The Law of Dreams (29 page)

She kept back, watching them.

The ganger lit a torch from the coals, and they all pulled on coats and
boots and followed him outside.

Men were streaming down the hill, groups from each shanty silently joining
in the flow. The only noise was the squish of boots in the mud and the bleats of a few
whistles. All were dressed in finery, hats brushed, boots freshly greased. Men wore
yellow leather gloves.

He felt a little stunned by the nearness of money;
perhaps they all were.

The beer shop glowed from inside. They joined the queue wrapped around the
building. The curtains had been flung open. Pressing his forehead to the glass, Fergus
saw the timer making the Pay at the table covered by a red blanket, the policeman
standing behind him, holding a pot of beer in his fist. After taking their pay, men were
crowding at the bar, drinking beer and calling for beefsteaks.

“I'm feeling strong tonight,” Muldoon called out to
Greaves as the tramp walked by, his face still lumpy and purple. Ignoring Muck, he
joined the queue.

“No takers,” Muck said, sounding disappointed.

“Someone will turn up,” said Molly.

On his way inside, the contractor stopped and spoke to Muldoon. “You
are looking dapper, Muck.”

“Boisterous I am, mister.”

“We'll get a challenge then. Who do you like?”

“Ach, there isn't a man in camp now.”

“Perhaps they've a fighter on the Conwy job.”

Muldoon was springing on the balls of his feet, snapping punches at the
air. “Only tonight I feel itchy, my lord!”

“Who's game?” the contractor called out to the men in
line. “Who'll get up on his hind legs with Muck Muldoon? Two pounds for the
last man standing.”

No one stepped forward as Muck hummed and danced, feinting punches.

“I'd take you on myself if I was any younger, just to see you
box,” the contractor said thoughtfully, putting his hands in his pockets and going
inside.

SOON THEY
were inside. The atmosphere was rich and warm
with tobacco smoke, burned fat, the stench of beer. He watched her step up to the table
with Muldoon, who received his pay and exchanged the lodgers' sub tickets,
sweeping the stacks of coins into his pocket then heading for the bar.

Molly stood by the pay table to collect tobacco money from her lodgers as
they took their wages.

When it was his turn to step up to the pay table, he couldn't stop
smiling.

She ignored him.

“Name?” the timer barked.

Surprised the man didn't remember, he gave his name. The timer
studied the ledger and made a scratch. “Three-and-six on twenty days, less three
subs, nine shillings each, with no other debts outstanding, equals two pounds five
shillings.” The little man piled the coins into neat stacks and slid them across
the table. “Pay is made. Next!”

“Three shillings tobacco money.” Molly was holding out her
hand. “Pay up, man, before you drink it all away.”

You are the brilliant
, he thought, watching her pick the coins
from his palm.

She was good at disguise, at concealment. They would be strong together.
She wasn't so bold as him, but more deft.

You are the light.

She took her money and moved away. As she was leaving the beer shop, he
saw her standing next to Muck in a crowd of shouting, drinking gangers and wives. One of
the other women was giving her a light for her pipe. Muck was starting his spree; soon
he'd be insensible.

No one will ever hurt you worse than I will.

Goodbye you devil.

EVER SINCE THE SCATTERING
, he had often wondered if he
was still alive, or if the days and nights so strange and wild were actually the world
of the dead.

He'd felt dead in the workhouse and in the Night Asylum. On the bog,
his scalpeen, when he slept alone, had smelled very close to the grave. He could have
been dead wandering the weird stone streets of Liverpool.

With a girl you knew you weren't.

He caught the blue and led him inside, rubbed the frost off his back and
slipped on a bridle. There was no saddle.

The feed bins were open, and he gave the horse a pan of oats.

Sitting on the anvil, smoking his pipe, he watched the animal noisily
feeding. He could hear the other horses outside, clacking in the mud.

He loved the blue, despite the horse's unrelenting meanness, his
wicked sense of himself, his determination to bite the hand that fed him. He loved it
that the blue owned himself.

