Gavin Lyall - Flight From Honour

Patrick took out a short knife. “Mebbe ye’ll take a message yerself-” Behind him, Eamon made the same movement.

His only luck seemed to be that they weren’t carrying guns, but neither was he. Legally he could have done so, particularly since he was now a ‘gentleman’ at least by trade, but London had seemed safe enough, and a gun in the pocket was suspicious. All he had was his walking-stick.

“To yer dead nephew Michael-”

To Ranklin a stick was just a gentleman’s accountrement like a pair of gloves; he had never even thought of including it among ‘personal weapons’. But at least O’Gilroy had. His wasn’t a sword-stick or loaded in any way; like a pistol, such things could arouse suspicion. So it was just an ordinary silver-knobbed stick except that where the brass ferrule had worn and split he hadn’t closed the jagged break.

“-yez can tell him rest easy. He’s been revenged.”

Now O’Gilroy gripped the stick across his body, one hand at each end. It almost touched the walls at either side, leaving no room for sideways swipes. But that was why he hadn’t run for the unknown but certainly more open courtyard behind. Here there was no room for the two to come at him together; one had to lead and it was Eamon, the big one. He probably wasn’t a knife-fighter, just a knife-killer, but there was no stagey overhead stuff, either: he held the blade properly flat and underhand as he edged forward.

O’Gilroy let go with his left hand and jabbed towards Eamon’s midriff. Eamon didn’t bother with his knife, just tried to grab the stick with his free hand, and almost got it. He moved fast for a big man.

O’Gilroy took a step back and resumed his two-handed grip. Eamon feinted a lunge to test O’Gilroy’s response: he just pushed the stick forward to block. Eamon lunged further, expecting to hit the stick and slash sideways along it to cut O’Gilroy’s left hand. But O’Gilroy let go with his right, flipped the knife further aside, then stepped in and banged his right palm into Eamon’s face.

The big man bounced against the wall, blinking angrily – but didn’t drop the knife. And seeing an opening, Pat scurried past him, ducked as O’Gilroy threw his back to the wall and slashed with the stick, and went right on past.

Now O’Gilroy was surrounded.

He jabbed with the stick to keep Eamon unbalanced, and charged at Pat before he got into his stance, holding the stick like a lunging sword. It missed, he felt the knife slash and catch in his jacket, then he sprawled over Pat, flattening him.

Maybe Pat was winded, certainly he was slowed. O’Gilroy twisted onto his knees, slashed the jagged ferrule across Pat’s forehead, then grabbed for his knife arm. Pat screeched and let go the knife. O’Gilroy fumbled for it as he looked up for Eamon, cut his hand but had it before the bigger man reached them.

“Move an inch and I cut his fucking head off!” He tried to snarl it, but it came out panting.

Eamon stopped. “And yer own wid it.”

By now O’Gilroy had his left forearm across Pat’s throat from behind, soaking his sleeve in the man’s dripping blood. “Mebbe. But I’m done fighting the both of yez. If yer still want to kill me, it’s with him dead, and that’s plain sense.”

Pat wriggled, O’Gilroy tightened his grip and jabbed the knife right on the edge of Pat’s cheekbone, an inch from his eye. One push, two inches deep, and . . . Pat went very still, breathing fast and very shallow.

Eamon took a heavy breath himself. “Let him loose and I swear on me mother’s grave-”

“Shut up.” O’Gilroy eased from a crouch to a bend and began slowly dragging Pat backwards. “And stand yer ground,” he added as Eamon followed.

After perhaps three yards, the alley opened into a long cobbled yard, overlooked by the backs of two dozen small buildings, but with nobody in sight. Just a stack of old timber and a couple of hand-carts.

O’Gilroy got his back to a wall, the knife back at Pat’s eye, and told Eamon: “Walk past me and as far as ye can go. Move yeself!”

The big man moved, slowly and perhaps uncertain of what he was actually going to do. O’Gilroy said nothing, just held the knife very steady.

As Eamon passed out of reach, his movements became more sure; he had decided to obey.

Then Pat went limp. Assuming it was a ruse, O’Gilroy shook him, but his head just flapped, spraying blood; he was out . . . dead? Not when he was still bleeding freely. Half choked, shocked and losing blood, he had fainted. Then Eamon looked back and saw Pat’s lolling head.

“I didn’t, he’s not dead!” O’Gilroy screamed. But Eamon was past hearing, was roaring with rage as he charged.

Oh Christ!

O’Gilroy threw the knife. It most likely wouldn’t have stuck in, but was still a knife and Eamon swerved. O’Gilroy heaved Pat up by his scruff, toppled him at Eamon’s feet, and ran, ran for the alley and street and his life. He didn’t waste time looking back. He’d know if Eamon caught him.

He came into the flat with one jacket pocket ripped loose and the sleeve soaked with blood. He had a bloody handkerchief around his right hand and the rest of him looked as if he’d been rolling in a filthy alleyway. He’d lost his hat and stick.

Ranklin gaped. “What the devil happened to you?”

“Coupla boyos from Cork, they found me. Like ye was worried about.” It was almost as much a relief to tell the truth as reach the sideboard decanters. O’Gilroy felt he had given a lying explanation for his condition at every step from Piccadilly.

Ranklin was about to ask for details, but then didn’t. He’d be told if O’Gilroy felt like it; more likely, he’d never know. But before he went to fetch the travelling medicine kit, he had to ask: “Did you kill them?”

Without turning from the drinks, O’Gilroy shook his head. And for once Ranklin was sorry about that. It left unfinished business.

The Guards battalions look it in turns to be billeted in the Tower of London, and only when a kilted soldier challenged the taxi did Ranklin know it was the turn of the Scots Guards to keep an eye on the Crown jewels and any fresh-caught traitors housed there. But thereafter, any sense of history had gone with the daytime sight-seers, leaving only black cutouts of battlements against the stars. At ground level there was just the mundane military domesticity of any barracks square. Lamps glowed through the plane trees, turning their leaves back to spring green, and half-lit the gossiping groups of soldiers and wives below. Children darted from group to group, and somebody still on fatigues staggered by stopping a filled bucket.

Ranklin paused at the foot of the officers’ mess steps, expecting to feel nostalgia for its comfortable comradeship, but instead felt quite alien. This really wasn’t his world any longer. However, his manner immediately convinced the mess corporal when he introduced himself and his mission. A minute or two later Dagner’s host, a Major Lawther, appeared.

“Were you asking for Major Dagner?”

“Yes, sir. Captain Ranklin, RA. I, er, work for Major Dagner.”

“Ah.” There was a knowingness about that ‘ah’. “With you chaps I imagine everything’s Most Urgent. I’m afraid he hasn’t got here, yet. Come in and have a spot.”

It was tempting but, again, no longer his world. “Very kind of you, sir, but I think it would be less disruptive if I got a quick word with him out here.”

“As you please . . . Did you know Dagner before . . . before he came home?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“We met in India, of course.” That surprised Ranklin; it was difficult enough to move a Guards battalion out of London, let alone Britain. Seeing his expression, Lawther smiled. “When I was attached to the Viceroy’s staff. And they brought him back from . . . whatever he was doing, when his wife fell ill. Sad business, that, he was very cut up when she went.”