“Some other time, perhaps,” Clarkson said, tagging along behind him.
“Yes,” Billings mumbled. “Some other time.”
3. The Duke of Avondale
After spending several hours trudging the filthy slums of the East End with Clarkson, Billings was tired and thirsty. He walked out of Sloane Square underground station and saw a group of renters loitering outside the New Court Theatre. The sight of these young men reminded him that there was a pub around the corner where people of his persuasion tended to go. It was a perfectly ordinary-looking pub, in a quiet street behind the theatre. Nobody would think, upon seeing it, that it catered to a certain kind of clientele. In fact, Billings was sure that many straight and respectable theatre-goers must have had a drink or two there before a show and never suspected that they had just visited a notorious den of sin and vice.
Billings had been meaning to visit the Duke of Avondale for a while now. In fact, he had wandered past it several times before, with his heart pounding in his chest, but had never summoned enough courage to enter it. Today, however, Billings had no energy left to waste on doubt and trepidation, so he walked straight to the pub, waltzed through its doors, pulled up a stool at the bar and ordered a drink. He picked up his pint of warm, frothy ale, took a large gulp and sighed. Putting his tankard back on the bar, he finally looked around at the other punters. He was disappointed to see that there were only three other people in there. A couple of renters sat at a table by the door. He knew they were renters because of their mismatched suits and excess of flashy accessories, such as rings, pocket watches and cuff-links. They were smoking cigarettes and laughing and whispering to each other.
There was also a soldier on the other end of the bar. From his scarlet tunic, Billings concluded that he was a Royal Fusilier. He was drinking whisky and must have had quite a few glasses already, because his face was flushed, and he was swaying on his barstool. The soldier caught Billings looking at him and winked. Billings looked away.
Billings frowned at the lack of people in the pub. He came here hoping to find friendship, companionship. Possibly even love. But perhaps he should have come on a theatre night, because this was clearly a bad day.
The renters were still looking at him and whispering to each other, arguing about who should accost him first. And the soldier was also still staring. Billings wasn’t interested in a quick, anonymous fuck. The few times he had attempted that in the past, he had felt dirty and depressed.
As he lifted the tankard to his lips to take another sip, he saw the soldier get off his stool and stumble towards him, holding his whisky glass in his hand.
“’Ello, mate,” the soldier said, taking a seat next to Billings. “What’s your name?”
Billings didn’t answer and looked away.
The soldier shrugged. “All right. No names. Who needs names anyway?” He leaned into Billings and whispered in his ear. “So, what are you after, mate?”
Billings didn’t understand and turned towards the soldier. “What?”
“I’ll do anything,” the soldier whispered. “And I’m clean and healthy, which is more than can be said for those two lads.” He nodded towards the renters at the door.
Billings frowned. “I’m not interested,” he said, looking away again.
“Sure you are. A randy young soldier like me.” Before Billings could do anything to prevent it, the soldier grabbed Billings’ hand and placed it on his crotch. “And rock hard too,” he added with a wink and a smile.
Billings quickly pulled his hand away. “I said, I’m not interested.”
“Come on, mate,” the soldier continued. “There’s a room upstairs. Two shillings and I’ll let you do anything you want.”
“I said no.” Billings stood up, grabbed his tankard and headed for one of the tables, but the soldier grabbed his arm and stopped him.
“Be a sport, mate,” the soldier said. “I’ve got a wife and two kids to look after. That ain’t easy on a soldier’s wage. Come upstairs with me and we’ll have a good time.”
“Let me go.” Billings tried pulling his arm away, but the soldier wouldn’t let go.
“You ain’t gonna get a better offer. Them two renters will charge you twice what I ask. And they’ll rob you too. One of them will go through your pockets while the other one offers you his arse.”
“I said let me go.”
“What you being so prudish for, mister? We both know what you came ’ere for. Let me wet your cock. I’m telling you, I’m clean. Went to the bath house especially this morning.”
Billings yanked his arm loose and marched off to one of the tables.
“Well, piss off then!” the soldier muttered and took another sip from his whisky glass.
At this point, somebody else entered the pub. A tall young man with thick black hair and blue eyes. Billings, the renters and the soldier all turned to look at him as he headed to the bar. He looked the worse for wear. His hair was ruffled, and there were large shadows under his eyes. The renters lost interest as soon as they saw the moth-eaten patches on his overcoat and the holes in his shoes. But Billings and the soldier were still staring.
“A glass o’ whisky, if you’d be so kind,” the young man said to the barman, holding a shilling in the air.
The soldier frowned upon hearing the lilt in the young man’s speech. “Fucking Paddy,” he mumbled.
The young man heard him and turned towards him. “What was da?”
“You’re Irish, aren’t you?”
“What if I am?”
The soldier didn’t answer him. He screwed up his face and turned towards the barman. “You’re not gonna allow that Paddy in here, are you? He’ll infect the whole place with lice!”
The barman stopped pouring the whisky and looked at the young man’s head with squinted eyes. “Have you got lice, boy?”
“No!” the young man answered indignantly.
