He looked. He did his best, asking anywhere that looked likely with more and greater urgency, but it was too late in the day, and he was filthy and unshaven after the night and the rooftop escape. Five refusals turned to ten, and twenty. He sounded more and more frantic as the gnaw of hunger turned painful, and his need repelled anyone who might have helped. There were enough willing men out there; nobody had to trust in a desperate one.
A few long, humiliating hours later, Ben was standing on the town bridge, stomach as empty as his heart, staring into the dark water below.
This would be a cold and hungry night, at best. There were no beggars huddled up under the bridge, which probably meant that he’d be moved on, or arrested, or beaten, if he tried to sleep there. They would have somewhere to go; there were always beggars. But Ben had no idea where they would be, where to go for a safe place to sleep, how to ask. He had no idea what he would do tomorrow.
The icy wind slashed through his thin coat. Beneath him the river water was swift, turbid, sweeping everything away in its rapid passage. It would sweep him away as quickly.
Every part of this, he had brought on himself. Every choice, every action and reaction, every decision to do with Jonah had led him to this place, and the worst of it was, all he could think about was Jonah’s face as he’d walked out of the compartment, and the lost, abandoned expression in his eyes.
He wished he had said he was sorry, that would have been only decent. He should have said goodbye.
The wind whipped at his hair. Ben rested his arms on the cold iron of the railings, bowed his head and tried to find the strength for one last act.
A deep voice cut through the quiet. “Oi! You. You, there.”
Ben looked up, a slight movement of vague curiosity, and saw the police constable from earlier, with another copper by his side. They came hurrying over, bull’s-eye lanterns in hand. Perhaps they thought he might run. That wouldn’t happen. He turned and stared back over the river, too weary to care any more.
“Oi,” repeated the constable. “What’s your name?”
God, did they have to go through this? “Spenser.”
“Spenser?” The constable’s voice betrayed eagerness. He lifted his lantern, shining the light on Ben’s face, the distinctive scar. “Benedict Spenser. That’s right, ain’t it?”
Of course, Ben thought wearily, through the greyness. Of course the justiciary had followed somehow, traced them to Paddington and on from there. People had doubtless remembered a scarred man and another with a streak in his hair. The Met would have telegraphed to stations on the line. Of course they had. Of course Ben could not have escaped the consequences of his acts. Nobody ever did.
“Yes,” he said drearily. “That’s me.”
“Told you, din’t I?” the constable said to his colleague, with satisfaction. “I told you I saw him, and now we’ve got him. Feather in my cap, that’ll be. All right, Spenser. You’re going to come with us, now, sunshine. No trouble, understand?”
Ben couldn’t summon up the strength to move. It didn’t matter; they’d take him anyway. A cell, a train, back to the vengeful Met or the justiciary. He wondered vaguely, as if tackling a problem of logic, whether he could vault the railings and jump, but there was no resistance left in him.
“I said come with us. Right now.” The big man’s threat was clear: Ben would obey or be made to. His hand closed hard around Ben’s upper arm, jerked roughly.
“You really shouldn’t do that,” said Jonah.
Ben’s eyes snapped open. He swung round, disbelieving, but there he was, a few yards away: Jonah, hatless and windswept.
He didn’t look at Ben. His attention was fixed on the two constables, and Ben had never seen him look as he did now. There was a wildness about him, a feral anger in his face, a quivering readiness to strike.
This was the Jonah Pastern who lied and stole and sent others to their deaths. This was Jonah fighting.
“No need to interfere, sir,” began the second copper, but the first had sucked in a breath, staring at Jonah’s piebald hair. He nudged the speaker, said as quietly as he could, “It’s the other one,” and cleared his throat.
“Best if you both come along with us, I reckon.”
“Do you?” Jonah asked, with wide-eyed over-sincerity that made Ben’s skin prickle. He took one light, almost dancing step forward, body taut with coiled power under pressure. “You think that’s best? How sweet of you, thinking of us. You’re lovely.”
“Jonah,” Ben said. “Don’t hurt them.”
“Would I?” Jonah’s grin was all teeth. “Would I do that?”
“I mean it. Don’t.”
The second policeman retreated a step. Ben didn’t blame him. “Now, you listen—”