The Sin Eater (19 page)

When they knocked on the door of Number 40 it swung open. A smell of stale cooking and old damp gusted out and beyond the door was a narrow hall with a steep flight of stairs.

Colm called out, but there was no response and they looked at one another, neither wanting to go inside, but aware that having got this close to Romilly they could not go back.

The house did not look as if anyone had cared about it for years. Their footsteps rang out in the silence, and when Declan opened the doors of the two downstairs rooms the hinges screeched as if they were not accustomed to being used. There was a sour-smelling scullery at the back of the house with a cat-ridden square of garden beyond, and a grisly-looking wooden structure at the foot, which they supposed was an earth closet.

‘Shared with at least six other houses,' said Declan, pointing. ‘I thought we were poor in Kilglenn, but it was a different kind of poverty. And there are hundreds of people living like this in London, probably thousands—' He broke off and they both turned to the stair. From above them came a faint cry, followed by a weak tapping.

Colm was halfway up the stairs before the sounds had died away, Declan hard on his heels. They opened two doors on to sad, empty rooms, then the third.

The first thing to assault their senses was the stench. It was like bad meat, like something dead for a very long time. Colm recoiled and Declan clapped a hand over his mouth, and for a moment both had to fight a compulsion to run back down to the street.

For a moment they thought that the figure sprawled on the bed was not Romilly after all. This was someone much older, someone husked dry of life and hope and delight . . . And yet the stringy hair had once been bright copper, and the waxen skin had been like porcelain . . .

A thread-like voice said, ‘Hello, Colm. You took your time getting here . . .'

She was lying amidst blood-soaked sheets, and on a marble washstand was a basin, covered with a stained cloth.

Colm said, ‘Oh, Jesus, Rom, what happened to you?' To Declan's shame Colm was already seated on the edge of the bed, reaching for the thin hands, apparently heedless of the mess. He swallowed hard, then followed suit, sitting on the other side, reaching for Romilly's other hand. Once it had been smooth and soft; now it felt like sandpaper and although he had expected it to be cold, it was not: it was as if the bones beneath were burning their way through what little flesh was left.

‘Bloody butcher,' said Romilly, and even amidst the horror of the room, this was a small extra pinprick of shock because Romilly had never used bad language in Kilglenn.

‘We know you were . . . going to have a child,' said Declan, awkwardly.

‘I was, but I didn't intend to go through with it,' said Romilly. ‘So I thought, I'll get rid of it while it's nothing more than a speck.' Neither Colm nor Declan said anything, and Romilly said, angrily, ‘Listen, I know it's a mortal sin and I'll fry in hell . . . But can you see me with a kid? I'd hold it wrong way up half the time. And how was I supposed to feed it and clothe it when I've hardly been able to feed and clothe myself?' She broke off, twisting in the bed as if trying to escape pain. ‘But wouldn't you know I'd get even that wrong?' she said. ‘Wouldn't you know that man would prod around too sharply and tear something?'

‘What man?'

‘Bullfinch. Butcher Bullfinch, some of them call him,' said Romilly, and the name came out on a gasp. ‘Only I didn't know that until afterwards. They all said – Cerise and old Floss – both said he'd be all right.'

‘Bullfinch did this to you? Injured you?'

‘Yes.' She moved restlessly in the bed again and Declan and Colm looked helplessly at each other. Neither had the least idea what to do

Declan said, ‘Romilly, is there help we can get?'

‘The woman downstairs is doing that,' said Romilly. ‘She's gone to find Bullfinch.'

‘Bullfinch? Rom, we can't let him near you again!'

‘She said he should put right what he did.'

‘But you need a real doctor—'

‘Declan, I can't afford a real doctor!' said Romilly. ‘This isn't Kilglenn. Doctors here charge for what they do. And I haven't a brass farthing in the world.'

‘I'll get a doctor,' said Colm, standing up. ‘We'll find the money. Tell me where—' He broke off as a door banged below, and footsteps came up the stairs.

‘'Oo are you?' demanded a hard-faced female wearing a man's cap.

