James McGee - Resurrectionist

Jago saw Billy go down and slammed the cudgel towards Lemuel’s wrist. But he had been caught off guard and the swing failed to connect. As Lemuel twisted out of reach, Jago shot Samuel through his right eye. The ball exited from the back of Samuel’s skull sending a cascade of blood and brain across the wall behind him.

As the sound of the gunshot echoed around the room, Lemuel came off the bed with a howl of rage and scythed the razor towards Jago’s face. Jago jerked his head back. The razor missed him by a hair’s breadth. Such was the force of Lemuel’s attack that he almost overbalanced, which gave Jago his opening, enabling him to regain the initiative and smash the cudgel against the outside of Lemuel’s forearm. Lemuel shrieked as the bone snapped. The impetus of Lemuel’s forward motion, allied to Jago’s counter-attack, drove Lemuel to his knees. The razor fell from his fist. Wielding the expended pistol like a second club, Jago, with massive force, drove the butt hard against the back of Lemuel’s skull. There was a sound like eggshells splintering. With no change of expression, Jago followed through with the blackthorn and watched dispassionately as Lemuel Ragg’s nude corpse collapsed across the floorboards.

Jago stuck the pistol in his belt and moved quickly to the bed, knowing he was far too late. “Jesus, Billy,” he breathed. Billy Haig’s eyes were still open. There was a look of bafflement on his face. His lips moved soundlessly as he tried to speak. His body arched and his hands scrabbled helplessly at the wound in his neck. Blood was pouring between his fingers. Suddenly, he shuddered. His body sank back on to the bed and his hands grew still.

There was a moan and for a second Jago thought it was Billy and the hairs rose at the back of his neck, until he realized it was the girl. He drew back the edge of the blood-drenched sheet. A pair of green eyes looked beseechingly back at him. Jago reached out, saw the instinctive self-defensive withdrawal as the girl cringed away from his touch.

Moving Billy’s body aside, Jago lifted the girl from the bed. The quilt was on the floor. Hastily, he wrapped the compliant girl in its folds and carried her over to one of the room’s two chairs. “Don’t know if you can hear me, girl, but they ain’t going to harm you any more. You’ve Nathaniel’s word on that. Rest here. I’ll be back for you, I promise.”

Jago patted the girl on the shoulder. Then, with a last despairing glance at Billy’s blood-splattered body, he retrieved the cudgel, grabbed Samuel Ragg’s pistol from the nightstand, and ran from the room, leaving the smell of death behind him.

Hanratty was behind the taproom counter with his son, Lorchan, when he heard the gunshot. The sound of a door slamming had preceded it, but Hanratty hadn’t deemed the noise significant. Slamming doors weren’t an uncommon occurrence in the Dog and he put it down to the usual reason: a drunken argument. But a pistol shot was different.

“Christ!” Hanratty spat. “Bloody Raggs feudin’ again. I’ll have their guts.” Instructing Lorchan to hold the fort, he reached under the counter, where he kept his own pistol primed and loaded.

“Leave it,” a voice said. The order was accompanied by a sound Hanratty recognized as a pistol hammer being cocked. He straightened and turned slowly.

Micah was standing less than five paces away. He was holding a pistol in each hand. One was pointed at Hanratty’s chest; the other covered the taproom. Standing next to him was another, younger man with unruly hair and a pistol aimed at Lorchan’s heart.

“Hands on the counter,” Micah said. “Either of you moves, you die.”

Micah surveyed the room out of the corner of his eye. At this hour, the pub wasn’t full. It wasn’t pay night, so there was no line of sullen men queuing for wages. The cold winter weather had kept many of the Dog’s regulars at home. There were maybe a couple of dozen people in the taproom all told, and that included the molls and the serving girls. Several drinkers, having seen the brandished weapons, were already pushing their chairs back.

“On your way, gentlemen.” Micah’s voice, while not loud, penetrated all corners of the taproom.

“Who says?” a slurred voice enquired belligerently.

“ He does.” Micah nodded towards Hopkins.

Heads swivelled. With his free hand, Hopkins placed his police hat on his head and unfastened the remaining buttons on his jacket to reveal his other immediately recognizable badge of office, his bright scarlet waistcoat. Raising the pistol, he took a deep breath. “By the order of the Chief Magistrate, everyone is to vacate the premises.” The constable prayed no one could hear the quaver in his voice.

There were several sharp intakes of breath and a muted chorus of derogatory remarks.

“Now,” Micah warned, and fired one of his pistols into the ceiling.

One of the serving girls let out a scream.

The explosion and the scream had the desired effect. So much for the authority of the uniform, Hopkins thought, as he watched several chairs tip over in the scramble for the exit. I could have been togged up like a bloody general, and it would still be the guns that gave the orders.

The three house molls and the two serving girls remained. Sensing there’d be safety in numbers, they were huddled by the fire.

“What’s your game, cully?” Hanratty lifted his hand from the countertop. His eyes, while reflecting anger, also carried a calculating gleam.

“Did I say you could move?” Micah levelled his pistol at the bridge of Hanratty’s nose. He caught Hopkins’ eye and motioned towards the door.

Hopkins went to the door and locked it.

“Now you can move,” Micah said. “You can join the ladies by the hearth. That way I don’t have to worry about what you’re up to behind my back. Leave the pistol.”

“If you’re after the takings, you’ll be bleedin’ lucky.” Hanratty eyed Hopkins’ uniform, his brow furrowing. “Besides, I already paid this month’s dues to you bastards.” He had the sudden thought that their presence might well be connected with the gunshot upstairs, but for the moment he couldn’t think how.

“It’s not your takings we’re after,” Micah said.

Hanratty frowned. “What then? We just sit here?”

“That’s right,” Micah said, moving to the counter and exchanging his spent pistol for the one the publican had been reaching for. “And if either of you opens his mouth again, I’ll blow both your heads off.”

It occurred to Hopkins that for man who up until then had shown little sign of eloquence, Micah, when the mood took him, certainly had a way with words.

Maggett stumbled out of the privy, buttoning himself up. He was all fingers and thumbs. He’d heard the pistol shot while he was pissing in the back alleyway and recognized it for what it was and where above his head it had come from. The almost simultaneous screech of anger and the muffled thump that followed had been enough to send a warning to Maggett’s brain that danger might be imminent and evasive action was a priority.

The second shot came from a lot closer and it stopped Maggett in his tracks. Advancing slowly, he peered round the edge of the taproom door. The sight of the pistols being trained on the Hanrattys was enough to draw him back into the shadows, but it was the police uniform that removed all doubt the danger was real. He had to find Sawney.

Maggett retreated at speed down the passage. Passing the kitchen, he paused only to lift one of the heavy meat cleavers from the wall before setting off at a lumbering run towards the back stairs.

When the first shot rang out Lomax swore and muttered darkly, “There goes our element of surprise.”

Hawkwood said nothing. They were on the top floor. Unlike the floors beneath, there were no candles along the walls to show the way, but a skylight was set in the roof, allowing moonlight to filter down on to the landing.