Til Death Do Us Part (21 page)

He saw his friend John Clayton coming out from the vicarage further down the Fish Hill and went to meet him.

‘It's a sad day for some poor parents, John. Who are they?'

The curate's pleasantly ugly features displayed his sense of resignation to what was a very frequent occurrence, since throughout the parish more than a third of children died before reaching their fifth year.

‘They live in the Old Laystall, Tom. The father is Ezekiel Rimmer the scavenger. The girl died last night, and the mother sent for me to go down there and pray for the passing of her child's soul.'

‘Oh my God!' Tom exclaimed in shocked dismay. ‘This is very unfortunate!'

‘Of course,' Clayton agreed. ‘But I have to bury a child from the Old Laystall virtually every week. May God forgive me, but when I witness the degradation and sufferings of the people who live in that cesspit, then the thought strikes me that the child who dies is perhaps more fortunate than those who survive.'

‘That may be, John, but my concern is that I have to arrest Ezekiel Rimmer this very day. It's going to be a hard-hearted thing to do, to arrest a man who has just lost his child.'

Clayton shrugged his broad shoulders and smiled grimly. ‘While her child was dying, Mrs Rimmer was yet again sporting freshly inflicted black eyes, and Rimmer was out carousing with his cronies. So you may draw comfort in the knowledge that you'll be giving his wife and surviving children a most welcome respite from the ill-treatment they constantly receive from him.'

Tom could only nod in wry acceptance of the truth of that statement.

S
itting bolt upright in her bed, Ella Peelson's fingernails dug deep into her palms, and she vented a strangled cry of pain as the elderly doctor unwrapped the final length of bandage from around her head and peeled away the thick pads of ointment-impregnated dressing which had stuck to her face.

The doctor then adjusted his pince-nez and carefully studied the grotesquely swollen, bruised features, the flattened spread of the smashed nose, the torn disfigured lips, the bulbously lumped eyes, and announced with a satisfied air, ‘I do declare, Ma'am, that thanks to my treatments, your injuries are now on the mend.'

He held up his hands before her eyes and asked, ‘How many fingers are extended? Which fingers on which hand?'

‘Three. The forefinger and ring fingers on the left hand, and the little finger on the right hand.' Her voice was weak and her diction badly distorted by her tongue impacting against her jaggedly broken teeth, and the difficulty of moving her lips.

‘And how many, and which fingers are extended now, Ma'am?'

‘The second and little fingers on the right hand. Forefinger and thumb on the left hand.'

‘Excellent, Ma'am! Excellent! Now tell me, how is your ability to swallow the liquid sustenance progressing? Does it pain you as much as it did?'

‘No, it's becoming easier.'

‘And the sleeping draughts, are they enabling you to enjoy some periods of unbroken sleep?'

‘Yes. Some.'

‘Excellent, Ma'am! Excellent! What I now propose is that you leave your injuries exposed to the atmosphere for the remainder of this day. I will return this evening and dress them afresh. I shall also bring you more sleeping draughts, and my new Sedative Elixir, which will serve to soothe the discomfort of your injuries, and also have a most salutary effect upon your total bodily and spiritual well-being.'

‘Thank you so much, Doctor Rainforth, I'm very grateful for the wonderful care you're lavishing upon me. Might I impose upon your kind heart even more shamelessly, and request a further service of you, Doctor?' Ella Peelson lifted a sealed packet from her bedside table and proffered it to him. ‘Would you be so kind as to have this delivered to this address in Birmingham by special courier this very day? I will of course recompense you for the expense.'

He took the packet from her. ‘It will be my pleasure to do so, Ma'am. I know a most reliable man, and you may be assured that it will be delivered well before nightfall.

‘Now, do not finger your wounds, and try to rest until my return. Also, I would advise you not to look at yourself in a mirror. It will only cause you unnecessary distress, because you will not be able to perceive, as my medical experience enables me to, the signs of the healing process which will in due course restore your features to their previous unblemished state.'

As soon as the doctor had left the house, Ella Peelson called her maid to her bedside.

‘Milly, bring me a looking glass.'