“He’s lying,” the soldier said. “I can see them crawling on his head.”
“When was the last time you had a bath?” the barman asked.
“I had one last week.”
“Last week, my arse!” the soldier said. “He smells of piss and boiled cabbage!”
“You’d better go now, boy.” The barman poured the whisky back into the bottle. “There’s no Irish in this bar.”
“I didn’t see a sign on the door,” the young man protested.
“I don’t need a fucking sign! If I say there’s no Irish, there’s no Irish!”
The young man hesitated. He was still holding the coin in his fingers. He seemed taken aback by the barman’s hostility.
“Are you deaf?” the soldier asked. “Hop along now, Paddyman, and take your fucking lice with you!”
This was too much for the young man. Unable to contain himself any longer, he leapt at the soldier, grabbed him by the lapels of his tunic and pulled him off the stool. The barman was quick to intervene. Grabbing a knife from under the counter, he jumped over the bar and, without a moment’s hesitation, dug the knife into the young man’s thigh.
The young man yelped with pain and fell on the floor.
The soldier got up and dusted himself off. He looked at the Irishman writhing on the floorboards, holding his wounded leg in his hands. He laughed and began to sing and clap his hands. “Knick knack paddywhack, give the dog a bone, this old man went rolling home!”
While the two renters remained in their seats, watching the spectacle unfold, Billings jumped off his chair and rushed towards the young man.
“You’ve stabbed him,” he said, kneeling beside the man and inspecting the wound.
The barman stood over them, still holding the bloodstained knife in his hand.
“It was nothing,” he said. “The Paddyman is exaggerating. It was just a scratch.”
“This is more than a scratch.” Billings pressed his hands against the bleeding wound. “I need something to stop the bleeding.”
“Are you with him?” the barman asked.
“I don’t know him.”
“Well, take him out of here before he stains the whole floor with his blood.”
“But he needs medical assistance.”
“So take him to a bloody doctor! Just get him out of here!”
Billings gazed open-mouthed at the barman. How could he be so callous and uncaring? He thought of taking his police badge out of his coat pocket and arresting him for assault, but that would have been foolish. He’d have to answer awkward questions about what he was doing in a pub like that. It might even end up costing him his job.
“Come on,” he said, helping the young man back up on his feet. “There’s a chemist’s across the road. We’ll get you some bandages and alcohol for your wound.”
Together they stumbled out of the pub.
As Billings and the Irishman came out, they saw the chemist locking the shop’s door.
“Wait,” Billings called. “We need a bandage and some alcohol.”
The chemist turned to face him. He looked the young man up and down and frowned.
“Sorry, we’re closed. I open tomorrow at nine.” Sticking the keys in his pocket, he walked away.
It was clear that the shopkeeper had identified the young man as Irish, and that that was the reason he didn’t want to help. The young man did look very Irish: the black hair; the pale, freckled face; the diamond blue eyes.
Billings called after him. “But this man is injured!” He was about to run after the chemist, but the Irishman stopped him.
“Let him go,” he said. He sat down on the ground and inspected his wound. “It’s not that bad. I don’t think I’ll need any stitches.” He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and began wrapping it tightly around his wound.
“But you need to disinfect the wound.”
“I’ll figure something out.” Having tied the handkerchief around his leg, the young man pushed himself back onto his feet. “Thank you for your kindness,” he said and hopped away.
“Where are you going?”
“Don’t know.”
Billings went after him, grabbed his arm and stopped him.
“Where are you living?”
“Nowhere at the moment.”
“What do you mean, nowhere?”
The young man turned back to face him. “I was staying at a boarding house in Clerkenwell, but I got kicked out.”
“Why?”
“No money.”
“So where are you going to sleep now?”
“Don’t know. It’s a warm night. I’ll find a place.”
“You need to treat that wound.”
“Don’t you worry about me, sir. I’ll be fine.” The young man turned his back on the detective and continued hopping away.
“You’re coming back with me,” Billings decided.
The young man stopped and looked back. “What?”
“We’ll grab a cab and go back to Battersea. My landlady has a spare room. You can stay there.”
“You don’t have to do that, sir.”
“I can’t leave you like this.”
“Really, sir, I’ll be fine.”
“What’s your name?”
“Enoch, sir. Enoch McCain.”
“You’re coming back with me, Enoch.”
The cab dropped Billings and Enoch off at the end of Chelsea Bridge Road. Billings held the Irishman’s waist as they staggered towards Alexandra Avenue. He could feel the young man’s ribs and muscles through his threadbare shirt. Enoch’s arm was wrapped around his shoulder, and Billings could smell the sweat on the young man’s skin and feel his hair tickling his cheeks. With the young man’s head so close to his, Billings couldn’t help but stare at Enoch’s handsome, chiselled face. He felt a million butterflies flapping their wings in his stomach.
“What were you doing in Sloane Square?” Billings asked.
“I was looking for a job. I heard they needed a gardener in a house in Cadogan Gardens.”
“Did you get the job?”
