The Street Philosopher Part 25

Nunn stared out at the dome of the Infirmary, which wore a gleaming patina of rainwater, and the drenched labourers in the square below, toiling on despite the deluge. 'C-Cregg. I think. A private ...'

Boyce looked up keenly, closing the mirror. 'Yes, I remember the name. It cannot have been him, though. He was killed before the Redan on the same day that you and I received our injuries.'

Nunn put a hand to his brow. His head was throbbing. 'There's something else, Brigadier. Something about dr-drawings.' He sighed in exasperation, and felt hot tears welling in his eyes. 'Wicked drawings. And there's more besides, b-but I can't recall what itwhat I ...'

Boyce paused, as if considering this, and then shook his head with grave certainty. 'No, Mr Nunn, my apologies, but I can recall nothing about any drawings, wicked or otherwise. That is but a product of your beleaguered mind, I fear, as is your encounter with this long-dead infantryman. I would advise you to let such treacherous thoughts go, so that they can trouble you no longer.' He studied Nunn's arm, as if noticing the cuts on it for the first time. 'Some of those are rather deep. Come, we must go back inside and have them properly dressed.'

3.

As one who watches Manchester with a dedicated eye, your humble correspondent cannot help but observe that much is currently being correspondent cannot help but observe that much is currently being said around the provinces of our busy city on the subject of disgrace. said around the provinces of our busy city on the subject of disgrace. Gossip of an exceptionally scurrilous sort is shuttling back and forth Gossip of an exceptionally scurrilous sort is shuttling back and forth across every shop counter on across every shop counter on Deansgate Deansgate; it is drifting in whispers around the august warehouse-palaces of Portland Street and the around the august warehouse-palaces of Portland Street and the reading rooms of the Athenaeum; it is being shouted l.u.s.tily over the reading rooms of the Athenaeum; it is being shouted l.u.s.tily over the playing fields of Peel Park. Every word of it, needless to say, concerns playing fields of Peel Park. Every word of it, needless to say, concerns a pair of young gentlemen from two of our foremost families. It is a pair of young gentlemen from two of our foremost families. It is being reported with ludicrous confidence that these men are holed being reported with ludicrous confidence that these men are holed up in the cellars of one of their fathers' premises, a corrupted cabal up in the cellars of one of their fathers' premises, a corrupted cabal at their disposal, laughing at us all; and elsewhere others swear at their disposal, laughing at us all; and elsewhere others swear that they have been seen climbing together on to a train at Bank that they have been seen climbing together on to a train at Bank Top, loudly proclaiming their intention to escape to the Far East, Top, loudly proclaiming their intention to escape to the Far East, where they will be able to indulge their aberrant appet.i.tes in absolute where they will be able to indulge their aberrant appet.i.tes in absolute freedom. The term 'disgrace', of course, is frequently and vehemently freedom. The term 'disgrace', of course, is frequently and vehemently applied. applied.

We do not seek to comment on the gentlemen's gentlemen's alleged crimes, alleged crimes, or to speculate as to their whereabouts. We do, however, find or to speculate as to their whereabouts. We do, however, find ourselves thinking that this term, with all it implies, is lamentably ourselves thinking that this term, with all it implies, is lamentably excessive. Should it not rightly be reserved for those who have excessive. Should it not rightly be reserved for those who have committed acts of grievous harmfor those who have wronged committed acts of grievous harmfor those who have wronged their fellow man, or betrayed a sacred trust? These two souls have their fellow man, or betrayed a sacred trust? These two souls have injured nothing but our sense of propriety, a fluid notion indeed injured nothing but our sense of propriety, a fluid notion indeed in a city such as ours. All we ask for is some consideration of the in a city such as ours. All we ask for is some consideration of the complexities involved in this sad matter. Language, when so misused, complexities involved in this sad matter. Language, when so misused, when so hysterically twisted, stands in danger of losing its meaning when so hysterically twisted, stands in danger of losing its meaning completely. completely.

Kitson reread this, his final paragraphs of street philosophy, and folded up the piece of paper on which it had been written. He knew full well that Thorne would not print the piece. The Star' Star's role was to fan the flames of scandal, not to attempt to dampen them. But he bound the report up anyway, along with his letter of explanation, and pushed both under the door of the magazine's office. A gust of wind ran up the straight back of Corporation Street, carrying a cold spattering of rain. Kitson started back down towards the traffic of the warehouse district, heading for his attic, his mind taken up entirely with what he was about to do.

