Gaslight

The moral right of Mark Dawson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

THE CLOCK ACROSS THE STREET struck half past four. It was a bleak Friday in late November and London was still slowly waking up from the nightmare of the Great War. The sun had already faded beneath the rooftops, the darkness bleeding into Soho’s dingy grid of streets and the smog creeping up from the river like a thief in the night. Harry Costello braked his bicycle and came to a stop. He disembarked, manoeuvring the ten foot wooden ladder that was balanced on his shoulder. He stood the ladder against the side of the lamp post, the tapered end braced against the cross bar at the top, twelve feet above the ground, and clambered up. He opened the fragile glass cage that protected the four delicate mantles positioned in a circle around the enamel refractor. He eased his hand into the chamber, found the tap, turned on the flow and lit it with a large industrial match. The pop and slow illumination of the gas told him all was well and the warm yellow light spilled down to flow in a circle around the base of the lamp post. He took the rag that he had stuffed into his belt and cleaned the glass panels, quickly dabbing it across the refractor before it grew too warm. Then, satisfied, he descended to the cobbles below.

He leaned against the lamp post and drew breath. He had to attend to two hundred lamps and he was only three-quarters of the way through. The rest of the round would take another hour, maybe two if he was unlucky and some were faulty and needed fixing, and he was already tired and sore and ready to quit. He took the fourpenny packet of Player’s Weights from his pocket and idly opened and shut the lid with his forefinger. He looked around at the dismal streets. It was biting cold, people hurrying about their business, anxious to get inside. Housewives ferried rush baskets filled with provisions, a cart delivered sacks of coal to a local restaurant, prostitutes reclined against the walls of buildings and eyed approaching men with entrepreneurial zeal. Another clock sounded the half-hour—this one from St. Anne’s, on Wardour Street, several roads away—the chimes rippling through the freezing air. Harry shoved the packet of cigarettes in his pocket again. He was dying for a smoke but there was only one cigarette left. He had no money coming to him until Monday at the earliest. He was going to have to go without until then.

He was miserable. He looked up, across the street to the French House, and the billposts opposite advertising goods he couldn’t possibly afford. Their enforced cheeriness depressed him, the optimistic promise that he knew to be false. Oxo, Burberry, Osram Lamps, Bird’s Custard (‘You
Do
Like Bird’s Custard’), Lux Washing Powder, HMV. Of them all, the Burberry one bothered Harry the most. A man with three women, arranged in an Alpine scene, skis stacked across a log as they took an afternoon drink. Three women! The expressions on their faces were perfectly oppressive, a life of leisure that was represented, if you believed the copy, by the clothes that you could buy at the Burberry shop in the Haymarket. What rot! Harry knew that they wouldn’t even let him in through the front doors.

He looked over at the opposite side of the street. There was a ham and beef shop and a down-at-heel undertaker’s. The hearse was waiting outside, the horse assuming a curious patched brownish black colour as the dye wore off. A café was next door, welcoming light from windows and the sign in the doorway that advertised ‘Good Cup of Tea, 2d. No Urns Used.’ He would have liked to have stopped for a drink but that was out of the question, too. He had to press on. The next lamp was a hundred yards away. He balanced the ladder on his left shoulder, took the handlebars of his bicycle in his right hand, and made his way down the street. He repeated the routine, clambering up to the glass chamber and reaching in to turn on the gas. He pushed the lit match between the mantles but the glow, when it eventually came, was weak and intermittent. Damn it, he sighed. The pipe must be blocked. He would have to clear it out.

“Alright, Harry?”

He held on to the cross brace and looked down.

It was his brother. “Hello George.”

“How are you?”

“I’ve been better.”

“You’ve got a face like a month of wet Sundays.”

“Out of smokes, I’m knackered and this fucker ain’t working.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Pipe’s blocked.”

“The sooner you––”

“I know, I know. I’m working on it, alright? Have you got everything?”

George hefted the canvas bag in his right hand. “All present and correct. Just waiting for you.”

It was obvious that Harry and George were related. They shared the same dark black hair, the same light olive complexion, the same vivid green eyes. Both were big and powerful and George especially so, with wide shoulders and hands as big as hocks of ham. His bulkiness extended to his face, with a slab of forehead that tapered down so that his face was pear-shaped rather than oval. He had a thick nose that had been flattened in numerous bar brawls and had set in so many different ways that it was kinked and uneven. His ears were fat and misshapen. People said that he had a primal look about him by which they meant Neanderthal. Angelo Ginicoli, an acid tongued drinking pal of the brothers, said that his face was like half a pound of walnuts wrapped in a flannel. Harry, in contrast to his brother, benefitted from slight and delicate features. Hair unkempt, mouth amiable and expressive, with white teeth and a ready and bright smile.

Harry climbed down the ladder. “I’m going to be a couple of hours.”

“What? Can’t you, you know––?”

“Quit? Don’t be daft, George. I can’t very well do that the same night, can I?”

“Suppose not.”

George was the eldest, by five years, and he never tired of reminding Harry of that fact. He seemed to think that age automatically imparted wisdom, and, although Harry was happy enough for him to believe that––anything for an easy life––he knew that he was the clever one. If he was honest, George would admit it, too.

