I’m fucking glad it’s not me.”
Flanagan picks up his glass and drinks from it, then realizes it is empty and puts it back down. His head is spinning. He can’t think what paper Stephen Doyle could possibly need that a man like Dixon could help him find, but if Doyle already has a plan of action, it must mean that things are further along than he feared. He shakes Dixon’s hand, ignoring his pleas to stay, and pushes his way through the crowd to the front door.
Outside, on Albert Street, he looks quickly left then right, but there is no one else about. He pushes Dixon’s money deeper into his pocket, pulls down the brim of his hat, and sets off walking. When he reaches King Street, he loiters for five minutes in a doorway until he is sure no one is watching for him, then crosses the road and goes into the Town Hall. He asks for Head Constable James O’Connor, and they write down his name and tell him to wait on a bench in the corridor. Nearly an hour passes, and then another policeman named Rogers comes out. Rogers, who is bald and portly and has a careless, cynical manner encouraged by years of being lied to by criminals, explains that Constable O’Connor is not on duty tonight.
“Then I’ll need to get a message to him,” Flanagan says.
“If you tell me, I’ll pass it on when I see him next.”
“When will that be?”
“Tomorrow or the day after, most likely. He had an accident. He’s resting up at home.”
“Give me the address. I’ll go there myself.”
Rogers sighs, as if Flanagan is a fool to even suggest such a thing.
“I can’t give you his address,” he says. “What’s this about?”
“I need help,” Flanagan says. “There’s a man named Stephen Doyle who’s intending to kill me.”
Rogers looks blandly unsurprised by this suggestion.
“I see, and has this fellow Doyle made any actual threats on your life? What has he said to you exactly?”
“It’s not what he’s said.”
“Then what is it?”
There is an aproned porter coming toward them from the far end of the corridor pushing a barrowful of papers. Every now and then the street door swings open and someone enters or leaves. Flanagan rubs his face and groans softly. He is not about to tell a man he has never seen before that he is a Fenian spy.
“I need to talk to O’Connor in person. He’s the one who’ll understand what’s going on.”
“If this Stephen Doyle hasn’t made any threats, then we can’t help you,” Rogers says. “We can’t arrest people on just anyone’s say-so.”
“I’m not just anyone,” Flanagan says. “I’ve been talking with O’Connor for months. I’ve been telling him things. Important things.”
“There’s plenty of people who tell us things,” Rogers says. “I’ve never heard O’Connor make special mention of any Thomas Flanagan.”
“Because it’s a secret, that’s why. Because no one else must know my name.”
Rogers shakes his head as if he has heard this kind of specious reasoning too many times before.
“You should come back tomorrow,” he says. “He’ll most likely be here tomorrow.”
“I can’t come in here again. It’s too dangerous for me. Tell him to meet me at the White Lion on Worsley Street near the jail. Tell him to meet me there at noon.”
“The White Lion,” Rogers says, nodding and turning away. “I’ll tell him that.”
Flanagan finds a cheap hotel near Piccadilly and takes a room under the name of Brierley. He explains to the proprietor that his luggage was stolen at the railway station and asks him for writing paper and ink. He needs to get a message to his sister to tell her that he is in trouble, that it will blow over eventually, but until it does he will be safest elsewhere. Rose will not be pleased with him, he knows that, but she will understand, and when he gets to wherever he is going he will send money back. Perhaps if he covers his tracks carefully enough, Rose and his mother could even join him eventually? It occurs to him that to have a policeman like O’Connor under a sense of obligation might not be such a bad thing after all—that so long as he escapes from this intact, he might end up better off than he was before. A brand-new life, he thinks, and why not? He writes the note to Rose and gives the night porter a shilling to have it delivered for him immediately. He smokes a pipe, then unlaces his boots and takes off his jacket. The room is warm and clean; the brass coal scuttle is full and the bedsheets look almost new. Perhaps he is not doing so badly after all.
At two o’clock, he is woken by the night porter with a note marked urgent. The note is signed James O’Connor, and it asks him to come immediately to the detective office in the Town Hall. Rogers must have seen sense in the end, Flanagan thinks. Most likely, he told his superiors about the visit, and they gave him a kick up the arse. He pulls his boots back on, laces them up, and tugs a comb through his tangled hair. It is raining outside, and he is still half asleep, but the walk will clear his head. He decides he will tell O’Connor that he wishes to live in Canada, and that he needs his sister and mother with him there. Manchester has never suited them much anyway. It’s a dirty, cramped, money-grubbing sort of place and he is sure they’ll be glad for the chance to get away.
