Resonance (4 page)

‘Your folks must be rich, then, are they, Harry?’ asked Tina, leaning forward in genuine inquiry.

It was Harry’s turn to sigh. ‘Not that I’ve ever noticed.’

‘Oh,’ she said, disappointed. ‘Ah, well. I suppose you can’t
all
be.’ She went back to her knitting.

‘Joe knows a Jew,’ said Fran. ‘Says he’s a very
nice
kind of fellow. Maybe you know him, Harry?’

As Harry shook his head to say no, he didn’t know Joe’s Jew friend, Joe met his eye. Harry couldn’t help but smile at the rueful apology in the young man’s face.
They mean no
harm
.

Harry shrugged.
It’s all right, I’m not offended
.

Joe nodded and raised his jam jar of porter in silent salute.

Somewhere downstairs, deep in the heart of the tenement house, someone began playing a violin. Fran the Apples settled back. ‘There you go,’ she said quietly. ‘Miss Crannock’s at it again.’

‘Lovely,’ murmured Nana, re-lighting her pipe.

Tina tilted her head to listen. ‘Max Bruch,’ she said. ‘Concerto No. 1 in G minor.’ She sighed, her knitting forgotten again, her expression dreamy. Harry couldn’t help but smile at how Joe was watching her, his eyes gentle with affection. ‘Oh!’ she said suddenly. ‘Joe!’

Joe jumped and blushed.

‘Your book!’ Tina cried. ‘He rented a new book, Nan! Joe, read your book!’

Joe set down his jam jar and fumbled in his pockets for his ‘new book’. All anticipation, the women rearranged themselves into positions better suited for attentive listening. Daniel O’Connell opened his one eye and growled at Harry. Harry raised his jam jar of porter.

L’chaim
to you, too, you little jerk
.

He stretched back, enjoying the fire. Even considering the fact that he was jobless, penniless and miles from home, this wasn’t too shabby. Not too shabby at all. Joe opened his book, and Harry smiled.

And for once in my life
, he thought,
I’m not the poor schmuck singing for his supper.

Waiting in the Dark

V
INCENT STOOD AT
the hotel window and watched the moon rise above the city, illuminating the trees of a small park across the street. It brought him back to a night over two hundred years earlier, when he’d first arrived in this country. He had left the ship hidden at anchor behind some remote islands, and as his crew sculled the boarding boats through the flat, slow-moving plains of the estuary, the shallow water had reflected a similar moon in all its idiocy.

They had emerged from the reeds onto the wide river that would carry them to the manor house, and Luke had turned anxiously to him. ‘You
will
get my land back, won’t you, Captain? You’ll rid us of Wolcroft’s bloody reign?’

Vincent did not recall answering, but he remembered Cornelius had grinned, a sharp white flash in the shadows of his tricorn hat. ‘We will win you back your land, dear,’ he’d murmured, his fingers closing tight on Luke’s shoulder. ‘As long as you have told us true, of course, and brought the Captain to his cure.’

‘C
APTAIN
?’ T
HE UNCERTAIN
whisper dragged Vincent down through centuries and back to the confines of the hotel room. The scent of coal and candle-wax overpowered the memory of salt and free air. The heavy furniture crowded in. At the sudden rush of confinement, Vincent flung wide the window and leaned far out. Closing his eyes, he seared his lungs with sea-tinged air.

‘Captain?’ whispered Cornelius again. ‘Is something wrong?’

Vincent hung his head.
Yes. I am suffocated. I am trapped
.

He did not share this thought. It would only serve to distress his friend, who lay curled in a shivering ball on the sofa behind him.

‘I … I know how this looks,’ whispered Cornelius, ‘but it is not what you think. I have not succumbed to my old vice.’

‘I know that. I do not condemn you.’

‘It is my own fault. Without the Angel’s presence, I am weak. I revert to wicked thoughts, and I am punished.’

Vincent could not help the flare of irritation this brought him. ‘Is that so? And should my disease reoccur? Would that be because I am wicked? Will that also be a punishment?’

‘Captain, no! I would never for a moment think that!’

‘Then cease to think it of yourself. You’ve spent too long away from the Bright Man, Cornelius. That is all. Your body has replaced one dependence for another, and now it suffers as it used to suffer when you tried to forgo the opium. This has nothing to do with God. Your body is simply screaming at you for more of what it craves.’

Behind him, Cornelius went deathly still. ‘No,’ he whispered eventually. ‘You are wrong. The Angel has made me a better man. Its presence has strengthened me. It has
stopped me from thinking of … I am no longer dependent on … I never
fall
, Captain! I am a
better man
! I—’

Ashamed, Vincent strode to the couch and grabbed his friend’s clammy hand. ‘Hush,’ he said. ‘Pay no heed to me. I am a fool. A head full of science and no heart at all.’

