The Convictions of John Delahunt (36 page)

‘It’s very pretty though,’ he said.

I looked at the puddle again. A scrap of paper floated across its surface; tiny eddies of yellow, green and indigo swirled in its wake.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I suppose it is.’

We resumed our journey towards Cornmarket Square, before turning left down Bridge Street. The road there descends steeply to the river and has an odd curve that traces the outline of Dublin’s medieval wall. We walked in silence for a while. Then he asked, ‘How did you know all that stuff? About the colours.’

‘I studied it in college.’

He nodded with pursed lips, as if the answer was what he expected.

‘Have you ever gone to school?’

‘No. Mam taught me some letters and numbers. I’ll learn more when I’m an apprentice.’

‘Your mother can read and write?’

‘Yes,’ he said proudly. ‘She used to run her own shop.’

I checked to see if he was in earnest. ‘But she doesn’t any more?’

He said his father used to steal the takings and spend it all on drink. They had to move from the shop, a cake shop, into the Liberties several years ago, and the father had abandoned them to go to England. ‘I can’t remember much about it, only that I was never allowed to eat the cakes.’

His face appeared glum at the memory and I smiled. ‘You look much like your mother,’ I said. ‘You must take after her.’

We emerged on to Merchant’s Quay, and had to wait while a man drove six head of cattle along the dockside, grunting and whistling and touching their flanks with a long stick to keep them in line. When the way was clear, Thomas and I went on to Whitworth Bridge. The Four Courts loomed across the river, with its Palladian façade and high copper dome. Out here, beyond the shelter of the narrow streets, a cold wind blew down the Liffey towards the sea, conveying a faint odour of carrion from the slaughterhouse on Usher Island. The boy went quickly to the middle of the bridge, and the crest of its hump, untroubled by the cold. His head just about reached the coping, so he stooped down and looked between the balustrades.

I felt inside my pocket, to make sure the knife was unconstrained. I rubbed my thumb over the mother-of-pearl handle.

A barge approached with the current, laden with goods lashed down by a cargo net. The bargeman stood at the stern, his feet planted a yard apart for balance, holding a long oar steady in the water. Thomas put his head further through the granite pillars to see the bow slip under the arch. As the bargeman got close, the boy called out, ‘Hey, mister!’

‘Thomas,’ I said with a hiss, grabbing his collar to pull him back. His head scraped against the stone, and his cap fell on the path. He put his hand against his ear and shrank from my grip.

‘You’re not to draw attention.’

I scooped up his cap before it could blow away, brushed off some grit and fixed it over his dark curls. The fear in his eyes unsettled me. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rough.’

A passing dockworker turned sideways to get by on the narrow path. Thomas remained still with his eyes downcast.

‘Let’s get off the bridge,’ I said, turning him about, ‘or you’ll catch cold.’

I nudged his shoulder to propel him forward and, together, we completed the crossing to the north side.

The clouds had grown darker and the breeze picked up. Yellow lamplight emerged from the opened door of the Four Courts, where three barristers stood in huddled conversation. One removed his wig to scratch his head, leaving grey wispy hair standing on end. He looked over his shoulder at Thomas and me as we passed. When we reached Essex Bridge, I pointed north up Capel Street and said, ‘This way.’

It began to rain, just a drizzle at first, but then more heavily. Conscious of Thomas’s bare feet, I took him into Drake’s pub, where we stood beside the fire. The old barman said we’d have to order something or get out. I asked for two mugs of coffee and some soda bread, and we took a seat by the hearth.

I tried to move a thick candle to one side, but the wax had melted over the holder, making it stick to the wood. I wondered if I’d draw more attention by blowing it out.

Thomas said, ‘What happened to your face?’

The candlelight caught in his eyes as he regarded me. I touched the bruise on my cheek. ‘I was in a fight.’

‘With who?’

‘A coachman.’

‘Did you win?’

‘No.’

Drake arrived with the coffee and bread. While putting the items down he looked at me and nodded at the boy. ‘Don’t let him make a mess.’

Thomas sniffed at his mug suspiciously, and said he didn’t drink coffee.

‘Fine, I’ll have it.’ But when I reached over he drew the mug away, drank some down and tried to hide a grimace.

‘Do you like it?’

