faces grimace with pain and their eyes close gradually as life ebbed away from them, while he stood by, helpless, gazing at a gaping wound spilling out intestines.
He needed a drink. Ducking back into the tent, he grabbed his medical bag. There were still three wounded men lying on makeshift beds in there, but no amount of medical treatment could save them from the grim reaper. He felt guilty to be in their presence. He had instructed his orderly to administer large doses of laudanum to help numb the pain until the inevitable overtook them.
As Walker wandered to the edge of the tattered encampment, he encountered no other officer. Of course, there were very few left. Colonel MacDonald, who had been in charge, had been decapitated by an Afghan blade very early in the battle. Captain Alistair Thornton was now in charge of the ragged remnants of the company of the Berkshire regiment, and he was no doubt in his tent nursing his wound. He had been struck in the shoulder by a jezail bullet which had shattered the bone.
Just beyond the perimeter of the camp, Walker slumped down at the base of a skeletal tree, resting his back against the rough bark. Opening his medical bag, he extracted a bottle of brandy. Uncorking it, he sniffed the neck of the bottle, allowing the alcoholic fumes to drift up his nose. And then he hesitated.
Something deep within his conscience made him pause. Little did this tired army surgeon realise that he was facing a decisive moment of Fate. He was about to commit an act that would alter the course of his life for ever. With a frown, he shook the vague dark unformed thoughts from his mind and returned his attention to the bottle.
The tantalising fumes did their work. They promised comfort and oblivion. He lifted the neck of the bottle to his mouth and took a large gulp. Fire spilled down his throat and raced through his senses. Within moments he felt his body ease and relax, the inner tension melting with the warmth of the brandy. He took another gulp, and the effect increased. He had found an escape from the heat, the blood, the cries of pain and the scenes of slaughter. A blessed escape. He took another drink. Within twenty minutes the bottle was empty and John Walker was floating away on a pleasant, drunken dream. He was also floating away from the life he knew. He had cut himself adrift and was now heading for stormy, unchartered waters.
As consciousness slowly returned to him several hours later, he felt a sudden, sharp stabbing pain in his leg. It came again. And again. He forced his eyes open and bright sunlight seared in. Splinters of yellow light pierced his brain. He clamped his eyes shut, embracing the darkness once more. Again he felt the pain in his leg. This time, it was accompanied by a strident voice: “Walker! Wake up, damn you!”
He recognised the voice. It belonged to Captain Thornton. With some effort he opened his eyes again, but this time he did it more slowly, allowing the brightness to seep in gently so as not to blind him. He saw three figures standing before him, each silhouetted against the vivid blue sky of an Afghan dawn. One of them was kicking his leg viciously in an effort to rouse him.
“You despicable swine, Walker!” cried the middle figure, whose left arm was held in a blood-splattered sling. It was Thornton, his commanding officer.
Walker tried to get to his feet, but his body, still under the thrall of the alcohol, refused to co-operate.
“Get him up,” said Thornton.
The two soldiers grabbed Walker and hauled him to his feet. With his good hand, Thornton thrust the empty brandy bottle before his face. For a moment, he thought the captain was going to hit him with it.
“Drunk on duty, Walker. No, by God, worse than that. Drunk while your fellow soldiers were in desperate need of your attention. You left them... left them to die while you... you went to get drunk. I should have you shot for this — but shooting is too good for you. I want you to live... to live with your guilt.” Thornton spoke in tortured bursts, so great was his fury.
“There was nothing I could do for them,” Walker tried to explain, but his words escaped in a thick and slurred manner. “Nothing I could—”
Thornton threw the bottle down into the sand. “You disgust me, Walker. You realise that this is a court martial offence, and believe me I shall make it my personal duty to see that you are disgraced and kicked out of the army.”
Words failed Walker, but it began to sink in to his foggy mind that he had made a very big mistake — a life- changing mistake.
London, 4 October 1880
“Are you sure he can be trusted?” Arthur Sims sniffed and nodded towards the silhouetted figure at the end of the alleyway, standing under a flickering gas lamp.
Badger Johnson, so called because of the vivid white streak that ran through the centre of his dark thatch of hair, nodded and grinned.
“Yeah. He’s a bit simple, but he’ll be fine for what we want him for. And if he’s any trouble...” He paused to retrieve a cut-throat razor from his inside pocket. The blade snapped open, and it swished through the air. “I’ll just have to give him a bloody throat, won’t I?”
Arthur Sims was not amused. “Where d’you find him?”
“Where d’you think? In The Black Swan. Don’t you worry. I’ve seen him in there before — and I seen him do a bit of dipping. Very nifty he was, an’ all. And he’s done time. In Wandsworth. He’s happy to be our crow for just five sovereigns.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Hardly anything. What d’you take me for? Just said we were cracking a little crib in Hanson Lane and we needed a lookout. He’s done the work before.”
Sims sniffed again. “I’m not sure. You know as well as I do he ought to be vetted by the Man himself before we use him. If something goes wrong, we’ll
Badger gurgled with merriment. “You scared, are you?”
“Cautious, that’s all. This is a big job for us.”
“And the pickin’s will be very tasty, an’ all, don’t you worry. If it’s cautious you’re being, then you know it’s in our best interest that we have a little crow keeping his beady eyes wide open. Never mind how much the Man has planned this little jaunt,
Sims shuddered at the thought. “All right, you made your point. What’s his name?”
“Jordan. Harry Jordan.” Badger slipped his razor back into its special pocket and flipped out his watch. “Time to make our move.”
Badger giggled as the key slipped neatly into the lock. “It’s hardly criminal work if one can just walk in.”
Arthur Sims gave his partner a shove. “Come on, get in,” he whispered, and then he turned to the shadowy figure standing nearby. “OK, Jordan, you know the business.”
Harry Jordan gave a mock salute.
Once inside the building, Badger lit the bull’s-eye lantern and consulted the map. “The safe is in the office on the second floor at the far end, up a spiral staircase.” He muttered the information, which he knew by heart anyway, as if to reassure himself now that theory had turned into practice.
The two men made their way through the silent premises, the thin yellow beam of the lamp carving a way through the darkness ahead of them. As the spidery metal of the staircase flashed into view, they spied an obstacle on the floor directly below it. The inert body of a bald-headed man.
Arthur Sims knelt by him. “Night watchman. Out like a light. Very special tea he’s drunk tonight” Delicately, he lifted the man’s eyelids to reveal the whites of his eyes. “He’ll not bother us now, Badger. I reckon he’ll wake up with a thundering headache around breakfast-time.”
Badger giggled. It was all going according to plan.
Once up the staircase, the two men approached the room containing the safe. Again Badger produced the keyring from his pocket and slipped a key into the lock. The door swung open with ease. The bull’s-eye soon located the imposing Smith-Anderson safe, a huge impenetrable iron contraption that stood defiantly in the far corner of the room. It was as tall as a man and weighed somewhere around three tons. The men knew from experience that the only way to get into this peter was by using the key — or rather the keys. There were five in all required. Certainly it would take a small army to move the giant safe, and God knows how much dynamite would be needed to blow it open, an act that would create enough noise to reach Scotland Yard itself.
Badger passed the bull’s-eye to his confederate, who held the beam steady, centred on the great iron sarcophagus and the five locks. With another gurgle of pleasure, Badger dug deep into his trouser pocket and pulled out a brass ring containing five keys, all cut in a different manner. Scratched into the head of each key was a
