The Abstainer

by Ian McGuire

  Thompson nods and writes another note. His anger has disappeared as quickly as it came and O’Connor wonders if it was ever real or just a feint.

  “Tell me about the notebook,” he says.

  “Someone cut the pages. They attacked me near the Gaythorn Bridge. Knocked me senseless.”

  “And why didn’t you report the missing pages immediately?”

  “I didn’t realize they were gone.”

  “Until the next day?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And when you realized they were gone, it was too late. The informers were already dead.”

  O’Connor nods.

  “What did you think of Tommy Flanagan? Did you like him?”

  “You don’t have to like them.”

  “So you weren’t the least bit troubled when he was killed?”

  “I felt responsible for his murder.”

  Thompson looks surprised by this suggestion.

  “You were attacked without warning, you told me, knocked unconscious. What else could you have done?”

  “I might have realized sooner that the notebook had been tampered with, but I was distracted. The morning after the attack, my nephew arrived unexpectedly from America.”

  Thompson turns over a sheet of paper and puts his finger on the name.

  “Michael Sullivan?” he says.

  “That’s right.”

  “Who was the man who attacked you?”

  “I never saw him before. I know most of the Manchester Fenians by sight, but I didn’t recognize that one.”

  “And there were no other witnesses to this attack?”

  Thompson hesitates before the word attack as if its meaning might yet be in question, as if the attack might not have been an actual attack at all. O’Connor understands he is being goaded now, that Thompson would like him to lose his temper, say more than he wants to. He doesn’t believe they will do him any real harm, despite what Fazackerley said, but he is already tired of the game.

  “Shouldn’t you be out looking for Stephen Doyle instead of wasting your time with me?”

  “You just told me Stephen Doyle had escaped already.”

  “I told you he could have escaped.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “No more than you do.”

  Thompson gives back an agnostic half-smile.

  “I don’t know too much. That’s why I’m asking these questions. Manchester’s all new to me, I just came up from London yesterday on the train, but you’ve been here nearly a year now. Time to make all kinds of friendships, I’d say.”

  They look at each other again.

  “Did anyone else see what happened on Gaythorn Bridge?”

  “It was late at night. Dark. There was no one else around, but plenty of people saw the bruises afterward. You can ask Fazackerley about that, and Maybury too.”

  “A man can get himself injured in different kinds of ways, I suppose. You drink a little too much whiskey one night, for instance, say the wrong thing to the wrong fellow, and the next thing you know…”

  “I wasn’t drinking then,” O’Connor tells him.

  “But you’re drinking now, aren’t you? I can smell it on you.”

  He tilts his head back and sniffs the air to emphasize the point.

  “I’m not on duty,” O’Connor says. “I’m not even a policeman any longer.”

  Thompson nods his head in agreement. The coal shifts and rustles in the grate.

  “I’ve known enough drunkards in my time to form a clear opinion about that way of life. Do you want to know what my opinion is?”

  Thompson waits, as if he expects O’Connor to answer yes or no, but O’Connor says nothing.

  “My opinion is that the man who drinks to excess is too feeble to face life as it is. He lacks courage and character. He’s also, typically, a liar. So, you see, when you sit there smelling of liquor at noon and telling me you don’t know where the murderer Stephen Doyle is hiding or how he escaped, I don’t assume, based on my previous encounters with men of your type, that what you’re saying should necessarily be believed.”

  “I was attacked near the Gaythorn Bridge. They cut pages from my notebook and used the information they found to kill two men. Why would I lie about that?”

  “Without any witnesses, I have only your word for what happened, or didn’t happen, by the bridge. We know that the informers were betrayed, and we know that you were injured somehow, but that’s all. The story about the attack and the notebook hardly rings true. I think it’s more likely that you were threatened or persuaded by the Fenians and you gave up the names of the spies. You knew you would lose your position if the truth ever came out, so you made up a story to cover yourself. Then after that first lie, of course, the Fenians effectively had you in their power.”

  “That makes no sense,” O’Connor says. “If I was working with the Fenians, why would I prevent them from killing the mayor?”

  “It makes perfect sense. You didn’t want Maybury to use your nephew as a spy, but Maybury insisted. That put you in a difficult place. If you tell the Fenians about it, what will they do? Possibly they’ll kill Michael Sullivan, since they’re fond of killing spies, but even if they choose not to kill him, you can’t expect them to just play along and pretend they don’t know who he is and what he’s there for. So you decide to keep it a secret from them. After all, any information Sullivan gets will go through you and so you will be able to make sure nothing comes of it. Unfortunately for you, when Sullivan hears about the assassination plot he doesn’t just tell you, he writes it down. I’m guessing Frank Malone read the note before he delivered it. You claim now that it was your idea to go to Milk Street, but more likely it was his alone. You tried to stop him, I expect, but he wouldn’t listen. Then Malone is killed by Doyle, and you walk away entirely unharmed. I don’t know everything you said to him, but part of it was a promise to help him escape from Manchester, I’m certain of that.”

