The Wolves of London (36 page)

Where the fuck was I? And how had I got here? Crazy though it seemed, I could only assume that the heart had enabled me to teleport or something, like they do in
Star Trek
. As for where I was, I supposed I must be close to where the cut-throats had taken Clover. Unless I had damaged or angered the heart by bashing it against the tube station wall and it had deposited me somewhere completely random.

Once again I peered up at the slum-like dwellings that surrounded me. They appeared to be leaning towards me like a trio of giants perusing a tasty morsel. Were the cut-throats inside one of them? And if so, how would I find them? By bashing on doors like a lone copper doing house to house? And what if I
did
find them? Clover was surely beyond help by now.

I wondered why she had been killed and not me, why the cut-throats had made no attempt to grab the heart. Had they done it to isolate me? Break my spirit? Draw me here? Or had they killed her simply because they could?

More questions. Nothing
but
questions. Confusion and despair washed over me as I thought about the awful abruptness of Clover’s death and how lost (in every sense of the word) I was. I shook my head, knowing that I couldn’t give in to it, knowing that I had to think practically, constructively. My first priority was to find out where I was. Feeling stiff and achy and sick with guilt and grief, I trudged towards the only side of the yard that wasn’t lined with buildings.

Stepping out of the shadow, I found myself in a narrow, cobbled street lined with yet more grotty-looking buildings. There were no street lamps to be seen, and even out here, where it wasn’t quite so enclosed, the stink of rotting sewage was so thick it felt as though it was forming a slimy layer in the back of my throat. Somewhere to my right I could faintly hear a swell of chatter interspersed with an occasional burst of raucous laughter. There was the suggestion of light coming from that direction too, enough to cast a slithering orange reflection on to the surface of the filthy pools of water collected between the cobblestones.

I trudged towards the signs of life, my stomach fluttering with nerves. Wherever I was, I had seen enough to realise this wasn’t a salubrious neighbourhood. In fact, the place was a slum, far worse than the run-down estate where I had grown up. At least there the housing, grim, grey and box-like though it was, had been modern and relatively sturdy. But these buildings were not only old but horribly dilapidated, some of them seeming to lean against their neighbours or even out over the street, as if about to collapse. They reminded me of Victorian rookeries, like the ones you see in Charles Dickens adaptations on the TV.

And then I stopped dead, struck by a terrifying thought.

Frank had said I’d saved his life during the First World War, which, impossible though it seemed, suggested that the heart had the ability to transport me through time. Although I hadn’t disbelieved his story outright (I’d seen enough in the past few days to half-accept anything was possible) I suppose I’d still only been able to process it as an abstract concept – because being
told
something was true, however much you might be prepared to accept it, was a hell of a lot different to experiencing that truth for yourself.

But looking around now, and thinking about the two men who had emerged from the smog in the tube station, caused unease, even dread, to lodge in the pit of my stomach. Was it beyond the realms of sanity to suppose that I
might
,
actually
, be now standing in a Victorian street and breathing Victorian air? I barked a brief, shrill, hysterical laugh, which I immediately smothered with my hand. My thoughts began to race, my emotions to hurtle dizzyingly from disbelief, to wonder, to sheer, unadulterated terror. I felt a ridiculous urge to burst into tears, and even to find somewhere quiet and dark to hide, where I could squeeze myself smaller and smaller until I disappeared.

I must have stood in the same spot for at least a minute as the stew of thoughts and emotions swirled inside me. Still shuddering, I slipped my hand into the pocket of my jacket and gripped the heart. Although it didn’t respond, its presence soothed me, and after a few moments I felt myself becoming calmer, my panic subsiding.

Finally, like a dog shaking water from its coat, I gave a final shudder and started walking again. I felt hollow and slightly spaced out, but generally okay; ready, at least, to face whatever I might come across.

It turned out the noise and light was spilling from a corner pub, The Princess Alice, a squat, red-brick building with soot-grimed windows. I stood about fifteen metres from the entrance, half-concealed in the shadow cast by a wooden hand-cart stacked with hessian sacks. Dressed as I was, and spattered with Clover’s blood, I was loath to go in. I imagined stepping through the door and the place falling silent as the pub’s patrons turned to gawp at me. I decided my best bet was to wait to see who came out, and then, if they looked approachable, to sidle up and speak to them.

