sound hopeful, but he had nothing better to offer. ‘Do you want to work? It’ll take your mind off everything.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Go and check the men round the judge’s house. There are more of them since. .’ he rubbed his shoulder.
Josh flushed, his face reddening with embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry, boss.’
Nottingham smiled kindly. ‘I think you have bigger things on your mind. Go on, check them all. If any of them aren’t there, you’ll know where to find them. Make sure they go back.’
‘Yes, boss.’ The boy rose and made his way to the door.
‘Josh?’
‘The funeral’s tomorrow at nine. If you don’t want to spend the night at my house or his, I’ll send Mr Sedgwick round for you.’
‘Yes, boss,’ he answered dully. ‘Thank you.’
Nottingham sat and brooded for a few minutes. Then he gathered up his coat and marched down Kirkgate. More of the slush had melted, and in places he could even see bare dirt under the puddled water.
He went into the churchyard. A thin grey layer of slush still covered the ground, but he didn’t need his eyes to know where Rose was buried. He stood there, letting memories rise to the surface. Rose, three years old and laughing as she watched her father try to juggle. At sixteen, modest and beautiful, walking into town with her mother. Ten, hair bleached by the summer sun, eating an apple. Rest with God, he said under his breath. He said the prayers he knew, staring at the earth, trying to see through it, to see her, even though he knew nothing of the real Rose remained there. Finally, reluctantly, he turned away and walked slowly home.
Twenty-Nine
A light shower of rain spattered down from grey clouds during the funeral. Nottingham stood by Mary and Emily, with Sedgwick, Lizzie and Josh on the other side of the grave. He looked about eleven, the Constable thought as she studied the lad’s youthful, transparent face, a boy dressed up in a man’s life before he was ready for it.
He knew the lad could do a man’s work, but inside he was still so young, not ready to have loved like this. Soil trickled from the boy’s hand, landing hollow on the wood as the curate finished the service. Nottingham put an arm around the boy’s shoulders as they walked away.
‘Come on home with me,’ he said. ‘Mary’ll look after you.’
Josh shook his head, a grim smile on his lips, eyes blank. ‘I can’t, boss,’ he replied. ‘I’ll be fine. I promise.’
The Constable stood, hands in his pockets, cradling the butts of his pistols, as the boy slipped quietly through the lych gate and up the street into the city. He understood what the lad was thinking, the grief coursing through his veins, but he was powerless to stop it.
From a walk, Josh broke into a run. He needed to get away from there, from the church, from death. The coffin had just been a box. It was only when he threw the earth that he really understood he was saying goodbye to Frances, and her face filled his head.
He needed to be somewhere that didn’t bring her flying from the shadows in his mind. He ran until he could run no more, through cuts, along the river, dodging people, lungs aching, shoes soaked. When he stopped, he was across from the Old King’s Head. There were coins in his pocket left from his wages, money he hadn’t spent on food, and he walked in to use it on ale.
He hadn’t eaten in over a day and the drunkenness hit him quickly. He’d wanted to fall into it slowly, to feel its caress on him, loving him as it pulled him away. Instead, he tumbled and dove headlong into his oblivion.
It was night by the time he left, his feet stumbling and awkward, stepping into water and not caring. The drink hadn’t made the pain vanish, but he had managed to hold it at bay for a few short hours.
As he walked, he felt the sickness rising suddenly and turned to puke against the wall, wave after wave rising as he choked and spat. He felt a little better afterwards, but no clearer. His sight was blurred and his feet wavered. It didn’t matter. Nothing fucking mattered any more.
Josh was aware of voices on the street as he moved, and from the corner of his eye he could sense the shapes of people, their outlines and the colour of their coats. He groped his way into the cramped entry to a court, leaned over and puked again, coughing and spitting until all he could taste was bile.
Then he was on his knees. There was a pain in his back, and without thinking he started to crawl away from it through the vomit and the slush.
‘It’s the Constable’s little whelp.’ He could hear the voice distinctly behind him. He’d heard it before, but he couldn’t give a name to it.
‘Wonder what his master would say if he saw him like this?’ It was a different voice, but similar to the first. Josh tried to crawl a little faster, but could barely move. The voices stayed close behind him. Just a little further and he’d reach the court. Something pushed him and he sprawled forward, a puddle of cold water a vivid shock against his face.
‘He should keep a tighter lead on his boy. Show him how to behave in public and not annoy his betters.’ There was an intake of breath and a boot landed hard on his ribs. He retched again, crying out. He tried to climb to his knees.
A club cracked sharply down on his back, sending him sprawling once more. Then boots began to hack at him, against his legs, his stomach. Josh tried to curl and protect himself, knees up against his chest, fingers laced over his skull. Things remembered from childhood.
These two had plenty of time, and they were relishing it as a private luxury. One kick would land, the spot carefully picked. As the pain burned through him like fire, they’d select the next place, in no hurry, making it hurt.
He was painfully, chillingly sober now. He was trapped. Even if he could reach the court down the passageway, it was a dead end. He’d never be able to push past them to escape; he lacked the strength and the speed. Shouting and screaming wouldn’t help. In a place like this there were no Samaritans. All he could hope was that they’d stop before they killed him.
The blows and boots kept coming, delivered with rough precision, enough of a gap between them to tease him with the vain hope of mercy.
He had no idea how long they continued. Time became something unknown. He thought he saw Frances, but he knew she was dead. Finally, thankfully, there was oblivion.
By the time he came back, pain filled his body. They’d gone, he didn’t know when. It was still full velvet darkness. He tried to straighten his legs, moving them fractionally, but tears flowed from the pain. He felt something in his mouth and opened it to spit out blood and broken teeth.
The thought danced at the edge of his mind that if he died here, he’d be with Frances. He started to smile, but it was agony.
He tried to think. He was here until morning, or until someone found him. Some of his bones were certainly broken, and there was probably damage inside. The Henderson brothers, he realized. The voices had been theirs.
His mind began to swim and he forced himself to focus. What could he do? He tried to speak, but all that came out was a whisper that no one would hear. He needed to stay awake, not to give in to this.
The others would be asleep in their beds. They’d have worried about him during the day. The night men would be out, as much as they ever were, but they’d never glance down here. Even if they did, he was just another shape on the ground, lost in the night.
He began to think about Frances, tracing the shape of her face in his head. He remembered the things she’d said, the quiet smile of her brown eyes. He’d loved the way she’d reach for his hand in a crowd, scared of losing him and being on her own. That had always been her fear, right from the time he’d met her, and she’d spend her days fretting when he was gone. At night she’d cuddle close, as if she was afraid he’d vanish before the dawn.
She’d just been a child when she joined the others. She’d drifted in one day, there like a shadow haunting the edge of things, a silent sliver of a girl. His thieving had supported them, and slowly she’d just become part of things. They were a large family, looking out for each other, helping. She’d done her share, quietly, unobtrusively. They
