The Sin Eater (15 page)

‘Do you want to talk about it now?'

‘No,' said Colm, not looking at Declan.

‘Nor do I. Can I hear what Romilly wrote or are you going to brood on sin all afternoon?'

‘I'll read the letter,' said Colm.

Dearest Colm,

Did you think you'd never hear from me again, after I ran out of Kilglenn as fast as if the demons of hell were chasing me? I expect you knew you would one day though, for we were always as close as two pieces of quicksilver that had to come together again in the end.

Oh, Colm, I'm in such terrible trouble and I can't think of anyone else to turn to. I'm frightened for my life and if you won't help me I don't know what will become of me. You always said you'd come to London – you and Declan Doyle both said it – so I'm asking if you'll come now.
Now.
At once. Truly, I wouldn't ask if it wasn't necessary. If ever you had a loving thought for me, please do what I'm asking you.

I'm praying to all the saints that this will reach you. Yes, I do still pray to the saints, although I don't think any of them listen to me and I don't think any of them can help me.

Romilly.

PS. If Declan Doyle comes with you, that would be great.'

As Colm stopped reading and laid down the single sheet of paper, a tiny breath of wind blew into the old chimney, stirring up the fire so that it glowed red, as if dozens of pairs of baleful eyes had suddenly opened and were glaring into the room.

At last, Declan said, ‘Do we go?'

‘To London? I always meant to.' Colm waited, not speaking, staring into the fire.

At last, Declan said, ‘If you go, I'll come with you.'

‘Will you?' It came out eagerly and gratefully.

‘Of course I'll come. My parents will object—'

‘But,' said Colm, his eyes shining as they used to when they were much younger and wove wild adventures, ‘couldn't you just leave without telling them? Secretly.'

‘By dead of night—'

‘And a letter left on the kitchen table, explaining. You'd have to do that. It's what people always do when they go off to find their fortunes or rescue a maiden in distress. Not,' said Colm, wryly, ‘that this is a maiden, precisely. But it's a . . . a quest, isn't it?'

‘It is. Are we really going to do it?'

‘Yes.'

The immediacy of the adventure – the adventure they had wanted since they were boys and never entirely believed would happen – was suddenly real and thrilling and terrifying.

‘What will we do for money?' asked Colm suddenly.

‘I can manage the fare on the ferry.'

‘I can, too. Just about.'

‘How far would it be from the ferry to London?'

‘I don't know. The ferry docks at Holyhead, and I'd say it'll be a fair old journey from there. We might have to work our way to London, but I've heard you can take jobs for just a few hours. Cafes and bars – washing-up and the like. It'd only be for a few days. I'd sleep in ditches for Romilly. God, I'd
clean
ditches for her.'

‘So would I. Romilly doesn't say what the trouble is, does she?'

‘No, and for all I know it's anything from an illegitimate child to involvement with a gang of criminals. Don't look at me like that, you hear of such things in London.'

‘But will we be able to find where she's living?' said Declan, doubtfully. ‘London's a big old place.'

‘She's put the address on the letter,' said Colm, picking it up again.

‘What is it?'

‘It sounds very grand. The house is called Holly Lodge, and it's in North London.'

Somewhere nearby, music was playing – loud insistent music that pounded jarringly on Benedict's ears. He wanted it to stop, but it did not. Declan's world splintered painfully, and he was abruptly and confusingly back in the sharp modernism of Nina's flat, with Nina clattering saucepans in the kitchen and the radio blaring.

But the words Romilly Rourke had written in her frantic, scrappy letter more than a hundred years ago – the words Colm had read out in the peat-scented, fire-lit cottage – were more real than Nina's flat. The address on the letter that Colm had read out burned deep into his brain.

Holly Lodge, North London.

It's only another of the fragments, thought Benedict. It's what the neurologist said about the brain shaping odd memories to clothe the alter ego.

But supposing it wasn't. Supposing they existed, those two naive Irish boys. Supposing they came to that long-ago London with its gas-lit streets and its raucous tumble of people and the clatter of carriages and hansom cabs over cobbled streets?