The child frowned doubtfully. ‘But I heard the doctor say that you warn't to look at yourself, Ma'am.'

‘Snooping at the keyhole again, were you?' Ella Peelson gingerly shook her head. ‘One of these days, my dear girl, you might be seeing or hearing something that you wouldn't wish to. Now bring me a looking glass.'

‘But it'll only upset you, Ma'am.'

‘Bring it this bloody instant!' Ella snapped irritably.

The child recognized the warning signs and hastened to obey.

Ella Peelson waited until Milly had left the room before she looked at her reflection.

She drew a sharp intake of breath, and cursed virulently. ‘Bastards! Fuckin' bastards! I'll pay you back for this! You're going to wish that you'd never been born when I catch up with you!'

T
he rain clouds which had been gathering in the skies throughout the day finally began to shed their loads. The first spatterings quickly developed into a steady downpour which drove the late shoppers from the market place and forced the remaining sellers and assorted loafers and hangers-on to decamp and go their various ways.

Tom Potts was able to abandon his patrol and hurry back to the shelter of the lock-up to find Ritchie Bint waiting for him there.

‘We're in luck, Tom.' Bint grinned with satisfaction. ‘They'm all three of 'um going to be playing in tonight's money-match down in the Horse and Jockey skittle alley. Couldn't be better, could it! Only the one door which we'll be blocking, and barred windows. They'm bloody rats up a drainpipe!'

As always the prospect of confronting and arresting offenders against the Law evoked in Tom the conflicting tremors of excited anticipation and physical fear.

Amy was at her mother's house and would not return until morning, and loud snoring was sounding through the locked door of Yakob Weiss's unlit cell, so there was nothing to further detain Tom here.

He nodded. ‘Just as you say, Ritchie, they're rats up a drainpipe, so let's go and root them out of it.'

He stared out through the open door. ‘It looks as if the rain's stopped so let's get them in here before it starts again. I'm quite wet enough already.'

The Horse and Jockey tavern was situated on the eastern side of the fetid reeking Big Pool. Its skittle alley was housed in a long narrow wooden shed situated in a broad swath of enclosed pasturage a few yards from the rear of the tavern.

Tom and Ritchie Bint went around the outside of the tavern and, from a concealed vantage point, watched for a while the haphazard comings and goings of men, women, youths and girls through the door of the shed's lamplit interior.

The thumps and clattering of wooden balls and skittles punctuated by shouts of acclamation and howls of exasperation signified a contest in progress.

The clatter of wood ceased and there was a louder outburst of cheers and volleys of chagrined oaths followed by a sudden stream of bodies exiting the shed and ranging along its outside walls, the males unlacing their breeches flies and urinating, the females lifting their skirts and squatting to do the same.

Tom nudged his friend. ‘There's Rimmer and Hicks. I can't see Dummy though.'

‘He'll not be far away,' Ritchie Bint hissed. ‘But we've got the two bastards that matter most. Shall we take 'um now?'

Even as he asked the question Rimmer and Hicks finished relieving themselves, and fastening their flies headed back to the door.

‘It's best we wait and take them inside,' Tom judged. ‘If they spot us coming they can bolt across the pasture and we could lose them in this darkness.'

They waited until everyone had returned through the door and then walked slowly across the intervening space. From inside the shed the voice of the Bellman, Harry Pratt, was bawling.

‘My Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen, the next contest is a Western Alley Rules of nine turns apiece. It's a money-match challenge for three guineas, between the Red Lion Needle Pointers . . .'

A roar of cheering greeted this name.

‘. . . And the Old Laystall Court Gentlemen – better known to all present as the Shit Court Shit Eaters.'

A cacophony of jeering hoots and whistles greeted this name followed immediately by Ezekiel Rimmer's furious bellowing.

‘I knows all your fuckin' names and where you lives, and you'd best watch your backs, all of you!'

His voice was drowned out by an even louder cacophony of jeers.

Tom couldn't help but grin and say to Ritchie Bint, ‘I've a notion that Rimmer's not going to have many people fighting to set him free when we arrest him.'