I was so intent on the front of the pub that I failed to notice who or what was behind me. I almost jumped out of my skin when a gruff voice said, ‘What kind of man are you?’

I spun round. Standing in the gloom was a portly man in a baggy, coarsely woven black suit, a shapeless cap perched on his head. He had ruddy, bulbous features and a thick white moustache that gave him the appearance of an elderly, bad-tempered walrus. At his feet was a white dog so stocky it resembled a barrel with legs. It had a square, blunt-snouted head, its muzzle criss-crossed with scars.

‘Hi,’ I blurted, and only realised my mistake when the puzzled frown on the man’s lumpy face turned to startlement. ‘Er… hello, I mean.’

Instead of returning my greeting the man eyed my filthy jacket, hoodie and jeans. Then he asked suspiciously, ‘What’s your business, mister?’

‘Nothing,’ I floundered. ‘I mean… I’m lost. I was looking for someone.’

‘Is that so?’ he said. ‘And who might that be?’

I hesitated before replying, and then decided to take the plunge. ‘Two men. One of them’s got a white eye and a scarred face. The other’s taller and thinner. He wears a blue coat. Like a soldier’s coat.’

The man said nothing. He continued to stare at me, his expression wary, hostile.

‘I don’t suppose you know them, do you?’

‘What’s your interest in ’em?’

‘Last time I saw them they were… with a friend of mine,’ I said, reluctant to say more.

‘What friend?’

‘A girl.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘A girl, is it?’

‘Her name’s Clover,’ I said. ‘Clover Monroe.’

The man was silent a moment longer, then he seemed to come to a decision. Clicking his fingers, he said, ‘Snap, watch him.’

The dog sprang to attention. Its sharp little ears pricked up and it scurried towards me, barking furiously. I stumbled back, half-turning to run, but the man growled, ‘I wouldn’t do that, mister. Stay still and Snap’ll leave you be. But try to run and she’ll sink her teeth to the bone.’

Although every instinct screamed at me to flee, I forced myself to stand still, raising my hands placatingly. Sure enough the dog came to a halt in front of me, its hackles up and its mean little eyes staring unblinkingly into my own. It growled menacingly, its muzzle quivering over sharp yellow teeth.

‘Look,’ I said, trying to keep my voice steady, ‘I don’t want any trouble.’

‘You just stay still, mister,’ the man said again, then he pushed past me and plodded towards the pub.

I looked over my shoulder and watched him go inside. Deprived of its master’s control, I thought the dog might lose its discipline and fly at me, but it remained where it was, the blood-curdling growl continuing to rumble in its throat.

‘Good dog,’ I said, but that only made the creature stiffen in anger, the volume of its growl rising a further notch. I wondered whether the heart would defend me if the creature attacked, and whether I would want it to.

After a few minutes I heard movement and gruff voices behind me and looked over my shoulder. The white-moustached man was clumping back towards me, accompanied by four others. One was a skinny, slope-shouldered youth of about seventeen with a rat-like face and a black club in his right hand. Another was a man in a battered top hat and stained red waistcoat, whose bushy grey beard was matted with clumps of filth. The other two were the men I had seen earlier – the one who had killed Clover and his taller, skinnier companion in the blue military-style coat.

‘I heard you was lookin’ for us, mister,’ barked Clover’s killer, striding up to me. ‘Well, here we are, so what’s yer beef?’

He circled behind the dog to stand in front of me, glaring with his one good eye. His companions stood behind me, shuffling and sniffing; I heard one hoick up a mouthful of phlegm and spit it on to the ground.

My throat was dry, but I forced myself to speak. ‘You know why I’m here.’

Clover’s killer took another step forward, tilting his chin pugnaciously. A rank, unwashed odour came off him. ‘Is that so? Well then, I confess it must have slipped my mind.’

Behind me his cronies cackled; the spitter spat again.

Glancing at the dog and knowing I had little to lose, I asked, ‘Why did you murder my friend?’

Clover’s killer raised his eyebrows. ‘Murder, is it? That’s an ’orrible accusation you is makin’ there, mister.’

‘There’s no point pretending you don’t know what I’m talking about. You did it right in front of me less than half an hour ago.’

