Perry Scrimshaw's Rite of Passage

by Chris Hannon

  ‘I told ya, he ain’t been round here. Now, drink your tea. Before I forget, there’s some clothes of yours in the old room. Pick ‘em up on your way out or I’ll chuck ‘em. We’re going to turn that room into a carpentry shop for Jack.’

  ‘Jack? That his name is it?’ Same as one of the littleuns he remembered with sadness. ‘He seemed alright, protective of you mind.’

  ‘Isn’t he just? Can’t believe me luck.’

  ‘I’m pleased things have worked out for you Ma.’ Though in truth Perry could have substituted the word “pleased” for “surprised”, he hadn’t expected anything of Ma except an early death, and the thought hadn’t saddened him at the time.

  She nodded. ‘Drink up, or it’ll get cold.’

  He visited his old room before he left. It was completely empty now, save the chest of drawers in the corner. He couldn’t believe that he’d briefly made this strange space his home. How long ago it all seemed now. Perry slid the top-drawer open and pulled out a pair of trousers. He dangled them from his waist - but they were too short now. Out of habit he checked the pockets, clasped something solid and pulled it out. It was Joel’s knife, his switchblade. He laughed in delight and flicked it open. The blade jutted out, dangerous and sharp. He snapped it shut and pocketed it; it might do as a deterrent if the street urchins were still lurking about.

  He thanked Ma for the tea and left. When Perry returned up Blue Anchor Lane, the street boys were scrapping with one another and Perry gladly skipped by them. He felt good, he had tried not to think about it while he was away, but he knew full well that if Eva had still been staying at Ma’s, it would mean all those horrible men visiting her, using her. And that thought was sickening.

  For lunch, Perry grabbed some tripe soup from a street vendor. The drizzle had stopped, replaced by a cold gusty wind. The months he’d spent working in the Madero docks, being baked nut brown by the sun already felt an age ago. Perry drank down the soup; it was far too salty and so hot it burnt the roof of his mouth. How he wished it were a spicy tomato locro instead. He finished it anyway, at least glad of some warmth in his belly. He knew where he must go next.

  The road out of town hugged the coastline and Perry, rubbing his hands together for warmth, wished he’d brought his frock coat with him. The rain had stopped at least and for that he was grateful. He passed a crooked brick cottage with a slanting slate roof, smoke rising out of the chimney. He peered inside, a family of four sat around the dinner table, eating dinner in the glow of their fire. It almost invited him to knock, to ask to join them by the fire and warm his hands.

  As he turned off the road and down the track to the sea, he half-wondered if he might run into Joel still chasing the skittering notes across the scrubland or bribing the guards for entry. He jogged, partly for warmth, partly for the idea that he might see Joel at the prison’s gate - but once the boxy institution was in sight his hope fell flat. There was no Joel and Birdshit Prison looked as formidable as ever. Time stood still in such places.

  At the guard booth by the main gate, Perry approached with his money ready to barter entry.

  He didn’t recognise the guard, a slack jawed fellow with a lazy eye. Perry explained his business.

  ‘And who are you here to see young man?’ he asked.

  ‘Samuel Scrimshaw.’

  The guard nodded and pursed his lips. ‘And you are?’

  ‘I’m his boy. Perry. Perry Scrimshaw.’

  The guard cast his eyes to the floor. ‘I’m sorry son.’

  ‘Why?’ Perry asked, but he already knew what the man was going to say.

  ‘I’m afraid your father is dead.’

  39

  Samuel Scrimshaw’s resting place was in a churchyard in Eastleigh, a short train ride from Southampton proper. To Perry’s mind, Eastleigh was a fitting and sensitively chosen place, not too far from the Bishopstoke guddling spot his father had taken him to as a boy. But when he set eyes on the church he realised the real reason why his father had been buried here; the cheapness of the grave plots. The sight of the church sickened him. It was a sorry crumbling affair and the graveyard, ringed as it was with splintered and rotting pickets, was losing its fight to contain the wild grass and weeds within.

  Perry waded through the undergrowth, brushed the grass fringe from a headstone face and scraped moss off to reveal a name and epitaph.

