The House Of Smoke (19 page)

My teeth chattered in the cold as we ducked the ropes and entered the arena. Bosede slapped my biceps to warm me up. When his eyes caught mine I could see encouragement in them. I wanted to do him proud but feared I lacked the courage.

‘Stand up straight and don’t be frightened.’ He forced my shoulders back and stared intently into my eyes. ‘You won’t notice the crowd. Not when one of the twins hits your face or body.’

Charlie Connor and Miller stayed outside the ropes while Jimmy slipped inside. So he was the one – the best of the Connor boys. The devil I had to beat.

Jeremiah Beamish raised his hands and voice to address the crowd. ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen! I seek your silence and your keenest attention.’ The master paused until they quietened. ‘A great grievance is about to be settled between Simeon Lynch and the brothers James Arthur and Charles Arthur Connor, who I am told have been in a state of mutual animosity since first clapping eyes on each other.’ Beamish took a couple of paces to his right and clasped the shoulder of a burly white-shirted man with a stern face and a large black moustache that appeared freshly waxed and curled. ‘I am privileged to introduce to you Jonathan J. Clark, a most distinguished official from the London Prize Ring.’

Cheering rang out.

‘Mr Clark,’ continued Beamish, ‘has graciously consented to oversee our match, fought under a most agreeable adaptation of the Broughton Rules. Along with him are two impartial umpires, Mr Gray and Mr Southgate, who will help keep time and rule on the outcome of this fight.’ He paused while the aforementioned gentlemen rose slightly from their ringside seats so they could be identified. ‘I am sure you understand that their decision on the winner and the subsequent allocation of associated battle monies will be final.’ This comment resulted in a mixture of boos and cheers.

‘Come ’ere boys,’ demanded Clark gruffly as he beckoned both Jimmy and myself. ‘I want a fair stand-up fight. Fifteen rounds of three minutes apiece. No gouging, no butting, no punching beneath the belt.’ He motioned to our feet. ‘Show me your boots. I told your master this ’ad to be a fight without spikes.’

I raised my footwear one at a time and he checked both the toes and heels before doing the same with Jimmy.

‘That’s agreeable.’ He dusted his hands together. ‘Now listen closely; from debilitating blows, you will have thirty seconds’ respite. Time must be spent on one bended knee, this being a signal to your opponent that you may
not
be struck by him until you once again stand fully upright. Hitting an opponent when he is down will immediately result in disqualification.’

He took my right hand and Jimmy’s. Pulled us knuckle to knuckle. In a lower voice, almost a whisper, he told us, ‘You do as I say, when I say, or so help me God, afterwards I’ll hurt you twice as hard as you’ve managed to hurt each other.’

With that remark, he stepped back and lifted his voice to its original volume. ‘You must start to fight upon hearing the command “Box!” and you must desist on hearing the shout “Time!” Now shake hands, go to your corners and be prepared by your seconds.’

I was unsure what a ‘second’ was but I headed to the stool where Bosede awaited me. ‘Shut your eyes,’ he commanded. I did so and immediately he covered my face with his palms and rubbed into it some foul-smelling substance. ‘Animal fat,’ he explained. ‘It will slick away any punches that get around your guard.’ He wiped his greasy hands on the towel. ‘Are you ready, Simeon?’

It was a fine question. One that dredged up all my fears. He slapped me hard across my left cheek. ‘I asked, are you
ready
?’

‘Yes!’ I answered.

‘Good, then
fight
. Fight for our honour.’

I took a deep breath and walked to the scratch. The moustachioed official stepped back, made a downward gesture with his hand and shouted ‘Box!’

Jimmy swiped wildly. Swung with his left and then his right. His arms wheeled through the air like blades of a windmill in a hurricane.

I stepped to one side, left him flailing on a top rope. From down below, a man with a ginger beard shouted, ‘Hit him, Connor! Kill the little bleeder.’ Bosede had been wrong; I heard every sound. Saw every face.

Jimmy punched again; landed a blow – a right-hander that stung my left ear. Sent a ball of humming pain bouncing through my skull. My head was down, vision blurred, knees weakened.

I saw his silhouette across the grass, already stepping a triumphant dance, a victory jig.

I heard the crowd cheering him on.

‘Kill ’im!’

‘Go on, lad! Get the bleedin’ little chicken!’

‘Lay ’im out!’

