Corridors of the Night (12 page)

‘Can’t leave you here, sir,’ Laker replied stolidly, and although his voice shook on the last word, his eyes were steady.

‘You’ll do as you’re damn well told to!’ Monk shouted back at him. ‘Bathurst can’t outrun that lot alone, and Hooper’s not fit to.’

‘Then you go, sir,’ Laker replied, ‘and I’ll cover Orme.’

Monk hesitated an instant, and then knew what he should do. He nodded at Laker, then climbed over the gunwale and dropped down into the boat. He was sick to leave Orme behind, but he knew he had to go. But after this Orme would only be filling in time until his notice was finished. He had seen and done enough. He had stayed on only to see Monk master his job.

‘Shore,’ Monk told Bathurst. ‘Get Hooper to a doctor.’

Hooper tried to protest. ‘We can wait—’ he began.

‘For what?’ Monk asked him. ‘The rest of the raiders to come round from the other side and cut us off? If Orme and Laker can hold out till we get ashore, we’ll send enough boats out to finish that lot off and arrest any still living. Now be still.’ He moved awkwardly past Hooper and took the other oar. He had by now learned to row expertly, swiftly, and in perfect unison with anyone else.

They reached the nearest steps in minutes and were met by eager hands half lifting Hooper out of the boat. He protested but no one listened.

‘More men coming, sir,’ one of the constables told Monk. ‘Armed. Some gone already round the far side, in your other boat.’

Monk looked around. He could see no one. Out in the water the schooner was still burning. From the shore it looked like only a few flames, but already other ships were pulling up anchor and raising sail to move clear of her. She might not even be armed, but no one was taking the risk.

With amazement Monk realised that the whole boarding and fight had taken less than fifteen minutes. So quickly did victory or loss take place, and everything was changed.

‘Another boat!’ he called out. ‘Anything you can get out into the river! Our men will be in the water in minutes, if they’re still alive. Hurry!’

A ferryman came forward, his face pale and grim.

‘I’ll ’elp yer. Got no gun, like . . .’

‘Thank you,’ Monk accepted. ‘Take Bathurst here and go and pick up our men if they’re in the water. He’ll know them.’ He glared at Bathurst, daring him to argue. He looked at one of the constables. ‘You’re taking Hooper’s gun and you’re coming with me. Right!’

He watched the ferryman, followed reluctantly by Bathurst, go down the steps and pull away. The dawn was clear now and everything had a cold, watery light. Smoke was billowing up from the schooner and the fire seemed to be dying. Possibly it was just less visible against the broadening light and the silver reflection off the water. If there was gunpowder it could still blow any second.

Silently the other men obeyed. His own men knew Monk well enough not to waste time in a pointless argument. The constable either knew him by repute, or understood well enough what he saw.

They went down the steps to the boat Monk had just left. They each took an oar. The constable was accustomed to the system of rowing one man in front of the other, each with an oar. It took only two or three strokes for them to catch the rhythm and begin to pull away back towards the burning schooner, but this time around the far side. The constable was not armed usually, just as no other police were, but he understood his role as an officer of the law, and he expected to fight if the occasion demanded it. Hooper’s gun lay on the floorboards beside his feet. He was ready for action at close quarters, if need be.

When they rounded the stern of the schooner, to windward of the smoke still pouring out of her, Monk saw three boats in the water, one listing badly, and apparently abandoned. The other two were close to the hull and there were four men clambering down the sides of the schooner, carrying what arms they could salvage from the cargo. Each boat had only one man in it, keeping it close and steady. Any minute they would be ready for a battle Monk and the constable could not win.

Monk had no idea if either Laker or Orme were still alive and whether they were on the schooner or in the water. He shipped the oar and told the constable to do the same. They had only moments.

The constable bent and picked up Hooper’s gun. He had no idea how much ammunition was left in it.

Monk aimed carefully at the man nearest the boat. He would be the first to be able to fire back. He felt relief, then a wave of nausea as his bullet hit its mark and the man fell like a stone into the water.

One of the men standing in the boats whirled around, his face a mask of horror. The other, with more presence of mind, raised his pistol.

