Alan Petrillo - Asylum Lane

“Like there’s a fire in me boot. I plan to soak it for a week if I ever get back home.” Snow stared hard at Fletcher’s crotch. “How’s yours?”

“Sore. And still swollen. I feels them with each step I takes.” Then he chuckled and slowly shook his head. “It might seem bleak to you now, lad, but you’ll cheer up greatly when we split the money from the vicar. They are sure to find the body in the next day or two, so he’ll have the word by then.”

“So he knows the girl is dead. Then what?”

“Snow, me boy, think on it for a moment. He wants the girl out of the way. We can’t claim the money he owes for the job until he knows she’s dead. Once the woman’s body is found, we can collect from the vicar. By the time he learns its not his niece, we’ll be long gone with the cash.”

Snow rubbed his foot and nodded. “Just so he doesn’t pull the double cross on us.”

Fletcher clucked his tongue. “Never you worry on that score, lad. I’ll see to it that he keeps his part of the bargain. Come on,” he said, rising. “Let’s get you home.”

Snow stood unsteadily, putting most of his weight on his uninjured foot, then shuffled after Fletcher.

Within a half-mile, the pair entered the outskirts of the city and squeezed through a break in the fence around the North Eastern Railway Goods and Mineral Yard. The River Ouse took a long, curving loop to the northeast at that point, then turned back to the southeast along the Clifton Long Reach. The railway yard paralleled the river, filling in acres of unwanted land with miles and miles of track. As they passed the coaling depot, Snow elbowed Fletcher in the ribs.

“Over on the right. Trouble coming.”

Fletcher spotted the watchman headed in their direction and halted, putting his hands in his pockets. “Do the same as me, Snow. Hands out of sight.”

The watchman pulled a truncheon from his belt and held it in front of him, angled out from his body. He stopped two yards from the pair.

“What are you two derelicts doing in my yard?”

Fletcher cocked his head and studied the man, then leaned forward pushing his hand forward, still inside the coat, as if he had a weapon.

“Only passing through. We’ll be gone on the other side of the engine shed.” Fletcher indicated the far side of the yard with his chin.

The watchman eyed Fletcher warily, then looked Snow up and down. After glancing over his shoulder at the engine shed, he looked back and jerked his head to the side.

“The both of you be quick. You’re lucky I’m in a good humor this morning.”

Snow moved past the man first, followed by Fletcher who stopped two feet from the watchman and fixed him with a single-eyed stare. After the watchman blinked and looked away, Fletcher smiled and hurried to catch up with Snow.

By mid-morning, they reached the alleyway off of Dudley Street where Snow and his mother lived. Snow limped into the front room and collapsed into a shabby, threadbare chair he had stolen from a dispensing chemist’s office. Fletcher disappeared into the back room and returned a few minutes later with two large crockery mugs, both missing handles, full to the brim with water.

“The best available,” Fletcher said, then gulped down the tepid liquid, smacking his lips when he finished.

Snow took a deep draught of the water, but began coughing before he had half of it down his throat.

“Easy, me boy. Don’t die on me now after all we’ve been through. I have an errand to run tomorrow or the day after and you should be very pleased with the result of it.”

Fletcher winked at Snow, then skittered out the door.

Round Freddy stared down Haver Lane at the fronts of the run-down houses that lined both sides of the narrow street. Trash and garbage littered the gutters, giving off a high stink because of the added condiment of dirty, stagnant water pooled against the kerbstones. A knot of small children picked at the corners of a trash pile, poking into the mess with sticks in an attempt to force out some type of a small animal. No doubt a rat, Round Freddy thought, and likely a large one at that.

Haver Lane ran between Hungate and Aldwark, two ancient streets that encompassed two almshouses, several rowdy public houses, a brothel, the Hungate Saw Mill and the Blue Coat Flour Mills. The nearby saw and flour mills offered the chance of a minimal weekly wage for many of the unfortunate residents of Haver Lane. But after the workers toiled ten hours a day in the mills, the landlords of the tenements took the lion’s share of their wages as rent for the privilege of occupying buildings that were literally falling down around them.

“What was that address again, Andrews?”

“Number eighteen. On the left in the middle of the block.”

The dark green paint on number eighteen Haver Lane had long since cracked and peeled off the siding, leaving only scattered traces of its former color. Likewise, the numerals painted on the door appeared like ghosts floating in the wood.

Round Freddy pulled the latch and swept the door open, sending it crashing against the wall and spewing a cloud of dust into the dim hallway. He looked down at the truncheon in Andrews’ hand and grunted his approval, then lumbered up the staircase with the constable close behind. On the third level, doors were set at opposite sides of the short hallway. Round Freddy rapped his knuckles on the nearest one, and on receiving no answer, rapped again, only louder.

“Still nothing. Let’s have a look.”

He pulled the latch up gently, then pushed his weight against the door, easily swinging it open. The smell in the room stung his nostrils and he immediately could see it was the wrong room. A narrow cot sat against the far wall with an emaciated old woman lying face up on it. She was fast asleep. A chamber pot at the foot of the cot was full to the brim.

“Next room is what we’re after,” Round Freddy said, pulling the door shut behind him. “Keep that truncheon handy.”

When there was no response to his rapping on the second door, Round Freddy put his shoulder to the wood and pushed at the same time as he pulled the latch up. Round Freddy burst into the room with Andrews at his heels, the two of them with hands out and ready for action. But no one was in the room.

“Have a look through the drawers of that chest over there.”

As Andrews pulled open drawers and examined their meager contents, Round Freddy went to the window and peered out.

“Good view of the street from here. If he had been in here, he could have seen us coming.”

“But we would have run into him on our way up,” Andrews said.

“Not if he didn’t come in our direction,” Round Freddy extended his index finger toward the ceiling. “He could have gone up, then over the roofs. Let’s have a look.”

The door at the top of the stairs opened onto a flat roof badly in need of repair. One large hole had been haphazardly patched with planks laid across it and held down by a keg full of stones. It certainly could not be watertight, Round Freddy thought.

“There’s his escape route,” Round Freddy said, pointing. “Across to the next building and the one beyond, then down the stairs and out onto the street when it’s safe. Damn.”

As Round Freddy exited the building onto Haver Lane, he bumped into a small boy with coal black hands and dirt streaked over his face. Round Freddy grabbed the boy by the shoulders to stop him from falling. The child looked to be about seven years old.

“Easy there, lad. Easy. What’s your name?”

The boy eyed him suspiciously. “William Hall.”

“Do you live here at number eighteen?”

The boy nodded.

“Which room is yours?”

“The first in the front on the ground floor. It’s me mum’s.”