Chris Nickson - At the Dying of the Year

Nottingham looked up thoughtfully. ‘I’ve asked her about him, about when he came after the children. Why?’

‘Have you asked her about him? Anything that might have stayed in her memory.’

‘No,’ he admitted slowly. ‘I was going to give the girl time to settle, then . . .’

‘Let’s go and talk to her. She might know something we can use.’ He gave a deep sigh of frustration. ‘Christ only knows we need some help.’

The Constable was already rising and putting on his greatcoat. ‘She trusts me, John. I’ll do it.’

‘Do you want me to come with you?’

‘No. It’ll be better if it’s just me and her.’

He walked purposefully, glancing over at the graves in the churchyard, picking two of them out immediately and feeling the yearning that had been there that morning and would still exist tomorrow and all the days that followed. The sleet stuck the hair to his scalp and a thin, cold trickle of water ran down the back of his neck.

His boots clattered on the boards of Timble Bridge and he turned on to Marsh Lane. The house was barely two hundred yards away, every stone and window familiar. He didn’t feel any joy at the sight, but it was still home, where the past had soaked into the walls, where he’d made notches in the door frames to mark how the girls grew each year, where Mary’s touch was there in every little thing.

He unlocked the door and entered, slipping off the coat and hanging it on the nail. When he turned, Lucy was there, standing at the entrance to the kitchen, a long knife in her hand. He understood.

‘I didn’t know who it was. I thought he’d come back . . .’

‘He won’t return,’ Nottingham assured her gently. ‘He did what he meant to do here. Come and sit down.’

She perched on the edge of the chair, as if she wasn’t sure she should really be there, and looked at him questioningly.

‘Are you letting me go?’

‘No, nothing like that.’ He smiled and her mouth twitched nervously. ‘I told you, you have a position here. I need you more than before, now that . . . my wife’s gone.’

‘Have I done summat wrong? Just tell me and it won’t happen again. I promise it won’t.’

‘You’ve been doing a grand job.’ He looked at her. ‘I want to ask you about Gabriel.’

‘I told you before.’

‘You saw him,’ he told her. ‘You talked to him.’

Lucy was silent.

‘What was he like? Was he gentle?’

‘Aye.’ She bit her lower lip. ‘It was like he could tell which were the weak ones. He’d make them promises until their eyes were shining.’

‘What kind of promises?’ The Constable sat forward, hands on his knees, listening intently.

‘You know,’ the girl answered. ‘Food. Somewhere to live. Somewhere warm.’ Lucy glanced at him. ‘When you lived out there, weren’t you allus cold?’

He nodded, remembering for the first time in years the way the weather gnawed at him back then, prickling his skin and burrowing into his marrow.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I was.’

‘I heard him talking to the young ones sometimes. It was like hearing someone tell a story about this lovely place where you want to go.’

‘Did he prefer younger children?’

‘He gave them little sugar things. They liked that. And they’d listen to him.’

‘Didn’t anyone try to stop him? To chase him away?’

‘What do you think? But we couldn’t watch the little ones all the time. He’d find them when we weren’t around. We’d warn them, but some of them would still believe him,’ Lucy said sadly.

‘What did he do when he talked to them?’

‘You mean did he touch them or owt like that?’

‘Yes.’

‘He’d just talk to them. But that was enough. You know?’

He knew all too well. When all you had from adults was shouts and threats, kind words and attention were like honey. Of course they’d listen.

‘He’d make it sound like they were going to get all these things. Food, clothes, somewhere warm to live.’ She paused. ‘He has a tongue made of sweetness. I’m just glad I didn’t meet him when I was little.’

‘You’re safe now,’ he told her.

‘Aye.’ She gave a small, sad smile. ‘I am. But what about them still out there? And the ones still to come?’

‘We’ll catch him.’

She raised her eyes and stared at him. ‘You’ve not done a good job of it so far, have you?’

‘No,’ he admitted.

‘Why don’t you just kill him? You know he killed all of them. You know he killed the mistress.’

‘Because that’s the law,’ he told her. ‘Both of them will die, but they’ll do it properly when a judge has pronounced sentence.’

‘And what if that doesn’t happen?’ she asked him.

‘I don’t know.’ Fury bristled inside him at the thought.

‘Then happen you’d better find an answer,’ she said sharply. ‘I don’t know how you can sit there and just talk about it.’ She blushed. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘What do you think?’ he asked quietly. ‘That I’m not hurting? That I don’t miss Mary? That I don’t feel responsible for what happened to her?’

‘I said I’m sorry.’

‘I’m the Constable. I have to keep to the law. If I don’t, why should anyone else?’

‘I know, but-’

‘There can’t be any buts. And you know the hardest part? They know that. They’re laughing at me.’

‘Because they have money.’

‘That’s part of it.’

She stood. ‘I need to start cooking.’ In the doorway she turned and said, ‘If you want justice, give me a knife and two minutes with them.’

He heard her moving around, the dull, metallic clack of pans as she started work. He curled his right hand into a fist then opened it again. He hadn’t told her what he really wanted to do to the men. He couldn’t speak about it to anyone. Once the words and the feelings came out he could never put them away again.

He was caught, bound by the law, stretched between what he wanted and what he had to do. A few would understand the truth, but he knew that most people would be like Lucy and see him doing nothing.

He felt hollow inside. They’d taken everything good in his soul. Doing anything at all took all his strength. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, wishing he could hear her footsteps above. Then he went back into the cold, bitter rain.

Rob stood in the doorway; it kept some of the sleet away. But by the time Emily came out of school his hat was soaked and his shoes sodden.

‘I didn’t know if you’d come out in this,’ she said, putting her arm through his.

‘Of course you knew,’ he said with a smile. There’d been no colour in her face since her mother died, he thought, and no joy or life in her words. They walked quickly, trying to avoid the horse dung that lay smeared and slimy on the street, not saying anything more until they were by the road that led from Kirkgate to the White Cloth Hall. He glanced across, seeing the bell pits neatly filled in, circles of dark earth on the grass.

‘Why did they do it?’ she asked, her voice lost and far away, and he wondered what he could tell her that might have any kind of reason to it. ‘She didn’t hurt them. She never hurt anyone.’ Emily turned to him, her face wet. ‘Why couldn’t Papa save her?’

‘He would have if he could,’ he said quietly. ‘You know that.’

‘And then he didn’t even want me to come home and be with him.’ He heard the desperate confusion and anger in her voice. ‘He wouldn’t let me see her.’

‘He was trying to protect you.’

‘I’m not a child,’ she said defiantly. ‘I saw my sister die. After that we were all together. Mama was there.’

They moved aside as a cart rushed up the street, one wheel dipping through a puddle and sending a small wave over the cobbles. The hem of her dress was already wet and dark, but she didn’t seem to notice it.