The Convictions of John Delahunt (33 page)

‘Where’s the jakes?’ I said, exaggerating a slur in my speech.

He glanced up. ‘Downstairs. Door on the right leads to the yard. Just follow your nose.’

I thanked him. But once downstairs, I slipped through the lounge and out of the front entrance.

Compared to the room upstairs, the night air was cold and silent. It didn’t take long for the girl to come out of her house. She closed the door, and ensured it was locked by pulling and pushing against the handle. She didn’t take up her station beneath the gaslight. Instead, she walked towards the corner with Beaver Street. She must have lived elsewhere. Either three men was her limit for a night, or she had worked her allotted hours. I followed after her.

Beaver Street leads to Mecklenburgh Street, but it’s a dark, narrow road, bounded by the perimeter walls of long back yards. When I turned on to it she was only ten yards ahead of me. I concentrated to match my step with hers, so the sound of her hard heels clicking on the wet cobbles masked my footfall.

I grasped the handle in my pocket, used my thumb to test which side the blade was facing, then rotated it to the correct angle. At this distance I could make out the colour of her hair and detect a trace of perfume. I’d have to close the last few paces at a run. What then? Grab a fistful of hair; pull back; draw the knife across. There were only five yards between us now. I pulled at the knife, but it caught on a loop of thread in the seam of my pocket. I tugged until the thread snapped and the knife came free.

When I looked again the path was empty. I examined the buildings – still just side walls and yard fences, no doors she could have slipped through. But after a few steps I saw it: the entrance to an uncovered stable-lane on the left. The lamplight didn’t reach this far; nor were there any windows to provide a flicker of candlelight. I could just about discern the black, overcast sky against the uneven height of the surrounding walls.

I entered the lane, keeping my fingers against the bricks for bearing, with the knife held out in front like a blind man’s cane. It occurred to me that I hadn’t heard her footsteps for several seconds. I stopped and listened. The only sound was a rhythmic wooden banging much further up the lane, as if a wicket gate was loose on its hinge.

I felt something cold against my neck, and then the point of a knife dig against the side of my throat. The girl grabbed my coat from behind. Her breath brushed the back of my earlobe as she said, ‘Drop it.’

When I didn’t immediately comply, she pushed the point in further. There was a sharp sting, and then a warm trickle ran down my neck. My knife clattered on the ground, and she swept her foot to kick it away.

The front of her bodice pressed into my side. I could smell the perfume quite clearly now; it was familiar. Perhaps Helen once wore something similar. Then I realized it was water of Cologne, a type I’d used myself. It must have rubbed off her last client. I snuffled through my nose to exhale the scent.

I tried to keep my voice steady. ‘I’m sorry if I startled you, but I only wished to talk.’

She let go of my jacket and felt downwards to fumble in a side pocket, the point of her knife kept steady at my throat. She tried one, then the other, but they were both empty.

‘Rest assured, I had no intention to rob you. Or… force myself upon you.’ Which was true at least.

She moved tight against me, reached around and began to pat my chest. She felt my key in the breast pocket and her palm lingered, her left arm wrapped around me in an odd embrace. It was as if she’d found a lover staring pensively out of a window, and had stepped forward to comfort him. Next, she’d rest her head between his shoulder blades. He’d reach up to take her fingers, and hold them against his lips.

But her hand moved on and searched elsewhere, down into my trouser pocket. She rummaged and felt the change at the bottom.

I couldn’t bow my head because of the knife. ‘You know, I’ve had a very trying day.’

She dipped into the other pocket. In all I had about a pound and four shillings. She took every penny.

‘I’m not even allowed to see my own wife.’

‘Turn around and put your hands on the wall.’

As I did so, the tip of her blade traced a line around my neck until it pointed at the base of my skull. I leaned forward as if feeling nauseous. The surface of the brickwork was damp and crumbly.

Her voice was soft with a country lilt, possibly from the north-west. ‘If you turn before I’m gone, I’ll stab the knife to its hilt.’

All was silent then. After a few seconds I thought I heard the swish of a skirt and a quiet tread, but I didn’t raise my head to check. The crook of the wall was strewn with rubbish. Some weeds grew in clumps of soil, as well as one daisy flower with its petals closed over. I wondered how it had survived this long into early winter.