  Arthur Critchlow

  1845-1871

  A good man and husband

  He checked the next, then every row after that - all without finding his father’s plot. Then he noticed a huddle of makeshift wooden crosses in the corner of the graveyard by the picket. Some of the crosses were just snapped beanpoles lashed together. He shook his head, such little respect. In the farthest corner, shadowed with thistle and weed was the place he was looking for; a wooden cross, angled lazily into the ground with the initials S.S etched across the crucifix heart - as if it marked the grave of a ship rather than that of his own flesh and blood. Not even a proper headstone. Perry smouldered – if he were here he would have made damn sure that Samuel Scrimshaw got a better lot than that. He dropped to his knees and ripped the grass out in great tufts, tidying the grave plot in a haphazard way. The wetness soaked through to his knees as he continued ripping the grass through his tears.

  Perry rested his hand on the wooden cross, the cheap wood rough on his hands. It was enough to capsize him.

  ‘I swear to you God,’ he lifted his head to the heavens, the anger burning his throat, ‘and I promise you Pa. The thief who took a year of my life, who stopped you from…’ his voice choked, ‘seeing me again…and left you here in this…this…shithole!’ he looked about him, ‘I will make him pay with his life.’

  Downtown was heavy with the bustle of port life: boys weaved around the crowds playing chase and street hawkers yelled out. ‘Fish! Get your fish!’ and ‘Fresh Veg, right here! Come and get it!’

  Perry stalked across the road, eyes fixed on the window of a cream-coloured building. It was higher up than he remembered, this window that he and Eva had jumped down from to escape that bastard Dr Fairbanks. Presently, the blinds were pulled down and the window shut, but shadows flickered between the blind’s slats like the keys of a pianola. His heart raced – someone was inside. He felt the switchblade in his pocket, ran his finger over the catch ready to release the spring.

  Perry rounded the corner; his breathing grew heavy, his fingers sweaty around the knife in his pocket. He skipped up the steps and let himself inside. The man working on reception was a pudgy balding man, not the one Perry remembered, a Cecil or a Cyril? He couldn’t remember which.

  ‘Can I help you?’ the receptionist looked up from his desk.

  ‘To see Dr Fairbanks please,’ Perry said.

  ‘Dr Fairbanks? It’s been a good while since he was here.’

  ‘When will he be back? I can wait.’

  ‘No, you misunderstand. Dr Fairbanks retired, this is a dentist now.’

  ‘Oh,’ Perry slackened, took his hand from his pocket and scratched the back of his neck, ‘I’ve been abroad, brought something back for him. I was hoping to see him today.’

  ‘Not to worry,’ the receptionist opened a drawer and flicked through a sheaf of papers. ‘Ah, here we are. His address,’ the receptionist flattened it on the desk and copied it down onto a scrap of paper. He ripped it off and held it out to Perry.

  ‘Here you go lad.’

  ‘You’ve been most helpful.’

  On his way out he examined the paper in his palm, a half hour walk away.

  Evening fell and the moon was out early, casting soft shadows on Cuckoo Lane. Slimy leaves kept Perry’s footsteps silent as he crept along the perimeter wall of Dr Fairbank’s property. Above the wall, he spied a chimney belching out smoke – a good sign that Fairbanks was in – and spidery tree branches extending to the sky, some possible cover, or a means down into the property if he could get up the wall.

  He took a couple of steps back and ran at
the wall, planting his foot against the bricks, pushing up and reaching for the top with his fingertips. He couldn’t find purchase and slipped back, landing to the floor with a thud. The ground was cold and hard, but unperturbed he got up again, brushed the mud and leaves off his backside and lined up again.

  ‘Come on!’ he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet to psych himself up and pushed off, harder this time, attacking the wall with more power than before, pushing his hand up higher this time and catching the top with his fingertips. The strain of his whole weight ripped at him as he hung on the top of the wall. A fortnight ago he would have made easy work of it, but the sickness on the Olinda had weakened him. He scrambled and managed to get his second hand up with his first.

  ‘Ngh!’ he cried with the effort and hauled himself up the wall. Once on the top he rested there for a few beats, catching his breath. There was no tree near enough to clamber down, so he lowered his legs, then his arms, holding on to the ledge until the very last moment. He fell and landed on the floor with a crack, falling back on to the ground. He looked at the sky above and groaned, waiting to be hit by an explosion of pain. It didn’t come. Brushing twigs and small branches off his jumper, he got up, checked his pockets. The knife was still there.