Cornelius clung tight, a drowning man. He whispered, ‘I ache, Vincent!’

‘We will be home soon, cully.’

‘I am overcome.’

‘What of it? You have but to ask, and I would go out now and purchase a vial of whatever it is will make you better. I—’

Cornelius groaned. ‘Stop. Stop before I say yes.’

‘I have known you through thick and thin, Cornelius. Whatever you perceive your failings to be, you have never failed me. You are a strong man. Rest easy in yourself. You will be home soon.’

The grip on his hand only increased. ‘Don’t let me sleep.’

Vincent straightened without speaking and, after a desperate moment, Cornelius released his hand, allowing him to return to the window. A cold breeze billowed the curtains, and Vincent inhaled it, closing his eyes. ‘It is good to be close to the sea again. I had forgot how alive it smells.’

‘Jolly times we had back then, eh, Captain? Under our old ragged flag.’

‘Jolly times,’ agreed Vincent.

‘We were great men for the cutlass and the axe,’ added Cornelius, beginning to smile. ‘Fierce coves.’

Vincent grinned. ‘The scourge of Nevis. Lousy with gold and silver, and all the things a sword could fetch us.’

‘We were wicked.’

‘We were free!’ Vincent’s grin faded. ‘Though may chance we misremember even that.’ He put his hand to the pain that was dull but growing in his chest: a small, insidious foretaste of things to come.

Cornelius straightened, suddenly alert. ‘You are in distress? But you’ve spent barely a week away! We’ve taken much longer trips before, and with no ill effect to your health.’

‘My last trip was a while ago, cully, and the creature was much stronger then. Its power is fading fast, and perhaps does not linger within us as it used to.’ He glanced wryly at Cornelius. ‘You should check the mirror. Your hair has begun to grey. Next, your fine face will line. Raquel will not recognise you on your return. She will cry, “Who is this old man in Cornelius’ clothes? Cast him out! Cast him out!”’

The jest seemed to cause Cornelius a moment of pain.

Vincent sighed. ‘I tease, cully. You do not look old.’

Cornelius pulled himself upright on the sofa. ‘At home, we will both feel better,’ he said. ‘As soon as the Angel is restored, all will be mended.’

Vincent grimaced at the word ‘angel’. He had never approved of Raquel and Cornelius’ beliefs. As ever, Cornelius paid no mind to his disapproval and Vincent let it go.

‘Speaking of superstitions,’ he said, ‘you still insist on this fool’s meet tomorrow?’ At Cornelius’ nod, Vincent huffed. ‘I thought you had left the throwing of bones and reading of entrails long behind you, cully. What makes you wish to consult the ether now, when we both wisened to the folly of such pursuits a century ago?’

‘This theatre crone has quite the reputation as a seer, Captain. The new method she uses – this spirit board – it is apparently very effective. Should she prove more than
just another charlatan, I should very much like to bring her back with us. I should like her to commune with the Angel. If we can speak with it, learn more accurately what it needs, this irritating dependence on extravaganzas and the intrusion of strangers into our peaceful home may yet prove unnecessary.’

Vincent shook his head, parted the curtains, and looked, once again, into the street. ‘There is only one proven way to sustain the creature. You know this. There is no speaking to it.’

‘The first soothsayer spoke to it.’

‘Really? You recall this as fact? Over two hundred years have come and gone since then, Cornelius. I can barely recall the events of eighty years past, let alone two centuries. Let us not fall back on half-forgotten superstitions, shall we? Let us stick to that which we ourselves have proven to work.’

Too much talking and Vincent’s lungs rebelled. It was just a gentle cough, but, without thinking, he found himself checking his palm for blood. It was a gesture from another lifetime, risen to the surface now with the threatened onset of his disease. He instantly regretted it. Cornelius’ concern was palpable from across the room.

‘We will fix this, Captain.’

Vincent nodded and dropped the curtain back into place. ‘We will … and in the only way we know how. You meet with your soothsayers and entrail-readers tomorrow, cully, if you so desire. I wish you joy of the encounter. But do not neglect the real reason for our journey here. It is our one assured hope, and I will not have you derail it based on the ravings of a centuries-dead bedlamite who presumed to speak with
angels and claimed a
demon
slept in the lake.’ He pulled on his overcoat, heading for the door.

‘You … you are leaving?’

‘I cannot sit in this hotel room all night, Cornelius. I have business I must attend to.’

Cornelius leapt to his feet. ‘But … it is cold out there. Your health! Surely there is nothing so important that …’

Vincent went very still, and Cornelius came to a halt. After a long, silent moment, Vincent placed his hat upon his head and opened the door. ‘I wish to get Raquel some fabric,’ he said. ‘Something pretty, for a dress. Something bright. The draper will not see a man such as me on his premises before dark.’