Feeling unusually content, he smoked through three pipefuls. It was as
though he had never really wanted to get away with her after all, but would be content
to wait in the stable forever with the horse who, finishing his oats, stood whisking his
tail impatiently.

As though the dream of leaving — leaving with her — were
enough.

What was the world, except scent, feel, light? Was
there something touchable in sorrow, loneliness? He could almost feel the past in his
hands — warm, weighty, like a spade of earth from a good, loamy field.

Hearing footsteps approaching, crackling through the icy mud outside, he
stood up.

That moment when you join your life, you're thrilled. Your head
spins. You feel a little sick.

The stable door opened with a groan.

“Molly?”

“Jesus!”

It was McCarty, peering into the dark.

“Who is it? Who's there?”

“It's me — Fergus.”

McCarty snorted. “Idiot! You give me a spook —”

“Where's Molly?”

“Fuck, you give me a scare. I've shat meself . . . oh mercy.
Mr. Murdoch is looking for you, man. You would have half a crown, but they have given it
to me instead. Jesus I'm jingling tonight I swear.” McCarty took a coin from
his waistcoat pocket, flipped it, and caught it with a slap.

“Where is Molly?”

“Scare the gas out of me, you did.” McCarty kissed his coin
then peered at Fergus. “Muck's going to fight your horse. It is all
arranged.”

“What?”

“No one will stand up with Muck, and we need a blaster. Fellows are
wagering like mad. Mr. Murdoch sent me to fetch him. Everyone likes a good fight,
so.”

“Where's Molly?”

“Having a time with the Moll, are you?” McCarty shook his
head. “Beware, Fergus. Remember old Kelly.”

“We're going away.”

McCarty shook his head slowly. “Kelly was taking her away —
for America. Only Muck found out. Next time we saw Kelly, he was dead, and Muck had her
washing him down.” McCarty unwrapped the halter from the post. “No, give it
up, Fergus, Muck will never let her go; he will snap you. Listen — you can hear
the fellows yelling from here. Nothing like a Pay for stirring up. And Muck
knocked down that horse in France, he did.” McCarty started
leading the blue from the barn. “One good crack. That's all it took —
here, you devil, none of that!”

The horse, writhing, had tried to bite his arm and he gave the strap a
vigorous jerk, then held it out to Fergus. “Here, you lead the fucker.”

He took the strap, feeling disarrayed, disarmed by confusion, and for the
first time, vulnerable. Had Muck somehow learned of their plan?

He could hear the noise down in camp, men roaring. He could ride away, but
he knew he couldn't leave her, so he started after McCarty along the muddy
path.

Sometimes you walk in the dark aware of everything you have lost, and you
feel lost, but you just keep going, because you haven't the strength to stop or
turn back or run away.

THE NAVVIES
had formed a ring to watch a pair of
wrestlers grappling, but when the crowd saw Fergus leading the blue horse they began
shouting and whistling. Drenched with mud, the wrestlers gave up their match and stood
back as he led the fuming horse into the ring. The night air was greasy with smoke from
torches, and the blue bleated and tossed his head nervously, spooked at the flickering
lights.

Something made you do this: hunger, desire, a sense you had to gamble
everything to win.

Molly was beside Muldoon, who began taking off his coat. Fergus kept
looking at her until she met his eye and gave a little shrug.

He struggled to hold the horse steady while Muck began prancing in his
corner, cutting the air with punches.

Mr. Murdoch in muddy horse boots stepped into the ring, holding up his
hand while the men cheered and whistled. The contractor let the noise continue for a few
moments, then raised his hand again. The crowd fell silent.

“Rules of engagement! A win is by knockdown! Nothing else will
serve!” The contractor looked at Muck, then Fergus. “Ready, men?”

Muck nodded. he was flushed with beer and exercise.

Molly was looking at Fergus, but he couldn't tell what she was
thinking or feeling.

Kelly. Of course she'd wanted Kelly to help her
get away. You couldn't blame her for that.

It cracked you to realize you weren't the only.

The timer's bell sounded and Muck came out quickly, dancing.