  The orchard was a small one, apple trees he guessed from their stunted height, but it was hard to tell in the dark. Glad of their cover, he hid behind one and then dashed forth to the next until he was close to the house. All the upstairs windows were dark, but it was too early for bed. At the farthest window on the ground floor, a large woman flashed a knife up and down - the cook? Next to that there was a set of patio doors, dark behind. He crept low, staying in shadow and tried the patio door. Locked. Inside, a fire flickered its light on an empty armchair. He tried the window, slithering his fingers underneath and pushing up. It moved. He lifted it up, quietly as he could and listened for a moment. Chop - Chop came from the kitchen, the fire crackled and spat. Headfirst, he squirmed in like a snake and eased himself down silently onto the carpeted floor. He listened again until he was sure he’d not been heard, rose, and closed the window down behind him. He drew out his knife, flicked the blade open and held it in front of him, his arm steady, secure with purpose.

  The living room had two exits; one carried the sounds of kitchen work, Perry took the other. His breathing light and shallow, he crouched low when he got to the doorway and peered around the frame as a cat might. It was a study; a desk below the garden window had a set of candles, flames swaying. He stepped in and saw that it was no normal study, though it had dozens of shelves on each wall, only a few held books. The rest of the shelf space was filled with huge jars. Curious, he took one of the candles from the desk, cupped his hand around the flame and brought the light close. There was something black in the milky fluid, but he couldn’t see what. He gave it a tap with the tip of his blade, rocking the jar, agitating the liquid, making the black thing move inside, revolve round until he saw what it was; a tarantula.

  He jumped back with fright, dropping the candle, spilling wax over the floor. He waited a moment to check he hadn’t been heard, and relit the candle. What was this place? He took the light along the row of jars more carefully this time; seeing a lizard in one, what looked to be a pig’s ear, something stringy that looked like jellyfish tentacles in another and then a whole jar full of frogspawn, he peered more closely, no…they were eyeballs. What was all this? A man who could invent something as evil as The Sick and collect… he didn’t know what to call this collection of pickled horrors. Someone like this, he reasoned, wouldn’t think twice about kidnapping a boy and exiling him to South America.

  A sound stirred him from his thoughts. Someone was coming. He put the candle back on the desk and dashed behind the study door. Someone was humming a jolly tune. Fairbanks shuffled into the room, chewing as he hummed, a cup of tea in his hand. He looked just as Perry remembered – his white hair curling past his ears. Fairbanks placed the tea on his desk and the moment he slid into his seat, Perry made his move.

  He approached from behind and placed the tip of the blade against the old man’s neck. The humming stopped.

  ‘Make another sound and I’ll skewer you,’ Perry whispered.

  Fairbanks gave the faintest of nods, accompanied by the patter of liquid hitting the carpet.

  ‘Jesus,’ Perry was hit by the smell, but he kept the knife tight to his skin.

  ‘Are you done?’

  Fairbanks gave another faint nod.

  ‘Snuff those candles.’ Perry commanded, and Fairbanks did. ‘Now get up, no funny business, you’re going to close the study door.’

  Fairbanks raised his palms like he was being held at gunpoint.

  ‘Don’t turn around.’

  The pair shuffled awkwardly to the door in the dark.

  ‘Look,’ whispered Fairbanks, ‘you can take whatever you want.’

  ‘I will.’ The door clicked shut. ‘Now, back to your chair.’

  Fairbanks sunk into it.

  ‘Here’s what’s going to happen,’ Perry said softly, ‘I’ve got some questions. Tell the truth and you’ll leave here in one piece. Lie and I’ll cut off a finger each time. You make a sound and I’ll have your tongue. That clear?’

  The doctor gasped for words, bobbed his head up and down.

  ‘I’m trying to trace someone,’ Perry kept his voice low, growling, ‘think you knew the feller, name of Perry Scrimshaw.’

  ‘I know him,’ gasped the doctor.

  ‘How did you know him?’

