The Last Letter

by Kirsten McKenzie

  A man’s voice drifted in from somewhere past the fireplace.‘So, you’re alive then?’ Sarah struggled to find its origin, her eyes and mind not quite functioning as one yet.

  ‘I ... I can’t quite ...’ she trailed off, the effort of trying to talk sapping what little strength the fire’s heat had given her.

  ‘Get her a cup of tea, Jimmy – not in the good china, mind; just a mug’ll do,’ ordered the disembodied voice. The floor heaved a sigh of relief as Jimmy slinked off and disappeared out the door. The absence of his bulk allowed enough lantern light to reveal Joe in the rocking chair. Sarah tried to focus on this mountain of a man.

  ‘Thank you,’ Sarah managed.

  ‘No point thanking me till you’ve explained who you are and why you’re in our cellar, drinking our grog. There’s a bill to be paid you know, for the bottle you stole.’ The rhythmic rocking continued as he delivered the words, a plan forming in his entrepreneurial mind.

  ‘But I didn’t drink it, I only sipped it, once. It was ghastly,’ Sarah countered.

  ‘Be that as it may, can’t sell that bottle now, so you owes me a debt. To cover your board too. Not sure how you’re going to repay us for our hospitality, though I’ve had some thoughts on it while you’ve been sleeping.’

  Jimmy returned, a steaming mug of tea in his huge hands. He handed it to Sarah before scuttling away to the far corner of the room.

  Sarah did a double take as she registered the similarities between the two men, making Jimmy squirm under her scrutiny, till he could handle it no longer. ‘I’ll see to the chickens then, Joe,’ he said, edging out of the room, refusing to meet Sarah’s gaze.

  Joe nodded at Jimmy’s departing back. ‘He’s not so good with women. You take care not to bother him while you’re under our roof. Do what you’re told, leave Jimmy alone, and work off what you owes us, and we’ll all be fine. Cross me and ... well, then I’m within my rights to punish you for the theft of my liquor.’ Enjoying the sound of his own voice, he expanded on his ‘lecture’

  ‘Jimmy and me will have to rearrange some things to make room for you here. It’s a bother, but we’ll add that to what you owe. You’ll have to earn your keep. You finish that tea, then I’ll show you the kitchen, and the two of you can get acquainted in time for breakfast tomorrow. Idleness is a sin, and I cannot abide idleness.’

  The floor groaned as he stood up suddenly, moving closer to the bed. He leaned over Sarah, his odour mixing with the smoke from the fire, ‘Just know that there’s no point you trying to leave till you’ve paid me what you owe, some way or other. No one has ever said of me that I forgive a debt. No one.’

  He left the room, taking the lantern with him, closing the door hard enough behind him to cause one of the candles to sputter and die, like the hope in Sarah’s eyes.

  THE INVESTIGATION

  “The Metropolitan Police have concluded that there were no other persons involved in the killing of Leo Hayward, the clerk at Christie’s, other than the one man arrested at the scene. Mr Richard Grey of London City has been charged with murder, and released on bail under strict conditions, including the surrendering of his passport, pending trial to be heard next month. The Health and Safety Executive are continuing their investigation, and it is likely that Christie’s will face prosecution for not providing a safe work environment.’

  The article was short and to the point, omitting the gory details of the slaying. It ignored the splatters of blood on the frocks of the woman in the front row of Christie’s auction room, and the unfurling of a man’s intestines on an international stage.

  Sinclair carefully folded the newspaper, and slipped out of the café. In this century, he may be a bit backward, but he’d quickly understood that Grey out on bail might pose some difficulties. This time might not be the one he was born in, but revenge was surely as common now as it was in the colonies in the 1800s.

  He hurried down the street, his back prickling in anticipation – for what, he didn’t know, but he’d learned to trust his instincts. His tattered fighter’s ears attuned to any change in his environment, he sidled towards his squalid flat, checking first that all looked as he’d left it. The tenement was filled with the dregs of society, and Sinclair slotted right in. His peculiar ways were of little interest to the drug addicts, dealers, and mentally impaired residents who shared the building with him. This was a ‘cash up front, ask no questions’ place. As long as you had enough cash, you were in.