He nodded. I took a sip of my own. Admittedly it was pretty bad.

But he did enjoy the bread, holding each slice with a crust in both hands and taking large bites from its centre. Jam stuck to the corners of his mouth, which he wiped away with a coat sleeve across his face, leaving vivid red streaks running to his jaw.

He said, ‘I never win at fights either.’

‘Do you get into many?’

He placed an uneaten crust on the plate. ‘The big lads pick on me. Especially since my dad left.’ He said one of his friends once punched him in the face over a game of conkers. Thomas’s father had seen it from his window, marched out of the house and kicked the other boy squarely in the stomach, leaving him slumped in the gutter in Plunket Street. ‘After that they didn’t come near me.’ He took up another slice of soda bread. ‘But not any more.’

So was he sorry his father left?

He thought for a moment. ‘No. Mam was very sad when he was here.’

I swirled the dregs in my mug, leaving dark silt against the sides.

‘Did you ever …’ Thomas said. ‘When you were young, I mean. Did the other boys bother you?’

‘Not really.’

‘They never spoke behind your back, or yelled names, or left you out of games?’

‘Well, yes, but it never troubled me.’

‘They say things about Mam because she’s having another baby. I see them pointing and laughing at her when she’s outside the house.’

I told him they did that because they knew it upset him. Let them whisper and smirk as they pleased, because he knew the truth about his mother, and what she was really like. What else mattered?

The door to the pub opened, admitting cold air and a brighter light. Thomas looked out and said, ‘It’s stopped raining.’

‘I know.’

The last warmth had left my mug. I placed it down and used my thumb to clean the coffee stains around its rim. After a moment, Thomas began to pick at the solid folds of candle wax stuck to the table.

‘This is what I’ll be doing soon.’

I looked across at him.

‘As apprentice to Mr Pierce, the chandler on Francis Street. Do you know him?’

I shook my head.

‘It’s all arranged. I’ll have to live above his shop when the new baby comes. If I don’t Mam says we’ll end up in the workhouse.’ A nugget of wax broke away in his hand. He held it over the candle flame until drops fell and hissed against the wick. ‘I don’t want to go though.’

‘Sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to, Thomas. It can’t be helped.’

He singed his fingers and pulled them away, placing their tips in his mouth.

I tidied the dishes on the table, placing the two mugs and jam pot on the empty plate. They only just fitted. Thomas watched me for a while, and then said, ‘Wasn’t there something we had to do?’

The jam pot was in danger of toppling, so I rotated the handles of both mugs and used them as a buttress. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You’re right. It’s time we were off.’

We left Drake’s and continued up Capel Street. From the top of the street it was only a short walk to the parkland around King’s Inns – though it could well have been locked so late in the day. We could turn right, past Rutland Square towards Grenville Street. But was there a danger in getting too close to home?

At the next corner, a couple of men stood in conversation outside a house. At first I could only see the broad shoulders of the man nearest, but he shifted his weight, giving me a glimpse of the other man’s lean, leering face. It was Lyster.

I turned on my heel. Thomas was walking directly behind and bumped into me. He looked up in surprise.

‘We can’t go this way.’

‘What?’

I pushed past him. ‘Come.’

We crossed the road diagonally towards Strand Street. At the corner I risked a glance back from behind a parked hansom cab. The two men still spoke to each other. Lyster was smiling and held his palms spread apart, as if boasting of a caught fish.

If Thomas wondered about retracing our steps he didn’t say. The refreshments seemed to invigorate him and he skipped ahead. A sweet smoky smell of sawdust drifted over the footpath from Fottrell’s mill. He stopped to look through the fence at the great circular band-saw.

I stood beside him but kept my eye on the road behind.

‘What makes it turn?’

A man came around the corner but it wasn’t Lyster. I said there was an underground river that powered a mill.

‘Look, they’re bringing another tree.’

I peered through the fence. The saw was the height of a man, housed beneath a roof that rested on exposed iron pillars, like a bandstand. Four men fed a limbless bole towards the spinning teeth. Two others stood to the side. One held a hose at the ready, the other leaned against the handle of its pump, to spray the blade with water if it overheated. The trunk inched closer and closer till finally it met the saw, which emitted a noise like the cry of a newborn.