‘But I would have done this for you! You should not have to suffer the scorn of such fools!’

Vincent laughed softly. ‘The chittering of insects and grunt of pigs is no insult to a man who knows his worth, cully.’ He glanced sideways at his friend. ‘It will be like old times, to explore a strange port. You will not join me? Stretch your legs?’

At Cornelius’ hesitation, Vincent sighed again. ‘No. Of course not. Very well, then. Stay here. I shall see you later.’

Cornelius went to speak, but Vincent closed the door on whatever objection he might have expressed, and made his way through the silence of carpeted hallways and out into the sharp winter night.

A Night's Wage Lost

A
S JOE LED
the way down through the darkness of Tina's house, Harry surprised him by starting a conversation. ‘I liked how you read that story,' he said.

Joe waited for the sly dig. None came, and Joe had to admit it didn't sound like Harry was taking the piss. He took a chance on saying, ‘Thanks.' Then, without really knowing why, he added, ‘I like reading for the ladies.'

‘They can't read, huh?'

‘Not a word, but they'd add and subtract the eyes out of your head.'

He heard Harry chuckle. ‘I'd say they would,' he said. ‘There was a lot more science in that book than I'd thought women would appreciate, though – do you think they understood it?'

Joe came to an abrupt halt, causing Harry to bump into him. ‘Did
you
understand it?' he asked coldly.

‘Say, I didn't mean any insult. It's just … you know… all those terms: hyperbolas, parabolas, ellipses. Did you understand them?'

Joe had to smile at that. ‘No,' he admitted. ‘I hadn't a clue.'

Harry laughed, a relieved sound in the echoing dark, and Joe began descending the steps again. ‘I marked the pages, though,' he said. ‘I'll ask Saul in the morning, and he'll explain.'

‘If Saul doesn't know,' said Harry, clattering along behind him, ‘I'll write and ask my pa. He knows a
lot
. Then, even if I'm far away, I'll send you the letters so you'll know the answers, too.'

Joe almost stopped again at that – at the unexpected pleasure of it. ‘I'd like that,' he said.

They let themselves out into the street, and the cold clamped itself around them like a fist. Joe shrugged deeper into his jacket as they trotted down the steps.

‘Honestly though, Joe,' said Harry, ‘you're like a different person when you read. You did a terrific job of the accents.'

‘I was copying you with the accents. So that's what America is like, huh? Everyone shooting off guns and waving their wooden legs about?'

‘More or less – though I've never met anyone with a silver nose, more's the pity.'

It was Joe's turn to chuckle. He was astonished to realise that he was enjoying himself – that he'd been enjoying himself all evening. He had never before had such a discussion with a man his own age: a discussion free of slyness and barbs. It was a good feeling.

‘It's darned cold,' complained Harry. ‘Tina should have given you that muffler she's knitting.'

Joe touched his throat where Tina had wrapped the red wool muffler around his neck to measure its length. That had been another nice surprise, to find she was doing that for him. ‘Ah sure, it's not quite ready,' he murmured. ‘I can wait.'

A familiar noise made them both look back down the foggy street. It was the coalman, Daniel Barrett, leading his drayhorse home. Joe took Harry's arm, bringing him to a stop.

‘Watch,' he whispered.

As usual, Daniel Barrett clucked his horse to a halt in the middle of the road. Then, casually, as if he'd given it no thought at all, the big man fished in the pocket of his coal-stained jacket and produced his tobacco tin. As Daniel bent his head to fill and light his pipe, Joe nudged Harry and jerked his chin to indicate a slash of light high in Tina's tenement. A curtain had been pulled partially aside, and a slim figure could be seen peering out.

‘Fran,' whispered Joe.

Daniel Barrett leaned back against his horse and gazed up at the window where Fran the Apples stood. The horse, well used to this routine, sighed and shook her heavy head. Daniel exhaled a thin stream of blue smoke, his eyes never leaving the unresponsive sliver of light high in the darkness above him.

Joe felt the old familiar sadness rise up in him. ‘Come on,' he said, tugging Harry's arm. ‘Leave him to his dreams.'

They strolled on. After a while, Joe surprised himself by saying, ‘He's a good man, you know, Mr Barrett. Works hard. Owns his own dray. Lives clean. A real good fella.'

Harry glanced sideways at him. ‘There's nothing can be done if the feelings aren't there, Joe.'

Joe shook his head. Fran the Apples loved Daniel Barrett, Joe was certain of it. He'd seen the look on her face when the big, quiet man came smiling to her stall for a chat and to buy an apple. When Daniel Barrett was around, Fran the
Apples looked like the young woman she really was. But Fran would never leave the Lady Nana, and Nana would never leave Miss Price's. Not if it meant returning to the squalor of a normal tenement – why would she? She'd be mad to.