Aside from the reeking, sloshing carts of the night soil men and the slumped forms of sleeping indigents, the streets are empty. Flanagan walks past an abandoned warehouse, its windows smashed to pieces and its lower walls covered over with the tattered remnants of fly posters hawking spring overcoats and beef extract. He can hear a dog barking in the distance and, closer to hand, the clacking of his own boot heels on the wet cobblestone. Rain is dripping off the brim of his hat and he smells coal gas and horse manure on the dampened wind. Five more minutes, and he will be there. He wonders for a moment how O’Connor knew where to send the message. Did Rogers have someone follow him over from the Town Hall? Strange if he did, he thinks, but how else?
He hears a sudden noise behind him and turns around. There is a man standing there wearing a long, dark overcoat and a discolored b
owler. He has thick gingerish whiskers and a bent nose.
“Patrick,” Flanagan says. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“You need to come with me now, Tommy,” the man says. “We need to have a talk.”
“Have a talk about what?”
“I think you know very well about what.”
Patrick Neary is one of Peter Rice’s men. He works dipping hides all day in the tannery by the boneworks.
“I don’t know what you’ve heard,” Flanagan says, “but there’s none of it’s true.”
“It’s not what I’ve heard that counts most here.”
“You don’t believe what Doyle tells you? You can’t believe all that shite.”
“I’ve got Skelly’s hansom cab waiting around that corner there. When we get you back to Ancoats, you can say your piece to Doyle direct.”
Flanagan doesn’t move. He could run, but he knows he wouldn’t get far.
“How did you know where to look for me?”
“We read the letter you sent to Rose. That was a stupid fucking move, I must say.”
“That letter was private between the two of us. You had no right.”
Neary snorts.
“Do you believe this is a game, Tommy?” he asks. “Is that what you believe?”
Flanagan stares back at him a moment. This is not the way it finishes, he thinks, it can’t be. Not here.
“You know what I’m like, Patrick,” he says. “I may be a fucken idiot sometimes, but I wouldn’t ever do anything to harm the cause. I’m loyal to a fault.”
The other man shakes his head.
“You were always a little bit too pleased with yourself, Tommy. I do know that for a fact.”
Flanagan nods. He holds himself steady a moment, then looks behind and sees Skelly’s ancient hansom cab, palled with horse steam and slickened with rainwater, creaking out from a side street like a hearse.
CHAPTER 6
Next morning, O’Connor takes Michael Sullivan into the Town Hall to tell his story. They wait outside in the corridor and then, when Maybury is ready for them, they go in together and Sullivan, who still looks pale and clammy from last night’s drink, tells about the man he met on the boat coming over. He talks too long and stumbles and repeats himself more than once, but Maybury hears him out. When he is finished, Maybury nods and looks at O’Connor.
“We just hanged three of the bastards and now they’re sending us over a fresh one. Should I be worried?”
“If it’s the same man Flanagan told me about, then they’ve sent him here to stir up trouble. It sounds like he’s a soldier and that means that whatever he gets up to, it’s liable to be more than just talk. If I knew his real name, I could find out more.”
“So arrest him on suspicion of something or other. Bring him in.”
“We’ll have to find him first. I believe I saw him at the funeral parade on Sunday, but aside from that all we have is the address on Rochdale Road, which is an alehouse the Fenians use. They have lookouts on every corner.”
“Send the lad Michael here. Why not? They won’t know he’s your nephew. He could get you the real name at least, I’d bet.”
O’Connor can see that this makes some sense, but the thought of being beholden to Michael Sullivan makes him wary.
“I’d rather not do that,” he says. “Not yet, anyway. Michael’s just a young fellow, not a policeman. If he goes in there and looks at them wrong or speaks out of turn, it could get dangerous. For now, I think we should get this man’s description out to every constable, and send telegrams to Liverpool and London to see if they know anything about him there. And I’ll talk to my informers today to find out if they have anything fresh.”
Maybury nods.
“Agreed. I’ll see to the telegrams myself and I’ll write to Dublin Castle too. Let me see: goes by the alias of Daniel Byrne; calls himself a draper; five foot ten or eleven; long dark hair, mustache, and scars on the right cheek. Is that the full description?”
“Yes, sir.”
Maybury slowly writes a note to himself, then puts down his pen and takes off his spectacles. He tilts his head to one side and gives O’Connor’s face a careful look.
“So you were robbed by two men. Robbed and beaten. That’s what I heard.”
“Yes, sir. Out near the Gaythorn Bridge night before last.”
“What did they take?”
“Some money, a pocket watch. The watch isn’t valuable, but it was a gift from my wife.”
“I didn’t realize you were ever married.”
“I’m a widower.”
Maybury nods as if things are beginning to make more sense to him now.
“For an Irishman, you’re not the luckiest fellow in the world, are you, Constable O’Connor?” he says.
