The House Of Smoke (21 page)

‘No.’ I smiled at him. ‘You know what Dr Reuss said. No smoking. It’s not good for you.’

‘Fuck him!’ He took a breath. ‘Pipe. A
last
smoke, Simeon.’

It hurt me to hear him say that. It was as though he was dying this very minute. Maybe I’d read too much into it.

‘Pipe,’ he pleaded.

I looked across the room. Many of his belongings were on a shelf, along with a photograph of him as a young wrestler. I brought his tobacco pouch, matches and pipe. It was a vintage piece made of clay, the bowl engraved with Romany caravans and horses.

Michael was incapable of putting together the smoke, so I tapped the bowl on the bedside table, took a pinch of leaves from the pouch and packed the pipe. I lit it and raised smoke before holding it to his lips.

The old wrestler struggled to draw down the tobacco. His lungs fought back and forced him to cough. It made his chest tighten. His face corrugated with pain.

I pulled the stem from his lips. His eyes looked at me accusingly and I let him try again. This time he did better. Took short draws, held down the smoke until his body surrendered to the fumes.

Several silent minutes passed – me holding the pipe to his mouth, him lying back, his throat rasping from poisonous inhalation and painful expiration. I had no idea what thoughts passed through his mind, but I was recalling our first fight. How comprehensively he had defeated me. This dying man seemed an entirely different person.

The lips stopped sucking. The rasping ceased. For a split second, I saw a hint of contentment in his eyes.

‘Are you finished?’

Slowly, he tilted his head my way. ‘Finished. Yes,
I
am
finished
.’

I took the pipe and placed it on the table by his bed. Went to pull the top sheet up over his arms.

He grabbed my wrist. ‘Simeon.’

‘What?’

His eyes looked pained again. ‘Please, help me.’

I smiled. ‘I am not getting you whisky, so don’t be asking me to—’

‘End me.’

I took my hands off the sheet. ‘What did you say?’

‘Finish me off, lad.’

The remark made me shudder. ‘You’re talking nonsense.’ I pulled up the white sheet.

He pushed it down again. ‘
Please.
’ Another cough rose, scratching its way up from his lungs and watering his eyes.

I reached over and passed him a bowl to spit into. Brannigan spattered it with black and bloody phlegm then fell back to his pillow, exhausted.

I put the bowl down and listened to him wheeze. The breathing seemed to rattle every bone in his wasted frame.

His face twisted again in pain. Then there was a smell. An awful stench. He had fouled himself.

I looked at him and he stared back into my eyes and then away in shame.

‘Don’t worry. I’ll get a maid and we will clean you up. Make you comfortable again.’

His head turned my way. ‘For God’s sake, save me from this.’

He was crying. The most powerful person I had ever fought was in tears.

I felt myself well up. Felt all his shame and hopelessness. ‘Shall I call the professor? Dr Reuss?’

His hand searched for mine. I took his fingers, squeezed them, gave him courage. ‘The doctor will give you opium. He’ll be able to—’

‘
Do it!
’ he pleaded. ‘Do it now.’

I felt his hand tighten around mine. My heart jumped in fear. I glanced to the open door, hoping someone would come in and break this moment.

He coughed again. Retched over the sheet beneath his chin.

I pulled away and walked to the door, shut it and slowly walked back. I tried not to look at him. My left hand covered his mouth. My right pinched his nose before he could take a breath.

Michael grabbed at my left arm with both hands, and I thought he was going to fight me. But he didn’t. His demeanour was of someone lost, not frightened.

I began to pull my hand from his mouth, but he kept it there and shut his eyes. I held on and pushed down, pinched more tightly. Michael’s legs kicked. His back arched. Knees raised. Heels scuffed at the sheets.

Then the kicking stopped and his hands fell from my arm. There was a final awful rattling in his chest but I kept my hand across his mouth, still held his nose. Made sure it was done.

Then I just stood there and stared. Listened for the silence. Watched for the lack of movement. Birds called in the trees outside his window. Floorboards creaked beyond his room.