As he reached King Street, he was pulled from his thoughts by a sudden commotion a short distance up the pavement. A team of constables, about eight strong, had emerged from an alleyway, carrying a writhing man between them. They were heading for the cla.s.sicised bulk of the new Town Hallbuilt, like so many of Manchester's more recent public buildings, on the Athenian modelwhich also housed the 'A' division of the city police in its bas.e.m.e.nt. This was most probably an uncooperative felon being taken down to the cells. Their captive could be heard cursing with all his might, demonstrating an insane pa.s.sion which, along with his ragged, grimy clothes, indicated that his was a life of drunken vagrancy. He was not a Manchester man; there was a c.o.c.kney tw.a.n.g to his obscenities. Kitson watched this fractious party with mild interest. Then the vagrant started to shout about the Crimea.

'Sh.e.l.led, I was! Bleedin' sh.e.l.led, by those b.a.s.t.a.r.d Russians! Sh.e.l.led Sh.e.l.led! Look at me legs, me face! All 'cos o' that toff c.u.n.t back there! What you protectin' 'im for?'

'Stop your cursing, villain,' ordered one of the constables as he attempted to grab hold of this indigent veteran's thrashing legs, 'or I shall make blessed short work of ye!'

At once, Kitson felt certain that this man was known to him. Ignoring the quickening rainfall, he walked over to get a better look. That distinctive pattern of injuries, with severe wounds to the face, hand and leg, coupled with the crowing, indignant whine of a voice, left no room for doubt. The scarred man being borne unceremoniously towards the station was the private he had treated as the Redan's guns had roared all about; the same one he had met in the advance parallel in the last minutes before the a.s.sault, who had insisted that he knew Cracknell. Kitson also remembered that he had heard his name, a single syllable he couldn't quite recollect, in the Belle Vue Gardens only two days previously, when a witness had identified him as the perpetrator of that brutal attack upon the factory operative.

The felon was hauled inside, still screaming; and a dark form lodged in the corner of Kitson's eye as abruptly and painfully as a speck of grit. He turned slowly to see a short, swarthy man in a worn black suit, writing something in a notebook. This man was standing some twenty yards from him, on the corner of Cross Streetthe most straightforward path back to Princess Street and Kitson's tenement.

He cursed under his breath, deciding immediately to head towards Piccadilly and then double back down Fountain Street. Setting off at speed, he ran straight into a loud checked waistcoat, well filled by the person inside it. A thick arm wrapped around his shoulders and steered him into an alleyway.

'They are watching your domicile as well, my friend,' Cracknell imparted calmly, 'They want us both, and not for a spot of earnest remonstration.'

Kitson ducked under his arm and leant heavily against the alley wall. He'd known that this encounter was inevitable. Cracknell was not yet finished in Manchester.

'I think it's time we had a proper jaw, don't you? All we've managed so far have been s.n.a.t.c.hed momentsthe briefest of meetings under some rather unfortunate circ.u.mstances. You must agree that we owe one another a civil conversation, at least. We should drink a gla.s.s to our fallen friends. To James Maynard.' Cracknell paused, eyeing Kitson slyly. 'To Robert Styles.'

Kitson did not allow himself to react to this. It was surely significant that after several weeks of determined evasion, Cracknell was suddenly so keen for them to talk. Perhaps, he thought, this was at last a chance to draw some answers out of him. He looked around, refusing to meet his former senior's questioning gaze. The black-suit at Cross Street appeared not to have seen them. 'The police have your henchman.'

Cracknell shook his head with a rueful laugh. 'Oh no, my a.s.sociation with Mr Cregg ended a good while ago. He developed a worrying taste for stabbing people, as you might well remember. I heard that he's just tried to do in a certain Brigadier-General, in fact, over on Piccadilly, outside the Albion Hotelthat's where they caught him.'

So Boyce was in Manchester. The second stage of Cracknell's revenge was imminent.

'No, that business at the Belle Vuethe distraction he causedwas purest serendipity. Good fortune has shone upon this little undertaking of mine. I am not a pious man, Thomas, but as I said to you at the Polygon, there is a higher agency at work here. Justice is being done.'

'You're just cutting that crippled soldier loose, then, without a backward glance? Leaving him to the Manchester police?'

Cracknell merely grinned, then tapped Kitson's shoulder with the cane he was carrying. 'I have a place in mind. Will you accompany me?'

