Chris Nickson - Come the Fear

Trestles lined the road all the way to the bridge over the Aire, and the deputy moved his gaze from side to side, eyes wary for pickpockets or the cutpurse who’d struck before. He stopped by the river, feeling the sun beginning to warm his face, and leaned against the parapet, watching the water flow.

He was tired to his marrow. Isabell was a bonny babe, but Christ, did she cry. He doubted he’d had a full night’s sleep since she’d been born. She’d come out screaming, as if she hadn’t wanted to leave Lizzie’s womb, and sometimes it seemed as if she’d barely stopped since. At least she was alive, better than her sister, stillborn and quickly put in the ground.

James, the son from his marriage, left by his wife when she vanished with a soldier, had never been like that. He’d been a tender baby, quiet, pliable. But having a little sister had changed him. He’d been used to all their attention, and now he didn’t have it the boy had turned wilder, sometimes gone all day and rarely heeding what they told him. Even the belt had little effect. It was one more thing to tear at his soul. But Lizzie was blossoming with it all, motherhood shining from her face even when she had precious little rest.

He started back up the street after the chimes had rung, long legs carrying him quickly, fascinated as ever by all the dealing done in whispers, the brief handshakes, the swift folding of a cloth to be moved to a warehouse. The bargain made, the merchant would move on, flitting from clothier to clothier like a bee at the flowers.

He stood and watched for a while, knowing he was seeing riches far beyond anything he’d own, and that the weavers would have little of it. Enough for more wool and to feed their families, to keep them working on the next cloth and the next. Most of the money would stay in the merchants’ strongrooms.

Finally he moved away, cutting through to the Calls to begin a circuit of the city, picking his way through the rubbish and the stink and listening to the raw, urgent voices of the poor.

‘I can walk you home once you’ve finished today,’ Lister offered. Emily smiled. She was dawdling outside the school, and he was making the most of their brief morning time together.

Finally she nodded her agreement, and he grinned.

‘You make sure you get enough sleep, though,’ she told him. ‘You know Papa, he won’t be happy if you’re too tired to work tonight.’

‘I will,’ he promised, holding up his palms in surrender. Rest would be no problem. As soon as he reached home he’d fall into his bed. The night had been so quiet that the hours had dragged like creaking ghosts; it had been all he could manage to stay awake.

He stood looking at her, filled with joy at the laughter in her eyes, the gentle curve of her mouth. He could trace her face in his sleep, feeling the soft down on her skin against his fingertips, the taste of her lips from their kisses.

‘I need to go in,’ she said. He nodded, reached out and stroked her hand for a moment.

‘I’ll be waiting for you this afternoon,’ Rob said, then turned before glancing back to see her vanishing through the door.

He made his way back down Briggate, easing through the crowds of servants and mistresses that moved between the trestles and the buildings until he reached the house a short way up from the bridge. The ground floor was his father’s business, filled with a large, cluttered desk, the printing press for the Leeds Mercury and bundles of paper. The dark smell of ink seemed to seep from the walls; he could still smell it after climbing the stairs, as if it had become a part of the building.

The rooms were empty, his mother out, his father busy somewhere, the servants working down in the kitchen. He closed his door, struggled out of his clothes and lay on the bed. He didn’t even care that the sun was shining full in through the window.

The Constable finished his daily report for the mayor, pushed the fringe out of his eyes, and strolled up to the Moot Hall where the business of Leeds was done. The building stood firm as a castle, right in the middle of Briggate, the Shambles on either side, filled with the hard iron tang of blood from the butchers’ shops, carcasses hanging in the windows, stray dogs clamouring and snapping for offal.

He walked through the thick wooden doors and up the stairs where the air smelled of polish, beeswax and leather. The deep Turkey carpet muffled his footfalls and the voices behind the walls seemed muted and respectful. At the end of the corridor he rapped on a door, waited and then entered.

John Douglas lowered his quill when Nottingham came in and pulled down on his long waistcoat. As the Constable sat he reached for his clay pipe and a tinder, lighting the tobacco and puffing it to life.

‘That’s better,’ he said with satisfaction, sitting back and watching the smoke rise towards the high ceiling. ‘I’ve been here since six and I’ll be here while six tonight. Never let them kid you it’s a sinecure, Richard.’

Nottingham smiled. Douglas had started his year in office in September, a man ill-suited for formality. He was in his early fifties, hair stubbled and grey under his wig, body thin as a sword blade; he wore a good suit carelessly, his stock roughly tied at the throat. He looked tired, diminished by the power that should have raised him. The skin sagged under his eyes and his mouth drooped downward in a frown. There was an air of exquisite sadness.

He was a merchant, a man with his coffers full, but he’d started life humbly enough, apprenticed to a draper, all his parents could afford. He’d worked his way up through intelligence and ambition, but he remembered his past.

‘You’re better off as Constable, believe me.’

‘Just not as rich.’

Douglas laughed. ‘Aye, maybe,’ he agreed. ‘Much crime yesterday?’

‘Precious little.’ He laid the paper on the desk. ‘Maybe they’re all enjoying spring.’

‘It’ll change,’ the mayor said. ‘You know that.’

Nottingham liked Douglas. He was the first in office to treat the Constable as an equal and his sense of ceremony was ramshackle. For all his complaints he seemed to enjoy the work, just not the pomp that came tied to it.

‘True,’ he admitted wryly, ‘but let’s pray they’re in no rush, eh?’

He ambled slowly back to the jail, savouring the mild warmth of the sun on his skin. All around him people seemed happy, smiling, glad to be out in the weather. But he couldn’t help feeling their joy was a brittle one, and could so easily be shattered into fragments.

Maybe he’d done this job too long, he thought as he settled back at his desk. Seeing so much sorrow and pain, it became hard to look beyond that for the good, and for the tiny, simple pleasures of life.

He spent the morning immersed in small jobs, sorting through old papers and cleaning. By the time he finished he felt a small satisfaction and the bell at the Parish Church was tolling noon. Nottingham slipped into his old coat, threadbare at the cuffs, and pulled the stock a little tighter at the neck. At the White Swan next door the ale would slake his thirst and the stew would fill his belly.

Sedgwick was already seated at a bench, a mug half-empty on the table, the remains of a bowl of pottage next to it.

‘Quiet morning?’ the Constable asked.

The deputy sighed.

‘Anyone would think they wanted us out of a job. Someone had his pocket picked up by the Market Cross and that’s been it.’

‘Did you catch the thief?’

‘Long gone, of course. Didn’t even have a description.’

‘Take a look around on the other side of the river this afternoon. See what’s going on over there.’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘Meanwhile I’ll go and find this new pimp of yours and make sure he understands how things work here.’