Steady-handed, the constable fired Hooper’s gun. The man swayed for a moment, then collapsed into the bottom of the boat, setting it rocking so violently that the man hanging on the rope and ready to drop in, had to wait. It was long enough for Monk to fire at him also.

Now more police boats were coming from the shore. The battle was over. Monk was suddenly tired, his body aching from the tension, the climbing up and down ropes, and most of all from the anxiety over his men.

As soon as he was certain that those in the new boats had taken over the salvaging of what was left, he turned to row back to the lee side of the schooner, going wide around it, since there was still a danger that it would explode.

As they turned, both he and the constable saw nothing to break the surface of the slightly choppy water except a few tangled knots of debris that could have been anything. There was no one struggling to stay afloat, no bodies.

Please God, Orme and Laker were not still up on the deck! He did not want to risk the constable’s life by going up into the burning ship, but he could not get either man down by himself, let alone both. It really needed three men: one to stay in the boat and two to board. But there was no time.

Monk turned on the oar without noticing that he had not told the constable what he intended. He saw the shock in the man’s face for an instant, and then he realised, and turned the other oar as well.

Where the hell were Bathurst and the ferryman? Still searching the water? Following the current searching for anyone swept away in it? Or had they been shot from the deck, and the boat gone with the tide? The thought made him feel sick. He dug the oar in hard and sent water splaying across the surface.

The constable hesitated, missing a stroke so the boat righted itself again. Within moments they were alongside.

‘Hold it here,’ Monk ordered. Without waiting for a reply, he climbed painfully back up the side, hand over hand. At the top he hesitated, listening, then rolled over the gunwale and instantly got to his hands and knees.

Laker was sitting a few yards away, a length of cloth tied roughly around his thigh, much of it dark with blood. Orme lay half across him, face up but not moving.

‘What kept you?’ Laker said with a twisted smile. The words were mumbled, his throat almost too dry to speak.

‘Bloody pirates,’ Monk replied, as if it were all a trivial matter, like being late for dinner. ‘Can you stand?’ He forced himself to look down at Orme. He was pale but there was a slight rise and fall to his chest. At least Monk thought there was.

‘Yes, I think so,’ Laker nodded. ‘But I can’t carry him. He’s heavier than I thought.’ He blinked. ‘Where’s Hooper? He all right?’

Monk looked at him and, for an instant, before he masked it, he saw the boy in Laker, the uncertain one who could so easily be hurt.

‘With the doctor by now, I hope,’ he answered, easing Orme off Laker’s thighs and laying him gently on the deck. ‘Bathurst and a ferryman came to look for you . . .’ He reached out his hand to haul Laker to his feet. As he swayed for a moment, he felt his weight lurch, and gripped him more firmly.

Laker steadied himself, and then held out his other arm. ‘You can’t carry him alone,’ he pointed out.

‘Well, you’re damn all use,’ Monk snapped back. ‘Go over the side and try not to fall into the water. Send the constable up here to help me with Orme.’

Laker hesitated.

‘Now!’ Monk shouted at him, hearing the raw edge in his own voice. He could feel the heat coming up through the deck. The ship was still burning below them.

Laker turned round and went awkwardly over the gunwale, hanging on with his hands until the last minute, then falling away.

Monk strained his ears, but he heard no splash, only the bump and slurp of water as the boat rode against the timbers of the ship.

It seemed an age before Monk saw the constable clamber over the gunwale and come quickly across the deck towards him. Together they lifted Orme, who was barely conscious and unable to help himself. They cut a length of rope from the rigging and tied it around his chest, under his arms, and did their best to lower him as gently as possible to where Laker was keeping the boat steady.

Ten minutes later they were at last at the dockside where willing hands half hauled them up. A doctor was waiting. Someone passed brandy around, and Bathurst came limping across the wharf, his face flooded with relief. He looked at Monk, then at Laker and Orme.

Monk wanted to say something. This was the time when he should reassure the men, but what was there to say? Everything he could think of sounded obvious, and they deserved the truth.

He just nodded, an acknowledgement, not an affirmation of anything.