We did come to London, Benedict, and a remarkable place we found it
. . .

Benedict stared across at the oval mirror on the small dressing table. Something stirred in its depths, and his heart lurched.

You're there, aren't you, he thought. But that mirror's in direct line to the window, and it's a sunny day, and you don't like the light, do you, great-grandfather . . . ?

Oh, Benedict
, said the faint fragile whisper.
If only you knew why I don't like the light . . . If only you knew what it is that I have to hide from the prying gaze of everyone
. . .

Murder, thought Benedict. That's what you have to hide. But what dark corner of my mind has that fragment come from? Why am I making my alter ego a killer? A killer who was never brought to justice?

Ah, but I had justice in the end, Benedict, and it's a justice you wouldn't want to hear about. And it started innocently enough. We came to London to find Romilly
. . .

Romilly, thought Benedict, feeling Declan's world tugging at him. The red-haired waif who looked so innocent the saints would trust her, but who was bold as a tomcat beneath.

‘You lived in that tiny house – the shack.' The image of the tiny dwelling came again, like old cine footage, uncertain and blurred, but recognizable.

Yes, the shack.
There was the impression of sadness – of an ache of loss. He loved that cottage, thought Benedict.

We should never have left it and we should never have left Kilglenn. But we came to London, and whatever dreams we might have had of your London, nothing had prepared us for the reality
. . .

Declan said, and Colm agreed, that whatever wild dreams they might have had of England and London, the reality beat the dreams into a cocked hat.

They did not, as Colm had half-seriously prophesied, actually have to sleep in ditches, but there were a couple of nights when they slept in houses so crowded and so dirty Declan said ditches might have been preferable.

‘Heaving with unwashed humanity,' said Colm, as they left the second of these. ‘Wouldn't you die for the scents of Kilderry – the ocean and the grass? But we're almost there, and travelling like this – begging lifts, working as we go – shouldn't take more than two days, so that man told me.'

It was an early evening when at last they walked into the city, and the sun was setting. The River Thames was directly ahead with, beyond it, the palace of Westminster, and there was a moment when the dying sun tipped the edges of the buildings with gold and seemed to set the river alight. For several enchanted moments they almost believed the glowing light was tangible – that it was molten gold pouring down over the stones and timbers and glass, and that it would lie in glistening pools on the pavements.

‘Golden pavements after all,' said Declan, very softly, as they stood still, staring at it.

‘Not really, of course.'

‘Oh no.'

But the image of their childhood dreams was strongly with them, and there was an unreal quality to this final part of their journey, almost as if they might be entering a magical land where anything might happen and where whatever did happen would be wonderful.

As Colm said much later, the pity was that the feeling had not lasted.

At first the sheer size and noise and the crowds of people confused them and, curiously, it was Colm who faltered under the onslaught of London. But then Declan said they should remember this was the fabled city of their childhood dreams, and fabled cities were there to be conquered.

‘You're right,' said Colm, squaring his shoulders. ‘We're on a quest, and we'll find our way around this place somehow.'

‘We'll start by asking directions to Holly Lodge,' said Declan, firmly.

In the event, they had to ask several times, but in the end they found Holly Lodge, which was a large house in a street of large houses.

‘I hadn't expected it to be so grand,' said Colm. ‘Rich people live here, d'you think?'

‘I do. Or,' said Declan, critically, ‘people who were once rich, but aren't so much now.'

‘Yes. But,' said Colm, frowning, ‘what will Romilly be doing here?'

‘Working? A housemaid?' Declan said it doubtfully, because it was difficult to think of Romilly being servile, and yet what other work would there be for her? He did not say this, however, nor did he say that now they were actually here, in the fabled city of golden opportunities, it did not seem as if there would be much work for themselves, either.

They had not worked out a plan for when they actually reached Holly Lodge; they had simply concentrated all their energies on getting there.

This time it was Declan who faltered. He looked doubtfully up at the house and said, ‘What do we do now?'