Thomas let out an excited whoop as the trunk was carved. After a moment he said, ‘What would happen if a man fell on it?’

The path behind was still clear. ‘What do you think?’

‘I bet it would cut right through him.’ He seemed to relish the prospect.

It had been a mistake to come so close to home, where any number of people might have recognized me. Back on the quays, I paid the penny toll and we went through the turnstiles to cross the metal footbridge. As we climbed the hill on Fownes Street, I glanced at the nondescript door of Farrell’s office, and the flicker of candlelight in the upper windows. The traffic was heavy on Dame Street, so I held Thomas’s hand as we dodged between carriages. We cut through stalls in the south city markets and emerged on to William Street beside the Powerscourt mansion. Thomas couldn’t believe that the townhouse was home to just one family. His gaze swept across its nine bay windows and he said, ‘They must keep getting lost in it.’

A grey mongrel with long skinny legs approached him warily. It began to sniff at his pockets. The boy laughed and stooped to pat its head.

We stood at the corner of Coppinger Row. I looked along its extent to the exterior of my sister’s house. The shutters in the parlour were closed and the only light came from the servants’ quarters in the top floor. I hadn’t seen Cecilia since taking the silver frame. Would she even allow me in if I called? She always had a forgiving nature. But I couldn’t knock now for she’d only ask questions about the boy.

‘Let’s keep moving,’ I said, looking down.

Thomas no longer stood at my side. I surveyed the street and considered calling his name, but that would be too conspicuous. I hurried towards Mercer’s Hospital, my eye drawn into every gloomy shopfront. Any flash of blue made me start. At the crossroads before the hospital I looked about, bobbing to see past pedestrians and standing on tiptoes. A middle-aged woman stopped to ask if everything was all right.

Without thinking I said, ‘I’ve lost a child.’

She brought her hand to her mouth. ‘What’s he dressed like?’

I described his blue cap and nankeen trousers, then stopped myself. ‘It’s all right. I’ll search for him alone.’

‘Look,’ she said. ‘There’s a policeman over there.’

‘Really, it’s fine. I think I know where he’s gone,’ and without saying anything more I hurried around the corner into King Street.

I saw the dog rummaging in the refuse from an upturned bin. But there was still no sign of Thomas. The dog wagged its tail at my approach, and I scratched behind its ear. Up ahead the paths were thick with people crossing between Grafton Street and the corner of St Stephen’s Green. They crowded both sides of the pavement while waiting for a carriage to pass, then advanced on each other as if to join battle. I kept petting the dog, rhythmically tapping the top of its skull, which made its eyelids bat. An anxiety in my throat had eased, and a tension in my shoulders had disappeared. I said, ‘Maybe it’s just as well.’

Then a deep voice called, ‘Delahunt.’ I turned to see Lyster walk towards me, leading Thomas gently by the hand. He smiled and pointed down at the boy. ‘Is this yours?’

Thomas’s face lit up when he saw the dog. ‘You found him.’

‘I happened to see this chap wander from your side.’ Lyster let go and rubbed Thomas’s head, leaving his cap askew. His eyes lingered on my bruised cheek, as if gauging the force of the blow that had made it, and the time elapsed since the strike.

I said, ‘I was just bringing him home.’

‘You’re taking a very scenic route.’

‘Thomas, I’m finished with you now. You can make your own way from here.’

‘But you still owe me thruppence.’

‘Just go.’

‘No,’ Lyster said quietly, placing his hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, Thomas. We’re not done with you yet. Wait here.’

He took my elbow and walked a few yards up the street, then stopped in the doorway of a barber’s. When he looked into my face the corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement, then became serious.

‘What’s the plan?’

I said there wasn’t one.

‘Where were you thinking of doing it?’

Water dripped from the end of a red and white pole in a steady rhythm. The drops kept missing Lyster’s shoulder by inches.

‘Do you really think me capable of that?’

‘Who were you going to blame it on?’

Thomas tapped his chest with both hands to get the dog to stand on its hind legs. The poor creature stared up at him with its head cocked.

‘His mother.’

Lyster’s mouth dipped down at both sides. ‘His mother? Jesus, Delahunt.’ He thought for a second. ‘But she’ll do. You know what she looks like?’