  Sinclair unlocked his door, shooting home the deadbolt behind him. His nose curled at the decaying scent pervading the room. Fuck it, he’d rather be back in New Zealand, without running water and electricity, than living in this hovel. Mind you, the ripe scent of mouldy carpets and filth-encrusted toilets – almost as bad as the long-drops back in Bruce Bay – was a small price to pay for hot showers and food he never believed could’ve existed. Anyway, until he found Sarah – Lester, Bell, or whatever the hell her name was – and, figured out how to get home, or decided if he wanted to, he was stuck.

  Checking the cigarette-stained curtains were tightly pulled, he flicked one of the magical ‘switches’ which illuminated the room. This never failed to cheer him, and he took a moment to admire the glow from the globe dangling from the discoloured ceiling, before he focused on the task at hand. Unzipping a sports bag, he pulled out his latest acquisition; a small handgun –as black as coal, well used and comfortable in his hand. There was no doubt he’d need it soon. It galled him no end that Stokes had made him ditch the last one in the Thames; a bloody stupid waste. The bag held a number of other things every modern ‘gentleman’ needed: boxes of ammunition; a small flick knife, easily concealed; a larger all-purpose butcher’s knife; duct tape; and clothing.

  He’d replaced his filthy antipodean rags once he’d made Grey’s acquaintance, though his new ensemble was not that different from the one he’d discarded, just cleaner and more modern, enabling him to merge seamlessly with the general population.

  He was constantly amazed how easy it was to walk out of shops with anything he desired, without paying. Most assistants seemed to be vacuous young girls with other things on their minds, and who never gave his ugly countenance a second glance. So he’d gone on a shoplifting spree around London.

  Unloading his five-finger discount ‘purchases’ into a set of wire baskets left by a former tenant, he changed into a more upmarket outfit – moss-coloured moleskin jeans, a lightweight sweater and a fancy wristwatch. Wearing this on his wrist was a novel feeling, and he kept glancing at the Casio as he pondered his next move. Today he’d go back to the antique shop. It might be fun living this modern time rather than going back to a life of bloody hard work in Bruce Bay, but he couldn’t enjoy it until he’d dealt with that bitch Sarah. Only then would he be able to prove to Grey that he’d repaid his debt. Then he’d be able to enjoy this new life, if he stayed.

  Of his son Samuel, he gave no thought.

  THE ARAB

  The gavel came down, and in the ensuing silence, came the gruffly spoken ‘Not Guilty’.

  With those two words, his life recommenced. He clasped the hands of his colleague, and those of his solicitor. The courtroom emptied. The spectators had been few. It hadn’t been a riveting case. Tax evasion was hardly the most exciting of trials, but for those involved, the verdict was as important as oxygen to life.

  ‘It could hardly have been anything else, now could it?’ Robert Williams uttered as the two men left the marbled halls of the Old Bailey, their heart rates back to normal.

  Samer Kurdi nodded.

  ‘My friend, I shall meet you at the theatre tonight.’ Robert slapped Samer firmly on his shoulder, before he strode off towards a waiting hackney coach. His mind was already on his next deal; the court case, an inconvenient distraction, dismissed from his mind.

  Samer stood for a moment, watching his friend and business partner leave. Turning, he walked off in the other direction, ignoring calls from cab drivers touting for business.


  He was headed for a specific street corner, where a particular paper was sold; one not commonly found in the London City railway stations. Small change handed over, he tucked The Crescent under his arm and strolled towards the Temple Gardens to a solitary bench overlooking the sluggish river. Finally alone, he tugged at the rigid collar of his uncomfortable English suit. He’d worn it so as not to cross His Lordship; even though, as a child, he’d always been taught not to judge only by appearances. If every parent taught the same lesson, the world would be a happier place. Now, he relished this small moment away from the mass of humanity inhabiting the filthy streets of London. A man with a newspaper, and a moment to himself, was a fine thing.