“Did I fuck! I didn’t get past the housekeeper. As soon as she heard me accent, she told me to piss off!”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Billings understood how the young man was feeling. To all intents and purposes, he was a foreigner himself. He was born and raised in Africa by his missionary parents and had never felt at home in England. “Perhaps you should stay in the East End,” he suggested. “There are more people of your nation there. You’d feel more at home.”
“If I wanted to live in the slums, I’d have stayed in Dublin.”
“What… um…” Billings was about to ask the question he’d been longing to ask ever since he saw the Irishman enter the pub.
“Wha’?” Enoch asked.
Billings took a deep breath. “What were you doing in the Duke of Avondale?”
“The wha’?”
“The pub you were in.”
“I wanted to spend me last few pennies on a drink.”
“But why that particular pub? It was a little out of your way, wasn’t it? A little hidden.”
“What were you doing in it?”
Billings frowned. He hadn’t expected his question to backfire. “I happened to be in the area.”
“So did I.”
Billings frowned. Why wasn’t there an easier way to obtain the information he was after? He wanted to know whether Enoch was a mandrake, a maryann, a he-she, or whether he had wandered into that pub by accident. There certainly was something vaguely effeminate about him. A certain look in his eyes; a coy, girlish smile when he spoke.
“How long have you been in London?” Billings asked.
“Three weeks.”
“Why did you leave Ireland?”
“Why do you think? I came here for work, like everyone else. I didn’t realise we’d be hated so.”
“They don’t hate you. It’s just that there are so many of you over here now. And you’re all so unskilled, and poor, and…”
“Dirty.”
“I didn’t say dirty.”
“But I am. I lied about me bath in the pub. I haven’t had one in ages.”
Billings had no problems believing that. His clothes did smell of boiled cabbage.
“You can have a bath when we get home.”
“This really is very kind of you. I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay you.”
“You don’t need to repay me.”
“What is your name?”
“Billings. John Billings.”
Enoch stopped. “Well, John,” he said, looking at the detective and smiling that pretty smile of his. “I really am very grateful to you. You’re the first kind Englishman I’ve met since coming over here.”
Billings felt goose-bumps at hearing the young man pronounce his name. It had been a long time since anybody had called him by his first name.
“Good heavens!”
Mrs Appleby staggered backwards and put her hands to her mouth as Billings stumbled into the house with the wounded Irishman.
“What’s the meaning of this,” she cried.
“This is Enoch McCain,” Billings said.
“He’s bleeding!”
“He was stabbed. I’ve brought him here to treat his wound. Do you have a bandage and some alcohol?” Without waiting for his landlady’s reply, he dragged Enoch to the kitchen. While Mrs Appleby ran into the living room to retrieve the asked-for items, Billings sat Enoch down at the kitchen table, put his leg up on a chair and began cutting the trousers around his wound with a pair of scissors. “Don’t worry about the trousers,” he said. “I’ll give you a pair of my own.”
“You’re too kind.”
Mrs Appleby returned with a bandage in one hand and a small bottle of alcohol in the other.
“You really must tell me what’s going on, Mr Billings,” she said, putting the items down on the kitchen table. “Who is this man? What happened to him and why have you brought him here?”
“His name is Enoch McCain. He was stabbed during a pub brawl. The
chemist’s was closed, and it was easier to bring him here and treat the wound myself than to take him to the hospital. Pass me the alcohol, will you?”
“But how do you know him?”
“The alcohol, Mrs Appleby. And the bandage.”
Mrs Appleby passed him the items. “Well?”
“I don’t know him. I only just met him.”
“You only just met him?”
Billings opened the bottle and sprinkled a few drops of alcohol onto the bandage, then began wrapping it around Enoch’s leg. The Irishman winced with pain.
“Are you all right?” Billings asked.
“Yes, yes. Don’t you worry about me.”
Mrs Appleby looked on with horror and confusion. “What do you mean you only just met him?”
“I was in the pub when he got stabbed.”
The landlady gasped and put her hands to her mouth. “Good Lord! Did you arrest the man who stabbed him?”
“No, I didn’t.”
Enoch furrowed his brow and looked down at the detective. “Arrest him? What does she mean arrest him? Are you a policeman?”
“Keep still, will you. I’m trying to bandage your leg.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you’re a policeman?”
“I’m telling you now.”
Mrs Appleby cocked her head when she heard Enoch speak. “Where are you from?” she asked. “You sound Irish.”
“I’m from Galway.”
Mrs Appleby gasped and put her hands to her mouth again. “Mr Billings, I need to speak to you now!” She rushed to the door and stormed out of the kitchen.
Billings smiled apologetically at Enoch. “Excuse me,” he said. He finished bandaging the leg and joined his landlady in the hallway.
“What has got into you, Mr Billings!” Mrs Appleby’s face was red with anger. “Bringing a drunken Irishman to my home!”
“He’s not drunk.”
“Didn’t you say he was involved in a pub brawl?”
“He was attacked by a drunkard. But Enoch himself is not drunk.”
“Well, where does he live? Why didn’t you bring him to his home?”
“He has no home. He was kicked out of his boarding house in Clerkenwell.”
Anarchy Page 3