“I’ve had my share of misfortunes, sir. It’s the truth.”
Maybury nods again, starts to smile, then thinks better of it.
“Well, I’m guessing the money and watch are long gone by now,” he says, “but I’ll put on an extra patrol in that area anyway, see what we can turn up.”
Back out in the corridor, O’Connor explains to Sullivan that if they ever arrest the American, he may be asked to come in to make an identification and recall the conversations they had together on the ship. But for now he should forget about all that and get on with finding a job and a place to lodge in Manchester. He gives him a sixpence for his dinner and makes him solemnly promise not to spend any of it on drink. Sullivan wants to talk some more about Maybury’s suggestion that he visit the Fenian alehouse, but O’Connor tells him that Maybury was not thinking straight when he said that and someone who is not a sworn constable could never be involved in that way.
When Fazackerley sees him walk into the detective office, he winces in sympathy.
“That’s nasty,” he says.
“You should have seen it before. I’ll be right soon enough.”
“You’d be better off in bed.”
O’Connor explains about Michael Sullivan and the man on the boat.
“Rogers left a note for you last night,” Fazackerley tells him. “I’ve got it somewhere here.”
O’Connor reads the note twice, turns it over, then looks at the clock.
“Do you know any Stephen Doyle?” he says.
Fazackerley thinks awhile, then shakes his head.
“Who is he?”
“I’ve no idea. One of my boys, Tommy Flanagan, came here at midnight asking for me and saying this man Doyle was threatening him, but the note doesn’t explain who he is.”
“Rogers will be back later on. You can ask him yourself.”
O’Connor hangs up his hat and coat on the black bentwood hat stand, sits down, and pours himself a cup of tea.
“Flanagan wouldn’t come here unless he was scared of something. It’s too big a risk.”
“It’s money, nine times out of ten, with that kind,” Fazackerley says. “He can’t pay whoever he owes, and he thinks, being the nice, generous fellow you are, if he asks sweetly enough, you’ll bail him out.”
“It could be that,” O’Connor says. “I’m meeting him at noon today, so I’ll find out the truth then, I suppose.”
He finishes his tea and stands up slowly. The effects of the laudanum he took with his breakfast seem to be fading already. He feels a jagged pain in his ribs and a sullen aching in his jaw.
“If Michael Sullivan comes here looking for me, you can tell him I’ll see him back at George Street.”
“Who’s Sullivan?”
O’Connor winces and rubs his face before answering.
“The nephew,” he says. “The one I told you about.”
* * *
—
He sits in the back room of the White Lion for an hour and a half, but there is no sig
n of Flanagan and no message. Tommy Flanagan has never missed a rendezvous before, and O’Connor starts to wonder what could have gone wrong. He pays the waiter, then walks over to Teasdale and Sons, the dust-caked and sarcophagal tobacconists on Withy Grove where Flanagan is employed as an occasional shop man. Henry Teasdale, the proprietor, is leaning on the counter reading the Manchester Times. When O’Connor asks about Flanagan, he shakes his head.
“Gone,” he says.
“Since when?”
“Two days ago. Last I heard, he was planning to sell his famous ratter, Victor, and travel abroad on the proceeds.”
“So he’s leaving Manchester. Are you certain of that?”
Teasdale closes the paper and looks up at him.
“You know Tommy Flanagan, do you?” he asks.
O’Connor nods.
“Because if you do know him, you’ll know that nothing is ever certain with Tommy. I heard he’s bound for the Continent, but if he ever gets much beyond Sheffield I’ll be amazed.”
“I owe him some money,” O’Connor explains. “I hoped to find him in here.”
Teasdale raises his eyebrows.
“The man who owes Tommy Flanagan money is a rare bird indeed. In my experience the obligation is usually the other way around.”
“Is that why he’s leaving Manchester? Is he being chased for money?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me, but I can’t say for sure.”
“Have you ever heard of Stephen Doyle?”
Teasdale shakes his head.
“Know a man named Arthur Doyle,” he says, “boot and shoemaker on Spear Street. Don’t know any Stephen Doyle, though. Who is he?”
“If you don’t know him, it doesn’t matter,” O’Connor says. “I’ll look for Tommy elsewhere. It’s not a big amount I owe him, but I like to pay my debts.”
“Then you’re a gentleman, and there are few enough of those around these days. Can I sell you a little pinch of something before you leave?”
O’Connor takes half a step back and glances around the shop. There are clay jars of tobacco and snuff lined up on the shelves behind Teasdale, and a glass-fronted cabinet to one side filled with a mishmash of pipe racks and cigar boxes. The yellowed walls and windows are covered over with dog-eared advertisements for Shag and Navy Cut. Everything is dark and grimy and the smell inside is brown and fierce.