  The Crescent, A Weekly Record of Islam in England was the only newspaper he’d been able to find written for the Muslim community in England. Reading it each week made him feel that much closer to home, even though it was written by a converted Englishman, ‘Abdullah’ Quilliam, in Liverpool.

  It was all very fine; working hard, providing for a family – yet he had no family. No dependants of his own. He may as well still be living under his father’s opulent roof for all he had to show for his life to date.

  He lowered the paper as his mind drifted like the current of the river in front of him. He briefly considered Elizabeth, the daughter of his business partner Robert Williams. A beautiful young woman, with a mind of her own. She’d been blessed with her father’s good sense and strength of character. But could she be strong enough to marry a man from another culture, and live in a country completely foreign to her? Would her father give his blessing? He shook his head. It will never happen.

  To distract himself from these gloomy thoughts, he resumed his reading, skimming an article about the plight of illegitimate children born in Liverpool, and a brief request for ladies to join the local sewing circle, before he came upon an advertisement. A Mussulman, residing in England, was desirous of opening up correspondence with a view to doing business with Mussulmans in India or China, dealing in tea or spices. Intrigued, he marked the passage with the tiny silver pencil at the end of his watch chain.

  He was just about to close the paper, his interest piqued by a potential new business venture, when his eye skimmed a short article about a marriage which had taken place in the mosque in Liverpool. The bride was described as a wealthy English lady, heir to a title, who had renounced Christianity. The article bore all the vestiges of unbridled gossip which, in the future, would go on to become its own sordid industry, but it also contained one paragraph which caused him to raise his dark eyebrows. He underscored the words:

  “At the close of the ceremony, the bride and her sister, both closely veiled, and accompanied by her husband and a second gentleman, were driven away in a waiting carriage.”

  THE OFFICIAL

  Clifford Meredith swore under his breath, and stormed out of the emptying courtroom. At the two accused, he gave not a glance, his bitterness at the verdict palpable. The Crown’s solicitor stumbled behind, weighed down by boxes of evidence Meredith had conjured up against Robert Williams and Samer Kurdi.

  In Meredith’s eyes, Williams and Kurdi were as guilty as sin and, as God was his witness, he would make it his life’s mission to destroy them. Smugglers, both of them. Their fine clothes and posh houses couldn’t disguise that they were little better than the pickpockets infesting London’s streets.

  His face was flushed with anger and exertion. He wouldn’t normally walk this far, preferring to slouch in the back of a hansom cab whenever he had to travel. Walking through the filthy streets of London was not his style. He stopped, leaning on an ornate pilaster of some building whose owner was far above Meredith’s station.

  Catching his breath, his eye fell upon a pair of men struggling with a heavy wooden cabinet, sunlight flashing intermittently on its panes of glass as they awkwardly tried to manoeuvre the piece up a flight of steps and through the generous front door. The cabinet had clearly come from a home much more suited to its size than this inner city town house.

  Amused, he watched them struggling – it never once crossed his mind to offer assistance. As he stood there, he saw a woman come to the door, berating the workmen in a voice that only came with money and titles. The worst sort of voice, he thought.

  Her upper-class voice assaulted his ears.

  ‘You men be careful with that piece, it came back from India with Lord Grey. Now hurry up and get it inside before the weather turns. Utterly incompetent.’ With that, she vanished, leaving an equally pompous uniformed man to take control of the situation, but without lifting a finger himself.

  Meredith sniffed, disgusted at the whole scene. He spied a cab coming his way and hailed it. Climbing in, he issued curt instructions to deliver him back to the Customs House. He turned his face away from the ‘Big Stink’, as the Thames was colloquially known, choosing instead to cast his eye over the warehouses they were now passing. Almost all had endured his presence at one point or another. For some, he’d checked their paperwork or examined their cargo; for others, he’d had their staff arrested for smuggling. Small fry compared to his most recent case. But never let it be said that he, Clifford Meredith, would let any form of corruption go unpunished.

