The Sin Eater(48)

They sat on each side of the bed, holding Romilly’s hands, feeling helpless and angry. As a distant church clock chimed twelve, Romilly fell back, and a dreadful choking cough came from her lips.

‘She’s going,’ said the landlady. ‘Nothing we can do now.’

Oh yes there is . . . Declan said, ‘Would you pour me some water from the jug.’

‘And fetch a piece of bread,’ said Colm.

They bent over the bed, and the landlady stood at the foot, watching them. After about five minutes, she said, ‘She’s gone.’

‘I know,’ said Colm.

‘What was that you said to her?’ She looked at Declan, who hesitated.

Colm said, ‘He was just chanting an old prayer we have.’

They managed to arrange a funeral at a small, rather bleak church a few streets away, and there was a brief, impersonal service, which took the last of their carefully hoarded money. Neither of them had any idea what they were going to do next. Declan was distraught at Romilly’s death, but Colm swung between bitter grief and a black raging fury that Declan found frightening. Twice he went off by himself, hunching his shoulders when Declan would have accompanied him. Declan had no idea where he went – he thought he probably just walked the streets, trying to come to terms with Romilly’s squalid death.

After the funeral they returned to their lodgings. They would be given an early supper and also breakfast tomorrow morning, but after that they would be expected to pay their reckoning. Neither of them knew how they would do it.

Colm had spoken very little since Romilly’s death, but as a thin spiteful rain began to beat against the windows, he suddenly said, ‘So this is how our wonderful dreams of making a golden fortune in London town end. In a shabby bedroom, hungry and destitute.’

Shortly after two o’clock, Declan found himself thinking they had just over four hours to get through before supper was served downstairs. Neither of them had been able to eat much breakfast because of facing Romilly’s funeral, and they had not been able to afford a midday meal after it. He was starting to feel slightly sick and a bit light-headed with hunger.

A nearby church clock was chiming the half hour, when Colm suddenly stood up and said, ‘I’m going out.’

‘Where . . . ?’ But Colm had already gone, the street door downstairs banging.

Declan grabbed his jacket from the bed and went down the stairs after him. When he reached the street there was no sign of Colm. He stood irresolute for a moment, then turned up his collar and began to walk through the driving rain towards the east. Towards Canning Town and the Church of St Stephen where Romilly was buried.





The present


Benedict fought his way free of the clinging cobwebs of Declan’s world, and little by little became aware that he was in Nina’s flat.

He felt sick and light-headed – exactly as Declan felt when he followed Colm out into the London streets all those years ago, he thought. But that wasn’t real. I’ve got to remember that this is all simply a quirk of my own mind.

But he could feel that dark alter ego’s claws still embedded deep in his mind, and fighting free of them took such a massive mental effort, he thought at first he was not going to manage it. This time, thought Benedict in panic, he’s going to take me over forever. But even as the thought formed, he was aware of a surge of defiance. I won’t let him, he thought. Whether any of that was real or not, I’m not going to stay in that world. I don’t want to see what happens next – I don’t even want to know about it. Because the murders are about to begin. He’s going to the East End tonight – to Canning Town and to the old river steps.

Declan Doyle was about to start killing all the people he believed had brought about Romilly’s death.

Michael was absorbed in his Andrew Marvell notes when the phone rang.

A slightly hesitant voice said, ‘Dr Flint? Michael Flint? It’s Benedict Doyle. I don’t know if you remember me, but—’

‘Of course I remember you,’ said Michael at once. ‘How are you?’

‘A bit mixed. You said if I needed help . . . I dare say you’re frantically busy, but . . .’

Michael consigned the Marvell notes to the back of his desk and said, ‘I’m not frantically busy at all.’

Benedict sat in Michael’s study with the view over the tiny, tucked-away quadrangle, and said, ‘It’s very good of you to spare the time.’

‘You said on the phone you weren’t exactly recovering.’

‘I’m not. I don’t know how much Nina told you—’

‘Only the basics,’ said Michael, not wanting the boy to be embarrassed. ‘That you seem to have plugged your mind in to a different time and place.’

‘Oh, OK. Well, they’re calling it – this thing I have – these visions of people living in another time – a form of dissociative personality disorder. It sounds grim, doesn’t it?’

‘Not necessarily. Half my students have some peculiarity or other. Particularly,’ said Michael, choosing his words carefully, ‘if they’ve been taking something slightly exotic.’

‘I’ve never done drugs,’ said Benedict at once. Then, with a half-grin, ‘Well, OK, I’ve smoked the occasional joint. Only grass, though.’