James McGee - Resurrectionist

“You want me to take ’im downstairs, Rufus?” Maggett asked, though he didn’t look overjoyed at the prospect. The smell was getting worse with each passing minute.

Sawney nodded. “We can swab ’im down later.”

“What about the bastard outside?” Sal asked. She had recovered from her giggling fit. Her face was instantly serious.

“I’ll take a look,” Sawney said, and moved to the wall.

Attaching his right eye to the peephole, Sawney surveyed the taproom. The Runner, if that’s what he was, was still at his table, but as Sawney watched he pushed his chair back and rose to his feet. Suddenly, he paused and turned. For a moment, it seemed as though he was staring directly into Sawney’s eyes. Sawney’s breath caught in his throat. He knew there was no way he could be seen, but it had been a heart-stopping moment, nonetheless.

Sawney let go his breath as the tall, unsmiling man strode off through the tables, heading for the door to the street. He followed the black-coated figure’s progress, noting how calmly and easily the man moved through the crowded taproom. As he disappeared, Sawney stepped away from the wall and repositioned the light bracket.

“He’s on his way.” Sawney relit the candle and looked down at the body in the chair. “Stupid sod, thinkin’ I’d let the likes of him tell me what I should do!”

Sal and Maggett said nothing. When Sawney was off on one of his rants, it didn’t pay to interrupt.

But it seemed that was all Sawney had to say, on the subject of insubordination, at any rate. He turned to Maggett. “You had that word with Hanratty, right?”

Maggett nodded. “All done.”

Sawney nodded. “We’d best get busy then. I’ll go and get the cart. You take care of that — ” Sawney nodded towards the chair. “Check ’is pockets first. You never know, he might ’ave some spare cash. We can use it to give ’im a send-off. Let the bugger pay for ’is own bloody wake.”

A chill rain was falling as Hawkwood left the Dog. There were no street lamps. The insipid candle glow seeping from the pub’s small, square, smoke-blackened windows cast a leathery sheen across the saturated cobbles. Further down the street faint pinpricks of light the size of fireflies were all that could be seen through chinks in the rough wooden shutters of the adjacent tenements. The rest of the alley was as dark as a catacomb.

The heavy drizzle had driven most people indoors, though there were still a few hardy souls around. Through the murk he could make out vague, waterlogged shapes darting under the overhanging eaves in an attempt to stay dry. Heads bowed, their cast-down faces were little more than pale blurs in the shadows.

Hawkwood turned up the collar of his coat. The rain, cold and hard against his face, matched his mood.

A series of ear-splitting feline howls pierced the night. The din was followed by the sound of an object being thrown and a high-pitched shriek that ebbed away into an uneasy silence. The rain continued to fall.

A sickly smell was drifting along the alleyway. The city was full of such odours, but Hawkwood recognized the stench. It was the Fleet. After two nights of heavy rain, the river had burst its banks. Not that anyone referred to the Fleet as a river. Most people called it the Ditch. Though even that was a euphemism for a trough of filth that was no more than an open sewer. The Fleet didn’t flow so much as ooze. That was if it bothered to move at all. It was said the rats didn’t need to swim across the Fleet, they sauntered.

Some stretches ran below ground, but where the Fleet saw the light of day, such as the section that ran behind Field Lane, it was used as a dumping ground for every type of effluent matter, solid and liquid, that humans and animals could excrete, as well as discarded waste from the nearby meat markets. The smell hung over the confined streets and alleyways like a blanket. On some days, depending on the weather, the stink would carry for miles. Even for a city renowned for its foul odours, the Fleet was in a class of its own.

The smell did at least give Hawkwood his bearings. He was skirting the southern boundary of the district known as Jack Ketch’s Warren, in memory of the city’s former hangman. Most locals referred to it simply as the Warren. A labyrinthine web of narrow lanes and passages, the slum was aptly named.

Hawkwood hunched into his coat and tried to ignore the water dribbling uncomfortably down the inside of his collar. Holborn Bridge lay around the next corner. Once there, he would be back on the main thoroughfare and out of the midden. He looked up. A small uneven gap had appeared in the clouds. Framed in the opening, a round moon hung like a pearl-grey teardrop. Caught by the ghostly radiance, rooftops and chimney pots rose in stark silhouettes against the night sky. The rain pricked like tiny arrows against his skin while above him overspill from the gutters ran down the slatted walls of the tenement houses in bright ribbons of quicksilver.

The sound of a heavy tread to his right drew his attention; a boot heel striking the cobbles, someone else hurrying to escape the wet. Hawkwood was aware of an indistinct shape moving at the edge of his vision; a vague shadow tucking itself into the side of the alleyway, blurred behind the drifting curtain of rain.

Then, as the slit in the clouds widened, he saw a dark form detach itself from the shelter of a low archway. He caught, too, the dull gleam of metal as moonlight glanced off an object in the figure’s hand: some sort of hooked implement, held low and partially concealed.

He sensed rather than saw the second shadow materialize from the entrance to a dark passageway to his left, close to the end of the bridge’s low wooden railing, and knew immediately that this was more than two bedraggled pedestrians seeking shelter from the inclement weather. His suspicions were confirmed when he saw that the second man was also armed with a broad, oblong blade, some kind of cleaver.

Hawkwood was already turning, his left hand pulling aside the hem of his coat, allowing his right hand access to the ebony tipstaff. He pulled the baton free.

It was hard to make out specific features in the shadows. Both men wore cloth caps, pulled low, and short jackets, collars turned up, with neckerchiefs round the lower halves of their faces. The one to Hawkwood’s right was the closer of the two. Hawkwood had an impression of muscle and agility. It occurred to him that he should identify himself as a police officer, but in the darkness and the downpour and with the hook scything towards him, his first thought was purely of self-preservation.

Hawkwood turned aside, his right hand slamming the tipstaff against the side of the attacker’s wrist. The crack of ebony on bone seemed unnaturally loud even with the noise of the rain coming down. It was accompanied by a sharp exclamation of pain. He swung the baton again, a reverse strike against the attacker’s elbow, his full weight in the blow. There was another yell, followed by a ringing clatter as the metal hook struck the cobblestones and skidded across the alley floor. Without pause, Hawkwood pivoted on his left heel, his open coat swirling around him. Keeping his arm rigid, he drove the side of the tipstaff up against the base of his attacker’s nose. He felt the cartilage give way as the strike followed through, crushing the nasal bones, driving the splinters up and into the brain. It had been meant as a killing blow and the effect was devastating. It was as if the attacker had run into a brick wall. He simply stopped all forward momentum, fell to his knees and collapsed face down on to the cobbles.

Without pausing even to draw breath, Hawkwood spun. The second man had come closer but there was a noticeable hesitation in his step. Clearly, the speed of Hawkwood’s retaliation and the brutal force of his counter-attack had given this one pause for thought. He stared down at the figure sprawled motionless on the cobblestones.