  He paid the driver, omitting any form of tip; let him work for his money was a mantra Meredith used every day. There’d be no handouts from him.

  Meredith walked through the building as if he himself were the Comptroller of Customs, instead of being one tiny cog in the wheels of bureaucracy. As he reached his office, he passed a young woman studiously filing various shipping manifests. Slapping her firmly on her backside, he ordered a cup of tea, and disappeared behind his desk, running his hands lovingly over the pile of folders awaiting his attention.

  ‘Come on, girl, a man could die of thirst around here,’ he called out officiously, unaware of the resemblance his tone bore to the woman he’d just seen berating her deliverymen.

  Now shuffling papers around his desk aimlessly he mulled over the day’s failure. Surely it is only a matter of time before Williams and Kurdi miscalculate? He drafted a memo for the typists, directing that all imports by Williams and Kurdi were to be stopped for full inspections. Satisfied, he leaned back in his chair, sipping the tea that the girl had finally delivered, his mind wandering through the various files on hand. Any one of them could lead to recognition by his senior officers and possible promotion. He’d been overlooked too many times now. And this Williams-Kurdi file had the potential to be a nail in his career coffin. He would do anything to ensure that that didn’t happen.

  THE TOWN

  The Jowls sang to the glory of God with lusty fervour, their piety as legendary as their illicit gin.

  Singing His praise was the highlight of the younger brother’s week. Under God’s watchful eye, Jimmy knew his place in life, and where his worldly body was headed when no longer required. Believing in Him was like hoarding money. With God and money, your soul was safe from torment and your earthly hunger assuaged. Jimmy needed nothing more in his life other than God, Joe and cash. And his brother made sure that they had plenty.

  After the service, Joe lingered to exchange banter and business jovially with the town ‘nobs’. Jimmy hung back. Talking to others made him uncomfortable, and he was nervous about the girl in their cellar. He wanted nothing to do with her, and was afraid he might let slip about her if he dared speak, even to the Minister’s wife; the only woman he felt remotely at ease with. She was married to God’s servant, so she was the one woman who would not try to lead him astray. No, best I wait here for Joe to finish. Later, away from their devil-filled women, these men – pillars of the community –would drink the Jowls’ gin, then fornicate with whores. Jimmy shook his head to dispel the evil crowding his head. Dear God, make it stop; it hurts, he thought miserably, holding his head in his hands.

  ‘Come on, Jimmy, let’s get home. We’ve things to do; just heard there’s trouble down south. That fool of a governor just declared martial law down Taranaki wa
y. There’ll be armed men up and down the country who’ll need the sort of refreshments we provide. Bloody hope that girl has sorted out some tea. I’m parched. He’s a good man that minister, but he does go on. Come on, stop dawdling – you’re to make some deliveries straight after.’

  The brothers, mirror images when asleep, looked poles apart as they walked home: one brother, shoulders back, head held high with the world in the palms of his meaty hands; the other, shoulders hunched, boots scuffing the dirt, trailing at least half a pace behind, eyes downcast.

  Joe stopped abruptly; Jimmy nearly bowled him over.

  ‘For the love of God, Jimmy, pick up those bloody feet of yours and walk like a man. Anyone would think you were walking to the gallows at that speed. D’ye want to get home for tea, or is it breakfast you’re after?’ Joe gave his brother a clip round the ear before he turned and carried on.

  Jimmy picked up the pace, although his shoulders remained hunched, under the weight of his brooding thoughts. Gaining on his brother, he asked, ‘You think keeping the girl is a good idea, Joe?’

  ‘Shh, don’t you talk about family business on the streets. What’ve I told you a hundred times before? Family business is for behind family doors.’

  Jimmy obediently fell into step with his brother up the rutted path to the house they’d built with their father. Soon, other settlers would realise that land on the hill, above the filth of the lower streets, was pre-mium real estate, but, for now, the seclusion was their friend.

  The silence inside was broken by the turning key, followed by the thumping of the tumbler falling open in the lock. They looked askance at one other, fully expecting to hear hammering or yelling, but heard only breathing – their breathing.