Chris Nickson - At the Dying of the Year

‘About the children. If any of them had lived here, maybe. If anyone might know a name or two.’

She shook her head. ‘You know what it’s like here. Some folk stay a day or two then move on. What were they like?’

He described the faces still lodged in his mind.

‘I’ll ask,’ Bessie said. ‘But don’t hold your breath. Any bastard who’ll do that deserves more than the rope.’

‘Thank you.’ If any of them knew anything, he knew she’d badger them until they told her. He brought a pie from the pocket of his coat and handed it to her. She accepted it as if it was her due, not charity.

‘It won’t go far,’ Lister said apologetically, looking at the faces gathered around the flames. There were more than the night before, their faces all pinched and hungry in the flickering light. There were men with the vacant look of the lost, as if they were slowly walking towards death, mothers with young children clutched against their breasts, families in rags and tatters huddled together for the comfort as much as the warmth.

‘It’ll feed a few. That’s a start, Mr Lister, that’s a start. You come back tomorrow and I’ll tell you if they know owt.’

If he was fortunate there’d be a word or two of help from the camp, he thought as he took the steps by the bridge and began to walk up Briggate. Light shone through gaps in the shutters at the Leeds Mercury and for a moment he hesitated, tempted to go over there and try to make some peace with his father. But each time before it had ended in an argument; why would this be any different?

He was almost at the jail when he heard someone running hard up the street. Hand on his cudgel, he waited. The man slowed as he came close, breath steaming wildly in the air.

‘You the Constable’s man?’ he gasped. Lister nodded. ‘Fight down at the Crown and Fleece.’

Rob hurried along Kirkgate, careful not to go too fast. It was always best to give them a little time, to let them hit each other for a while before he arrived. That way they had their pride from the fight, but most of them would be ready to end things. That’s what the deputy had taught him and he’d seen it was true. After a few minutes the fighters would have had their fill and their blood. But he still kept a tight hold on the cudgel, ready to break some heads.

The Crown and Fleece was set back from the street, close to the Cloth Hall, at the back of a small yard. It was usually an orderly house, just a small inn, neatly kept, and with a clean stable for horses. Lister pushed at the door and walked in. One man lay on the floor, his eyes closed, and another was yelling at the recruiting sergeant who stood in a corner, the battle lust red on his face, heavy fists ready.

‘Come on, then,’ he challenged the man in front of him, spittle flying from his mouth. ‘You were happy enough to take the King’s shilling earlier. You’re not going to back out now.’ He glanced at the man sprawled limply on the ground. ‘I’ll have you like him and I’ll march you both away.’

Lister rapped the cudgel on a bench, the sound sharp and harsh, making them stop and turn. ‘Enough,’ he shouted. ‘You,’ he said, pointing at the sergeant, ‘sit down. And you,’ he said to the other man, ‘over there.’

He waited until they’d obeyed, feeling the tension in the room beginning to fall. The man on the floor stirred, moaning and then turning on his side to vomit noisily.

‘Give me a good reason not to throw you all in the cells,’ Rob told the soldier coldly.

The man glared at him, brushed some dirt from the bright red uniform coat and took a long drink of ale before answering.

‘They wanted to join up.’ He nodded at the pair. ‘Look in their pockets, you’ll find the shilling they took. Then they changed their minds.’

‘Is that true?’ He glanced at the youth, sitting on a bench with his head in his hands.

The young man bobbed his head slowly, never looking up.

‘Then you’re a soldier now,’ Lister told him. ‘Same goes for your friend.’ He looked around the inn. ‘Anyone want to complain about that?’

Men shook their heads and contemplated their ale in silence. Lister caught the eye of the landlord, grinning as the man nodded his relief and appreciation. Usually it was visiting clerics and farmers who stayed at this place, men with quiet lives who didn’t raise their voices or their fists in anger.

The sergeant sat alone in the corner, grazes on his large knuckles, hat placed carefully on the bench beside him.

‘A word with you,’ Rob said, sliding across from him.

The soldier looked up, a sly smile on his face showing a row of rotten teeth. ‘Come to join up, have you? Better than being a Constable’s man.’

He ignored the comment. ‘How long are you staying in Leeds?’ he asked. There was no sign of the young drummer boy – long gone to sleep, he expected.

The man shrugged. ‘Another day, maybe two. Depends how many want to join the regiment.’ He picked carefully at a thread on his uniform coat. It was worn, but carefully looked after, each small rent sewn by skilled fingers. ‘It’s a good life, we’re stationed out in Gibraltar. All sun and warm weather.’ He stared at Rob. ‘And the girls there would love you.’

‘You might want to think about another inn,’ Rob advised him. He glanced at the men on the floor. ‘Somewhere they don’t mind a little rowdiness.’

The sergeant bristled. ‘I like the bed here.’

‘Then no repeats of tonight,’ Lister warned.

‘I didn’t start that. But once they begin, I finish it.’ The soldier clenched his fist.

‘No more,’ Rob ordered as he stood. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Grady,’ the man answered proudly. ‘Daniel Grady.

‘Then while you’re here, make sure you obey the law, Sergeant Grady. The cells can hold soldiers, too.’

He left the inn and walked back up to jail. There’d never be a shortage of those who thought home was too small for their dreams of glory. All they’d become was fodder for the cannons and the guns and the bayonet. The lucky few would come back intact. He’d seen them, sitting quiet in the inns, staring absently at some point beyond the gaze of others.

He made his midnight rounds, checking in with the men. Everything was quiet. Down by the bridge he heard the water rushing, and rested his elbows on the parapets. For a moment he closed his eyes and saw the faces of the dead children.

They needed to find the killer before others did. All through the evening he’d heard whispers and mutterings in the alehouses and on the corners, anger and outrage, men boasting of the things they’d do if they caught the murderer.

He cut along the Calls, going all the way to the church and coming back by the Crown. Everything was quiet there, the shutters tight, the gates to the yard locked. Lister smiled and carried on, the only sound his heels on the street.

It was still dark when he woke suddenly, as if someone had taken his hand and dragged him from the dream. The images in his head tattered to nothing so all that remained was the pain that had been with him ever since the knife entered his body.

Outside, a cold world had arrived. The ground was hard under his boots, the late moonlight showing a rime of frost on the fields. He used the stick to steady himself as he walked along the road and over Timble Bridge.

The return to work had exhausted him but he’d still lain awake long into the night, drifting between past and present as if no years separated them. He’d seen the faces of the dead in his mind, studied them until he knew the questions he needed to ask the children at the market. All he needed was to make them stop and listen to him. He remembered how adults always meant danger, how it was safer to avoid them as much as possible. He’d seen his face in the glass; he knew how he’d look to them and it wasn’t a handsome picture. He’d turned gaunt in his recovery, the years hanging heavy on his face. The hair he’d once been so proud of was more grey than blond now, and wiry to the touch. Still, he hoped wryly, perhaps they’d see the same fear in him that they felt themselves: that each night could be their last.