Land of Hope and Glory (40 page)

Was Elizabeth going to die? For a moment he was sure she would. He’d been mad to think he could save her.

Should he give up and fight for his country instead?

Is that what Elizabeth would want him to do?

No, why was he even thinking like this? Elizabeth was going to live. He was going to rescue her.

Lost in thought, he walked down to the main street and left the walkway without even looking around first. He heard footsteps beside him. He glanced up and his heart leapt. Harold, William’s long-haired comrade, was walking towards him along the side of the road. Their eyes met for a second. Harold frowned and mouthed something silently, revealing the gap where his two front teeth were missing.

Jack slipped back into the shadow of the walkway. Maybe Harold hadn’t recognised him? He heard the footsteps quicken and he moved back a few paces.

Harold’s silhouette appeared at the end of the walkway. ‘Hey.’ He sounded drunk. ‘Is that you – what’s-your-name?’

Jack stalled. He couldn’t think what to do.

‘It
is
you.’ Harold stepped forward. ‘The traitor. I see you there.’

Jack shot a look at the other end of the walkway. He could run, but then Harold would alert William. Anything could happen then. William might spread the word that he was a traitor, and then he would be a fugitive trapped in the city. He would never get close to William after that.

He made a split-second decision. He lunged forward, got a hand over Harold’s mouth and held the knife to his throat. Harold was caught off guard and reacted slowly. Jack smelt the ale on his breath.

Harold struggled and gave a muffled cry, but Jack kept a hand firmly over his mouth.

Jack’s heart roared in his ears. He saw the men in the tavern sitting mere feet away. If Harold managed to make a sound, they would hear it without a doubt.

‘Stay still or I’ll slit your throat,’ Jack hissed.

But Harold continued struggling. He got his hands up to his face and tried to force Jack’s hand away.

To Jack, the surroundings went sharp and clear. It was like the start of a battle, when the first shots were fired and you saw the first soldiers go down and suddenly everything was real and everything that had gone before, the waiting, was merely a dream. Jack’s training took over, like dark metal poured into his veins.

‘I tell you, I’ll kill you,’ he whispered.

Harold stopped moving and stood breathing heavily. Jack moved him down to the half-open door. The small foyer beyond was in darkness.

‘Inside,’ Jack said. But what then? Could he keep Harold bound and gagged in there?

Harold took a step up into the house, then tensed and swung himself round. Jack, surprised, slammed into the wall and his head hit the wooden door frame. A puff of darkness filled his eyes for a moment. His forehead throbbed and pain forked across his chest.

Harold slipped from his grasp and cried out, the sound like a gunshot in the quiet night. Jack threw himself forward with as much force as he could and slammed into Harold’s chest, cutting his cry short.

Harold toppled back and the two of them rolled into the foyer. Jack sprang on top, got his hand over Harold’s mouth again. Harold bit down and fire coursed through Jack’s arm. Jack flailed with the knife and caught Harold in the side. Harold grunted and Jack felt moisture on his fingers.

He shifted his grasp and stabbed again, hitting Harold in the stomach. Harold wheezed and gasped, but then seemed to find new strength and fought back more ferociously. He punched upwards and struck Jack on the jaw. Jack’s teeth snapped together and it felt as though needles had been fired into his gums.

Harold got his mouth free and attempted another cry. Jack pummelled down just in time. He smacked the back of Harold’s head into the stone floor and there was a pop like a china bowl breaking. Harold went silent, stunned.

Jack lifted the knife.

Could he do it?

His hand seemed to hover above Harold for minutes.

He couldn’t do it.

But he had to do it. Harold had seen him and would tell everyone he was a traitor.

Harold’s eyes widened as he became aware of the blade above him. For a moment Jack stared back. Then he slashed down and across. The knife thudded heavily into Harold’s throat, going in deep. Blood spurted everywhere. There was a gargling sound – Jack wasn’t sure if it came from Harold’s mouth or the wound in his neck.

Jack lifted the knife again. Harold’s eyes gleamed – Jack couldn’t stand it. He wanted them shut. He slashed again. Warm blood hit his face and he tasted salty drops in his mouth.

Harold lay still, his eyes staring at the ceiling, throat butchered. He wasn’t breathing.

Jack threw the knife hard against the wall. He wanted to hit something but he held himself back.

Then he heard a voice outside and went cold. He turned. The door was still ajar and he could see strips of light from the tavern beyond.

‘Anyone there?’ came the voice again – the barman.

He tried to breathe but the air wouldn’t come. With the room spinning, he dragged himself to the door and peered round the corner. Men still sat in the tavern, seemingly unaware of the fight. But the door to the bar further down the walkway was open and two figures now stood outside it.

Jack slipped back inside. Had they seen him? He fumbled in his pocket for the jatamansi and took a swig.

‘It’s nothing,’ one of the men said.

‘I heard something, I tell you,’ the barman responded.

Jack heard the scrape of boots as the men came down the walkway. He eased the door shut, and slowly and silently slipped the bolt across. He was in almost complete darkness, the only light coming from under the door.

The footsteps came closer.

‘Hello?’ the barman said. ‘Anyone there?’

‘It’s empty. Let’s go back.’

‘Maybe you’re right. Hold on.’

The door handle turned, the brass creaking slightly as it moved against the wood. Jack’s heart pounded.

The barman on the other side pushed at the door. ‘It’s locked.’

‘I told you, there’s no one.’

‘Looks that way.’

The men retreated and the sound of their footsteps faded.

Jack breathed out. He leant against the wall, then eased himself down to a sitting position. Black dots danced before him.

He took another sip of jatamansi and his heartbeat began to slow.

