Pandora(91)

He almost misses the stairs, and eyes the rotting wood dubiously. Will they take his weight? But then, he reasons, if they can take Coombe’s immense size surely they can take his. One-handed (his other hand still covers his nose and mouth) he pulls himself up the perilous steps. At the top, he knocks on the door.

Edward frowns. No answer. He realises he is early, but after last night, after Dora … Not for the first time this morning he relives it, experiences the anger churn in his gut.

They followed her in. Through the apartment door, past the terrified woman who pointed up and so up they went, to the very top of the house, to the cramped attic room that had been ransacked, Dora’s belongings – he had not realised how meagre they would be – spread out across the floor. And there she was, on her knees, her back to the door, and Edward left Cornelius at the threshold, approached her, hand outstretched …

He will never forget her face. Will never forget the tender way she cradled the dead magpie in her lap.

Shock, Cornelius had said. Dora spoke not one word when they helped her up, not one word in the carriage, not one word when – disinclined to wake Mrs Howe – they put her to bed themselves in one of Cornelius’ guest bedrooms, and Edward decided then and there he would see Matthew Coombe as soon as possible.

He will make Hezekiah pay for what he has done.

Edward will make up for what he has done.

He knocks again. Still nothing. Edward turns to leave but something, some feeling, a premonition perhaps, makes him think better of it. He pushes the door open and, unnervingly, it gives easily.

If Edward thought the smell outside was bad, he was not prepared for this. Even through his hand he can smell it – a fetid mix he cannot even begin to describe – that has him gagging into his palm. He puts his other hand to his pocket, pulls out a handkerchief, presses this to his face instead. It helps, somewhat, but not by much.

He forces himself into the room. And it is, it transpires, a room; no others leading off, only a sheet drawn across the length of it. A crate acts as a table, nearby, three rickety-looking chairs. In the corner there is a small stove and what Edward thinks to be an old bureau standing on its right, its drawers open. Nothing else. How does Coombe live like this? How can anyone?

Edward looks at the sheet. It is dirty, stained with patches of brown. He does not want to know what is behind it, does not want to see, but it is as if his feet have a mind of their own and he is crossing the room. He stands in front of the sheet, breathing deep into the handkerchief. Then, with his free hand, he moves the sheet aside.

‘Jesus Christ!’

He staggers backward and, unable to keep it in, vomits violently on the floor. Edward drops the handkerchief – useless now – and takes deep heaving breaths, runs a shaking hand over his eyes.

I’m not cut out for this, he thinks, this is beyond me. Who could have done such a thing?

But he knows the answer. He knows all too well.

Edward swallows, grounds himself. Then, very slowly, he moves the sheet again.

Behind the sheet are three cots. On each, a man.

The nearest looks to have been dead a while. The skin is blotched yellow, the eyes are wide open, glassy, and the mouth is crusted white at the corners. The pillow beneath the man’s head is stained brown. Yet, oddly, it is not this – horrific though it is – that has his stomach threatening to heave once more.

Edward forces himself to look.

If it were not for the blood-soaked pillow, he would have thought the second man was sleeping. Perhaps, Edward thinks, that’s how he did it – a coward’s kill. Stabbed in his sleep, in the neck. Bled through fast. Never knew a thing. But the third man … It is possible Coombe was also sleeping since there are no obvious signs of a struggle, but the blade did not kill him outright. Maybe Hezekiah missed his mark. Maybe – but Edward will not get close enough to confirm the fact – he had to stab him three or even four times in quick succession before the knife did its job. There is no blood spatter on the wall, but the bed sheets twisted at Coombe’s legs are soaked through, a rich deep scarlet. Bled out and down, then. There is a look of horror on the man’s face, his eyes wide with surprise or fright or, Edward thinks grimly, both. Coombe lies with his arm – or what Edward thinks to be an arm – flung over the side of the bed, pustulated and black, like a charred beam of wood.

Edward lets the sheet fall, pinches his eyes shut, but the vision swims behind his eyelids, indefinitely imprinted. He tries to breathe, to think.

What now? Who else can he ask? What more can he do? Nothing here, that at least is certain. Unsteady he retreats, knocking over one of the chairs in his haste. Though it can hardly matter Edward bends to pick it up, and as he turns away to leave again a flash of orange catches the corner of his eye.

He pauses. Frowns.

The stove has been recently lit.

Edward approaches it cautiously, crouches down, and when he opens the soot-covered door the embers inside burn brightly for a second before fading again with a soft spit. Within, Edward can just make out the remains of some papers, their pages blackened, edges curled in on themselves like dried leaves.

Very carefully, he reaches in. The papers are still warm though not hot, and while some disintegrate at his touch he manages to remove a hefty bulk. Edward places them on the floor, attempts to sift through the pages. If he squints and angles his head he can just make out what looks to be shipping forecasts, tide times, lists of cargo ships.