hand. The stares of those gathered in the room left Pyke in no doubt what they had planned for him.
Halfway up the staircase, Arnold said, ‘Don’t be thinkin’ you’ll walk away from this, Pyke.’
It was only once they were outside, moving quickly through the back yard and along a narrow passageway that ran between two rows of terraced houses, that Pyke realised what Arnold had said.
Ahead of them, at the end of the alley, Megan and the dog were waiting for him, but instead of joining them Pyke forced open a nearby back gate and pushed Arnold roughly through it and into the yard of a derelict house.
It was a cool, starless night. The ground under their feet was soggy and riddled with puddles. In the near distance, Pyke heard the angry shouts of men spilling out of the tavern. One said, ‘Let’s kill ’im.’ Another said, ‘No fuckin’ mercy.’
Pyke prodded the pistol into Arnold’s throat. ‘How did you know my name?’ In the darkness, he could see the whites of the man’s eyes. ‘Speak.’
‘After you escaped from prison, I received a letter from Tilling. The man warned me that you might try to contact me. I didn’t think anything of it. Then when you mentioned Tilling’s name, I suppose I knew. I should a’ dealt with ye then but I wanted to have some fun. I figured - wrongly, it turns out - you weren’t a threat.’
Pyke digested this news and wondered what it indicated. That Tilling wanted to conceal a trail of complicity that led back to him?
‘You know the Magennis family of Loughgall? Yes or no?’ Pyke jabbed the pistol into Arnold’s Adam’s apple.
‘Andrew Magennis is the Grand Secretary for County Armagh.’
‘A few years ago, he contacted you, asked if you could put in a good word for his son, Davy. You arranged for someone to visit Loughgall in person, to enlist Davy in the Royal Irish Constabulary.’
‘If you say so.’ Arnold’s voice sounded as though it had been flattened with hammers.
‘You went to see Tilling. Later, Tilling paid Davy Magennis a visit and recruited him into the new force.’
‘You’d have to ask Tilling about that.’
At the far end of the alleyway, Pyke heard voices, a scuffle of footsteps. He had less time than he needed.
‘There were three murders earlier this year in London. A man, a woman and a baby. I found the bodies. Magennis killed them. One of the victims was Magennis’s brother. I saw the cut to his throat. It was so deep the man’s head had practically been severed from his body. Magennis throttled the baby with his bare hands, with his bare fucking hands, and then dumped it into a metal piss-pot.’ Pyke took a breath and tried to calm himself.
Arnold waited for a moment. ‘You have a powerful way wi’ words.’ In the street, his brogue was stronger.
‘Magennis is hiding somewhere in Ulster.’
‘What’s that got to do wi’ me?’
‘I think you know where he might be.’ Pyke raised the pistol and aimed it at Arnold’s forehead.
On the other side of the gate, two men hurried past. He heard one of them say, farther along the alley, ‘Archie reckoned they must be around here somewhere.’ Pyke pressed his finger to his lips. Seconds later, they had moved on.
‘I’ve never met the man.’
‘But you know where he might be hiding.’
‘I know he’s got family in the town. That’s all.’ Arnold seemed irritated enough to be telling the truth.
‘Family? Where.’
‘A house on Sandy Row.’ Arnold let out a heavy sigh.
‘You know, if you shoot me, they’ll send the whole garrison after you.’
‘Except they won’t know where I’ve gone.’ Pyke thought about it for a moment. ‘And if I let you live, you’ll send a warning to Andrew Magennis in Loughgall. Perhaps arrange for an ambush along the way.’
Pyke heard footsteps and saw the gate open. He felt something brush against his boot, heard a yap. The little dog brushed against his leg and wagged its tail.
‘No one else knows who I am, do they?’
Arnold didn’t speak but, for the first time, Pyke sensed his discomfort. He was a canny man and understood the precarious nature of his own situation: the garrison would be looking for a man called Hawkes, not Pyke.
‘That was a mistake, telling me you knew who I was.’ Arnold seemed to shrink before him. His eyes darkened with fear.
That settled it: Pyke knew what he had to do.
Megan appeared, silhouetted against the frame of the gate. The dog was licking his boot. Pyke told her to wait for him at the far end of the alleyway. She said they had to move; that all the streets were crawling with armed vigilantes. Pyke heard a shout at the other end of the alleyway. He decided he could not wait any longer, so he raised the pistol and shot Arnold in the middle of his forehead. The blast was drowned by Megan’s scream.
SIXTEEN
The first time it had happened, Pyke was not even certain whether he had killed the man or not. He had spotted him, a forger who had returned illegally from transportation, in a crowded pub in Clerkenwell and pursued him through labyrinthine back alleys and courtyards, across traffic-choked streets, through bustling warehouses and eventually up on to the roof of an abandoned lunatic asylum. Cornering the fugitive, Pyke had advanced slowly, hands in the air, to show that he was not carrying a weapon, and backed the terrified man towards the edge of the roof until he could go no farther. Afterwards, when it was finished and the man was dead, Pyke had not been able to tell, with any conviction, whether he had pushed the man or whether he had jumped, but in the end it did not seem to matter: the man was still dead. Later, he would become accomplished at constructing whatever moral justification his actions seemed to require, but in that moment, as he stared down from the roof of the building at that unmoving figure sprawled on the stone floor, Pyke had been struck both by the pointlessness of the man’s death and by his own culpability in it.
Pyke had no time to explain his actions to Megan, who was looking at him, her hands covering her mouth. Taking her hand, he pulled her into the yard and, from there, into the derelict house. Others had heard the blast, of course, and were converging on where they thought it had come from. Safely inside the house, he took Megan in his hands and shook her, to stop her from wailing. ‘I didn’t plan to kill him, but in the end I didn’t have a choice. I need you to understand. I also need your help. Do you live with your family?’
At his feet, the little dog was panting and wagging its runty tail. He reached down and patted the dog on its head.
‘Megan?’ He shook her shoulders harder this time.
‘I got my own room,’ she said, finally.
‘Whereabouts.’
‘The Pound.’
‘Is it far?’
‘Eh?’ She seemed distant, still in shock.
‘Megan. Is it far?’
He heard more voices, outside in the back alleyway. Pyke knew it was only a matter of time before they were discovered. They had to find a better place to hide. Through the broken windows at the front of the house, he looked out on to the main square. In the darkness, it made for a miserable view. There were four or five taverns, in addition to the Royal, which overlooked the square, and with the news of the shooting all of them had emptied and the square itself was now bustling with vigilantes.
‘No, it’s not far at all,’ Megan said, in a quiet, almost childlike voice.
In the ebbing candlelight, Pyke sat down next to her and tried to say something that was appropriate to the situation.
Megan’s room was located on the ground floor of a brick-built terraced house. It had a solitary window that looked out on to the street, and a pile of damp straw for a mattress.