‘We go up to the door right away, and ply the door knocker and I ask can I see my cousin. What could be wrong about that?'

‘Nothing in the world,' said Declan.

They were both hoping that Romilly would open the door to them, but she did not. Instead they were confronted by a rather large lady with a fleshy face and curves imperfectly concealed by a scarlet gown. There was a moment when neither of the boys knew what to say, then the lady gave a slow smile, patted her improbably auburn hair with a be-ringed hand, and said, ‘My my, two new gentlemen. Young ones, as well. Looks like my Christmas 'as come early this year. Come inside, dear, and get acquainted with the ladies of the house.'

‘Oh, God,' said Colm. ‘It's a bloody knocking shop.'

Of all the things they had been expecting, this was the very last. They sat awkwardly in a large downstairs room with overstuffed sofas and flock wallpaper, and their hostess introduced herself as Flossie Totteridge – ‘Mrs Totteridge, I'm a widow woman'. She pressed upon them a series of refreshments, starting with Madeira, which she said the house kept specifically for the older gentlemen who visited, to sherry, which they might say was more of an afternoon drink, all the way down to gin, which was what the girls usually favoured.

‘We won't take anything, thank you,' said Colm. ‘We just want to know about my cousin, Romilly Rourke. To see her if we can. Is she here? Because she wrote to me—'

‘She was here, but she ain't here now, more's the pity, because the gentlemen liked her.'

‘I see,' said Colm, and although his voice was perfectly ordinary, Declan could feel that he was raw with pain at having learned Romilly had been a prostitute. He thought they were both raw with pain.

‘All to do with her being Irish,' said Flossie Totteridge. ‘Goes down well, Irish.' She sent an appraising look at the two boys, particularly lingering on Colm.

‘Where did she go?' said Colm, and Declan heard, with apprehension, that Colm's voice had taken on a softer note.

Flossie Totteridge heard it as well, and sat up a little straighter. ‘I couldn't say,' she said. ‘I did hear she'd taken a room somewhere, but I don't remember where.'

‘Would you try?' said Colm, and now there was no doubt about the tone of his voice.

‘It's no good, it's gone. I'm a poor hand at remembering. It might have been Canning Town, but then again it might not.'

This meant nothing. Canning Town might have been anywhere in the world.

Declan said, ‘Would any of the . . . the girls know?'

‘They might.' A speculative gleam came into Mrs Totteridge's eye. ‘'Course, their time's very valuable to me. I have to think of that. Gentlemen pay to spend time with my girls.'

Neither Colm nor Declan had any idea what a prostitute would cost, but the knowledge that they barely had enough for a night's lodging passed between them.

‘But we might come to an arrangement,' said Flossie. ‘With you being Romilly's family, as it were.' She reached out a pudgy hand and laid it over Colm's.

Colm sat very still and then, to Declan's disbelief, took her hand and smiled into her eyes. ‘What kind of arrangement had you in mind?' he said.

‘Bit o' company, maybe. An hour or so. It gets lonely here at times for me, and I was always partial to a bit of Irish.'

Something flickered behind Colm's eyes. ‘That sounds a very reasonable idea,' he said. ‘We could come back tomorrow. Would that give you time to question the girls?'

‘Come in the afternoon,' said Flossie. ‘Afternoons are the time I get lonely, if you take my meaning.'

‘I do,' said Colm. ‘Afternoon it is.'

Somehow he and Declan got themselves out of the house, and back on to the street.

‘You can't go back there,' said Declan, as they walked towards the cluster of shops and the smaller houses where they might find a cheap night's lodging. ‘Colm, you can't.'

‘I must. That's where Romilly was living when she wrote that letter about being frightened. It's the only link I have to her.'

‘But that woman – those girls . . .'

‘You think I can't cope with one or two whores?'

‘Of course I don't think that.'

They walked along the wide London street, scanning all the windows for notices advertising lodgings, resignedly going past the uncompromising ones that said ‘No Irish', both trying to come to terms with the knowledge of how Romilly had been living all these weeks.