  He is testing me out, O’Connor thinks, seeing if I weaken any. The story is just wild guesswork, but he thinks if he scares me enough I might tell him something else he can use against me.

  “I know what you’re about. You’ve lost Stephen Doyle and you can’t put a fine gentleman like Palin in the dock, so you need someone else to blame. I’m not perfect, I have sins on my head as much as any man, but I did my duty and there are plenty around here can testify to that.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” Thompson says. “The fellows I’ve spoke to don’t hold you in high regard. They don’t like your manners or the things you say. They’re not certain you can be trusted.”

  “Speak to Fazackerley, then. He’s the one who knows me best.”

  “Sergeant Fazackerley says you’ve lost your way. He doesn’t know what’s got into you of late.”

  “He knows I’m not a traitor.”

  Thompson lets that question hang for a moment before speaking again.

  “You’re a smart enough fellow, O’Connor,” he says. “But you’re not nearly as smart as you think you are. Did you really believe you could just resign your post and walk away from all this?”

  O’Connor’s head is beginning to throb. Is this what he expected when he came into the room? This persistence? He can’t rightly remember. The cab ride from George Street already feels like something that happened months before. He wishes he could lie down somewhere and rest his eyes, but Thompson shows no sign of letting up. He is pleased with himself, O’Connor can tell, proud to have been chosen to clean the mess that other, lesser men have made. Beneath the calm surface, there is something brutal and relentless about him. He will do what is needed to satisfy whoever sent him here. He will find a truth, and if no truth exists, he will fashion one to suit.

  “Why did you go to Tib Street on the night after the murder whe
n, by all accounts, you were blind drunk? Why did you tell Walter Barton, falsely, that you had been sent as his replacement?”

  “I wanted to get my revenge on Stephen Doyle, and I thought it possible he would come there looking for Peter Rice. I was angry about what had happened to Frank Malone.”

  “Yet, after only an hour, you abandoned your post, and you were not seen again until the next day when you came in here to tender your resignation.”

  “I got tired of waiting. I went into the Old Fleece for a drink, then I spent the night with a woman. Her name is Mary Chandler and she lives on Diggle’s Court. If you go there, you’ll find her easily enough. She’ll tell you where I was.”

  “This Mary Chandler is a whore, I assume?”

  O’Connor nods.

  “And how often do you see her?”

  “That was the first time.”

  Thompson gives him a disbelieving look, then starts to write it down. His hand moves slowly across the page; he sniffs occasionally and pauses between sentences to be sure he’s got it right.

  “Is she Irish?” he asks.

  “She’s English. She has nothing to do with Doyle or the Fenians. Nothing at all.”

  “So she wasn’t important. That’s what you’re saying. Just something to do after the real business of the evening was finished with? After you’d got rid of Walter Barton, and left Peter Rice free to carry out the plan?”

  “What plan are you talking about?”

  Thompson puts down his pen, leans forward, and blows across the page to dry it.

  “The escape plan. I don’t know just what agreement you came to with Stephen Doyle,” he says, “but I know you went out of your way to make sure that no one was watching that butcher’s shop on Tib Street.”

  “They were only watching it in the first place because of me, because I told Doyle that Rice was the one who betrayed him.”

  Thompson nods.

  “The plan must have changed,” he says, “or something unexpected happened. Peter Rice was supposed to distract us, that’s clear to see, but then at the last minute he was needed, I’m guessing, so you had to find some way to get rid of whoever was watching him. The Fenians must have contacted you that afternoon, told you what to do, threatened you too most probably. Is that what started you drinking again?”

  O’Connor rubs his face and stares down at the floor. Has the decision already been made, he wonders, has he been singled out as the one to take the blame? He tells himself that can’t be true. The Londoners have not had enough time. But even the possibility scares him. As he sits there silently, he feels his strength and willpower seeping out through the pores of his skin like sweat.

  “I was shaken by Malone’s death. I was in distress. I needed something to calm my nerves. That’s why I took a drink. The only reason.”

  “You felt guilty, I expect, because you knew Malone would likely be shot, but you chose not to warn him?”

  “What happened that night was an accident. I didn’t know he would be shot.”

  “You went in there unarmed. What did you imagine you would find?”

  “It was a mistake,” he says quietly. “I made a mistake, that’s all.”

  Thompson looks at his pocket watch, then stands up and walks over to the door.

  “We’ll keep you here while we make more inquiries,” he says. “There’s a room upstairs that’s empty. You can wait in there. I’ll put a constable outside.”

  “I have other business to see to today. I can’t stay here.”

  “I could arrest you now and put you down in the cells. But the cells are still full of Fenians, so I’d prefer to avoid that course.”

  “You have no witnesses,” O’Connor says, “no evidence at all to back you up. No magistrate would take your story seriously as it is.”

  “That’s why you’ll stay here until more inquiries are carried out. If we find nothing else against you, then you’ll be free to go.”

  He turns the brass handle and pulls the door ajar. There is a man in uniform, whom O’Connor doesn’t recognize, waiting in the corridor outside. O’Connor gets up to leave. He is angry but also afraid. If the truth is all he has for protection, he knows it may not be enough.

