Mick Finlay - Arrowood

‘There’s a man might be trailing us. Don’t look back. He’s on the other side of the road. Medium size in a grey coat.’

The guvnor clenched his hands and bit his lip, itching to have a little peep as we made our way forward.

‘No, don’t,’ I said. ‘Don’t look.’

‘Yes, yes, Barnett,’ he replied, chafing against this restriction and trying hard to keep his eyes on the way ahead. He was limping with his tight shoes and puffing with his weight. ‘I heard you the first time.’

‘You were about to look.’

‘No, I wasn’t.’

Presently, we reached the alley. It was a narrow, dark track, the workshops and factories on each side built high and leaning in towards each other as they rose to the grey sky. Most were closed for the night but a few had faint lights behind their grimy windows. Tired people trudged past us, their clothes thick and frayed, their eyes cast down. The ground beneath us alternated between gravel and mud. Up ahead, a cart was being loaded with crates. We continued past it, then turned again into an even smaller passage. We didn’t look back, and at the end turned into another alley, this one darker still. I pointed at a bend in the road ahead where a small wall jutted out.

‘Yes, ideal,’ said the guvnor.

We hurried towards it and concealed ourselves there, myself peeking out the way we’d come, the guvnor behind me, leaning against a door, catching his breath.

Very soon the man appeared, walking quick towards us.

‘He’s coming,’ I whispered.

‘Hold tight,’ murmured the guvnor.

There was a sudden noise behind us. The door the guvnor was leaning on was wrenched open and there stood a woman in rags holding a chamberpot full to the brim with a filthy stew. She looked taken aback to see two gentlemen standing on her doorstep awaiting the delivery of her family’s ordure. Perhaps unable to stop her muscles from doing what they were surely accustomed to doing at such a moment, she swung the pot back as if to chuck it into the street.

The guvnor, startled, backed away quick from the woman and straight into full view of our pursuer. Seeing him, the man turned and ran back the way he came.

‘Curses!’ exclaimed the guvnor, and as he spoke he received half the woman’s delivery on his trousers.

I set off after the man. As I turned the first corner I saw him running up ahead, dim against the black brick. All the way down I was gaining on him, so that by the time he reached the next alley I was sure I would catch him. He turned right, leading us further away from the lamps of Broad Wall, further into the maze of damp buildings. I was slowed by a cart trying to turn, the horse blocking my path.

‘Hold up, hold up,’ whined the deliveryman. ‘You’ll spook him.’

I scrambled over the empty cart.

‘Bloody prick!’ shouted the man, taking a swipe in the air with his whip.

The alley ahead was empty. I ran on, soon coming to a junction. On an instinct, I turned left again, seeing the lamps of a proper street some way up ahead.

It was as I was noticing this that I felt my legs swiped from under me and came crashing down hard onto the gravel. And right when my hipbone hit the ground another blow fell on my spine. I cried out in pain, just managing to twist my head to see the man, his narrow eyes burning in his bearded face, raising his truncheon to strike me again. My eyes fixed on his hand clasping the truncheon, on the bruised and crushed fingernail of his first finger, and in that moment the ruined nail seemed angry and vengeful, as if the man himself was only its tool. I held out my hand to stop the blow, receiving it instead on my forearm. Immediately, a great wave of nausea came over me and the strength flew from my body. My ears were ringing like the bells of Christ Church; my eyes were full of tears. I was helpless. I wrapped myself up tight in a ball, clenching, clenching even my eyes, readied for the next blow.

It didn’t come. Afraid to turn my head in case I was smashed in the mush, I listened. Slowly the bells faded and I could hear a woman’s voice talking from inside one of the buildings. I got my courage up and turned my head. The man was gone.

I sat up, not sure I could stand. Every little movement made me jerk with pain. I looked up and down the alley until I was sure he was gone, then, leaning against the wall, pushed myself to my feet.

A mighty ache in my back caused me to sit down on the floor again, where I rested, rubbing my arm, waiting for the sick feeling to leave my belly.

A woman came round the corner ahead, a heavy cooking pot in her hands.

‘You fall over, mate?’ she asked.

‘Just a bit, mum,’ I said, trying to make my voice sound normal. ‘Tripped myself up.’

‘Want a lift?’

She put her pot down and helped me to my feet. She was as well built as Mrs Barnett, and her presence alone made me feel stronger.

‘You pass a short man with a beard up there?’ I asked her. ‘Would have been running, most likely.’

‘He was in a right hurry,’ she replied, picking up her pot. ‘He rob you, did he?’

‘You might say that.’

‘Well, you don’t want to bother with the police, less you want to waste half a day or more.’

‘Did you see what he looked like?’

‘Not much in this light. Thin little eyes, though, suspicious-looking, I’d say. But like I say, you don’t want to bother with the police this time.’

We walked along side by side. With each step I had a jarring pain in my back.

‘Ask me why,’ she said.

‘Why?’

‘’Cos he had a police truncheon in his belt. And it was a police belt, mate. Wasn’t wearing a uniform, though. Just the standard copper’s boots.’

‘You know a lot about copper’s clothes, do you?’

‘My old man was a constable,’ she said. ‘Before he croaked. I was the one used to polish up those boots each day. You married?’

I nodded. We walked together until we reached the main road, where she waddled off towards the bridge. When she was out of sight, I lowered myself down onto the steps of the Home and Colonial to give myself rest from the pain. It was an hour before I had the strength to go on.

Chapter Nine

When I reached the guvnor’s rooms, he was sitting with a tankard in his hand. Ettie was in the chair by the window, her hand flat on her forehead. She acknowledged me briefly then shut her eyes. The guvnor shook his head as if to warn me off, then, still shaking his great turnip, took a long swallow of his ale. He looked guilty for what had happened but, as was his way, gave me no apology.

I lowered myself down onto the small sofa with care, sure there must have been a great bruise across my spine. The guvnor noticed my swollen hand.

‘Good heavens, Barnett! What the blazes happened to you? Shall I call the doctor?’

‘I suppose that’ll come out of my money again, will it?’ I replied, more sharply than I intended.

He looked hurt.

‘I’m only bruised,’ I said more gently.

I did wonder if Ettie, being a nurse as she was, might have taken a look, but she didn’t stir from behind her hand.

‘You need some attention,’ he insisted. ‘I can get the doctor to see to Ettie at the same time. It’ll be cheaper that way.’

‘I don’t need one,’ she said quickly, her eyes still closed.

‘Nor me,’ said I. ‘Though a drink would help my nerves.’

He passed me a small blue bottle.

‘Chlorodine,’ he said. ‘A quite magical medicine. It will help.’

I took a draught while the guvnor poured me a mug of ale. Feeling the good medicine warm my throat, I told him how I’d been beaten in the alley.

‘Oh dear, Barnett,’ he said when I’d finished. ‘This case becomes more complicated by the day. I’ve been sitting here puzzling over why Miss Cousture would lie to us. She was here while we were out, you know. My sister spoke to her. It appears she’s suddenly impatient to know if we’ve made any progress. But she hasn’t left an address. Doesn’t that seem queer, Barnett?’