“Go and get a drink,” he said. “Give me a couple of hours to finish and then I’ll need to wash my hands.” He held them up for inspection: they were slicked with grease from the workings of the lamps.

George nodded. “I’ll be in the French. Come and get me when you’re ready.”

“Don’t get drunk.”

He grinned. “As if I would? Now then––let’s get you some smokes.”

“Have you got enough?”

“Rolled a bloke down on the Embankment last night. He had a crown on him.”

Harry wasn’t concerned that his smokes were to be financed from the proceeds of crime and followed his brother into the tobacconist’s on the other side of the road. The signage said ROWCLIFFE and the wide window beneath was full of packets of cigarettes and the accoutrements of smoking. There were advertisements for Player’s Medium Navy Cut, Ogden’s Guinea Gold and Will’s Gold Flake cigarettes and, also, Rowntree’s chocolate and pastilles. Inside, the proprietor, Mr. Rowcliffe, was dressed in shirt and tie with an apron around his waist. He was talking in animated fashion to a second man and it was this character who drew Harry’s eye. Most of the men in Soho were dressed in their working clothes, but this man was different. He was wearing a single breasted grey herringbone flannel suit with a rust and orange overplaid. It was matched with a pastel orange shirt with double cuffs, white detachable collar, gold paisley tie and a collar pin. He wore a watch-chain and, through the buttonhole of his left lapel, a huge red carnation
boutonniere
. Harry would have said that he looked like a dandy but for the cruel cast to his face that leant him an unmistakeable aspect of menace.

George paused in the doorway. Harry could sense the tension as his shoulders stiffened. Curious, he stepped around his brother and went inside. It was a small shop, with shelves on the walls bearing packets of cigarettes and cigars and a oak counter laden with more, plus a generous selection of confectionary. A display case behind the desk held an array of pipes. A sign above the case advertised MANUFACTORY ROLLED CIGARETTES, a stylised finger pointing down to a tray where individual cigarettes were laid out.

The man at the counter was talking. He made no attempt to lower his voice.

“How was this week?”

“It’s good, my friend.”

“The money last week, it was light.”

“Light?”

“It was not enough. This week, you give me more.”

“But I haven’t any more to give.”

“Nonsense.” As Harry watched, the man went around behind the counter and opened the till. He reached down and took out a handful of coins. “This is better,” he said.

“Please, Mr. Scarpello, I can’t afford it.”

“You can. And next week you pay double. You understand me?”

“Mr. Scarpello––”

He looked him straight in the eye, a cool gaze that augured violence. “You understand?”

“Of course. Double.”

“Very good.”

The man turned, buttoning up an overcoat. He noticed the Costello boys and, with elaborate charm, tipped the brim of his homburg in their direction. “Afternoon, lads,” he said as he sauntered past and onto the cold streets beyond.

He left an awkward atmosphere in his wake. Rowcliffe’s face was washed over with a curious mixture of emotions: fear, relief and worry. He tried to make small talk but it was stilted and uncomfortable; aware, no doubt, that these two new customers had just seen him emasculated. George was close to broke himself but he had enough to paid for two packets of Player’s Weights and they went outside again. The expensively-dressed man was halfway down the street. As Harry watched, he noticed two men cross to the other side to avoid him.

“Who is that?”

George looked at him incredulously. “You don’t know?”

“I’ve been away, George, remember?” Harry had fought, George had stayed behind in Soho thanks to a spurious condition he had dreamed up with a quack who wrote medical notes in exchange for cash. It was a touchy subject between them and Harry didn’t often bring it up. “I know he looks like a dandy,” he said, nudging the subject back to the man and away from the war. “Or a peacock.”

George glared at him. “Don’t ever say that to him.”

“Who is he?”

“Antonio Scarpello,” he said.

“Never heard of him.”

“He’s with Sabini. You know who Sabini is, right?”

“I think so.”

“He runs Soho. Everyone pays him. Even father.”

IT TOOK HARRY an hour and a half to finish his round. The muster point for the local lamplighters was the yard behind the Dublin Castle in Camden. A couple of the other men were already there, smoking cigarettes and gabbing with the foreman. Harry had no time to be social this evening. He handed in his paperwork and reported the pertinent details: there were faulty lamps in Berwick Street and Dean Street and he needed another box of matches. He bade the others good night, got back onto his bicycle and made his way back down to the Tottenham Court Road, crossing the junction with Oxford Street and then turning right into the maze of cobbled roads and alleyways that comprised the black mile of Soho. He had been working here for a couple of weeks but he had a firm grasp of the local geography from boyhood memories of visiting the area.

The French was on Dean Street. Harry propped his bicycle against the wall and popped his head into the public bar. George was sitting alone, a half-empty pint before him and his bag at his feet. He noticed his brother in the doorway, quickly finished his ale, collected the bag and made his way outside.

Harry collected his bicycle and they set off at once.

“How much have you had to drink?”

“Just a couple.”

He looked across at his brother. “How many?”

“Four.”

“George––I told you, you need to be clear-headed.”

“I’m fine.” They walked west along Old Compton Street. Harry assessed his brother as they went; he seemed alright. A bit of Dutch courage wouldn’t be so bad. He could do with some himself.