  “You’re wrong about me,” he says. He is standing close enough that he can smell the oily sweetness of Thompson’s pomade. “I’m no more a traitor than you are.”

  “If you’re not a traitor, then you’re a great fool,” Thompson answers calmly. “We’ll find out which it is soon enough, I promise you that.”

  CHAPTER 24

  O’Connor is left alone for the rest of the afternoon. The room is empty aside from two bentwood chairs, a lopsided table, and several tea chests filled with broken boots and old uniforms. The narrow window looks out onto the gabled roof of the York Hotel. O’Connor sits on one of the chairs and smokes his pipe to pass the time. Occasionally, he stands up and walks around the perimeter of the room, then sits down again and groans, or keeps his eyes closed for minutes at a time as if trying to fall asleep. There is no fire in the grate and he is cold, but he doesn’t ask the constable standing outside for coal. He tells himself that this will be over soon enough. The other detectives may not like or trust him much, but he doesn’t believe they will go so far as to lie, and Fazackerley will speak up for him, he is sure. When Thompson finds there is nothing solid to support his notions, he will start to look elsewhere. He thinks of Rose Flanagan again and feels a sadness and a yearning out of proportion to the depth and duration of their acquaintance. When he thinks of her, he knows he is also thinking of Catherine and he wonders if he should be embarrassed or ashamed of this fact, and whether he is betraying his dead wife’s memory in some way, by allowing it to merge with these feelings for another woman who is young and still alive.

  The sky outside is turning dark when Fazackerley pays his visit. He is carrying a metal tray with soup and bread and a mug of tea. When he sees the condition of the room, he goes back out into the corridor and orders the constable to fetch a bucket of coal and an oil lamp from downstairs, then he puts the tray on the table, wipes the loose dirt off the empty chair with his forearm, and sits down. O’Connor blows on the soup, picks up the dented spoon, and starts to eat. He gazes at the mug of tea and fervently wishes it were something else.

  “Are the fellows up from London all like him?” he says.

  “I’d say Thompson’s the worst, but not by much.”

  “You’ve heard what he accused me of?”

  “He’s been in the parade room asking his questions, so everyone knows by now. I’ve told him it’s all a nonsense.”

  The soup is hot and salty. As O’Connor eats, pale lumps of turnip and pieces of gristly meat bob to its surface like jetsam on a brown and greasy tide. He dips the bread in the lees and gobbles it down, then puts the bowl up to his lips and drains the final drops. He didn’t know he was so hungry; since the interview with Thompson, he has been in a daze.

  “What about the others?” he asks. “What did they tell him?”

  “They’ve told him all they saw and heard, but that doesn’t amount to much. There are a few of them would be happy enough to see you in jail, but they’re not stupid enough to perjure themselves to get you there. I’d say Thompson will come to his senses soon enough and realize he’s wasting his time. If you stay patient and hold your tongue, you’ll likely be out of here tonight.”

  O’Connor thanks him and the two men shake hands. Fazackerley stands up and looks around the dim room as if committing its modest dimensions to memory.

  “Those cockney fellows don’t worry me,” he says. “I’ve seen their kind before. They’ll be gone soon enough. Then things will get back to the way they always were.”

  “Except without me,” O’Connor says.

  Fazackerley shrugs and looks off at an angle.

  “You we
re always a visitor here, Jimmy,” he says. “We both know that.”

  The constable comes back in with the bucket of coal and the oil lamp, and they watch as he lays a fire in the grate and lights it. O’Connor wishes, for a moment, that he had told Fazackerley more about himself, more about Catherine and the child they lost and the different ways they suffered afterward, but he realizes it is too late for that now. When Fazackerley remembers him in the future, he thinks, he will remember him only as the man who was there on the night Frank Malone was killed, the one who lost his head afterward and had to resign before he was dismissed. The rest of it will quickly be forgotten.

  The fire has taken hold and the soft warmth of it makes him drowsy. He smokes another pipe, then falls asleep in the chair. He is woken, hours later, by voices coming from the corridor and the rattle and creak of the knob being turned and the door being pushed open. He is expecting Thompson, or one of his men, come to tell him he is free to leave, but it is Sanders standing there instead, poised and rigid. He is bare-headed and collarless, and his shirtsleeves are rolled up to his elbow. His pinched face is a sour medley of amusement and disdain.

  “You’re to come with me, O’Connor,” he says. “I’m to take you down to the cells.”

  O’Connor hears more sounds of movement from the corridor and wonders who else is waiting outside, and what they are doing. He wonders if Thompson knows that Sanders is here, or whether this is a joke they have thought up by themselves.

  “Who sent you?” O’Connor asks him.

  “Inspector Thompson. I’m following his orders. He wants you in the cells.”

  “I won’t go to the cells. I haven’t been arrested, so there’s no cause to lock me up.”

  “You’ll be arrested when the time is right.”

  O’Connor shakes his head.

  “Where’s Fazackerley?”

  “Fazackerley’s gone home.”

  “I’ll talk to Thompson direct, then. We can go down to his office now.”