Kitson nodded reluctantly, thinking that if nothing else Cracknell probably represented his best chance of evading Twelves and his minions.

They walked the length of the alley at some speed, soon coming to Market Street. Carts trundled past, bearing cargoes of banners, flags and poles, their wheels churning in deepening puddles. Kitson grimaced as cold raindrops splashed against his shoulders. Cracknell, however, was swinging his cane with complete nonchalance, entirely indifferent to the muddy rainwater that was saturating the cuffs of his ill-fitting trousers. He led them a short distance towards Piccadilly before weaving across the road and starting up the gentle hill on the other side.

Smithfield Market appeared between the buildings ahead of them. The iron-and-gla.s.s pavilion was lit against the premature darkness brought by the weather, and a great crowd was taking shelter beneath it. A group of mill-girls were screaming as they pushed each other out under the jets of water that cascaded from the market's overflowing gutters.

Cracknell turned, craning his neck, peering back down the hill. 'They're following,' he said. 'Come, Thomas, this way.'

Kitson looked back also, and could see nothing but shops shutting up and people rushing to escape the downpour. Cracknell, meanwhile, had disappeared down a narrow lane across from the market. Kitson hurried after him.

The rainfall seemed to slacken off almost completely, reduced to the odd stray drip. Looking up, Kitson saw that this was not due to the pa.s.sing of the storm, but to a mult.i.tude of decrepit balconies, strings of forgotten washing, and the lean of the subsiding tenements, all of which were blocking the water's path to the ground below. The only illumination came from the occasional candle flickering forlornly on a window ledge. Infants played in the gutter, their tiny hands full of slopping sludge. The stench of faeces and urine mingled thickly in the air with the sweet reek of decay.

They turned, and turned again; Kitson grew uncomfortable. Despite a number of months' residence in Manchester, he had seldom ventured so far into its darker regions. But Cracknell seemed perfectly at ease in the stinking alleys, the dilapidation and misery causing him no apparent concern. He was walking fast. Kitson was having to exert himself simply to keep up. Old memories returned to him, memories of trailing behind the senior correspondent as he pursued his pleasure amongst the dusty stones of Constantinople; and later as he chased the army across the battlefields of the Alma Valley and Inkerman Ridge. There it was, that same broad back, confidently leading the way, utterly convinced of its own imperviousness.

'Ancoats,' Cracknell declared, waving his cane around, 'in all its tumbledown fury. Never mind that b.l.o.o.d.y Exhibition, this district is Manchester's most notable achievementalthough I think we can bet that on the morrow, the Royal nose will not be brought within a half-mile of its many distinctive smells. They say that Ancoats is to Manchester what Manchester is to England: the fundament of the fundament. D'you know, Thomas, I honestly think that the simple fact of this place, and the way the working people must live within it, is justification enough for the destruction of their masters, whatever else the grasping b.a.s.t.a.r.ds might have done.'

'Well, you have certainly destroyed Charles Norton,' Kitson replied curtly. 'You have destroyed his entire family.'

Cracknell chuckled. 'Oho! Is that pique pique I hear there? If you are referring to your widow, Kitson, do please recall that I warned you quite explicitly that there would be trouble in that quarter. And I make no apologies for being a little ruthless. A cat in gloves, my dear fellow, catches no mice.' I hear there? If you are referring to your widow, Kitson, do please recall that I warned you quite explicitly that there would be trouble in that quarter. And I make no apologies for being a little ruthless. A cat in gloves, my dear fellow, catches no mice.'

'She knew nothing of her father's business. Neither did her brother, for that matter.'

'But pain, Thomas, is purgative, and that family needed a bit of b.l.o.o.d.y purgation, did it not? Your widow has her charms, I'm sure, but she watched her father's rise without questioning it for a moment. She took up her rooms in his mansion, and bought herself great wardrobes full of fine clothes, without a single second's hesitation.'

Kitson formed tight fists inside his pockets, digging his nails into his palms. 'She had just lost her husband husband, d.a.m.n you. She was hardly-' He stopped himself. There was absolutely no point continuing with this argument.