Footsteps approached so I kept my head down. But it was only an old man who sidled up beside me. He swayed as he undid the front of his breeches and relieved himself against the wall. In mid-flow, he said, ‘You all right, son?’ He spoke with paternal concern. ‘A bit worse for wear?’

I looked at him over my outstretched arm. ‘A whore has taken all my money.’

He half closed his eyes and nodded in understanding. I moved away before he could splash my shoes.

For the next few days, it was difficult to think of a reason to get up. The room had become untidy, despite my efforts to clean it in the previous week. Items of clothing hung from the backs of chairs or were draped over the windowsills. The cold ashes in the hearth remained untouched, mainly because there was no fuel to start another fire. Empty wine bottles and stained glasses covered the tabletop.

There was very little to eat. An old potato sat forlornly in the back of the cupboard. It was soft and sprouted several gnarled roots, but I knew I’d have to scrape them off to see if it was edible. I couldn’t afford to go to the market. Perhaps there’d be some food in the Repeal Society rooms at college. Though if I went there, Corcoran would be looking for the subscription money.

Early one afternoon, I heard scuffled noises on the landing, and some tentative knocks on the door. For a moment I thought it might be Helen, but then came quiet titters and mutterings between some of the Lynch children. There were a few shushes, and a louder knock. I reached over to the bedside table and picked up a squat metal candle-holder, which I flung across the room so it thumped against the door. The rails shook, and a splintered scuff remained in the white paint. The children shrieked and rushed down the stairs with loud laughter.

I got up and shuffled about the room in search of loose change. The money tin on the shelf had long been empty, but still I picked it up and gave it a silent shake. I jammed my hand down the back of the armchair and felt along the seam. It was sticky with grease and crumbs, and my fingers scraped over exposed staples, but there were no coins. Happily, I did discover a dust-covered shilling lying under the bed beside one of Helen’s old petticoats.

I went to my trunk and began rummaging through clothes, curling my finger into the tight fob-pockets of waistcoats, and turning my trousers inside out. In one pair I felt the thick waxy paper of a folded banknote, and I tried to recall what money, if any, I could have overlooked.

But it was only the docket from Clifford’s pawnshop, describing the silver frame that had held the silhouette of my mother. Only a week left to repay the loan: two pounds and eight shillings. Otherwise the frame would be kept by the pawnbroker. I looked around the room at the mess made from my searching, then down again at the note. I tensed my fingers to crumple it up, but changed my mind. I laid the docket on the writing desk and smoothed it flat.

Perhaps it was time to speak with Arthur.

By the time I had traversed the city, clouds had gathered and a heavy rain began to fall on Merrion Square. I lingered at the south-west corner beneath the branches of an old sycamore tree that overhung the black iron railing. The exterior of the Stokes home was about halfway up the terrace. It wouldn’t do to show up at the door like a drowned rat, so I remained sheltered and looked at the clouds to judge how long the shower would last.

The rain had sent the few pedestrians on Merrion Square scurrying indoors. A passing carriage sprayed water from the gutter, which I managed to avoid. Then a gate to the enclosed garden almost opposite the Stokes home opened, and two women stepped out. Both wore long dresses, bonnets and shawls, and sheltered beneath an opened umbrella. Helen stood erect, with her shoulders back. She held her shawl tight beneath her chin with one hand and the umbrella with the other. Her old governess Mrs Bruce had turned and bent to lock the gate.

I didn’t know whether to hide my face or call out. Once I got to the house, it was probable Arthur wouldn’t let me see Helen, even if he and I did come to some arrangement.

Mrs Bruce withdrew the key and reached up to take the umbrella from her charge. They walked to the edge of the path and looked both ways for passing carriages.

Just as they were about to step out, Helen disengaged her arm and dashed out from under the umbrella to cross the street in the rain. Her governess squawked in protest, but Helen reached the other side, twisted about with her arms outstretched and smiled at the old woman’s worry. I was astonished to see her move like that. She’d only been out of Grenville Street for half a month. Helen went up the steps two at a time and banged at the brass knocker on her front door. Then she undid her bonnet and tilted her face up into the rain. Her hair was pinned and didn’t move. She stood in profile, with her eyes closed and her neck arched back.

