The Sin Eater(36)

‘I’ll read the letter,’ said Colm.

Dearest Colm,

Did you think you’d never hear from me again, after I ran out of Kilglenn as fast as if the demons of hell were chasing me? I expect you knew you would one day though, for we were always as close as two pieces of quicksilver that had to come together again in the end.

Oh, Colm, I’m in such terrible trouble and I can’t think of anyone else to turn to. I’m frightened for my life and if you won’t help me I don’t know what will become of me. You always said you’d come to London – you and Declan Doyle both said it – so I’m asking if you’ll come now. Now. At once. Truly, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t necessary. If ever you had a loving thought for me, please do what I’m asking you.

I’m praying to all the saints that this will reach you. Yes, I do still pray to the saints, although I don’t think any of them listen to me and I don’t think any of them can help me.

Romilly.

PS. If Declan Doyle comes with you, that would be great.’

As Colm stopped reading and laid down the single sheet of paper, a tiny breath of wind blew into the old chimney, stirring up the fire so that it glowed red, as if dozens of pairs of baleful eyes had suddenly opened and were glaring into the room.

At last, Declan said, ‘Do we go?’

‘To London? I always meant to.’ Colm waited, not speaking, staring into the fire.

At last, Declan said, ‘If you go, I’ll come with you.’

‘Will you?’ It came out eagerly and gratefully.

‘Of course I’ll come. My parents will object—’

‘But,’ said Colm, his eyes shining as they used to when they were much younger and wove wild adventures, ‘couldn’t you just leave without telling them? Secretly.’

‘By dead of night—’

‘And a letter left on the kitchen table, explaining. You’d have to do that. It’s what people always do when they go off to find their fortunes or rescue a maiden in distress. Not,’ said Colm, wryly, ‘that this is a maiden, precisely. But it’s a . . . a quest, isn’t it?’

‘It is. Are we really going to do it?’

‘Yes.’

The immediacy of the adventure – the adventure they had wanted since they were boys and never entirely believed would happen – was suddenly real and thrilling and terrifying.

‘What will we do for money?’ asked Colm suddenly.

‘I can manage the fare on the ferry.’

‘I can, too. Just about.’

‘How far would it be from the ferry to London?’

‘I don’t know. The ferry docks at Holyhead, and I’d say it’ll be a fair old journey from there. We might have to work our way to London, but I’ve heard you can take jobs for just a few hours. Cafes and bars – washing-up and the like. It’d only be for a few days. I’d sleep in ditches for Romilly. God, I’d clean ditches for her.’

‘So would I. Romilly doesn’t say what the trouble is, does she?’

‘No, and for all I know it’s anything from an illegitimate child to involvement with a gang of criminals. Don’t look at me like that, you hear of such things in London.’

‘But will we be able to find where she’s living?’ said Declan, doubtfully. ‘London’s a big old place.’

‘She’s put the address on the letter,’ said Colm, picking it up again.

‘What is it?’

‘It sounds very grand. The house is called Holly Lodge, and it’s in North London.’





The present


Somewhere nearby, music was playing – loud insistent music that pounded jarringly on Benedict’s ears. He wanted it to stop, but it did not. Declan’s world splintered painfully, and he was abruptly and confusingly back in the sharp modernism of Nina’s flat, with Nina clattering saucepans in the kitchen and the radio blaring.

But the words Romilly Rourke had written in her frantic, scrappy letter more than a hundred years ago – the words Colm had read out in the peat-scented, fire-lit cottage – were more real than Nina’s flat. The address on the letter that Colm had read out burned deep into his brain.

Holly Lodge, North London.

It’s only another of the fragments, thought Benedict. It’s what the neurologist said about the brain shaping odd memories to clothe the alter ego.

But supposing it wasn’t. Supposing they existed, those two naive Irish boys. Supposing they came to that long-ago London with its gas-lit streets and its raucous tumble of people and the clatter of carriages and hansom cabs over cobbled streets?

We did come to London, Benedict, and a remarkable place we found it . . .

Benedict stared across at the oval mirror on the small dressing table. Something stirred in its depths, and his heart lurched.

You’re there, aren’t you, he thought. But that mirror’s in direct line to the window, and it’s a sunny day, and you don’t like the light, do you, great-grandfather . . . ?

Oh, Benedict, said the faint fragile whisper. If only you knew why I don’t like the light . . . If only you knew what it is that I have to hide from the prying gaze of everyone . . .

Murder, thought Benedict. That’s what you have to hide. But what dark corner of my mind has that fragment come from? Why am I making my alter ego a killer? A killer who was never brought to justice?