A dozen filthy faces were regarding them silently from a nearby cellar. After waiting with a sarcastic smile to see if Kitson had any more to say, Cracknell started off again. They came to an area of open grounda small yard before the steep rise of a gigantic mill. Impa.s.sive brick walls stretched upwards, hard and featureless after the diseased jumble of the alleyways. Running along their tops, at least thirty feet above the ground, were the windows, thousands of small panes arranged in lines inside a leaden grid. The dirty gla.s.s glimmered weakly, offering only the very slightest suggestion of gas lighting within. A great droning, crashing noise issued from this austere building, drowning out the splashing and trickling of the rain. It ran on and on, a continuous three-second cycle of disastrous, unbearable sound, clattering away incessantly. This, the tireless rhythm of the power looms, was difficult enough to endure out in the yard; the effect on those confined inside, Kitson thought, must be of another order altogether. The two men crossed the cobbles hurriedly, eager to be away.

Cracknell led them on towards the Oldham Road, Ancoats' great thoroughfare and the site of some of the city's largest factories. Chimneys towered above the lanes, pumping out smoke that seemed to vanish shortly after it had left them. Kitson put a hand up to his face; there was wet, sooty dirt sliding across his cheek, driven on to it from the atmosphere by the pouring rain.

'Cracknell, where the h.e.l.l are we going?'

'Somewhere close. You'll like it, Thomas, I promise.'

A long row of p.a.w.n shops and pestilent-looking boarding houses brought them to a large junction lit by a single sputtering lime-light. Cracknell stopped under a tavern sign, checking the streets for black-suits. The symbols upon this sign had mostly been obscured by dirt, but Kitson could just make out a heraldic shield, some feathers, and a crude scroll on which had been painted The Trafford Arms The Trafford Arms. He recognised the name. It was a popular inn and concert-room, whose custom consisted entirely of the operatives from the mills found all around it. They stepped inside.

The sounds of a lazy jig, played on fiddle, drum and flute, drifted through a large room with a balcony and a low stage. It had been built in what could loosely be described as the Tudor style, with the uneven wooden beams left exposed, and it was packed to the rafters with working people of both s.e.xes, each with a jar of ale in their hand. Many had pipes or cheroots also, and tobacco smoke filled the Trafford Arms as water fills a bucket. Animated conversations were underway, the music almost lost amidst the raised voices and bursts of laughter. It was warm; Kitson was suddenly aware of the cold drips that were running down his back and legs.

Cracknell skirted the long tables and took up a place in the middle of the bar, leaning against it like a regular. His faded gentleman's garb, and especially his garish waistcoat, were conspicuous indeed amongst the drab caps, fustian jackets and plain cotton frocks of the rest of the Trafford's clientele. He was behaving, also, with a notable swagger. The first thing he did was buy drinks for all those around him, filling the barmaid's cupped hands with coppers. This magnanimous gesture was met with a decidedly ambiguous murmur and a couple of grudging nods of acknowledgement. Cracknell, entirely unconcerned by this response, handed Kitson a gla.s.s of spirit, knocking back one himself in a single swallow. This liquid, gin he supposed, had the appearance of old dishwater and smelled like burned rubber. Kitson drank it anyway.

Beer was next, a jar of dark porter. After making a healthy start on his, Cracknell lit a cigarette and scanned the Trafford's balcony. He saluted a bald-headed man in a red neckerchief who sat gravely at the balcony's edge with a company of roughs gathered around him. This fellow, Cracknell explained, was the Trafford's landlord, a Mr Bairstowewho, he'd discovered, had once clashed unpleasantly with Mr Twelves and his underlings, and would not now permit them inside his establishment. The Trafford was a haven; a place where they could catch their breath and consider their next move.

Putting a hand on the coa.r.s.e, unpolished bar, Kitson took in the tavern, working out the best escape route and thinking about how long he would need to get back to Princess Street. Something was going on, he was sure of it; this all felt rehea.r.s.ed. Cracknell had another reason for bringing him here. I will wait for half an hour, he thought, let him have his civil conversation, and then I will leave.

The Tomahawk looked at Kitson and grinned. His former junior was practically a visual definition of uneaseideal for his purposes. They stood out like goats in a sheep pen, and were drawing a good deal of attention. He puffed on his cigarette and took a cool swig of porter. It was time to get back to the business of the evening.

'No,' he announced after a few seconds' silence, 'there was rot in the Norton family, and it needed to be gouged out. The railway, Thomas, the b.l.o.o.d.y railway railway! So many times I rode it, marvelling at its effectiveness, little suspecting that the very nails holding it together were the product of greed and wickedness! I had no notion of this whatsoever until I returned to England in the winter of fifty-five. Such a boon to the troopsand yet being exploited by Boyce for his own gain!'

'So you have brought down his accomplice,' Kitson said, reaching stiffly for his jar. 'Boyce will have been damaged also. He must have an interest in Norton's business.'