After a few minutes he crawled across to the body. Harold’s eyes were locked open, two pieces of glass in the dim light. Jack kept seeing that final look of fear on Harold’s face. He’d seen that look many times before – he’d lost count of how many men he’d killed – but this felt different. Was it because it had been so long since he’d been in a fight? He hadn’t so much as raised his hand to someone for nine years. But it wasn’t just that. Harold was an Englishman. Jack had never killed one of his own kind before.

He reached over and closed Harold’s eyelids. He felt as though he’d crossed some dark threshold.

‘God, have mercy on my soul.’

After an hour in the dark, his mind racing, Jack stood and opened the door slightly. The walkway was in complete darkness, the lights were off in the tavern and everyone had gone home. He saw no sign of life at either end of the walkway.

He rubbed his face with his hand. What to do? He could leave the body where it was, but he couldn’t lock the door and it would swing open. The barman or someone else would soon notice the corpse.

He could move the body to another room, but the building was empty, with no hiding places. Anyone would be able to come in at any time and find it.

He realised that if he left the body anywhere in the building it would be too risky for him to come back. But he didn’t want to give up his vantage point looking across to William’s quarters. Furthermore, the barman had seen him several times and could point him out to the city guard if the body were discovered.

Then he remembered the boarded-up well in the nearby square. He could dump the body in it. No one would look there. And even if they did, there was nothing to draw attention to him, or his hiding place.

He closed the door and stood in the darkness. Was he thinking clearly? Was he panicking?

He sat cross-legged on the ground, breathed deeply and said a few Hail Marys. Slowly, things became clearer.

He knew what to do now. He had to hide the body. There were far too many risks involved in leaving it in the house. The well was the best place he knew – and it wasn’t far.

He went through to the next room and lit the lantern. When he came back to the foyer he was shocked for a moment by the amount of blood everywhere. The white walls were splattered red and a sticky pool was spreading across the floor. Even worse, the front of his tunic was now stiff with hardening blood. He would have to clean the room, and himself. But first he would have to dispose of the body.

He extinguished the lantern and opened the door. The way was still clear.

He went back to the corpse. The face looked sunken, the skin beginning to hang off the bones. He’d often thought the soul didn’t leave the body immediately. It lingered for a while, a silent presence, slowly ebbing away as the face and body collapsed inward.

For a moment he remembered holding Katelin after the fever had finally taken her, watching her transform from a person to a pallid statue with a likeness that was close to his wife, but not quite her.

He breathed in, then bent and pulled Harold up by the arms. He tried to get the body over his shoulder, but the weight was too great and he fell forward. The body rolled back on to the ground and the skull struck the stone with a crisp thud. Harold’s eyes sprang open, as if he’d woken up.

Jack paused, then closed the eyelids again. He picked up Harold’s legs and dragged the body, jolting it down the single step to the walkway. He waited a moment, then continued dragging the body in the direction of the well. Harold’s clothes rustled and scraped on the ground. Jack tried to go as slowly as possible to reduce the noise. He was afraid the tavern door would open at any moment, but nothing happened.

He reached the end of the walkway, put the legs down and glanced around the corner. The road, busy during the day, was now empty. But lanterns floated above the doorways and the moment he stepped out of the walkway anyone passing by would be able to see him.

He hesitated for more than a minute. When no one came, he dragged the body across the street, the scraping echoing in the silence. He saw blood left behind on the cobbles, but it was faint amongst the dirt, straw and ordure. No one would notice.

He reached the shadowy alley on the far side. Then the corpse snagged. He tugged, but the body was stuck – the legs and abdomen in the alley, the rest still lying out in the road.

He pulled again. The body wouldn’t move.

Christ.

He dropped the legs and bent down to investigate. He felt underneath the body and along the side, but couldn’t find anything.

He heard footsteps up the road. A lantern bobbed in the distance, coming closer.

He searched frantically for the snag. What was it? Sweat erupted on his forehead.

The footsteps grew louder.

Then he found a pair of thick nails sticking out from a wooden door frame just beside the alley’s entrance. They’d caught on Harold’s tunic and dug into his skin.

He yanked the body away from the nails, then pulled it into the darkness of the alley. He slipped, lurched up again, pulled some more.

The footsteps quickened and he heard a man call out, ‘Hey there.’

To his left he spotted an alcove, shallow but hidden in darkness. He rolled the body into this and it just fitted. But there was nowhere for him to hide himself.

‘What’s going on there?’ The man appeared at the end of the alley and held up the lantern.

Jack saw a flash of red and white – the uniform of the city guard. He thought quickly. He knew his tunic was covered in blood and would give him away, so he ripped it off and threw it on top of the body. Naked to the waist, he slumped against the wall a few feet away from the alcove.

‘What?’ He slurred, trying to sound drunk.

The watchman stepped into the alley and raised the lantern higher. The light now illuminated Jack.

‘What the Devil . . . ?’ the watchman said.

Jack looked up. The watchman was in his fifties, with silver whiskers and a face marbled with red lines.

‘Evening, good sir,’ Jack lolled his head to one side. ‘Sit down. Have a drink with me.’ He watched the guard closely – he had no idea how well his acting was working.

The watchman frowned and narrowed his eyes. ‘You’re a mess. Is that blood on your hands?’

‘It’s nothing. I fell over.’

The watchman pursed his lips. He looked up the alley in the direction of the alcove. If he walked on a few feet he would be able to see the body.

‘Come on, sir,’ Jack said. ‘A drink.’

The watchman returned his gaze to Jack. ‘You’re a disgrace. You’re lucky I’m not going to lock you up. Get yourself home, and get some clothes on.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Jack scrambled to his feet, pretending to be unsteady. The watchman looked him up and down, shook his head and went back to the road. Jack listened as the footsteps receded.