Chris Nickson - The Broken Token

“I don’t imagine you’ve come in here for a restful hour,” Harding said as the Constable sipped from the tankard.

“I think I last had one of those about twenty years ago, Michael.” Nottingham laughed, but to his ears it sounded forced. “Seen much of George Carver lately?”

“What’s the old bugger been up to now?” Harding drew himself some ale and leaned against the bar. “Heard you had him in yesterday.”

Nottingham smiled again. Gossip spread like seeds on the wind in Leeds.

“We had a chat,” he admitted, trying not to give anything away.

“Aye, he told me all about it. Came in here after you let him go. Said he needed a drink, but when does George not need one?” Harding winked.

“Did he stay long?”

The landlord cocked his head to think.

“Till ten, perhaps. He’d had a fair few by then.”

“How was he?”

Harding shrugged. “Moaning a bit, got a little loud a couple of times. Didn’t cause any trouble, though. You must have scared him.”

“But not sobered him, obviously.”

Harding gave a braying laugh.

“I doubt if God himself could do that, Mr Nottingham.”

“Was he going anywhere else?” Nottingham tossed out the question.

Harding shrugged once more. “Not my business. He’d spent good money here, that’s all I care about.”

To his surprise, Nottingham discovered he’d almost drained the mug. He finished it in one long swallow and brushed back his fringe.

“Well, no rest for the wicked, or for those of us who have to try and stop them. Thank you for the drink, and the information.”

“What’s George done, then?” Harding asked as the Constable walked away.

“I’m not sure he’s done anything. I hope not, anyway,” Nottingham replied truthfully and let the door close behind him.

That accounted for some of Carver’s movements, he thought, stopping on the corner to allow an overloaded farm cart to turn from Vicar Lane into Kirkgate. But he’d have gone on somewhere else. That was his way, to drink himself into insensibility every night. He assessed the options. There was the Old King’s Head, the Ship, the New King’s Head and even the Talbot, all within a distance Carver could stagger if necessary. And of course the Turk’s Head. Nottingham sighed; he’d have to check them all.

It was a thankless business. For different reasons, most of the landlords had no great love of the law, and brought varying degrees of co-operation to their talks. But an hour later no one had admitted to seeing Carver the previous night and he was willing to believe them; it would be such a foolish thing to lie about.

One thing was certain; tonight they’d talk to George Carver again, and Nottingham dreaded the meeting.

John Sedgwick could rarely sleep during the day. He always went hopeful to his bed, but if it was light outside rest rarely came. Today was no different. Instead he watched his wife and baby across the room from his straw pallet on the floor. James was running across the floorboards, chasing dust motes that glistened in the light while Annie mended his shirt.

He closed his eyes and tried to will his brain to stop thinking, but the questions in it refused to go away. Why had the boss let Carver go? The man had to be guilty. He trusted Nottingham, but was certain he’d been wrong; the two new bodies proved it. But he couldn’t gloat; he’d seen the Constable’s face when he heard the news, the way it fell as he realised what it meant. There was no victory in that. At least finding Carver would be easy.

Finally he was able to drift away and doze for a few minutes until James began to cry and Annie swept him on to her lap to feed him from the breast.

They were luckier than many, he thought. Their room was a decent size and they didn’t have to share it. Since he earned regular money they never went hungry. They had clothes that were more than rags, although he’d love to be able to afford a newer pair of breeches for himself and a better dress for Annie. Still, that would come. This was a long way from running wild on the streets as he’d been when he was a youngster.

Sedgwick sighed and rolled over. Sleep was a terrible thing when you needed it and you never got enough of it. His head ached and his body felt tight. Finally he admitted to himself that rest just wasn’t going to happen and got up off the bed.

“I’ve finished your shirt,” Annie said sullenly, handing it to him.

He put it on, thankful there was no longer a gap in the seam between sleeve and body. He wanted to say something to her, but wasn’t sure what. These days every word he uttered seemed to incite a row, and at the moment he couldn’t take that.

Annie had never been an easy girl to live with. But once, not so long ago, they’d enjoyed a few happy times among the fiery arguments. They’d laughed. Everything had changed after James was born. She seemed to sink into herself then, finding a little world that only had room for herself and the baby. Now Sedgwick could barely put a foot right by his own hearth. He remembered when he was twelve or thirteen, imagining how easy life must be for grown-ups, with none of the problems he’d had as a lad. Well, he was wrong there. Now he looked back he felt that childhood was carefree, full of days spent playing and laughing, even if he knew there were plenty of dark, hungry times in there too.

He looked at Annie, giving all her concentration to James as he sucked greedily on her nipple. He remembered the way she’d looked when they first met, glowing like a banked fire, the way she’d been willing to enjoy his bad jokes and find enough pleasure in simply being with him. Now James claimed all her time and affection.

He was a grand lad, there was no doubt about that, and Sedgwick was proud of him, strangely happy at what he’d created. From the time he was born, people had said he looked like his father, although Sedgwick could never see it himself in the chubby cheeks and thick chin. He looked like a baby, nothing more or less. But he’d started to take on some character, and at two and a half had a very real, cheeky personality. When the nipper was a bit older they’d be able to do lots of things together. He’d teach him how to fish in the Aire, how to kick a ball and all the other things boys did. And he’d send him to school so he came out with the education, with opportunities ahead of him. James would make something of himself.

Still holding the child to her breast, Annie stood and went to stir the pot that sat over the fire in the grate. A stew again tonight, the leftovers of yesterday’s meal which he hadn’t been home to eat. God only knew if he’d be back to help finish it. There was work that needed doing, and if he couldn’t sleep he might as well do it.

She’d brushed most of the dirt off his breeches and coat, but they were both still in a sad state of repair. However, those were the only garments he had until he could afford more. Good clothes would only be wasted in his line of work, anyway. By the end of a day they were always dirty, sometimes torn. These were fine, and, to give Annie her due, she could work magic with a needle and make things last.

He tugged on his clothes, kissed James and Annie, then left. He was hungry, but there was little food in the house until he was paid and it seemed unfair to take any. He could scrounge a meal from an inn or a pie seller; it was one of the few perks of the job.

Yesterday’s sun had given way to thick clouds and a feeling of rain. He made his way back to Turk’s Head Yard to look at it in the light. There was little to be seen. With the bodies gone, everything existed more in his memory than in fact, illuminated by the torchlight of last night. Now there were only some stains on the flagstones of the yard that would fade with time. Everything else was in its place, exactly what you’d expect from somewhere that strove for respectability the way this did, with the hushed sound of voices from the inn.