'Undoubtedly, although I could find no trace of a formal connection between them. The Brigadier has protected himself with exceptional effectiveness, I must say. I haven't even been able to discover where the brute has been living since he was invalided home from the war. But now I will finally get my vengeance. And by Christ, there's a lot to avenge.' Cracknell paused. 'He took her from me, Thoma.s.stole her from me.' her from me.'

'You are referring to the late Mrs Boyce, I a.s.sume.'

'Such a beautiful, spirited creature, cruelly cut down by that demon demon.' The Tomahawk drew himself up. 'I cannot accuse him directly, of course. The murder was covered up very nicely, blamed on a rogue RussianBoyce produced a couple of witnesses from his regiment, as well as the body of the supposed killer. Neither can I get at him, in the Metropolis or elsewhere. The obstacles are simply too great.' He fixed Kitson with a direct, resolute stare. 'Up here, thoughup here there is a real chance. And I must take it. I must do whatever I can to obtain justice for my poor Madeleine.'

Kitson banged his gla.s.s down impatiently on the bar. 'Oh, come now, Cracknell!' he exclaimed irritably. 'You seem to forget that I was there there. You would have me believe that you have come here as a vengeful loverbut I spoke to Annabel Wade on the day Madeleine Boyce died. You had deserted her, taken flight to escape the wrath of her husband and pen your vitriolic reports in safety. You had not seen her for months months. Your affair was over.'

Cracknell dropped his cigarette b.u.t.t on the ground, crushing it beneath his boot, somewhat wrong-footed by Kitson's hard certainty. 'She was killed, Kitson, because of her connection with me,' he said quietly, 'because of her love for me. You cannot deny this.'

'Perhaps so, but it was a love you did not return. You knew the manner of man Boyce was. Did you not think, even once once, of the danger you were placing her in with all that Tomahawk nonsense?' Kitson made a disgusted sound. 'This grand act of yours does not work on me, Cracknell. Stop pretending that you are in Manchester to avenge Mrs Boyce. You are here for yourself.'

A comic singer, wearing a drooping ruff and a pair of outsized pantaloons, ambled on to the stage of the Trafford Arms. His appearance was greeted by applause and raucous cheers from the audience, with a good number of those seated rising to their feet. Several even climbed up on top of benches and tables.

Drawing in an exaggerated breath, his arms open wide, the singer launched into an account of young Billy Taylor, pressed to sea. It was clearly a regular tune at the Trafford, as within the s.p.a.ce of a bar or two the entire crowd, except the two newspapermen, were belting out its lines into the smoky air with considerable gusto. 'Soon 'is true love followed after,' they sang, 'Under name o' Richard Carr; and 'er lily-white after,' they sang, 'Under name o' Richard Carr; and 'er lily-white 'ands she rubbed all over, wi' nasty pitch and tar 'ands she rubbed all over, wi' nasty pitch and tar!'

Cracknell finished his porter. A disconcertingly genuine anger had started to itch away inside him. He raised his hand, beckoning over a plain-featured, wide-hipped barmaid in a dirty ap.r.o.n. After ordering more beer, he turned back to Kitson.

'I'll admit that I have other reasons for hating him,' he retorted sharply, raising his voice to be heard over the singing. 'You must know what he did to me.' It hurt Cracknell even to think of this matter; but, simultaneously, he found that he wanted desperately to drag it out into the open once more, to bask again in the toxic injustice of it all.

'I have heard that letters were written to the Times,' Kitson said carefully.

Immediately, Cracknell reached into his jacket and pulled out the clipping. It was heavily worn, and falling apart where it had been folded; he could have recited it by heart if requested. He laid it on the bar in front of Kitson.

The presence of certain civilian war correspondents, it read, has been a nagging irritation to all fighting on this campaign. One man been a nagging irritation to all fighting on this campaign. One man in particular, an employee of the in particular, an employee of the London Courier London Courier magazine, has magazine, has made an active annoyance of himself from the day the expeditionary made an active annoyance of himself from the day the expeditionary force set sail from England. He has cast his abuse about widely, force set sail from England. He has cast his abuse about widely, selecting targets from the most senior generals through to the stalwart selecting targets from the most senior generals through to the stalwart men of the line, doing considerable damage to morale. Recently, men of the line, doing considerable damage to morale. Recently, he named all British soldiery in the Crimea 'fruit of a rotten tree'; he named all British soldiery in the Crimea 'fruit of a rotten tree'; here I use his own despicable expression. here I use his own despicable expression.