‘Romilly's cousins from Ireland,' said Colm. ‘Who are you?'

‘I'm 'er landlady, and if you're her cousins, why din't you come sooner like she wanted?'

‘We came as soon as we knew,' said Declan. ‘Did you bring help?'

‘Bullfinch won't come, the perishing old sinner. Says he can't do nothing and it ain't his fault. Frightened I'll shop him to the rozzers, more like.' She saw their look of bewilderment and said, ‘Tell the p'lice what he done. Don't you have p'lice where you come from?'

‘Yes, but—'

‘I don't know what they do in your country, but they're 'ard as a brick wall when it comes to abortion here,' said the woman. ‘And we don't want no trouble.' Then, in a sharper voice, ‘Rom, you're bleeding again, aincha?'

‘I think so . . .'

‘Don't stand about like a couple o' useless pricks,' said the woman, turning to the two boys. ‘One of you get downstairs and find cloths and towels. We'll see if we can cheat old man death by ourselves.'

In the nightmare hours that followed, Declan and Colm lost all sense of time. It was only when Romilly's landlady lit candles and set them around the room that they realized night had fallen.

At first they thought Romilly was going to bleed to death, and the woman clearly thought so as well. She ordered Colm to lift the end of the narrow bed and she and Declan slid house bricks under it, so that Romilly's head was lower than her body. Beyond embarrassment, they helped to wad thick towels between Romilly's legs in an attempt to staunch the flow.

The thick greasiness of the burning tallow candles mingled sickeningly with the stench of blood and sweat, and Romilly was moaning with pain, hunching over in the bed, clutching her lower stomach. Declan said in a low voice, ‘If she was still bleeding, wouldn't she have lost all the blood by now?'

‘She ain't bleeding,' said the woman, watching the huddled figure on the bed. ‘Not to speak of, anyways. I reckon it's a poison that got in when that butcher skewered her with his filthy needles.' She glanced at him. ‘You ever cut your finger and saw it turn bad and fill up with pus? So you have to jab it open to drain away the poison?'

‘Yes.'

‘That's what's wrong with her now. I seen it before with girls who had this done. But the poison's inside, so we can't do nothing to drain it away.'

‘Could a doctor?'

‘Dunno. But even if he saved her, she'd be off to prison straight after.'

Colm said, ‘I'd rather she was alive in prison than dead in this room.'

Shortly before midnight Romilly seemed to sink into a kind of stupor; her skin was hot and dry, and weals broke out in patches. She seemed unaware of where she was and when Colm took her hand and told her she would soon be well, she stared at him with no recognition.

Speaking very quietly, Declan said, ‘Colm – should we get a priest to her?'

They stared at one another, the tenets of their upbringing strongly with them. You did not, if it could be avoided, allow someone to die without confessing and receiving absolution.

‘Yes,' said Colm. ‘Yes, we should.'

‘Do you know where we can get a priest?' said Declan, turning to the woman.

‘I never have no truck with Romans,' said the landlady, closing her mouth like a rat trap. Declan and Colm looked at one another. Declan could hear Colm's thought as clearly as if they had been spoken. What you did on the cliffs of Moher in a lashing storm, you can do again here.

‘No,' said Declan in a low, furious voice. ‘She deserves the proper ritual.'

‘Then I'll go and find a priest,' said Colm. ‘There must be a church around somewhere.'

‘You ain't got time for that,' said the landlady. ‘She ain't got long.'

They sat on each side of the bed, holding Romilly's hands, feeling helpless and angry. As a distant church clock chimed twelve, Romilly fell back, and a dreadful choking cough came from her lips.

‘She's going,' said the landlady. ‘Nothing we can do now.'

Oh yes there is . . .
Declan said, ‘Would you pour me some water from the jug.'

‘And fetch a piece of bread,' said Colm.

They bent over the bed, and the landlady stood at the foot, watching them. After about five minutes, she said, ‘She's gone.'

‘I know,' said Colm.

‘What was that you said to her?' She looked at Declan, who hesitated.

Colm said, ‘He was just chanting an old prayer we have.'