  ‘Little toerag blackmailed me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Experiments!’ he wailed, ‘I ran experiments only one went wrong, I created something I couldn’t control. He found out somehow that I was responsible, threatened to tell the newspapers.’

  Fairbanks was scared shitless and the truth was pouring out of him.

  ‘Put your hand on the armrest, yes, that’s it,’ Perry rested his blade on Fairbank’s little finger.

  ‘But I’m telling you the truth!’

  ‘Shhh,’ Perry hushed, ‘I know you are. So far. I’m just getting the blade ready just in case, just so you know I mean business.’

  ‘Christ save me! I know you mean business.’

  ‘So tell me then, this little shit blackmails you. You don’t stand for it right? Don’t let him get away with it?’

  Fairbanks didn’t move. ‘He did get away with it, I gave him the money and that was that! He told me he was going to run away and I’ve not seen him since.’

  ‘But you had no guarantee he wouldn’t blab anyway?’

  ‘Yes I did,’ Fairbanks said quietly.

  ‘What?’

  Fairbanks gulped. ‘His father was in prison and I worked there - conducted some of my experiments there. I could have killed him.’

  Perry’s hand quavered, ready to drive through the finger. ‘And did you? Kill his father?’

  Fairbanks shook his head, ‘No. He died, but not at my hand. It was months ago.’

  Perry bit his lip to stifle the tears. He lifted the knife from Fairbank’s finger for a beat or two. ‘Did he suffer?’

  The doctor took a breath. ‘A little. I was with him towards the end, gave him painkillers to help.’

  Perry’s hands started to shake, he couldn’t bear the thought of his Pa dying in prison, suffering.

  ‘It’s you…isn’t it boy?’

  Perry took a step back, his lip quivering in the dark, Fairbanks span around. His face was dark and shadowy.

  ‘Perry? Dear lord boy what has driven you to do this?’

  ‘I thought you did it.’

  ‘Did what? Kill your father? I’ve done plenty of bad t-’

  ‘Not just that…I was attacked, day after you gave me the money.’

  ‘Attacked? Not by me,’ Fairbanks said, ‘I swear it.’

  Perry flipped the blade shut and pocketed it. He was muddled and didn’t know what to think now.

  ‘It’s the truth. I’m so
rry about your father.’

  ‘No you’re not.’

  A silence hung between them a few seconds. Then the doctor spoke: ‘You should know. It was your father who cured The Sick in the end.’

  ‘Cured it?’

  ‘Well, his antibodies anyway, I found a way of cultivating them to develop a cure.’

  He knew the doctor was saying anything he could to appease him, making his father out to be some hero. Perhaps he was in some small way.

  ‘All those that died were your fault,’ Perry said flatly.

  ‘I made amends.’

  ‘God will be the judge of that. Your life’s in his hands now, not mine.’

  Perry turned and walked to the study door,

  ‘Is that it then? Between us?’ Fairbanks asked.

  Perry swung the door open. ‘You should change your trousers before dinner.’

  40

  When he returned to the lodging house, there was an envelope on the floor in his room. Nobody knew he was here, did they? Stranger still, his name was on the front. Out of some miracle, Eva had found him! He ripped the envelope and in seconds gutted the letter for the important parts. Perry’s mouth fell open in surprise; it wasn’t from Eva but from solicitors, the same who had provided him the details of Samuel Scrimshaw’s resting place. The letter regarded the execution of Samuel Scrimshaw’s Will – the fact one even existed was a surprise in itself but second, the amount; five and a half guineas. No fortune for sure, but for him, plenty. With everything that was going on, removing the worry of running out of money was a welcome bunk up the wall. Perhaps it was even a sign from beyond the grave that his father approved of what he was trying to do.

  Fairbanks was convincing, but he couldn’t be completely sure. Perhaps it was that Fairbanks had directly threatened to kill his father, so exiling a boy didn’t seem much of a leap from there. But now he thought on it, Fairbanks was too old and weak to have knocked him out. Perry remembered Maxwell, the leader of the striking dockers, looking Perry in the eye and slicing his finger across his own throat. Maxwell, all crooked hat and bulbous nose. His big meaty hands could have easily beaten Perry and put him in a sack. Squishing an ant came to mind. Maxwell, it had to be Maxwell.