During the first a.s.sault on the Redan, his interferences became rather more direct, and have prompted me to write this letter in rather more direct, and have prompted me to write this letter in the hope that it might lead to some form of punitive action being the hope that it might lead to some form of punitive action being taken against him. I witnessed him running amidst the men of the taken against him. I witnessed him running amidst the men of the Light Division at the height of the attack, shouting seditious slogans, Light Division at the height of the attack, shouting seditious slogans, undermining the confidence of the soldiers and interrupting their undermining the confidence of the soldiers and interrupting their advance. In my opinion as an officer, this absurd behaviour advance. In my opinion as an officer, this absurd behaviour contributed directly to the failure of the a.s.sault and the deaths and contributed directly to the failure of the a.s.sault and the deaths and injuries of a number of soldiers; indeed, my own wound, which injuries of a number of soldiers; indeed, my own wound, which has caused me to be sent home, was inflicted as I attempted to has caused me to be sent home, was inflicted as I attempted to correct his disturbances. correct his disturbances.

I implore those with direct authority on this person to consider this incident and summon him away from the Crimea as soon as this incident and summon him away from the Crimea as soon as possible; and I entreat the ministers of our government to impose possible; and I entreat the ministers of our government to impose some manner of formal restriction upon civilians who seek to enter some manner of formal restriction upon civilians who seek to enter a theatre of war, so that the disastrous, inappropriate bravado of a theatre of war, so that the disastrous, inappropriate bravado of the Courier's man cannot be repeated. the Courier's man cannot be repeated.

It was signed A commander of Infantry, July 1855 A commander of Infantry, July 1855.

Kitson finished reading it. He made no visible reaction. 'And this led to your being recalled by O'Farrell?'

Cracknell nodded. Whilst the trials of 'Richard Carr' were loudly detailed all around themincluding her less than successful attempts to splice the main-brace, and then sneak to her Billy's hammock once the moon was high above the wavesthe Tomahawk told of his fall. He had actually managed to persevere until the final three-day bombardment of Sebastopol in early September, and the miserable failure of the second British a.s.sault on the Great Redan: their final humiliation, in which Sir William Codrington, the Courier' Courier's old pal, had played a prominent, inglorious role. When the Russians had withdrawn from their fortifications the following morning, after the successful French occupation of the Malakhoff Tower, Cracknell had been among the first to venture past the enemy defences and into the burning town. This had brought him no satisfaction or triumph, however. The Redan, that impregnable bastion, had been but a miserable mess of scorched earth, splintered timber, dead Russians and camp litter; and Sebastopol itself a ruin only, knocked to pieces by shot and then set on fire. It had seemed a paltry thing, an empty accomplishment that was neither victory nor defeat, completely unworthy of the many thousands of lives it had cost.

Furthermore, the publication of Boyce's letter in the Times Times had made it almost impossible for him to operate. No soldier or sailor of any rank would tolerate his presence, even for a second. He was cursed and spat at wherever he went. Every one of his friends seemed either to be dead or to have been invalided home. And perhaps most crucially, the had made it almost impossible for him to operate. No soldier or sailor of any rank would tolerate his presence, even for a second. He was cursed and spat at wherever he went. Every one of his friends seemed either to be dead or to have been invalided home. And perhaps most crucially, the Courier's Courier's circulation had begun to drop. Before long, O'Farrell had grown nervous and he was summoned back to England. Not a word of his had appeared in the circulation had begun to drop. Before long, O'Farrell had grown nervous and he was summoned back to England. Not a word of his had appeared in the London London Courier Courier since. since.

'All of which leads me to this place, Thomas, to a grubby tavern in Ancoats, standing before you with my clothes torn and stained and my last few pennies jangling forlornly in my pockets.' Cracknell felt like laughing aloud at this ludicrous state of affairs, if only to mask the black despair that was gathering inside him. 'I sell to anyone who will consider me. The Dublin University Magazine Dublin University Magazine ran a piece last winter. But I'm the Tomahawk of the b.l.o.o.d.y ran a piece last winter. But I'm the Tomahawk of the b.l.o.o.d.y Courier Courier, aren't Ithe disgraced relic of an ign.o.ble war that everyone wants to forget. I am friendless, Kitson, entirely friendless, thanks to Nathaniel b.l.o.o.d.y Boyce.'