Jimmy hit my other ear. The ball of pain bounced again. The crowd tasted blood.

‘Hit the fucker!’

‘Get stuck in there!’

‘Give ’im wot for!’

Jimmy’s jubilant silhouette danced across me.

That was when it happened. The terrible rage that had tormented me broke free of those layered blankets of fear. It possessed me. Raised my head. Bounced me on my toes. I smashed my right fist into Jimmy’s face. The exhilaration was sublime, beyond anything imaginable.

He threw a counterpunch. I blocked it. Thumped his stomach. Again came a rush of joy.

His shadow scurried away from me, and my anger chased it, hunted it down. Slammed a hard left into his nose. Followed by crisp combination punches.

Left, left, right, right
. Anger knew what to do. Anger was merciless.

Jimmy dropped like a rock. His legs twitched.

Anger stood over my tormentor. ‘Get up!’

The referee forced himself in front of me. Pushed me backwards and counted, ‘… seven, eight, nine …’

‘Get up!’ I screamed.

But Jimmy didn’t.

They threw water on him. Carried him to his corner.

I sat on the wobbly stool and watched the blurred eyes in his pale face search for explanations. There was pandemonium now. Clark, the referee, Beamish, and I think a doctor too, were all leaning over Jimmy.

My bully was spluttering, moaning and whimpering. His brother Charlie shouted something and pushed Miller in the chest, then his eyes caught mine. They blazed with hatred.

Anger made me smile at him across the ring. Charlie broke from the melee and before I could get from my stool, he was on me. He grabbed my shoulders, headbutted my nose.

I fell backwards into the ropes, snorting blood. Pain burned in my forehead, but there was no fear. Only anger. Anger twice as big and powerful as before.

I hurled Charlie off me. Hammered a fist into his nose. Broke it. Burst it. Bloodied it. He rushed me again and I dodged. He hit the ropes – was still off-balance when I cracked my forearm across the already broken bridge of his nose.

Agony sank him to the floor, pulled screams from him that silenced the entire crowd. Blood gushed between his outstretched hands.

Then I saw it. The exposed back of his head. The neck of the rabbit. My left came down like a guillotine and Charlie collapsed face first. Sprawled out.

But still Anger wasn’t finished. I dropped to the ground, turned him and drew back my fist.

Clark’s hand snagged my wrist. ‘Stop, boy! Stop now!’ He pulled me up and off him. ‘Get to your corner!’ He pushed me away.

Charlie was getting up. I turned and tried to get at him again. Bosede held me back. ‘I’m going to kill you!’ I screamed. ‘I am going to fucking kill you!’

Bosede lifted me clean off the ground. My legs kicked the air as he carried me away. My mouth was open but I wasn’t shouting – I was roaring. Wild, animal noises stampeded from my throat. The beasts of loss and sorrow had been freed.

Bosede held me tightly so I couldn’t breathe. ‘Easy now, easy! You’ve won. You can calm yourself.’

But I couldn’t. Beating Charlie had been like beating everything that had ever hurt me. And in that very moment I knew that Anger and Violence were my new friends. My protectors. My guides to survive and to prosper.

Michael Brannigan’s eyes had closed several times during my recollections of Bosede and the Connor brothers, but every time I stopped, one lid would flicker open and his frail hand or hoarse voice would urge me to continue.

Finally, I was certain that he was asleep, for he was snoring and his chest rattled with every exhalation of breath. I pulled the bed sheets up and over his big arms then crept out of the bedroom.

The old wrestler’s rapid decline had a visibly saddening effect on everyone in the house but in particular on the professor. His mood blackened by the week, and after each examination by Brannigan’s doctor, Moriarty would withdraw for several hours. One night, after such a call, he took me to one side and insisted I walk with him to a wing of the house that I had not previously seen.

‘I am touched by the peace you have made with Michael,’ he said. ‘It shows you have learned both humility and respect. It pleases me that he speaks fondly of you.’

‘He need not have been so generous with his words.’

‘No, indeed he did not, but he has been. Sadly, Dr Reuss tells me he is nearing the end.’

‘I am truly sorry to hear that.’

‘It may only be days now. The practitioner says a lesser man would have passed months ago.’

‘Mr Brannigan is no lesser man; he is a natural fighter.’

