The Sin Eater(74)
‘Watching, where from?’ said Declan, looking about him.
‘Anywhere. Those warehouses, barges on the river. Will you do the sprint, or will I?’
‘I’ll do it,’ said Declan, and thought: I don’t need to look at what’s under the jacket. I don’t even need to think about it. Before he could change his mind, he was down the steps, snatching up the jacket, and racing back up again.
‘Good,’ said Colm, softly. ‘Very good indeed.’
‘What now?’
‘Back to the lodging. We’ll get a cab again.’
‘Can we afford it?’
‘Your man down there can,’ said Colm.
‘We’re still using his money?’
‘He doesn’t need it,’ said Colm.
They spent an uncomfortable night in the narrow lodging house. Colm appeared to sleep, but Declan lay wakeful, watching the shadows dance on the ceiling, seeing them form into the outline of a twisted hunched figure lying on river steps. I didn’t do it, he thought. I didn’t kill him – I’d know if I had. But every time this denial formed, trailing it like an unquiet spectre, was the question: can you be sure?
There were four other lodgers eating breakfast when they went downstairs next morning. There had been no introductions, but they had all shared meals during the last few days, and they had nodded in offhand friendship. Declan thought the men looked down on them; he thought they regarded himself and Colm as innocents, unschooled lambs who might be ripe for fleecing. Colm had said this was rubbish, and he and Declan were as good as anyone in London.
But this morning, as they sat down at the long scrubbed table, with the platters of bread and margarine and jugs of strong tea, there was no doubt that the other lodgers were looking at them.
It was one of the older men who passed them a morning newspaper – they saw it was a local publication, covering this part of North London.
‘Bad affair that,’ he said, and his eyes seemed to rest on Declan and Colm with curiosity.
They read the story together.
BRUTAL MURDER OF MAN IN CANNING TOWN.
The body of a middle-aged man was last night found on the river steps near the old Bidder Lane sewer. The man, whose name police have not yet released, is believed to have died during the early evening. Readers will recall how thick fog covered most of Canning Town last night – a circumstance which appears to have aided the killer in his grim work.
The victim’s injuries are described as savage, and reports of a young man with dark hair, seen wandering the area at the time, have already been passed to the police by local residents. One person, living just off Clock Street, thought the young man had an Irish accent, although this has not been corroborated.
Any persons who may have information as to the possible identity of such a man, are most earnestly requested to give details to their local police station or patrolling constable.
This paper feels it is a tragic day when an honest citizen of our town cannot walk abroad without dying at the hands of what appears to be a crazed murderer. People living in the area are warned not to go out alone after dark.
Editor’s Note: The Bidder Lane outlet – which runs almost parallel with Bidder Lane and the intersection of Clock Street – is one of London’s older sewer tunnels. Created as part of Joseph Bazalgette’s sewer network in the Sixties, it fell into disuse more than ten years ago.
‘Shocking,’ said Declan, passing back the paper, managing to speak normally. ‘Aren’t there some evil people in London?’
‘No worse than in Galway, though,’ said Colm. ‘Have we milk on the table this morning? Would you pass it over, please?’
They were able to finish their breakfasts in relative calm, although Declan thought afterwards that bread and raspberry jam would forever afterwards taste of fear.
Back in their room, Colm said, ‘We have to leave this house.’
‘They’re suspicious of us, aren’t they? “An Irish accent” the paper said.’
‘We aren’t the only Irish in London, for pity’s sake,’ said Colm, angrily, but he was already putting their few things together. ‘But we’ll settle up our account here so no one can remember us for non-payers, and then we’ll be off as soon as we can.’
‘Where will we go?’
‘Holly Lodge,’ said Colm. ‘Where else?’
It was mid-afternoon when they reached Holly Lodge. Flossie Totteridge greeted them wearing a thin wrapper that imperfectly concealed her plentiful flesh, and she had either not removed the paint from her face last night, or had applied it that morning in a very bad light.
Colm said without preamble, ‘Floss – we need a bed for a couple of nights.’
‘Do you indeed? I don’t, as a rule, let rooms to gentlemen.’
‘No, but you’ve my cousin Romilly’s room still empty, perhaps?’
‘I have, as it happens.’ Flossie eyed Colm. ‘And, of course, circumstances alter cases.’
‘Circumstances?’ said Colm, with a reminiscent smile at her. False, thought Declan. Oh God, he can be so false at times.
‘The circumstance of you and me having become such particular friends,’ said Flossie, and Declan thought how revolting it was to see a lady of Mrs Totteridge’s age and proportions displaying coyness. With obvious reluctance she removed her gaze from Colm to look at Declan. ‘You’d be agreeable to sharing a room with one another, I dare say?’