Cracknell took a deep, soothing drink from the fresh jar of porter that had been set before him. It was good, he told himself, that his blood was up; it would make the attainment of his object that evening all the easier. He could not help but think, however, that their conversation was starting to veer off course. Kitson, bless him, had somehow managed to get the Tomahawk struggling like a kitten in a rain-barrel to justify himselfwhen he was in fact the wronged party, the innocent victim. He knew that he must change the tide of their discourse, and dislodge this sanctimonious street philosopher from the seat of judgement on which he was becoming so d.a.m.nably comfortable. It was time, in short, to launch an attack of his own.

He looked Kitson over. The fellow's clothes were clean enough and in decent repair, but they looked to be second hand; there was no watch-chain either, and his boots were old. 'I must say, though, Thomas, that you yourself are hardly the picture of journalistic success. How on earth did you you end up here?' end up here?'

Kitson realised that he was now leaning against the bar. For the first time in days, his chest had stopped hurting. His cheeks were flaming; no longer did the wet jacket feel so cold against his back. In fact, was it even still wet? He had already been in the tavern longer than he'd intended. Cracknell's story had held him, if only because of his sheer amazement at the man's capacity for self-delusion; but he would take his leave soon.

After draining his beer-jar, Kitson gave a terse account of how he had fled the Crimea the very afternoon of that first attack on the Redan. Totally deaf, half-mad with guilt, and still caked with a thick mixture of blood and dust, he had simply walked aboard the first steamer bound for Constantinople, without sending word to anyone. Back in England, after a period recuperating at a cousin's house in Highgate, he had tried for a time to find work in the hospitals and infirmaries of London. The sight of death, however, and the feel of warm blood on his hands and clothes, quickly proved to be more than he could bear. Eventually, on the advice of a friend from his days in art correspondence, he had come to Manchester and introduced himself to Edward Thorne of the Manchester Evening Star Manchester Evening Star.

'Street philosophy was the only employment Thorne could offer,' Kitson explained wearily. 'This didn't concern me in the least. I didn't care what I did. I only wanted to be away from everything, from everyone, thinking that I could repair myself if I was only left alone. I-' The porter was going to his head. He was talking more than he meant to, saying things certainly not suited to his former senior's ears.

Cracknell's expression was unsympathetic. 'But then this b.l.o.o.d.y great art exhibition came along and upset all your plans, eh? Enough to attract old colleagues you probably thought you'd shaken off for good, and old enemies you'd quite forgotten, all brought together in your sooty refuge! Well, my commiserations, Kitson, truly.'

Another song began, this time a Lancashire clog hornpipe. Some s.p.a.ce was cleared, and led by the comic dancer up on the stage, the revellers clomped about in their wooden shoes with whooping enthusiasm. Arms were linked, skirts gathered up, and caps thrown in the air.

'Tell me,' Cracknell asked loudly as he lit a cigarette, 'did you consider my plight at all when you fled so promptly from that ruined house? When you abandoned me abandoned me, Thomas? I was trapped in there for hours, y'know. I had to claw my way out through several tons of masonry, and then creep back to the British line under the cover of darknessall the while thinking that I was about to get shot in the back by a Ruski sniper.'

Kitson drank from his second jar. Cracknell was goading him, and he would not rise to it. His only thought back in that collapsed parlour had been to leave, to hide himself away. Before heading for the cemetery, though, he'd noticed that the table the correspondent had been sheltering under was still intact, despite being largely buried under a fall of bricks. He had not gone to help. Cracknell, he'd felt, deserved to be left.

'I knew that you would manage to save yourself somehow.'

'It was your final dereliction of the Courier Courier, I supposeleaving your erstwhile mentor for dead.' Cracknell paused thoughtfully, smoke spilling from his lips. 'Do you know, I often reflected whilst in the Crimea that your desertion was in fact a singular piece of good fortune. It allowed me to find my true level. You did not understand our mission, and you were certainly never committed to it. As soon as things got a little difficult, you simply melted away.'

Grinding his teeth, Kitson took hold of the iron bar-rail with both hands. He would not relent and give Cracknell what he so plainly wanted.

'You're more of an observer observer, Thomas, aren't you? You will not act to bring about changeyou will not take a b.l.o.o.d.y stand. I mean, look at you now. A b.l.o.o.d.y street philosopher, a purveyor of gossip, of empty-headed prattle! After all I tried to teach you about the duty of the correspondent to truth, to matters of import!' He stopped to drink, wiping his mouth reproachfully on his sleeve. 'I admired you, at first. There was wit in your pen, and vigour, and serious intelligence toobut you lacked the strength of will to hold them together. You possessed every gift except the one needfulthe pearls without the string.'

