Alex Grecian - The Black Country

The man entered the chamber first, his arm held out, keeping the boy safe behind his own body. The American recognized the man. He had been on the train from London and had followed Campbell around the woods. This was the plainclothesman. The American’s eyes flicked over to the other London policeman, the one in uniform in the middle of the chamber, then back to the detective. Both he and the boy looked as if they’d had a rough time of it recently. The detective’s clothes were in tatters and the boy was barefoot, smudged with ash. They both peered around the chamber, taking in the scene. The boy gasped when he saw the American’s face, and he gasped again when he saw the dead man hanging from the ceiling. “Father!” He ran forward, but the detective caught him and held him back, eyeing the rifle, the American holding it loosely but with his finger ready on the trigger.

At the boy’s voice, the uniformed policeman stirred. He was on his feet, but had slumped against the hanged man, held upright by that swaying weight and an apparently boundless reserve of stubbornness.

“I’d like to check on my sergeant,” the detective said.

The American nodded and swung the Whitworth up, pointed it at the detective. “Go ahead. He was here when I got here. Both of ’em like that.”

The detective pushed the boy back in the shadows of the tunnel and whispered something. It sounded like the boy wanted to argue, but the detective stood his ground. He left the boy there, out of the American’s sight, and walked cautiously to the middle of the chamber floor. His eyes flicked here and there, taking in the two shallow graves, one old and one fresh, the signs of a campsite.

“My name is Day,” the detective said. “Inspector Day of the Yard.”

The American shrugged. It didn’t matter to him.

“And this is Sergeant Hammersmith.”

Day reached out and felt for a pulse in Hammersmith’s throat. He gently pulled the sergeant away from the dead man, and Hammersmith’s knees buckled. He fell against the detective and came awake. “No!” He scrambled back and tried to lift the dangling body up, but it was too much for him. He gazed upward at the swollen face of the dead man, ignoring the American and his rifle. “I thought I could. .” He turned on the detective. “What took you so long?”

“I didn’t know,” Day said. “How could I have known?”

“You couldn’t have saved him,” the American said. “Not on your own.”

Both policemen seemed startled by the realization that the American was still there. He smiled his too-wide smile, amused that they had forgotten him.

“I saw you in the woods last night,” Day said.

“That you did.”

“I’d feel better if you’d point that rifle somewhere else, sir.”

“Bet you would.” But the American kept the rifle aimed at Day’s midsection. He weighed his options. The Whitworth held a single shot. The smart move would be to kill the detective right away. Then he could use his knife to finish off the boy and the other policeman. Sergeant Hammersmith didn’t look like he could do much at the moment. The man was barely able to stay on his feet, leaning heavily against Day.

But the American thought of that bone sticking out of his ankle. He couldn’t maneuver well and wouldn’t be able to chase down anyone who ran.

And he didn’t have any grudge against these police. They’d only met Campbell the day before, and their behavior toward him, although viewed at a distance through a rifle scope, had seemed cool. They had no way of knowing about anything that the American had done over the course of the day and a half he’d spent on the outskirts of Blackhampton. And they might be able to help him find his way out of the tunnels.

He could always kill them later.

He stood carefully on his good foot and set the Whitworth upright against the wall, within easy reach. He extended his hand. “I apologize, mister. Used to being alone. Makes a man rude.”

Day shook his hand, clearly suspicious, but polite down to his bones. Trying not to stare at the American’s face. He loved the English and their good manners.

“Hope my cheek don’t bother you.”

“Not at all. Are you quite all right?”

“Old wound. Healed up, just ugly’s all.”

“I meant your foot. It looks painful.”

“I’ve suffered worse.”

“We need to cut him down,” Hammersmith said. He was still looking at the hanged man, still ignoring the American.

“Of course,” Day said. He looked around the chamber. “I have a knife, but I don’t think it’s up to the task.”

“Got a good one here,” the American said. He pulled his hunting knife from the sheath strapped to his thigh and held it out. For just a second, he considered plunging it into Day’s throat, using the element of surprise, and then taking his time with Hammersmith, but instead he flipped it around and offered the handle to Day. The detective’s eyes were narrowed, suspicious. As if he had somehow seen the American’s murderous impulse.

The American grinned at him, trusting his mutilated face to throw Day off, and it did. Day averted his gaze and took the knife.

“Help me lift him, would you?” Day said. “I mean, can you? Your ankle. .”

The American didn’t answer. He hopped forward and grabbed the dead man by the legs, hoisted him up until the rope went slack above. He heard the slap slap slap of bare feet on the packed soil behind him and let go of the hanged man, swiveled on his good foot in time to see the boy lift the Whitworth in one hand, balancing it by jamming it against his shoulder, his other arm useless in a sling.

“Rawhead and Bloody Bones!” The boy took aim and fired before the American could move. The chamber filled with a piercing whistle, and his chest blossomed red and pink and grey. He tried to take a breath, but nothing happened. He grinned at the boy, showed him it wasn’t so bad. Showed him all those teeth arrayed behind his butchered flesh, and then toppled facedown at the detective’s feet.

“He killed my father,” the boy said. “And he killed Oliver.”

The American tasted dirt and felt rough hands turning him over, saw the detective’s stricken expression, and wondered who the hell Oliver was.

And then he died.

They took the carriage apart.

Day used the shovel to break the axles, took off the uprights, and reduced the bed of the thing to about half its previous size by smashing through the planks all along its length. Hammersmith helped, as much as he could, but had to stop frequently to rest.

After Day took the rifle away from Peter (he gave it up without protest), the boy gentled the horse who had been frightened by the gunshot, while Day lashed the wide litter, all that remained of the carriage, to its harness.

Day left the boy and the horse to care for each other and he cut Sutton Price down from the ceiling. He had trouble loosening the rope, which had buried itself deep in Price’s flesh and had dislocated his skull, but he managed to cut it away with minimal additional damage to the corpse. He covered Price with the remnants of Day’s own ragged overcoat.

He and Hammersmith dug up the two graves.

The dirt that covered the fresh grave was easier to dig through, and they found little Virginia’s body quickly. Her lips were blue and her head lolled on its broken spine. Her hair and dress were streaked with dirt, and they both recognized a kinship between the tiny ruined gown she wore and the blood-spattered dress Hammersmith had found in the woods, but neither of them spoke as they carried her to the modified bed of the carriage and laid her there next to her father. Day did his best to distract Peter from the sight of his sister, but the boy saw her body and didn’t react. He looked away and turned his attention back to the horse, petting its muzzle. His lack of reaction bothered Day, but he had no idea what to do about it. Perhaps, given enough time, Peter would grieve and heal.