The door opened noisily and startled me. Surrey held onto the handle as she entered. ‘My goodness,’ she said, making light of the smell, ‘has someone—’

She saw Michael and her eyes found mine, questioningly.

I confirmed her thoughts. ‘He’s dead.’

She let go of the door and rushed to him. Put her fingers to his neck, feeling for a pulse – something I hadn’t thought of doing. Then she looked up at me.

‘Did you find him like this?’

I didn’t answer. Didn’t know what to say or how to behave.

She looked at Michael again. Saw how the sheets had been soiled and kicked up, how his spitting bowl had been knocked over. She touched the warm pipe on the table.

Surrey stepped away from the bed and put her hands on my arms. ‘Are you all right?’

I couldn’t speak.

She put a finger across my lips. ‘You found him like this. You came in and found him like this. Didn’t you?’

I nodded.

She embraced me. Held me tight for a moment. It was good that she was here. That she understood.

‘Go downstairs,’ she said. ‘Find the professor and tell him Michael has passed. That I am with him and I need some assistance. He will take care of everything.’

I turned to leave.

‘Simeon,’ she called.

I turned.

‘I know this is what Michael wanted. He had asked me to …’ her eyes filled with tears, ‘to
help
him … but I couldn’t.’

It was Johncock who next opened my cell door. His lackeys closed it after him and stood by the lock as he advanced on me. ‘Get up off your bunk, Lynch.’ His face was still reddened from his earlier anger at Huntley.

I rose with my customary slowness.

He stood so close to me, his boots touched the ends of my toes. My heels were backed against the bunk. I could see nothing but his eyes and the triumph that burned there.

‘If you think toads like Huntley can disrupt my gaol and make life soft for you, then you are mistaken. Newgate is
mine
. What happens here is down to me. Me! Not the blessed keeper and his committees. Not this wretched government of no-good do-gooders. And certainly not Mr Harrison Fucking Huntley.’ His rage caused him to pant for breath before he added, ‘Do you understand me, Lynch?
Do you?
You murderous piece of shit, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?’

He shouted so loud that my eardrums buzzed like a thousand bees inside a clouted hive.

I didn’t shout back at him. To the contrary, I whispered, ‘I think the whole gaol heard you, Mr Johncock. Most of London, too.’

He stepped back a stride, and told his men. ‘I’m finished with him.’

A crony banged on the door for it to be opened.

Johncock jabbed a finger at me. ‘Huntley doesn’t really care, you fool. He doesn’t give a damn about you or your so-called
welfare
. Not one jot. This is all about him. What’s good for him and his career, that’s all. You’re just a pawn in his game.’

He walked over to his men. ‘The prisoner wants exercise, so give it to him. Make this monster walk until he falls to his knees and begs to crawl back into this cell as though it’s a palace.’

Sick to the pit of my stomach, I carried my grief down the grand staircase to the main hall, where the enormity of my actions sank in and overwhelmed me. I’d grown closer to Michael than I’d realised. He’d won me over. Shaped me. Influenced me. Now, I had ended his life.

In a daze, I wandered the corridors until I came to Moriarty’s study. To my relief, I heard him in conversation with Cornwell, the butler, a man I knew was certain to take charge.

I knocked and opened the door.

They looked surprised to see me.

‘Mr Brannigan has passed away,’ I said from the doorway.

Moriarty’s face creased up in pain.

I stepped closer and knew I had to lie about what had happened. ‘Sir, I had been called in to see him by one of the maids, and I am afraid he was gone by the time I arrived. Surrey, Miss Breed, is with him now.’

The professor’s head slumped to his chest.

‘I will attend to him, sir,’ said Cornwell. ‘Once I have ensured that we have done what needs to be done then I shall come back to you and see if you wish to visit him.’ Without another word he left and set about his duties.

I stayed, expecting Moriarty to ask questions. Awkward questions that might force me to confess my lie. But the professor’s head remained sunk in his hands. A full minute passed before he looked up. His eyes were glassy and grief had already corrugated his brow. ‘Leave me now, please, Simeon. I would like to be alone with my thoughts and you are a distraction to me.’

‘As you wish, sir.’ I nodded respectfully and left.