The voluble bombast in Cracknell's voice was enough to cause something of a disruption. A number of those dancing eyed him with open dislike.

Kitson hunched his shoulders and lowered his head; it was no use. He could not leave this unanswered. 'You mean I lacked your capacity for selfish indifference,' he snapped.

Cracknell curled his lip. He had won. 'You are referring to Madeleine Boyce again, I take it.'

'And Robert Styles.'

Cracknell laughedhe actually laughed laughed at this mention of their ill.u.s.trator's name. 'How could I forget? A fellow with a similar weakness to your own, Thomas, if you don't mind me saying, but with the very opposite inclinationa mind p.r.o.ne to an excess of brutality and morbidity rather than sentimentality.' at this mention of their ill.u.s.trator's name. 'How could I forget? A fellow with a similar weakness to your own, Thomas, if you don't mind me saying, but with the very opposite inclinationa mind p.r.o.ne to an excess of brutality and morbidity rather than sentimentality.'

'Sentimentality?' Kitson turned towards him. 'I helped many on the docks. In the British Hotel.'

'A drop in the b.l.o.o.d.y ocean,' Cracknell replied coldly. 'A single line of one of my articles did more for the cause of the common soldier than an entire year of mopping up gore for Mother Seacole. But then, how can I expect you to understand this? Both you and Styles were utterly unable to grasp the simple, potent role of the war correspondent.'

'Keep it down, can't ye?' growled a voice nearby. Up on the stage, the singer slid neatly from the hornpipe into a comic ballad, greeted with a universal bellow of approval. 'A friar came to a maid when she went to bed,' he began, warbling earnestly up at the balcony, 'Desiring to have her maidenhead ...' The crowd erupted into salacious whistling. ...' The crowd erupted into salacious whistling.

'Like you do, you mean,' Kitson cried, 'with your pointless, protracted feuds,' He s.n.a.t.c.hed the Times Times clipping from the bar and held it in Cracknell's face. 'How, pray, was your crusade against Boyce part of any effort to relay matters of importto bring about this change you boast of?' clipping from the bar and held it in Cracknell's face. 'How, pray, was your crusade against Boyce part of any effort to relay matters of importto bring about this change you boast of?'

Cracknell said something about how Boyce, apart from his various terrible crimes, was a symbol of the turpitude of that war; a symbol of both undeserving privilege and callous incompetence.

Kitson ignored him. 'For you to talk so freely about the neglect of duty would be amusing in its hypocrisy if the consequences had not been so tragic. You were our senior senior. Robert Styles was broken by your taunts, by trying to keep pace with you, with what you insisted we all do. I told you he had to be sent home, many times, yet you did not do it. And it cost Styles his life.'

The song went on behind them, the singer raising his voice in an attempt to drown out the heated disputation at the bar. 'But she denied his desire, and told him she feared h.e.l.l fire fire ...' The audience joined in; more faces turned towards the two newspapermen. ...' The audience joined in; more faces turned towards the two newspapermen.

Cracknell took a sip of beer. 'You talk, Kitson,' he said levelly, 'as if I were the one who shot the boy.'

This remark, delivered so calmly, robbed Kitson of his breath, winding him as suddenly as if he had been slammed hard against the floor. A momentary vision flashed across his mind: of Styles' wasted limbs, twitching for the last time on the b.l.o.o.d.y tiles of the parlour, a fraction of a second before they were buried forever beneath a heavy fall of Russian masonry.

Kitson faltered, his gaze dipping down. 'That is something I must live with. II cannot forgive myself for my part in his death.' He looked back at Cracknell. 'And I cannot forgive you either. We failed him. He was our charge, our comrade, and we failed him appallingly.'

Cracknell rolled his eyes and finished off his porter. 'Oh for Christ's sake, listen to yourself! So d.a.m.nably sensitive, so full of b.l.o.o.d.y drama! Drink up, man, before you collapse in a swoon.' He summoned the barmaid and requested more gin, sliding an extra sixpence in her ap.r.o.n as he did so with an air of lascivious benevolence. 'The sad truth of it,' he continued bluntly, 'is that Robert Styles wished to die. There was nothing either of us could have done to prevent it, short of binding the poor fellow in chains. Don't you remember all those ghastly drawings of his?'