‘Order! Order! Let's have some order!' Harry Pratt bellowed, and as the crowd hushed he announced, ‘By the special request of both teams I shall referee this match. And my word will be the final judgement. Laystall Court won the toss for first go, so first thrower step up to the line.'

Tom Potts and Ritchie Bint stepped into the shed to be enveloped by clouds of tobacco smoke, rank-smelling body odour, stinking breaths reeking of alcohol, foodstuffs and rotting teeth and gums. Barrels of varied sizes stood on trestles against the wall directly opposite to the door and a tapster was hastily filling quart pots from them, which two serving girls were pushing through the dense crowd to deliver to the buyers.

Tom and Ritchie kept their staffs concealed and stood shielded by the crowd with their backs to the shadowed wall, studying the scene before them, noting that Dummy was now in company with his friends Rimmer and Hicks.

The actual skittle alley, lit by overhead lamps, ran lengthways down the middle of the shed, with the spectators flanked on either side. Bordered by foot-high planking the alley was three feet wide and twenty-four feet long. At its far end nine barrel-shaped, ten inch-high skittle pins were arranged in a symmetrical group. At its near end closest to the door was the line from where the players made their throws at the target.

Grinning confidently, Ezekiel Rimmer stepped up to the throwing line, tossing a wooden ball from hand to hand, while among the noisy spectators wagers were being agreed by the gamblers by spitting on hands and exchanging of loud slaps of palm against palm.

‘Remember now, Master Rimmer, we're playing by Western Alley Rules, so your ball must bounce a single time only before hitting the pins,' Harry Pratt instructed. ‘And my decision on any throw will be final.'

‘Let's just get on wi' it, for fuck's sake!' Rimmer retorted. ‘I'm going to show these Red Lion cunts how to win a match. Then I'm going to have the greatest o' pleasure pissing their money up against the wall!'

‘You fuckin' wish!' Harry Pratt exclaimed scornfully, then bellowed, ‘My Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen, on the count of three, Master Ezekiel Rimmer will make the first throw of this match. Onnnnnne! Twooooo! Threeeee!'

Rimmer bent low to one side and hurled the ball with all his strength. It bounced once, smashed into the grouped pins, rebounding at tangents creating multiple collisions, thumped into the padded end wall and dropped to the ground.

There was a momentary hush, followed by multiple shouts from the crowd.

‘He's dropped all the fuckin' pins!'

‘Lucky bastard!'

‘It's a bloody fluke, that's all!'

‘It's a bloody good throw, that's what!'

Harry Pratt marched down to the fallen pins and set them in position once again. Then returned to the top of the alley and declared, ‘Nine pins dropped, nine points scored. Take your second throw when you're ready, Master Rimmer.'

Rimmer's rotting teeth bared in a triumphant snarl at the three disgruntled faces of the Red Lion team, and he baited them as he tossed his second ball from hand to hand.

‘Does you cunts want to double the stake? I'm more than willing to oblige if you've got the stomach for it.'

They scowled threateningly back at him, and he laughed, turned and hurled the ball.

All nine pins again went tumbling over. His supporters roared their applause and even some of those who had wagered against him couldn't help but grudgingly acknowledge his skill.

The crowd was now seething with excitement, and the spitting and slapping of palms were sounding throughout the entire shed.

Tom bent to whisper in his colleague's ear. ‘If we try to take them in before the end of the match we'll have a riot on our hands. I think we must bide our time for a while.'

Ritchie grinned and rattled some coins in his hand. ‘Too true, Tom. We'll wait 'til it's finished, and meanwhiles enjoy ourselves. Here, take me staff for a bit, I'm going to place a bet on the Shit Eaters winning this match, and then get us a drink. Shall I bet on 'um for you while I'm at it?'

Tom shook his head. ‘If they were to win me some money, I'd feel awkward about arresting them.'

Ritchie laughed. ‘I won't, because we'll be doing the parish a service taking these scumbags off the streets.'

‘Har har har! That's shot you lot from the fuckin' Red Lion up your fuckin' arses, aren't it!' Ezekiel Rimmer bawled exultantly as Porky Hicks scored the winning strike with the final throw of the match.