But Jeff was too quick for him. Before he was fully on his feet, Jeff charged at him, propelling him back to the ground. He felt his spine crack in several places, but even so, as his assailant’s hands grappled for his throat, Tom managed to place his foot on Jeff’s chest and push him off. Jeff flew backwards, but Tom felt a searing pain as his thigh muscle ripped under the strain. He ignored it and struggled to his feet, before the other man this time.
In the distance, the cab had stopped, one door hanging like a broken wing. Bradley and Mike were already rushing towards them. Quickly calculating the odds, Tom decided his best bet was to run away from a fight he could only lose. He dashed towards the busier streets, away from the deserted docks.
He had no idea where his sudden urge to live had sprung from, when only hours before he had longed for eternal oblivion. In any event, he ran as fast as his racing heart and throbbing thigh would permit, struggling to find his bearings in the pitch-black night. Hearing his pursuers close behind him, Tom dived into the first side street he came to, which, unhappily for him, proved to be a dead end. He swore at the wall standing in his way and turned slowly, resigned to his fate.
His companions stood waiting for him at the entrance to the alleyway. Now the real fight would begin, he said to himself, and strolled casually towards his executioners, trying hard not to limp and clenching his fists at his sides. He knew he stood no chance against three of them, but that did not mean he was going to throw in the towel. Would his desire to stay alive prove stronger than their desire to kill him?
Tom walked up to them and gave an ironical bow. He did not have Captain Shackleton’s sword, but he felt as though the man’s spirit was beating in his breast. It’s better than nothing, he thought. The dim light from the nearest streetlamp barely illuminated the scene, and their faces remained in shadow. No one said a word, for there was nothing more to say, until Jeff gave the order. The men slowly fanned out, like prize fighters sizing up their opponent.
Since none of them took the initiative, Tom assumed they were giving him the chance to initiate the one-sided combat. Who would he go for first, he wondered, as his companions circled him? He stepped towards Mike, fists raised but, at the last moment, he made a feint and threw the punch at an unsuspecting Jeff. The blow hit him full in the face, knocking him to the ground. Out of the corner of his eye, Tom saw Bradley’s attack coming. He dodged the punch and, when Bradley was squarely in front of him, plunged his fist into the lad’s stomach, doubling him up in pain.
He was not so lucky with Mike, whose hammer blow was deadly. The world went fuzzy Tom’s mouth filled with blood, and he had to make a superhuman effort to stay on his feet. But the giant showed him no mercy. Before Tom had time to recover, he threw another punch, this time right on the chin. There was an ominous crack and Tom went spinning to the ground. Almost immediately, he felt the toe of a boot sink ruthlessly into his side, threatening to shatter his ribs. Tom realised they had him. The fight was over. From the hail of blows raining down on him, he deduced that Bradley and Jeff had joined in the beating.
On the ground beside him, through the dense fog of his pain, he could make out Wells’s book, which must have fallen out of his pocket during the brawl. Claire’s flower had escaped from its pages and lay incongruously on the filthy ground, a pale yellow brightness that looked as though it would be snuffed out at any moment, like his life.
Chapter XXXIII
When at last the beating stopped, Tom clenched his teeth and, ignoring the pain, reached out to grasp Claire’s flower, but failed: at that moment someone grabbed his hair and tried to pull him up. ‘Nice try, Tom, nice try’ Jeff Wayne whispered in his ear, accompanying his words with what sounded like a snigger, or perhaps a groan. ‘Unfortunately your efforts were wasted. You’re going to die anyway’
He ordered Mike to take hold of Tom’s feet, and he felt himself borne aloft by his executioners to a place that, on the brink of losing consciousness, scarcely mattered to him. After a few minutes of being bumped and jolted, his companions tossed him on the ground as if he were a bundle of rags.
When Tom heard lapping water and boats knocking together, his worst fears were confirmed: they had brought him back to the docks, probably because they planned to throw him into the river. But for the moment no one did or said anything. Tom was trying to slip into oblivion, but the sensation of something soft, warm and not unpleasant touching his swollen cheeks prevented it. It felt as if one of his companions had decided to prepare him for death by wiping the blood from his wounds with a cloth dipped in tar.
‘Eternal, come here at once!’ he heard someone shout.
The sensation stopped, and Tom felt vibrations in the ground and heard the heavy yet delicate tread of footsteps slowly approaching the scene.
‘Stand him up,’ the voice commanded.
His companions yanked him roughly to his feet, but Tom’s legs would not support him, causing him to slump to his knees with the almost sensual limpness of a puppet whose strings have been cut. A hand grasped his collar to prevent him keeling over completely. Once he had overcome his dizziness and could focus, Tom watched impassively from his kneeling position as Gilliam Murray made his way slowly towards him, his dog circling at his feet. He wore the slightly irritated expression of someone who has been dragged from his bed in the middle of the night for no good reason, as though it had escaped his memory that he was the one behind the ambush. He stopped a few yards in front of Tom and looked at him, smirking disdainfully, taking pleasure in his pathetic state.
‘Tom, Tom, Tom,’ he said at last, in the tone of someone scolding a child. ‘How has it come to this unpleasant situation? Was it really so difficult to follow my instructions?’
Tom remained silent, not so much because the question was rhetorical but because he doubted he could utter a word, his lips swollen, his mouth full of blood and broken tooth. Now that he could focus, he glanced around and saw that they were indeed at the docks, only a few yards from the quayside. Besides Murray, who was standing in front of him, and his companions waiting for their orders, there seemed not another soul in sight. It would all take place in the strictest intimacy. That was how nobodies met their end, discreetly, without any fuss, like refuse tossed into the river in the middle of the night while the world is sleeping. And no one would notice his absence the next day. No one would say: ‘Hold on, where’s Tom Blunt?’ No, the orchestra of life would play on without him, because his part had never been important to the score.
‘Do you know what’s so amusing about this whole thing, Tom?’ said Murray, calmly, moving closer to the edge of the quay and gazing absently into the murky river. ‘It was your lover who gave you away’
Again, Tom said nothing. He simply stared at his boss, whose eyes were still contemplating the Thames, that bottomless coffer where he stored anything that posed a problem. A moment later, Murray smirked at him once more, with a mixture of pity and amusement.
‘Yes. If she hadn’t come to my office the day after the expedition asking for the address of one of Captain Shackleton’s ancestors I would never have found out about your affair.’