‘Why doesn't he go on up to her?' asked Harry. ‘Lay on the old charm.' He tilted his head as he said this, and did a smoothly gliding dance step that ended with him rolling his hat down his outstretched arm. ‘Ladies
looove
the charm,' he crooned.

Joe couldn't help but smile. Oily American git. He shoved his hands in his pockets and glanced back the way they'd come. ‘He won't win her by standing in the street smoking, anyway. You need to work harder than that.'

‘That's your plan of conquest, is it?' smirked Harry, jamming his hat back on his head. ‘You plan to work so hard the girls will swoon?'

Joe just grinned as he led the way through the foggy dark. Harry seemed to take this as an admission of intent. ‘Oh, as before ho!' he cried. ‘Do you think, perhaps, that if you do enough night shifts, a certain brown-eyed miss will notice that you are a
boy
, Mr Gosling? OW! Watch those bony elbows!'

‘Only if you watch your flapping mouth.'

They walked on in silence, Joe's hands in his pockets, Harry shifting the bag on his shoulders, his eyes all the time roaming the streets as they made their way back towards the river. Joe had to admit he liked the way this fellow kept track of where they were. He didn't think it would take Harry long to find his own way around.

It was almost a disappointment when Harry came to a halt and said, ‘Well, here's where we part ways.'

‘You're sure you've somewhere to stay, Harry? I could bring you round to Saul. He wouldn't see you stuck for a friendly lodging.'

‘Nah! I'm fine, honest Injun.'

Something in Harry's expression made Joe falter. He dug deep and closed his fingers around his last remaining sixpence.
Don't you bloody dare!
screeched his mind.
Not for a bloody stranger!
He actually felt panic rising in his chest as he began to withdraw the money. ‘You got enough cash on you, Harry?'

‘Of course I've got cash!' cried Harry, backing off in theatrical horror. ‘Do I look like some kinda bum?'

Joe laughed. He pushed the sixpence back into his pocket. ‘Do like I told you tomorrow, all right? Go talk to the carpenter's gaffer. They're in dire need of help to finish the stage.'

Harry waved his assent as he walked away, already half swallowed by fog.

D
OWN AT THE
quays the wind hammered sleet into Joe's face, and he couldn't help but grin. This weather was going to be great for business. The toffs would be murdering each other for the want of a cab home. Ducking his head against the ferocious wind, Joe took a right onto the bridge and began to hurry across. He wasn't certain he should go home after work tonight, though. Truth was, Mickey had looked bad today: that grin. If some shleeveen had told him about the extra money … Joe shuddered.

Perhaps it would be best to sleep at the depot. It wouldn't be the first time, and probably wouldn't be the
last. Joe tightened his grip on the sixpence in his pocket. Another four months. That's what Saul had said. Four short months, and then they'd have enough. All Joe had to do was hang on; all he had to do was keep quiet and work hard, and—

Something big knocked into him, and he was thrown hard against the stone railing of the bridge. ‘Hey, watch it!' he cried, jerking an elbow into the ribs of whatever drunk had barrelled into him.

A large hand grabbed his wrist. A voice hissed in his ear: ‘Watch it yourself, you little rat shit.' And Joe knew he was in trouble.

Someone punched the back of his head, and his face smacked stone as his body was slammed against the balustrade. A big man pressed his whole weight against Joe and held him as unseen hands invaded the pockets of his trousers and jacket. Joe lifted his head, and another punch slammed his face against stone. His vision exploded with stars. Blood ran hot over his eye.

They took his sixpence. They took Saul's book. They took the last crust of bread he'd saved from his dinner. The shame of helplessness stung almost as much as the blows.

You bastards
, he thought, struggling hard.
You bastards. I hope you rot
.

‘That's it? That's all he's got? A lousy sixpence and a mouldy book?'

At the sound of Mickey's voice, Joe stopped struggling. It was as if something inside him turned off, something drained away, and he was left cold and numb, and empty in his chest. He barely felt it when someone punched the back of his head again, barely felt the extra twist Mickey
gave his arm before releasing him to slump against the balustrade.

Saul's book was flung into the air. Joe watched it tumble through the gaslight, the pages fanning and shivering as it sailed past the rail to plummet to the river.

To the Moon
, whispered Tina.

To the Moon
, Joe thought.

‘Better fetch it,' said Mickey.

Joe blinked at him, not understanding. Then Mickey's grin sliced through the numbness, and Joe knew. He spun, panicked, but it was too late – his cousins grabbed him. Silently, they heaved him up and over the balustrade, and dropped him to the darkness below.

J
OE HAD NO
recollection of the fall – just that one moment he was in the buffeting air; then his nose and ears were filled with water, as he fought the sucking grip of the river. A scream exploded from him in soundless bubbles.