Murray coming over.
‘I wanted to thank you personally, Tom,’ he said, beaming and stretching out his hand. Tom shook it, forcing a smile. ‘None of this would be possible without you. Nobody could play Captain Shackleton better.’
Tom tried to look pleased. Was Murray making a veiled reference to Perkins? From what he had heard, Perkins had been hired to play Shackleton before him. When he had discovered what Murray was up to, he had realised his silence was worth more than the salary Murray intended paying him, and had gone to his office to tell him as much. His attempt at blackmail had not ruffled Murray, who simply told him that if he did not agree with the pay he was free to go, adding in a tone of wounded pride that his Captain Shackleton would never have stooped so low. Perkins smiled ominously and left his office, announcing his intention to go directly to Scotland Yard. He was never seen again. Following his crude effort at extortion, Perkins had vanished into thin air, but Tom and the others suspected Murray’s thugs had taken care of him before he got anywhere near Scotland Yard. They could not prove it, but they had no desire to put Murray to the test.
This was why Tom had to keep secret his meeting with Claire Haggerty. If anyone found out that a passenger had seen his face, it was the end for him. He knew Murray would not be content to dismiss him. He would take drastic measures, as he had done with poor Perkins. The fact that he was not to blame was irrelevant: his mere existence would be a constant threat to Murray’s scheme, a threat he would have to deal with urgently. If Murray ever found out, Tom would end up like Perkins, however big and strong he might be.
You know, Tom,’ said Murray, ‘when I look at you I see a true hero.’
‘I just try to play the part of Captain Shackleton as best I can, Mr Murray’ Tom replied, trying to stop his hands shaking as he pulled on his trousers.
Murray gave what sounded like a growl of pleasure. ‘Well, just keep it up, lad, keep it up,’ he urged.
Tom nodded. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me,’ he said, pulling on his cap, ‘I’m in a bit of a hurry.’
‘You’re leaving?’ said Murray, disappointed. ‘Won’t you stay for the jollities?’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Murray, I really have to go,’ replied Tom. He snatched his bundled-up jacket, taking care not to let Murray see the parasol, and headed for the door that led from the dressing room into the alley at the back of the building. He had to get out of there before Murray noticed the beads of sweat on his brow.
‘Tom, wait!’ cried Murray.
He swivelled round, his heart knocking in his chest. Murray stared at him solemnly. ‘Is she pretty?’ he finally asked.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Tom stammered.
‘The reason you’re in such a hurry. Is there a pretty lady waiting to enjoy the company of the saviour of the human race?’
‘I – I—‘ Tom stuttered, suddenly aware of the sweat trickling down his cheeks.
Gilliam Murray laughed heartily. ‘I understand, Tom,’ he said, patting him on the back. ‘You don’t like people sniffing around in your private life, do you? Don’t worry, you’re not obliged to reply. Run along now. And don’t forget to make sure no one sees you leave.’
Tom nodded mechanically, and moved towards the door, halfheartedly waving to the others. He stepped out into the alley and hurried as fast as he could towards the main street, where he hid at the corner and paused, trying to collect his thoughts. He watched the entrance to the alleyway for a few minutes, in case Murray had sent someone after him, but when no one appeared, he felt reassured. That meant Murray did not suspect anything – at least, not yet. Tom heaved a sigh of relief. Now he must put his trust in the stars to guide him as far away as possible from the girl called Claire Haggerty. It was then he noticed that, in his panic, he had forgotten to change his shoes: he was still wearing the brave Captain Shackleton’s boots.
Chapter XXIV
The boarding-house on Buckeridge Street was a ramshackle building with a peeling facade, wedged between two taverns that were so noisy it was hard for anyone to sleep on the other side of the partition walls. However, compared to some of the other fleapits Tom had lodged in, the filthy hovel was the nearest thing to a palace he had known. At that time of day, after twelve, the street was filled with the pungent aroma of grilled sausages from the taverns, a constant source of torment for most of the lodgers, whose pockets contained nothing but fluff. Tom crossed the street to the boarding-house, trying his best to ignore the smell and regretting that he had passed up the spread Murray had laid on in their honour – it would have filled his belly for days. In the street he saw the stall belonging to Mrs Ritter, a mournful widow who made a few pence reading people’s palms.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Ritter,’ he said, with a friendly smile. ‘How’s business?’
‘Your smile’s the best thing that’s happened to me today, Tom,’ the woman replied, cheering up noticeably when she saw him. ‘No one seems bothered about the future. Have you managed to convince the whole neighbourhood not to be curious about what fate has in store for them?’
Tom liked Mrs Ritter, and from the moment she had set up her miserable little stand there, he had taken it upon himself to be her champion. From scraps of neighbourhood gossip, Tom had pieced together her tragic story, which might have been the template the Creator had used to reproduce unhappy lives: Mrs Ritter had apparently been spared no misfortune. Tom had decided she had undergone more than her fair share of suffering and resolved to help her as best he could. Unfortunately this stretched little further than stealing apples in Covent Garden or stopping to give her the time of day whenever he went in or out of the boarding-house, and trying to cheer her if she was having a bad day. He had never let her read his palm, and always gave the same explanation: knowing what fate had in store for him would destroy his curiosity, which was the only thing that got him out of bed every morning.
‘I would never try to sabotage your business, Mrs Ritter,’ he replied, amused. Tm sure things will pick up this afternoon.’
‘I hope you’re right, Tom ... I hope you’re right.’
He bade her farewell, and climbed the rickety staircase that led to his room on the top floor. He opened the door, and examined the room he had been living in for almost two years as though he were seeing it for the first time. When the landlady had first shown him the room, he had eyed critically the dilapidated bed, the worm-eaten chest of drawers, the fly-blown mirror and the tiny window overlooking the waterlogged back alley filled with refuse. Now Tom stared at the wretched space he could scarcely pay for, which represented everything he had been able to make of life. He was struck by the overwhelming certainly that nothing would ever change, that his present existence was so irreversible it would continue into the future, without anything happening to mark the passage of