Orme was carried into a waiting ambulance.

Monk went with him to the hospital, riding in the wagon while the doctor did what he could to stanch the bleeding.

Orme lay still now, drifting in and out of consciousness.

Monk spoke to him all the time, willing him to stay awake, stay alive. He wished Hester were here. She might have known what to do; at the very least just her presence would have reminded him of love and life, honour, gentleness, all the things that were the beauty of existence, that demanded to be believed in, however black the night.

The journey seemed to take for ever. The traffic was growing heavier as people made their way to offices, shops and factories.

Monk looked at Orme’s face. He still had some colour, but it was sunburn, not health, and he looked so much smaller than he really was. The sunken-eyed hollowness of death seemed to rest on him. It was two hours since they set out on to the river, and everything had changed.

The doctor was tense; his hands steady but there was sweat on his face.

‘Can’t I help?’ Monk asked. He knew as he said it that the question was ridiculous, but he needed to speak, to feel as if he was part of the effort. What he wanted was for the doctor to tell him he could save Orme, but Monk was afraid to ask. What could the man say, except that he didn’t know? He was trying everything he could.

Monk rode the rest of the way in silence, looking at Orme, every now and then touching his hand so that if he were conscious at all, he would know he was not alone. When they arrived he helped to carry Orme out on a stretcher, and into the hospital.

Orme was taken to a room where they dealt with emergencies. Monk was allowed to wait. Even the doctors had no idea what to do for him, once the bleeding was stopped. They bound the wounds in his arms and legs, but the one that mattered was in his side, the bullet breaking ribs and ricocheting off. Once they were certain it was not still inside him, they bound the wound as they could, cutting off his clothes, now stiff with blood.

He was growing weaker by the minute.

‘Can’t you do something?’ Monk asked the doctor desperately.

It was a question not really worth asking. Of course he couldn’t, or he would have done it already.

‘Can I stay with him?’ he asked a moment after.

‘Yes, of course,’ the doctor answered, smiling for an instant, then his attention was back on those he could help. He excused himself, leaving Monk alone.

He looked at Orme, and thought of all the times they had shared, all the myriad things that Orme had taught him, by example, very seldom indeed in words. He was a quiet man, resolute, at first glance seeming even grim.

But he was always softly spoken, slow to judge, even though Monk had exasperated him often. They had shared food in companionable silence. He remembered standing beside the brazier, shivering with cold in the February wind slicing up from the river, and Orme paying the chestnut man extra. Neither of them spoke of it. He could picture Orme in his mind’s eye, smiling and unconsciously tapping his foot in time to the band playing on one of the docksides. It was a dancing tune. He wondered with whom Orme had danced to that particular tune. His wife, long since dead?

He reached out his hand and put it over Orme’s. He began to talk to him about all the things he recalled, good things and bad, many of them funny, confidences, jokes, and memories.

Orme stirred and opened his eyes once, looking at Monk with a moment’s hesitation, not certain if he knew him or not. Then he smiled.

The moment disappeared and it was as if he had left the room. Monk knew Orme would not speak to him again; nevertheless, he went on talking quietly, reminiscing.

It occurred to him that perhaps he should have sent a message to Orme’s daughter, but he did not recall her address, only that she lived a considerable way down the river. The information was in his office, not his mind.

Someone at the office would have a messenger take her a letter. But Monk knew that Orme was dying, perhaps already deep into unconsciousness. The poor woman could not get here in time. And someone you did not know, carrying a letter, was not the way to find out that your father was dead.

It was Monk’s duty to tell her, one he dreaded, but it was inescapable. He would do it, when he was not needed here. Orme might never waken again, but if he did, he would find Monk here with him.

The doctor returned some time later – Monk had lost track of how long – and it did not matter.

‘I’m sorry,’ the doctor said quietly. ‘He’d lost too much blood. It’s shock . . . the body can’t make it up . . .’ He shook his head, the energy that had driven him all night gone in defeat. ‘Did you know him well?’

‘Yes,’ Monk answered. ‘But perhaps not as well as he knew me.’ He stood up stiffly. His whole body ached. ‘Thank you . . .’