They managed to arrange a funeral at a small, rather bleak church a few streets away, and there was a brief, impersonal service, which took the last of their carefully hoarded money. Neither of them had any idea what they were going to do next. Declan was distraught at Romilly's death, but Colm swung between bitter grief and a black raging fury that Declan found frightening. Twice he went off by himself, hunching his shoulders when Declan would have accompanied him. Declan had no idea where he went – he thought he probably just walked the streets, trying to come to terms with Romilly's squalid death.

After the funeral they returned to their lodgings. They would be given an early supper and also breakfast tomorrow morning, but after that they would be expected to pay their reckoning. Neither of them knew how they would do it.

Colm had spoken very little since Romilly's death, but as a thin spiteful rain began to beat against the windows, he suddenly said, ‘So this is how our wonderful dreams of making a golden fortune in London town end. In a shabby bedroom, hungry and destitute.'

Shortly after two o'clock, Declan found himself thinking they had just over four hours to get through before supper was served downstairs. Neither of them had been able to eat much breakfast because of facing Romilly's funeral, and they had not been able to afford a midday meal after it. He was starting to feel slightly sick and a bit light-headed with hunger.

A nearby church clock was chiming the half hour, when Colm suddenly stood up and said, ‘I'm going out.'

‘Where . . . ?' But Colm had already gone, the street door downstairs banging.

Declan grabbed his jacket from the bed and went down the stairs after him. When he reached the street there was no sign of Colm. He stood irresolute for a moment, then turned up his collar and began to walk through the driving rain towards the east. Towards Canning Town and the Church of St Stephen where Romilly was buried.

Benedict fought his way free of the clinging cobwebs of Declan's world, and little by little became aware that he was in Nina's flat.

He felt sick and light-headed – exactly as Declan felt when he followed Colm out into the London streets all those years ago, he thought. But that wasn't real.
I've got to remember that this is all simply a quirk of my own mind
.

But he could feel that dark alter ego's claws still embedded deep in his mind, and fighting free of them took such a massive mental effort, he thought at first he was not going to manage it. This time, thought Benedict in panic, he's going to take me over forever. But even as the thought formed, he was aware of a surge of defiance. I won't let him, he thought. Whether any of that was real or not, I'm not going to stay in that world. I don't want to see what happens next – I don't even want to know about it. Because the murders are about to begin. He's going to the East End tonight – to Canning Town and to the old river steps.

Declan Doyle was about to start killing all the people he believed had brought about Romilly's death.

Michael was absorbed in his Andrew Marvell notes when the phone rang.

A slightly hesitant voice said, ‘Dr Flint? Michael Flint? It's Benedict Doyle. I don't know if you remember me, but—'

‘Of course I remember you,' said Michael at once. ‘How are you?'

‘A bit mixed. You said if I needed help . . . I dare say you're frantically busy, but . . .'

Michael consigned the Marvell notes to the back of his desk and said, ‘I'm not frantically busy at all.'

Benedict sat in Michael's study with the view over the tiny, tucked-away quadrangle, and said, ‘It's very good of you to spare the time.'

‘You said on the phone you weren't exactly recovering.'

‘I'm not. I don't know how much Nina told you—'

‘Only the basics,' said Michael, not wanting the boy to be embarrassed. ‘That you seem to have plugged your mind in to a different time and place.'

‘Oh, OK. Well, they're calling it – this thing I have – these visions of people living in another time – a form of dissociative personality disorder. It sounds grim, doesn't it?'

‘Not necessarily. Half my students have some peculiarity or other. Particularly,' said Michael, choosing his words carefully, ‘if they've been taking something slightly exotic.'

‘I've never done drugs,' said Benedict at once. Then, with a half-grin, ‘Well, OK, I've smoked the occasional joint. Only grass, though.'

Michael said, ‘I'd have been a bit sceptical if you'd said you hadn't tried anything. But I shouldn't think dissociative personality would be caused by the odd spliff.'

‘You do understand, don't you?' said Benedict gratefully, and Michael saw his use of the slang term had been reassuring. ‘I thought you might. My cousin's very kind, but she's a bit—'