‘Half an hour,’ he repeated, aping and mocking my speech, emphasising the ‘h’ of ‘hour’. He glanced over my shoulder at the men behind me. ‘Where was we half an hour ago, Mr Jackery?’

A weaselly voice replied, ‘We was in the alehouse, Mr Hulse. We been there all day. In full view of our good friends and neighbours.’

Clover’s killer – Hulse – nodded reflectively. ‘That we have, Mr Jackery, that we have. Thank you ever so for reminding me.’ He fixed his gaze on me again, his scarred face creasing into a leering smile. ‘So there you has it, mister. I’m afraid your eyes has deceived you.’

I shook my head. ‘I saw you. I know what you did. There’s no point denying it.’ But then I fell silent. What was I achieving by throwing the accusation back in his face? Trying to sound reasonable, I said, ‘Just tell me why you did it. And… and at least give her back to me, so that I can give her a decent burial.’

Hulse’s menacingly jovial manner slipped and he scowled. ‘Is your brain addled, mister? I’s already told you the facts of the matter. Now hold your tongue unless you wants to lose it.’

So saying, he reached into his jacket and pulled out the knife he had killed Clover with. It glinted rustily in the meagre light spilling from the pub.

From behind me one of the men said, ‘Why not take his tongue anyway, Mr Hulse? Make a nice little titbit for Snap, that would.’

‘Aye, and his eyes too so’s he can’t finger us as the coves what took his purse,’ piped up a thin, reedy voice which I guessed belonged to the rat-faced youth. The other men laughed.

‘What an agile mind you has, Mr Swann!’ declared Hulse delightedly. ‘Agile and inventive! Don’t you think so, my lily-white friend?’

This last remark was directed at me. Instead of replying, I lashed out without warning, kicking the dog as hard as I could in the face. I had seen where the situation was heading, had known from the moment they confronted me that these men had no intention of allowing me to walk away. And so as soon as Hulse had drawn the knife I had decided that it was better to give them a run for their money rather than stand by and see events through to their inevitable conclusion.

Although the dog’s head was as hard as a brick, it let out a loud yelp and lost its footing, rolling on to its side. Before it could recover, and before Hulse could raise the knife, I leaped forward and punched the cut-throat as hard as I could between the eyes. Dropping the knife, he stumbled sideways, and then tripped over the dog, which even now, though still on its back, was twisting its body like a fat white maggot to leap to its feet. As the two became tangled in a snarling, roaring heap I skipped past them and started running.

I had no idea where I was going, and no time to examine street signs or ask directions as I fled through the filthy, ill-lit streets. My only plan was to duck around as many corners as I could, and to aim for the narrowest openings and passageways in the hope of shaking off my pursuers.

I was so focused on staying ahead of the pack, and of keeping my feet on the slick cobbles, that I had no idea how close behind me Hulse and his men were, or even if they were following me at all. Certainly I could hear nothing but the thumping of my own footsteps, the pounding of my heart and the rush of my adrenaline-fuelled blood.

I had been running for several minutes, and making as many twists and turns as I could, when I finally rounded a corner and saw, on my right, a particularly narrow alleyway. I veered into it, my sudden change of direction causing me to catch the wall a glancing blow with my left shoulder. Though my body still felt tender and sore, I faltered only slightly, fat black rats scuttling in panic before my headlong rush. I burst from the other end of the alleyway on to a surprisingly wide street – wide enough, in fact, to have been granted the luxury of a pavement. Unfortunately, a young couple, strolling arm in arm, happened to move directly across my path as I catapulted from the opening. I cannoned into the woman, causing her to fall against her companion, and all three of us went down like skittles.

The ground rushed up to meet me, slamming into my left knee and elbow. The impact was so jolting that I felt a wrenching pain in my neck that instantly zigzagged into my head, momentarily blotting out my senses. When I came to, no more than a couple of seconds later, I was horrified to discover that my right hand was empty. Though it hurt to move my head, I looked up and saw the heart nestled in the gutter a few metres away. Gritting my teeth against the throbbing pain in my arm, leg and head, I propelled myself across the pavement and lunged for it. The relief I felt when my fingers closed around it was short-lived, because almost immediately I felt a searing pain in my ankle. I looked round to see that the white dog, its muzzle lathered with blood-smeared saliva, had clamped its teeth around my leg.