Mrs Bruce crossed the road as fast as she could, holding her skirts up out of the puddles. She reached the top step just as the front door opened, and ushered Helen inside. I let my eyes linger on the closed door.

Helen had twirled just like that, with her arms spread out, on the day we found that disused grove in the garden. I looked into the park, but my view was blocked by the bushes.

A thrush joined me under the branches. It alighted on the railing between two spikes, shook droplets from its head, then rummaged beneath a wing to smooth down its feathers. It didn’t seem to notice me.

Two hundred pounds just didn’t seem worth it. If spent carefully, it would grant me a few years in respectable digs. But what then? I’d not yet be twenty-five, with no possible access to her social circle. I’d never meet another like her. At first I thought that a separation might have been best for us both. But now it was clear to me. All I wanted was her return.

I held out an index finger to offer the thrush a perch. It leaped off the railing towards the pavement, opened its wings and swooped about ten feet away on to the dwarf wall. The bird hopped through the bars and disappeared into the undergrowth. I withdrew my hand, gathered my coat and turned away. There had to be some way to speak with Helen alone.

I opened the barrel lid of my trunk and rummaged beneath a jumble of clothes and college papers. A small pile of documents lay in the bottom corner – items once considered important, like the certificate from Trinity informing me that I’d failed my final exams, or the correspondence from the solicitor Adair outlining the contents of my father’s will. Several sheets of the same stationery were letters from Cecilia, received during the first year of her marriage. They told of inconsequential domestic news, but it seemed the custom was to keep hold of such things, so I’d yet to discard them.

There was also a letter I sent to my mother while still a child. One summer, Alex, Cecilia and I stayed with our spinster aunt in rural Antrim. Each of us wrote home to Fitzwilliam Street, but mine was the only letter to be preserved. As a postscript to the short missive describing a day spent fishing, and complaining of the weather, I had written, ‘Mother, here is some grass from your old garden.’ I picked up the envelope and peeked inside. The withered yellow blades remained, tangled up like a lock of hair.

A faint scratching noise and small titter came from the hallway. The Lynch children were misbehaving on the landing again.

At the very bottom was an envelope with my name in Helen’s handwriting, the brief note she penned to me nearly two years before still inside. It read: ‘So you don’t have to sneak into the garden.’ Her handwriting was smooth, with small flourishes at the end of each stroke. She had obviously taken care while writing it; I’m not sure why I didn’t notice at the time. I smelled the paper, but it had no trace of perfume. The thick iron key to Merrion Park tipped on to the desktop with a thud.

Another scurry of footsteps sounded in the hall, followed by a loud knock on the door. I’d had enough of the young Lynches and their constant nuisance. I took a black leather belt from the trunk, wrapped one end around my closed fist so the metal clasp hung loose, and crossed the room. When I yanked the door open, Lyster stood alone in the threshold. His arms were crossed at the wrists; the jacket he wore was too big, and the cuffs came almost to his knuckles. He regarded the belt-buckle dangling from my hand with a raised eyebrow, then walked past me into the room. I poked my head out of the door. The landing was empty.

Lyster stood over my opened trunk, where I’d left the letters on the floor. He scraped one aside with the toe of his boot to observe another underneath.

‘What do you want, Lyster?’

‘Tea would be nice.’

‘There isn’t any.’

He dragged Helen’s chair to the kitchen table and sat down, pushing aside some dirty crockery. Then he rubbed his palms together, raised his coat collar and folded his arms. ‘Jesus, Delahunt, it’s colder in here than it is outside.’

I stacked some of the plates on the table and brought them to the washbasin, allowing them to slip into the murky water with a clatter. Lyster took hold of the tabletop between his thumb and forefingers and wobbled it.

‘Sibthorpe has become concerned about you.’

‘You can tell him I’m fine.’

‘When I say concerned, I mean bothered and vexed. I came here a few months ago and left word for you to meet me in Bracken’s. Do you remember?’