Chris Nickson - Come the Fear

‘So what about my sister, then?’ Wendell asked.

‘Have you seen her lately?’

The man shook his head slowly and turned to the girl.

‘How long is it?’ he asked her. ‘Two months?’ She just looked back at him blankly. The deputy could see the garden of bruises on her arms and wondered how many more there’d be on her body. ‘Aye, two months, summat like that. Why?’

‘She’s missing. Your mam’s worried about her.’

‘Well, we’ve not seen her,’ he said, brushing the problem aside as if it had no importance. ‘She’s working for that man up at Town End.’

‘They dismissed her.’

‘Oh aye?’ For the moment there was a flicker of interest in his eyes.

‘Where do you work?’ Sedgwick asked.

Wendell looked at him. ‘What’s that matter to you?’ The man’s voice was surly.

‘I’m just curious.’ The deputy smiled. ‘It’s my job.’

‘The blacksmith on Swinegate. I’m a farrier.’

‘Good work, is it? Steady?’

‘It’s fair.’ The man kept his bulk close to Sedgwick, arms crossed over his chest.

‘I’d have thought you’d earn enough to afford somewhere better than this.’

‘You think what you like,’ Wendell said sullenly.

‘You know anywhere your sister could have gone?’

‘She’d have come here or gone to see me mam,’ he answered without hesitation. ‘We’re all the family she has.’

‘No one else?’

‘No.’ He paused. ‘You don’t know about our Lucy, do you?’

‘What do you mean?’ Sedgwick asked.

‘She’s a sweet lass, right enough, but she’s not all there in the head.’

‘She’s bloody simple,’ the girl muttered, but Wendell silenced her with a quick, vicious look.

Sedgwick waited for more.

‘I’d have looked after her if she’d come to me.’

‘She was pregnant,’ the deputy told him. ‘That’s why she was dismissed.’

‘I’ll look for her,’ Wendell said with a sharp nod.

‘That’s our job. .’ Sedgwick let the words trail away.

‘I said I’ll do it. You’re not family,’ the man said firmly, his jaw set, his gaze hard. ‘It’s different.’

There should have been no business done on a Sunday, no food or drink for sale on the Sabbath. But behind closed doors the alehouses and dram shops turned a pretty penny every night of the week. Where there was money to be made, God could easily be forgotten.

Lister had to try three places before he found William Cates. He knew the man would be out rather than face the deathly stillness of an evening at home with his parents and his pious brother, the pair of them as different as stone and water. Robert lived for business and the church, treating both as holy and cherishing profit as a sacrament. Will preferred the noise and liveliness of a crowd, the distraction and pleasure it brought. But he was the one with the natural gift for the wool trade. He could spot a good cloth at ten paces, knew who’d buy it from him and for how much. Robert did the work but Will filled the coffers.

Lister bought a mug of the alewife’s special brew and stood close to the fire. It was still chilly enough after dark to need heat even as each day grew a little warmer.

‘Rob, over here.’

He looked up and saw Cates wave. The men around him moved on their benches to make room.

‘We don’t often see you out on a Sunday,’ Cates laughed as he settled. ‘I thought you’d maybe taken religion.’

Lister smiled. ‘I don’t have the time any more. I’m working and I’m courting these days,’ he explained sheepishly.

The men all laughed knowingly.

‘You should never let that stop you having a good time,’ Cates advised him, signalling to the pot boy for another jug. ‘Still, I suppose when you’re a Constable’s man, eh? You enjoying it?’

‘Best job I’ve ever had,’ Rob answered honestly.

‘And you’ve had a few in your short time.’

Lister grinned and took a long drink. He glanced at the others, chattering and joking, and leaned forward. ‘I wanted to see you, Will. Can you make a few minutes tomorrow?’

‘Me?’ Cates looked puzzled. ‘I suppose I can. Is it important?’

‘It’s probably nothing, but. .’

‘Work?’

‘My work,’ Rob said.

‘All right,’ Cates agreed after a moment, giving him a curious look. ‘The Rose and Crown at noon. We’ll get a parlour.’ He paused. ‘Are you sure it’s nothing bad?’

‘Don’t worry,’ Lister said. ‘I just thought it would be better away from the warehouse or home.’

Cates sat back and gave a hearty laugh. ‘The good things in life usually are.’

Rob finished his ale and stood up.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, and left.

The city was quiet, and a low, heavy moon hung over the horizon. As he walked home, hands pushed into the pockets of his breeches, Lister thought back to the afternoon with a smile. He and Emily had strolled out along the river, seeing the wild-flowers start to bloom and hearing the rich birdsong in the hedgerows. He’d led her into a copse and pulled her close, kissing her hard and feeling her body pushing against his.

They’d stopped, the way they always stopped, the pair of them flushed and guilty. He’d looked at her, seeing her eyes wide and expectant, her mouth so red. He’d stroked her hair and rested her head against his shoulder. Finally, once his heartbeat had slowed again, he’d led her back out into the sunshine to continue their ramble. They said nothing, the pressure of her hand tight on his, her small, thin fingers grasping him.

Later, at her door, he held her again, their passions cooler as the evening scents rose from the ground.

‘I love you,’ she said. He smiled and rubbed his fingertips against her cheek.

‘I love you,’ he told her and gave a small, dry laugh. ‘So now we’ve said it.’

‘I mean it, Rob.’ Her voice was earnest.

‘So do I. I’ve never told it to anyone before,’ he insisted. The men he knew didn’t love. Instead they valued girls for their fortune or position, for their beauty or the slimness of their waists. This was different, a strange land where he had no language. ‘But what do we do about it?’ he asked.

‘We just love each other, that’s all,’ she answered confidently. ‘And we don’t stop.’ She stood on tiptoe, put her lips against his, smiling, then opened the door and vanished inside.

He’d wandered back into Leeds feeling light and content, the gentle happiness still filling him as he unlocked the door on Lower Briggate. The smell of ink filled the place, seeping out of the room where his father wrote and printed the Leeds Mercury .

James Lister had purchased the newspaper the year before from the widow of its founder. He’d already been writing for it, penning idle pieces of gossip that saw print each week, but his income was solid enough not to need the money. Taking on the whole business had been a gamble, but one that seemed to be paying off. The Mercury had increased its profit in the last twelve months, and Lister was slowly altering the balance of news to make it a respectable local press. Rob had worked for his father briefly, trying to learn the trade. But he had no way with words, the backwards letters of the press confused him and he had no desire to end up as a printer’s devil, hands black with ink.

He made his way softly up the stairs. His mother would already be in her bed, ready to rise early and supervise the servants on the Monday wash. A light was still burning in the parlour and he saw his father, sitting and waiting, waistcoat unbuttoned to let his ample belly spread, a book open on his lap. It would be Defoe, he was willing to put his wages on it. It was always Defoe.