Once I shut his door, I found myself stranded. I could not return to the bedroom. Could not simply walk in there and innocently ‘help out’ in the aftermath of the murder I had committed.

I found my way into the garden and sought sanctuary in the maze. Here I had privacy. A place to hide from the snarling dogs of anger, loss and shame that were snapping at my heels.

With trembling hands I lit a cigarette and tried to justify what I had done. It had been what he wanted. I told myself this a hundred times. I had only done what he had wanted.

As I walked back, I realised I would never walk the gardens again with my old mentor, never feel the grip of his coarse, crocodile-skin hands as he trained me. Nor see that grudging smile he always gave me at the end of a tough workout – his gesture of approval. One that had helped form a brief but strangely meaningful friendship between us.

The house had become eerily silent during my brief absence. All clocks had been stopped to mark the moment of Michael’s passing. Male servants had begun to wash the body. Maids had already changed bed sheets and opened windows to air the room. Moriarty’s groom stood ready to dress the old wrestler in his one good suit and a photographer had been sent for.

For the next two hours, Sirius and Cornwell orchestrated the movement of the corpse around the house and grounds so that it might be photographed in memorable poses with all manner of acquaintances. I was even required to pose with him by the ring. I confess that holding Michael’s cold flesh close to me was a distasteful experience and I am sure it made for quite terrible pictures.

A wreath of laurel with black crepe ribbons was hung on the front door and not until nightfall were the gentlemen of Lymbs the Undertaker allowed to take possession of his body and make all the necessary preparations for the burial.

A downstairs room at the rear of the house was prepared for visits and festooned with sweet-smelling candles to mask whatever odours might be given off. Mourning cards were rushed to Ireland where there were many Brannigan cousins, nephews and nieces. During all this, Moriarty barely spoke to any of us. He gathered his heavy grief and, along with a large bottle of whisky, retreated to his study.

I was about to ascend the stairs and retire to bed when Sirius called from behind me.

‘What do you want?’ My temper instantly boiled. ‘I warn you, I am in no mood to be aggravated.’

‘I wish no such thing. To the contrary.’ He walked up to me, then added, ‘I simply wanted to say that I thought it was a fine thing that you did today. An honourable thing.’

I was surprised by his comment. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘I know you do. We all do.’

I felt a flush of terror.

‘Do not worry. No one disapproves.’ He extended his hand. ‘I wanted to say thank you. Michael was close to me. To us all. And none of us were able to do what you did.’

I shook his hand but still made no admission.

‘We will never talk of it,’ said Sirius, ‘but we are all grateful for what you did.’ He tipped his hat. ‘Goodnight to you.’

‘And to you.’

I climbed the stairs and realised that I had probably misjudged Sirius. Deep down, it seemed he did care for someone other than himself.

The stink of the prison even permeated the Press Yard, where supposedly we prisoners benefited from a dose of good old fresh air.

‘Get moving, Lynch,’ demanded one of Johncock’s men, before adding a hearty shove that sent me staggering in my chains.

I regained my balance and greedily surveyed the new landscape. There was only one door, locked and guarded on both sides. That meant the gaolers realised this spot was vulnerable. Escape was possible, but difficult. My heart skipped a beat in excitement.

‘Walk!’

I shuffled my feet as my eyes continued to roam. The yard’s outer walls were very high and sheer. I spotted no easy hand or footholds to begin a climb and even if I were unchained, the screws would be on me before I could scale a fraction of them.

‘Walk, I said!’ A turnkey cracked my back with a baton.

I lurched forward and began a ponderous loop of the small exercise area. Half a dozen other men were walking in pairs, clockwise. I took the other direction. Not because I wanted to register some pointless individuality but because I wanted to face them. Years of murdering and hurting people teaches you not to allow six hardened criminals free access to your back.

The first two convicts were more boys than men – skinny teenagers who looked as though they should have been starting apprenticeships, not gaol terms. Behind them lumbered two men of my age. Their heads were bent in conversation, their hot breath frosting in the crisp air as they trudged. Bringing up the rear were two old-timers. They lagged a good six yards behind the others and didn’t speak or look up.