Mark Sanderson - Robin Hood Yard

Lila’s brick-red face was scrunched up, her tiny fists clenched, her bootied feet kicking the air. Lizzie, sleep-starved and nipple-sore, stared at her daughter. How quickly a bundle of joy became a ball of fury.

If she cried much longer she would have a convulsion. What was the matter with her? What should she do? She picked Lila up and clutched to her breast. For a second there was silence then, lungs refilled, the caterwauling resumed.

Lizzie walked round the room, shushing her baby, whispering into one of her beautiful, neat ears.

“ Hush-a-bye baby, in the tree-top, when the wind blows the cradle will rock …”

The rocking horses on the wallpaper seemed to mock her. Was she going off her rocker?

Who could she call? Not her mother. She’d offered to pay for a nanny, but Lizzie didn’t want a stranger under the roof of their new home. When she’d said she could manage, her mother had said nothing but smiled as if to say she knew better. Maybe she did. Lizzie wasn’t going to admit it now.

She couldn’t stay within these four walls any longer. She’d never felt so alone or so frustrated. She had to get out. Perhaps a ride on a choo-choo train would do the trick.

The incessant rumble of traffic in Holborn Circus came through the ill-fitting window. A draught wafted the thin, striped curtains that shut out prying eyes. The occupant of the top floor room remained oblivious. All the person could hear was a man screaming for his life. Sheer, naked terror. When it came down to it, that’s all there was.

The freshly sharpened, freshly polished knife reflected the killer’s handsome face. The sealed vial stood to attention on the table. Mask, gloves: just one more thing. How little was needed to take a life!

If you were lucky, death was instantaneous, a flick of a switch producing eternal darkness. If you weren’t, if the fates were unkind, your last moments could be filled with infinite agonies. Everyone was helpless in the face of death. No one could turn back the clock.

The past, if you let it, would imprison you. Each man was serving a life sentence. And yet one quick movement, a simple gesture, could change the world.

The last time Johnny had seen Quirk he’d been in the dock at the Old Bailey. The boot clicker turned house-breaker had been given a five-year stretch and yet here he was, free as a bird instead of doing bird, after less than two years.

The snug of the Thistle and Crown in Billiter Square was empty except for Quirk and an old man nursing a pint at the bar. Johnny had ten minutes before the lunchtime crowd would pack out the pub.

Quirk’s lantern-jaw was busy chewing a pickled egg. He scowled, swallowed and began to get up.

“What? Not pleased to see me? Stay where you are.” Johnny pointed at his beer glass. “Another?”

“You said you’d put in a word with the judge.”

Bits of yolk flew through the air. Johnny narrowly avoided getting egg on his face.

“I tried, but your record spoke for itself. Stop sulking. D’you want a drink or not?”

Quirk sniffed. “Bell’s. A double.”

Johnny, hiding a smile, went to the bar. What the hell? He’d have the same.

“So why the early release?”

“You know me. Made myself useful.”

“If you were that useful I’m surprised they didn’t keep you.”

There was no shortage of snitches inside. It was a dangerous business: eyes and ears could be gouged out or lopped off with ease. Then, given Quirk’s previous profession – cutting out shapes of leather for a shoemaker – he was a dab hand with a knife. He’d only got into trouble when he realized how quickly a blade could open a sash window.

Quirk sipped the Scotch and licked his lips.

“I see you’ve done all right for yourself. Read the News in Pentonville – before I wiped my arse with it. How d’you hear I was out?”

“You of all people should know how rumour spreads. What have you been up to since?”

“Not much. Sitting here. Enjoying the company – till now.”

Quirk hailed from Seven Sisters but, having worked in nearby East India Street, the Crown had once been his local. It was strange how humans were such creatures of habit. Perhaps, surrounded by warehouses full of textiles, furs, dried fruit and furniture, he found comfort in the ceaseless commerce. Traders were not the only ones who thrived on word of mouth.

“Anything to tell me?”

“About what?”

“Pig’s blood, for starters.”

Quirk grimaced. “There’s no blood on my hands.”

“Any idea who’s behind the attacks?”

“Take your pick. Bloody Jews. Cause grief wherever they are.”

“What have they done to you?”

“Nothing, yet, but if they get their way we’ll all be in the shit come Christmas. I’ve just got out of uniform. Don’t want to put on another.”

“Ever worn a black shirt?”

“Maybe. What’s it to you? No harm in standing up for your own folk.”

“I thought you only believed in money. If you believe in Mosley too, perhaps you should try growing a moustache.”

“Not likely. Don’t want a skidmark on my lip.”

“Still in touch with any Biff Boys?”

“Might be.”

“Ask around. It’ll be worth your while.”

Quirk drained his whisky glass and held it out. Johnny ignored it. “Anything on the grapevine about Chittleborough and Bromet?”

“Who?” He waggled the glass. “Oil my cogs – and I’ll have another egg while you’re at it.”

Johnny, after his first drink of the day, was feeling benevolent. As he suspected, Quirk claimed to know nothing about the two murders but the squealer promised to keep his ear to the ground.

They left the pub together and, to avoid the endless stream of peckish secretaries, clerks and messengers, turned into the covered passageway that dog-legged between Billiter Square and Billiter Avenue.

The man at the bar followed.

Hughes, emerging from the mortuary at the rear of St Bartholomew’s Hospital, spun on his heels and walked quickly in the opposite direction.

“Hey! Percy! Don’t be like that.” Johnny ran down the corridor. The green linoleum, rain-slick, was like an ice-rink. He had to grab Hughes to keep his balance.

“Gerroff me! I ain’t done nuffink.”

“Did I say you had? Where you off to in such a hurry?”

“Canteen.”

“Good idea. Fear not, I’ll pay.”

They crossed the courtyard, piled high with sandbags, and entered the mess-room for non-medical staff. Janitors, porters and cleaners, all in brown dustcoats, sat elbow to elbow on benches either side of long trestle tables. No wonder the floors had not been mopped. A miasma of steam and cigarette smoke hung over the plates of mutton stew and sausages and mash.

Hughes, all arms and elbows, wolfed down his meal.

“How you can have an appetite after what you’ve been doing is beyond me.”

Hughes shrugged. “A man can get used to anyfink.”

The pathologist’s unglamorous assistant refused to say another word until his belly was full.

Outside, the shower had passed so they paused by the central fountain. Its water music was the last sound Johnny’s mother had heard.

“The lads weren’t brung ’ere. Got taken straight to Bishopsgate – but Farrant did the PMs.”

“And what did your boss say?”

“Never seen anyfink like ’em. Todgers sliced clean off.” He winced. “No funny bottom business though.”

“That’s good to know.” Johnny wasn’t sure that would have been the case had Hughes been left alone with them. “And …?”

The gannet held out a callused hand. Johnny produced a ten-shilling note but ensured it was out of reach.

“Speak!”