Andrew Pepper - The Revenge of Captain Paine

In the taproom Pyke retrieved his pistols and shirt from the landlord. He couldn’t see out of one eye and his head throbbed with pain, but apart from that he felt all right. He was alive. That was the most important thing.

The man with the coiled whiskers slapped him on the back. ‘That was quite a performance.’ But he was wary of Pyke now. There was fear in his voice.

‘The address.’

‘A half mile farther along this street, opposite the turn for Porter’s Field, there’s a brothel run by an old dowdy called Bennett. Trotter’s taken a room there.’

‘There’s another man called Bolter. He sometimes fights a mastiff, Copper, here. You know him?’

‘Aye, I seen him.’

‘But you don’t know where I can find him?’

The man shrugged apologetically.

Pyke tucked the pistols into his belt and turned to leave.

‘Why don’t you stay for a drink?’ the whiskered man called out. ‘Well, be careful, then. Trotter’s not a fella you want to turn your back on.’

But Pyke made it only a few steps out of the tavern before the effects of the fight, together with the alcohol and laudanum, caught up with him. He felt dizzy and nauseous, in no condition to take on someone as dangerous as Trotter. If the giant had come at him with fists like anvils, Trotter would be armed with pistols and knives. He found a scrub of land set back from the street with a ragged hawthorn bush in the middle of it. He lay down behind the bush, out of sight of the street, and within a few moments he had passed out.

A dog’s bark woke Pyke just before dawn. He sat upright and looked around him, trying to gather his bearings and remember where he was. The throbbing in his head had subsided to a dull ache but the bruise under his eye had swollen up still further, making it all but impossible for him to see out of it, and the inside of his mouth tasted as if a cat had defecated into it during the night. Standing up, he checked to make sure he still had his purse and the two pistols and gently touched the bruise under his eye. Through the rows of houses and derelict cottages he could just about see the river, dappled by the early morning sunlight. He stretched and let out a brief yawn. He didn’t feel good but he felt better than he had done when he had left the tavern. Tooley Street was deserted and it took him only ten minutes to walk to the brothel, a tenement building that had long since fallen into disrepair. His watch told him it was half-past five. It wasn’t likely there’d be anyone up at such an early hour, but if Trotter was there, and asleep, it would be a good time to surprise him.

It took him a few minutes of continuing banging on the door to raise the harridan who ran the brothel. Grumbling, she unbolted the door from the inside and peered around the edge of it. Pyke dug the barrel of his pistol into her cheek and whispered, ‘I just want Jimmy Trotter. Tell me where I can find his room and I’ll let you get back to bed. It’ll be like I was never even here. Nod your head once if you understand.’

She nodded.

‘Is he here?’

‘I don’t know,’ she croaked. ‘But he owes me a week’s rent. You can tell him that if you see him.’

Pyke pushed her back into the gloomy hallway and closed the door behind him. It smelled of fried fish and mould.

‘Which room?’ With the hand not holding the pistol, Pyke dug into his pocket and produced a half-crown.

That settled the matter. She snatched the coin from his hand and muttered, ‘Up the stairs to the back of the building. Last door on your right.’ Slamming the door behind her, she disappeared into her apartment. After that everything went quiet. He heard a mouse or a rat scurry across the floorboards above him and somewhere on the street a cockerel had begun to crow.

As quietly as he could, Pyke started to mount the rickety staircase, two steps at a time, his pistol still in his hand. A certain amount of creaking could not be avoided. At the top of the stairs he paused, to give his eyes time to adjust to the darkness, and surveyed the long, narrow passageway. It wasn’t fried fish he’d smelt earlier, he realised. It was the stink of stale sex. Halfway along the passageway Pyke hesitated again, this time because he heard voices in one of the rooms. A prostitute and her mark, he hoped. Startled by his presence, a tiny field mouse bolted from its hiding place and fled past him in the direction of the stairs. He edged farther along the passageway and waited, listening for any sounds. There were none. At the end of the passageway he stopped, checked to see his pistol was cocked and took a couple of breaths. The only sound he could hear was the beating of his own heart.

He kicked the door open with the heel of his boot and stepped into the tiny room. Jimmy Trotter, naked apart from a pair of underpants and his work boots, was urinating into a bucket. Bleary eyed, he looked up, startled at first, and then smiling. His beard and whiskers were more ragged and overgrown than Pyke remembered. He could have shot him then but he needed Trotter to answer some questions and perhaps Trotter sensed his indecision. Pyke raised the pistol to his face and said, ‘Move slowly and quietly back into the room and keep your hands where I see them.’

Trotter finished his piss, tapping his flaccid penis to get rid of the last drops.

‘Do you know where I can find my wife and child?’ Up close, Trotter had a pungent, feral scent, but his body was lean and hard.

‘Best place I’ve ever lived,’ he said, casually. ‘If I’m hard in the morning, I just go next door and get the biter to French-kiss me.’ His grin revealed gums that were black and bloody and his naked flesh was gnarled, like old leather.

‘I asked you a question. If you don’t answer, I’ll blow a hole in your face the size of a grapefruit.’

‘I don’t know anything about your piece…’ He licked his lips and raised his one good eye to meet Pyke’s stare. ‘Except I’ve heard she’s a screamer and she likes it hard and rough.’ Wiggling his hips to simulate the sex act, Trotter grinned more broadly. ‘I heard she likes to fuck horses, too.’

‘You move another muscle in your body and you’re dead.’ Pyke kept the pistol trained at Trotter’s head and thought about the unspeakable things Trotter had done to the old woman at the navvy camp in Huntingdon. ‘Tell me why you made a threat against her in St Paul’s.’

‘That upset you, eh?’

‘More than pulling the trigger and decorating the wall behind you with pieces of your skull.’ Pyke poked the end of the pistol harder into his cheek. ‘Who told you about my wife? And what were you doing following me?’ He had other questions, about the old woman in Huntingdon, the actor Johnny and Freddie Sutton and his wife, but he would start here.

When he moved, Trotter was as quick as a whip. In a single movement he picked up the metal bucket and hurled it as Pyke at the same time as diving for something next to his mattress.

Pyke aimed and squeezed the trigger. The blast was deafening in such a confined space and the ball-shot tore into Trotter’s flesh, shattering his ribs and peppering his heart. The contents of the bucket, Trotter’s urine, stung his eyes and mouth.

Trotter fell on to the mattress, a pool of blood spreading beneath him. Turning him over, Pyke stood above him, whispering, ‘Where can I find my wife and child? Try doing one good thing before you die.’ He could smell Trotter’s urine on his face and clothes.

A blast of fetid air escaped from Trotter’s mouth and blood pooled around his chest. He was trying to whisper something. Pyke came closer. ‘What was that?’

‘I hope the bitch and brat die.’ His head lolled backwards and the spasms stopped. Blood continued to leak from the wound but Jimmy Trotter was dead.