“I like the sound of six better, Jacob.”
Baxter makes to speak but doesn’t. He looks at Drax, then checks his pocket watch.
“Six then,” he says. “But six is the fucking end of it.”
Drax nods complacently, then picks up his feet and lies back down on the greasy and pungent camp bed.
“Six is the end of it,” he echoes, “and if you could send that cunt Stevens up with another bottle of brandy, and get him to empty out this pisspot while he’s at it, I’d be monstrous fucking grateful, I’m sure.”
Baxter descends to the first-floor landing. He waits there a moment and then calls down to Stevens, who is sitting in the hallway with his bowler on his knees reading the Hull and East Riding Intelligencer. They go into the study together and Baxter gestures for him to close the door.
“You have the revolver I gave you,” Baxter says, “and you have the bullets also?”
Stevens nods. Baxter asks to see the gun, and Stevens takes it from his pocket and places it on the desk between them. Baxter looks it over, then gives it back.
“I have a task for you tonight,” he says. “You listen carefully now.”
Stevens nods again. Baxter notes with pleasure his docility, his doggish eagerness to please. If only, Baxter thinks, they were all like that.
“At midnight you go to Patrick Sumner’s room in the Pilgrim’s Arms, and you tell him I need to see him urgently at my house. Tell him I have important news about the Volunteer and it can’t wait until the morning. He doesn’t know the town, and he doesn’t know where my house is neither, so he’ll follow wherever you lead him. Lead him towards the river. Go up Trippett, past the foundry, until you reach the old timber yard. If he asks what you’re doing, tell him it is a shortcut—it makes no difference whether he believes you or not, just get him inside somehow. Henry Drax will be waiting in the yard. He’ll shoot Sumner, and after he shoots Sumner you’ll shoot him. You understand me?”
“I don’t need Drax there,” he says. “I can shoot the surgeon myself.”
“That’s not to the purpose. I need Drax to shoot Sumner and you to shoot Drax. After you’ve shot him you put this revolver in Sumner’s hand, empty out his pockets and Drax’s too, and then you make yourself fucking scarce.”
“The constable at the dock will hear something for sure,” Stevens says.
“True enough, and no doubt he’ll come running and blowing hard on his whistle. When he gets to the yard he’ll find two dead men each holding the gun that killed the other one. There are no witnesses anywhere, no other signs or indications. The peelers will scratch their heads awhile, then take the bodies to the morgue and wait for them to be claimed, but no one will claim them. And what will happen next?”
He stares at Stevens, and Stevens shrugs.
“Nothing will happen next,” Baxter says. “Nothing at all. That’s the beauty of the scheme. Two unknown men have killed each other. There are two murderers and two victims. The crime solves itself, and I am free of Henry Drax at last, free of his threats and his gouging, and free of his mad stench.”
“So after he shoots Sumner I shoot him,” Stevens says.
“In the chest, not the back. In the back will only provoke questions. And put the gun in his right hand, not his left. Do you understand it now?”
Stevens nods.
“Good. Now take this bottle of brandy up to the attic for him. Empty his pisspot while you’re there, and if he speaks to you say nothing back.”
“That filthy bastard’s time is coming, Mr. Baxter,” Stevens says.
“Indeed it fucking is.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Drax crouches alone in the corner of the shadowed timber yard. There is an open storage shed running along one side and a sag-roofed, ramshackle cabin at the far end. The ground between is strewn with broken bottles, shattered crates, and planking. Drax has the bottle of brandy in his pocket; every now and then, he takes it out, licks his lips, and drinks. At times like these, when the thirst is on him and he has money enough in his britches, he will drink for a week without pausing for breath. Two or three bottles each day. More. It is not a matter of need or pleasure, not a matter of wanting or not wanting. The thirst carries him forwards, blindly, easily. Tonight he will kill, but the killing is not topmost in his mind. The thirst is much deeper than the rage. The rage is fast and sharp, but the thirst is lengthy. The rage always has an ending, a blood-soaked finale, but the thirst is bottomless and without limit.
He places the bottle carefully on the ground by his feet and checks his revolver. When he breaks open the cylinder, the bullets drop out onto the ground, and, cursing, he reaches down to find them. He loses his balance, staggers sideways, and then rights himself. When he stands again, the timber yard sways in front of him and the moon tips and wobbles across the sky. He blinks and spits. His mouth fills up with vomit, but he swallows it down, picks up the bottle from the ground, and drinks again. He has lost a bullet, but that makes no odds. He has four more left, and it will only need one to kill the Paddy surgeon. He will tarry here by the gate, and when they walk in he will plug him in the head. That will be that. No warning or chatter. If that queer cunt Baxter or his idiot slavey had anything about them, they could do the job themselves, but, as it is, Henry Drax must do it for them. Oh, the others will talk and plan and make oaths and promises, but there are precious few fuckers who will do.
The moon is smothered by clouds, and the shadows in the yard have thickened and merged. He sits on a barrel and peers out into the vague, uneven blackness. He can still make out the edges of the gate and the top of the wall running next to it. When he hears men’s voices, he stands up and takes one slow step forwards, then another one. The voices become louder and more distinct. He cocks the revolver and steadies himself to shoot. The gate creaks and begins to open inwards. He watches as they enter the yard side by side: two dark shapes, blank and featureless as shadows. One head, two heads. He hears the squeak and scurry of a rat, and feels the great thirst agitate inside him. He breathes in once, aims, then fires. The darkness splits open for an instant, swallows him, then spits him out again. The man on the left crumples and drops onto the cinders with a muted thud. Drax lowers the revolver, takes a snort of brandy, and steps forwards to check if he is fully dead or if some knife work is required to finish the job. He crouches over the body and lights a lucifer. He peers down as the yellow flame lengthens in his hand, then rocks back on his heels and curses.
It is Stevens the slavey lying dead. He has shot the wrong fucking man, that’s all. He stands up and looks about. Sumner didn’t run back through the gate—he knows that—and the walls all around are high and topped with broken glass. He must still be in the yard somewhere.
“Are you in here, Mr. Surgeon?” he shouts out. “Why don’t you show yourself? If you plan to capture me, now’s your best chance. You won’t ever get a finer one. Lookee here, I’ll even lay down my gun.” He places the gun on the ground in front of him and holds up his hands. “I’m offering you a fair fight now. No weapons, and I’ve got a drink or two inside me to help even things up.”
He pauses and peers around again, but there is no answer from the darkness and no sign of any movement.