‘He is, but this is an unfair battle and one he cannot win. Which means it is imperative that you are properly prepared to fill his place.’

‘I will do my best.’

‘And I must ensure that your best is good enough.’ He unlocked a dark oak door and we entered a cold room that smelled of strange chemicals and a burned-out fire.

Candles flickered. Wooden boards bowed and creaked beneath our feet. My eyes adjusted to the low light and it seemed at first that I had entered a private museum. A most macabre one, for on a series of small, circular tables, I saw more than a dozen severed heads. The skulls had been boiled free of flesh and rendered off-white by some chemical treatment.

‘They are real,’ Moriarty remarked, mildly amused by the shock on my face. ‘I have them for academic reasons. I harbour an interest in phrenology; do you know what that is?’

‘Collecting heads?’

He laughed. ‘No, it is the study of the brain. The brain and the craters of the cranium that control thought and emotion.’ He pointed past me. ‘There is a fine skull to your left. That one came from the medical school in Edinburgh.’

I focused on a large head, ivory white with black holes where a nose, mouth, ears and pupils had once been.

‘Close your eyes and run your hands slowly over the top of it.’

I hesitated.

‘Go on. It cannot bite you.’

I shut my lids and reluctantly rested my hand on the skull.

‘Do you feel the indentations, the edges that signify the end of one section of the mind and the beginning of another?’

At first, everything felt uniformly smooth. Then I discerned distinctive peaks and troughs, ridges and bumps. ‘Yes,’ I confessed. ‘I feel what you mean. It’s like running through a field of grass. It looks flat but then your feet find it’s really uneven.’

‘You are correct. And your simile is actually most apposite, because the brain is simply a collection of fields, each one responsible for a different activity. Open your eyes and look.’

I took off my hand and did as he asked. Areas of the skull had been marked in pen and labelled
CONCENTRATIVENESS
,
SECRETIVENESS
,
CONSTRUCTIVENESS
,
SELF-ESTEEM
,
CAUSALITY
and
CAUTIOUSNESS
.

Moriarty walked over and put his hand on the skull. ‘It is all obvious, really. The human skull fits over the brain, like a glove fits over a hand. If you saw a glove you’d be able to identify the fingers, thumbs, palms and knuckles and describe in full their functions – writing, feeling, carrying, punching, stroking, et cetera. Look at the skull as a cranial glove and it is the same. We can identify feelings, fears, hopes and dreams and mark them down as easily as we could a finger or thumb.’

It seemed to make sense. Certainly all those thoughts and powers had to be kept somewhere and I supposed it was the work of smart men like the professor to determine
where
.

‘Hippocrates started phrenology. Then it was continued by the Romans and most latterly the American publisher and lecturer Lorenzo Fowler, with whom I have had some discussions about starting a British Phrenological Society.’

He rounded an exhibit in front of us and placed his hands on another to his right. ‘This is the head of John Bellingham. I had it stolen from Barts Pathology Museum and replaced with that of a lesser mortal.’ He caressed the cranium. ‘Do you know who Bellingham was?’

‘I am afraid I do not.’

‘He assassinated Prime Minister Spencer Perceval. Shot him in the heart because Perceval had introduced governmental policy that Bellingham said ruined him. Feel his skull, Simeon. Feel it with one hand while you compare your own. Tell me if you discern certain similarities.’

I had no desire to do so and simply stared at the skull.

‘Do it!’ barked Moriarty.

Reluctantly, I stretched out one hand and placed the other on my own head. My eyes were magnetised by Moriarty’s stare.

‘Well?’ he said. ‘Is there anything?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t really tell.’

‘Try harder.’

‘Maybe a bump? A ridge?’ I speculated, desperate to please him.

‘Where?’

‘Here?’ I fingered a vague point above my right ear.

His eyes glowed with excitement. ‘That convex area above the ear is responsible for our dynamic energy. It is the source of fighting spirit, revenge and even violence. It is what we phrenologists call the Well of Destructiveness; it is from here that we draw our rage and anger.’

I put both my hands to my head and felt the swell in the bone. ‘What does all that mean, for me?’

‘For you? It means everything, Simeon. It means that like Bellingham, you were born to kill. But let’s hope you avoid his fate – he was captured and hanged.’

I must have looked shaken by his comments, for he added, ‘Do not worry. Bellingham did not have
me
or any other members of the Trinity to protect him.’