Feeling strange, as if he were moving in a dead world, Fergus let go of
the halter. The blue started trotting around the ring, looking for a way out. Snorting
with fear. The heavy mud was sucking at the horse's feet. He kept trying to break
out of the ring but the navvies kept him in, screaming at him, waving their hats,
slapping at his flanks.

Suddenly the frightened horse dashed straight for Muldoon and reared up,
clawing the air with his forelegs. His right foot snagged Muck's shoulder and
knocked the ganger down. In a flurry of stomps and kicks, the blue horse trampled Muck
in the mud then resumed his frantic dashing around the ring, wildeyed and fluting steam,
the mud sucking at his hooves.

The blue had already forgotten Muck, on his back, chest crushed, spouting
red blood.

The dead lie so soft. Souls yielding they hug the ground. What is it
that's taken out of them?

The men would need to kill the horse, he knew, in vengeance for their
champion.

Sometimes the future flies straight at you. Your brain reaches out and
takes what it wants.

The blue was dashing from one end to the other when Fergus ran out into
the ring, seized the halter, and threw himself up on the horse's back. He could
feel the blue's exhaustion as he steered him across the ring. Looking down at
Muldoon's corpse, he saw the railway spike still clenched in Muck's left
hand.

When he leaned down for her, she hesitated only a second before grasping
his arm and pulling herself up behind. Kicking and wriggling, then getting a leg
over.

With her arms around him he kicked hard and rode straight at the men at
the far end of the ring. The faces fell back, yelling and cursing, and then they were
through. Trotting past the bootmaker's tent, the ruined church. He caught a whiff
of iron, tangy and rough, as they crossed over the grade, the horse moving between his
knees, Molly's arms around his chest, her breathing hot on his neck.

You felt so strong. Felt so pure.

You carry yourself inside, don't you? Dry, like a handful of
seeds.

You thought you'd been redeemed.

THEY HAD
the road to themselves. Through the dark
villages, dogs yelped in surprise, and Molly held on with both arms across his chest as
though she trusted him completely and believed he would never do her harm.

They barely spoke. She seemed internal, untouchable, made of thoughts. The
night was bitter, ice lacquering the fields, but the thrill of leaving burned like a
good fire and he was never cold.

Who wants anything but to travel at night with a girl? Night of the
Opening Road. You don't care if you are awake or sleeping, alive or dead —
you just keep going.

You tell yourself you want to protect her, but of course it is more
complicated than that.

DAWN WAS BLURRED
, smelling of old blankets and snow,
when they rode across the bridge at Conwy. While he watered the horse at an iron trough
she spread Muldoon's coat on the ground and sat examining an object in her
hand.

“Look here.” She held up Muldoon's gold watch, dangling
on its chain. “It was in Muck's pocket, of course. And here, his pay.”
She showed him the handful of coins. “There's enough for a passage.
Needn't go south, so. Straight to Liverpool and buy a passage.”

He should feel glad but did not. The watch tied her to Muldoon.

Molly held the instrument to her ear. “Still alive. His time she is
beating. Listen.”

She pressed it to his ear, and he heard the small, dry noise.

“We shall let her run down, and that marks the finish of Muldoon.
When she has good and stopped, I'll wind her up again.” She fixed the watch
chain around her neck. “Poor old Muck. He was good for something at
last.”

Dawn was filling in. He could see a rocky headland and the plate of sea.
On the other side of the road, beyond the fields, heavy mountains caught the light.

“In America there is woods so thick, Fergus, they call it the
Nightland.”

“Why?”

“So heavy you can't see light. But it's good browse for
cattle.”

“They have their cabins there?”

“No cabins, they all own farms.” Molly lit her pipe.
“We'll go straight for Liverpool, flog the watch. Must be careful whom we
deal with, or they'll nab us for reward. Say I stole the thing.”

“You didn't. You're Muck's wife —”

“Railway wife don't signify. No, have to be careful or
we'll end up on the iron gang. Convicted and sentenced for transportation. Van
Dieman's Land!”