Antonia Hodgson - The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins

She let me hold her for a time. ‘There is a cost.’

My heart dipped. She did not need to explain. The queen could ask anything of me now, and I must obey. And still the verdict would remain. Even with the pardon, I would be named a murderer for the rest of my life. I did not care, not then. I wouldn’t hang – and that was all that mattered. ‘I will live , Betty.’

She tilted her head as if to say, in a fashion . She had warned me that this day would come. I had not run when she had begged me to, and now my life was no longer my own. But it was a life . There would be a tomorrow and a tomorrow… And the chance to wriggle out of the queen’s grasp one day.

Betty returned to her basket and laid out a modest supper. She poured us both a glass of claret and we sat down together like an old married couple.

‘When will the pardon come?’

‘I don’t know. Late, I think. Budge said you must be patient.’

I lowered my glass. ‘I am sentenced to hang in ten days.’

Tears sparkled in her eyes. She seemed so anxious that I found myself trying to reassure her, acting in a more confident manner than I felt. I lit a pipe and told her of my plans to write a full confession of all that had happened to me, in the hope that one day it would help to clear my name. She did not ask why I did not speak out now and save myself – Betty did not ask questions when she knew there could be no answers. She promised to find a way to smuggle the journal from my cell when it was done, and to keep it hidden. I trusted her to read it and to understand its secrets – to know when it would be safe to pass it on to those who should know the truth.

I took Betty’s hand, unable to speak for gratitude. How many nights had she served me my punch and lit my pipe these past two years? Always quiet, always watching, anticipating what I needed. A bowl of strong coffee, most days – and a kick on the arse. She had sent me home more times than I could remember, while I protested I was good for one more drink, one more card game, one more throw of the dice. Now here she was when all my friends had abandoned me.

She slipped her hand from mine.

‘Don’t leave,’ I said, and my voice crumbled. ‘Please.’

She hesitated. Shifted closer. It was enough. I gathered her in my arms and held her as if she were a rock in the ocean, the only safe harbour for a thousand miles. Found her lips and kissed her, because I was lost and afraid. Because Kitty was so far beyond reach.

A key rattled in the door. ‘Gate’s closing,’ the turnkey hissed.

Betty took my arm, whispered in my ear. ‘If you find another way to escape, take it.’

I nodded, though we both knew the pardon was my only hope.

She raised her hood, masking her face from the turnkey. Her eyes were soft and sad. ‘Fare well, Tom.’

I gave a low bow; lower than I would have given the queen. By the time I looked up, she was gone.

Tom . Only now, as I write down Betty’s last words to me, do I notice it. She had never called me by my Christian name before. I was always sir, or Mr Hawkins. We might flirt and tease, but I was never Tom . I stare at my name on the page and I wonder about her visit. Was it truly a kindness? Or something more devious?

Well, Betty – am I right to doubt you? Nine days I have waited for the king’s pardon. Nine sleepless nights. When the waiting became unbearable, I began to write this account as a distraction, from the first moment I heard Alice Dunn scream Thief! until this moment here, remembering that final kiss and the look in your eye when you called me by my name. Fare well.

Now, on the eve of my hanging, you send word at last – Be patient. Always the same message. Will the pardon come on the morrow, as they load me on the cart? Or is this merely a cunning way to keep me quiet until the hangman silences me for ever? Tell me – if I smuggle these pages to you, will you truly keep them safe? Or will you burn them and all the queen’s secrets with them?

I hope, my dear, that you have not betrayed me.

I had planned to end my story here. I have spent so much time writing that I have neglected everything else. My hand is cramped from long hours holding a quill, my fingers stained indigo-black with ink. My past is written, but at the expense of my soul. Three others are set to hang with me tomorrow. While I have sat scribbling in my cell, they have spent long hours praying and begging God’s mercy for their sins. They are ready for their journey.

In vain the Reverend James Guthrie has visited me each day. He is a pompous man, well-pleased with himself. No, that is not just. He has rescued countless souls from damnation. I only wish he did not brag about it quite so much.

It is Guthrie’s duty to write an account of every prisoner hanged at Tyburn. He recounts their short, squalid lives with gleeful disapproval, then casts himself as their saviour. By the time they reach the gallows they are weeping with gratitude. They rejoice at their redemption, eager to leave this world so that their souls might fly to heaven.

These, at least, are the stories Guthrie likes to tell. There are some obstinate sinners who refuse to play his game. They repent in private or not at all – drinking and whoring their way through their final days. He does not like these stories so well, but he can still bend them to his use. Examples of the witless fools who will burn in hell for their ignorance and obstinacy.

But what is he to do with a man such as me? A man who refuses to confess? Who protests his innocence, even as he is led to the gallows? There can be no repentance without guilt. No salvation without guilt. Instead there is only doubt, thin but persistent. What if we are wrong? What if we are hanging an innocent man?

There are no lessons to be learned from such a story. At least, not the sort of lesson the Reverend James Guthrie wishes to teach.

Guthrie visits my cell not to offer comfort, but to seek resolution. And every day I disappoint him. He tells me I am bound for hell. I correct his quotations from the Bible. He reminds me that Pride is the greatest of all sins, and leaves.

What will he write of me, I wonder?

This afternoon I summoned John Eliot and directed him to write my will. I do not have a great deal of capital – ten pounds at most. It should be enough.

When I named the beneficiary of my meagre fortune, Eliot raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘How will I find the boy? He’s disappeared.’

‘Aye. He’s good at that. He’ll magick himself back once I’m gone.’

Eliot scratched the nameonto the paper with a reluctant hand. Sam Fleet of St Giles, nr Phoenix Street.

Sam has not quite disappeared. I know this because he came to visit me this morning.

I was sitting alone on a bench in the press yard. I had paid Mr Rewse a bribe so that I might have some time to myself in the open air. I think he did it out of kindness as much as profit. Since my conviction, Rewse had allowed dozens of curious souls to tramp past my cell. They’d peered in through the grate, eager to see the gentleman as beast, trapped in his cage. They gossiped about me as if I could not hear or understand them. If I turned away it must be out of shame. If I held their gaze, they swore they saw the devil in my eyes. If I covered my face, or paced about the cell, or stared gloomily at the cold stone floor, then I must be in despair at my guilt, and the wretched state of my soul. Not one of them thought I looked innocent.

Mr Rewse was different. He has met more cut-throat villains than anyone in England. I am no murderer, and he knows it. He also knows the way of the world. He won’t help me, but he is courteous, regretful. When I asked if I might sit in the yard for a while on my own he agreed and sent the turnkey to escort me out just before the dawn. I watched the light spread across the sky and felt the early spring sunshine upon my face. I closed my eyes. A few hawkers were calling their wares on the other side of the wall, but otherwise the city was at peace. And for once I liked it better that way.