The Sin Eater(55)

Near the top of the steps was the pile of rubbish he had slipped on. A coil of sodden rope and a few unidentifiable rags. There was a second, similar pile of rubbish lying at the foot of the steps, quite near him. It looked like a bundle of old clothes.

It was not old clothes at all. It was a person – an unconscious man lying in a huddle on the ground. Probably it was a sailor, too drunk to stand up, or a tramp who had lain down to sleep. Out here? said Declan’s mind, disbelievingly. With rain sheeting down for the last eight or ten hours? He went forward, a bit unsteadily, and bent over the prone figure.

Oh God. Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph, this could not be real. It was part of a nightmare – an illusion from knocking himself out earlier. But Declan knew it was not. This was real; it was a man, a jowl-faced man with thin sandy hair and pale, podgy hands. The hands were held out as if to ward off an attack, and the eyes were wide and glaring with terror and agony. Blood pooled under the body, glistening in the light from a street lamp. Still wet, thought Declan. Is he still bleeding? Is it possible he’s still alive? He thrust one hand inside the man’s jacket, feeling for a heartbeat. As he did so, a scarf tucked into the coat slid off. Declan gasped and recoiled. The man’s throat had been slit – a deep, gaping gash that showed white glints – muscle, sinews . . .

He turned away, retching. When he’d recovered and looked at the body again he was conscious of an extraordinary feeling of pity that this was all any human being was made of. Skin and muscle, and life-breath that could whistle out of you at the touch of a knife’s blade.

I’m so sorry for you, said Declan, very softly to the unknown man. You’re lying there in your own blood and it’s raining and lonely and your blood’s trickled into the puddles.

He took off his jacket and laid it across the man’s body, covering up the gaping throat wound. Then he stood up and looked about him, thinking he would have to find help – dead bodies had to be reported to the police – but not knowing where to go. It was then that footsteps sounded at the head of the steps and a figure appeared through the darkness.

Colm’s voice said, ‘Declan, what have you done?’

Somehow Colm got Declan back to the lodging house, and wrapped a blanket round him. From somewhere he produced a mug of tea, laced with brandy.

‘I don’t remember much,’ said Declan, sipping the tea gratefully. ‘I went out to find you, only then I felt ill. I thought you might have gone back to Romilly’s grave,’ he said, ‘but you weren’t there, so I went to the house in Bidder Lane. Then I skidded on the wet river steps and knocked myself out.’ He cupped his hands round the mug of tea, letting the warmth seep into his fingers. ‘Colm – that man I found. We should tell someone.’

‘We should not,’ said Colm, at once. ‘You know who it was, do you?’

‘Who . . . ?’

‘It’s Bullfinch,’ said Colm. Then, as Declan looked at him, his mind still foggy from the events of the day, unable to think who Bullfinch was, Colm said, impatiently, ‘The abortionist. The man responsible for Romilly’s death. And if anyone finds out you were there with his body, they’ll ask some very difficult questions.’

Declan found it difficult to take this in. He was slightly warmer, but his head was still opening and shutting on waves of pain, and he felt light-headed from exhaustion. He said, ‘How do you know it was Bullfinch?’

‘There was a wallet lying on the steps when I found you,’ said Colm. ‘It was near the body. I thought it was yours so I put it in my pocket. But it isn’t yours.’ He indicated a small leather wallet lying on the bed. Declan saw with a shudder that it was dark with dried blood.

‘There’s a letter inside,’ said Colm. ‘Addressed to Harold Bullfinch at Clock Street. And if you think there’ll be two Bullfinches living in that street . . .’ He leaned forward. ‘Declan, if anyone knows you were there tonight, they’ll think you murdered Bullfinch out of revenge for Romilly’s death. You can’t tell anyone about finding his body – you do see that?’

‘Yes,’ said Declan slowly. ‘Yes, I do see that. What do we do?’

‘We leave here at once, that’s what we do. We find somewhere else to stay.’

‘Where? We haven’t any money.’

‘Yes we have.’ The sudden grin lifted Colm’s face. ‘Bullfinch’s money in his wallet.’

‘We can’t use that.’

‘We can.’ Colm got off the bed and went to the window, to peer out. ‘It’s stopped raining,’ he said. ‘And I can hear a clock chiming two. If we go now we’ll just vanish into the night and no one will be any the wiser.’ He looked back at Declan, and something about him sharpened suddenly. ‘There isn’t anything you left there, is there? Nothing that could cause anyone to connect him with us?

‘No,’ said Declan, then stopped. ‘Oh God.’

‘What? Declan, what?’

‘My jacket,’ said Declan. ‘I put it over him.’

‘Truly? Mother of God, you’re raving mad. Why would you do such a thing?’ said Colm, a note of anger in his voice.

‘I don’t know. He was lying there all bloody and dead and rained on. I wanted to cover him up,’ said Declan defensively.