‘We’ll knock on all the doors until we find her. Somebody’ll know her,’ said Declan.
In the event, the fourth house they tried provided the information. ‘Romilly Rourke,’ said the slatternly women. ‘Irish like you? Then it’s Number Forty, down there.’
‘You know her?’
‘Not to say know. Can’t miss her, though, not with that hair.’
When they knocked on the door of Number 40 it swung open. A smell of stale cooking and old damp gusted out and beyond the door was a narrow hall with a steep flight of stairs.
Colm called out, but there was no response and they looked at one another, neither wanting to go inside, but aware that having got this close to Romilly they could not go back.
The house did not look as if anyone had cared about it for years. Their footsteps rang out in the silence, and when Declan opened the doors of the two downstairs rooms the hinges screeched as if they were not accustomed to being used. There was a sour-smelling scullery at the back of the house with a cat-ridden square of garden beyond, and a grisly-looking wooden structure at the foot, which they supposed was an earth closet.
‘Shared with at least six other houses,’ said Declan, pointing. ‘I thought we were poor in Kilglenn, but it was a different kind of poverty. And there are hundreds of people living like this in London, probably thousands—’ He broke off and they both turned to the stair. From above them came a faint cry, followed by a weak tapping.
Colm was halfway up the stairs before the sounds had died away, Declan hard on his heels. They opened two doors on to sad, empty rooms, then the third.
The first thing to assault their senses was the stench. It was like bad meat, like something dead for a very long time. Colm recoiled and Declan clapped a hand over his mouth, and for a moment both had to fight a compulsion to run back down to the street.
For a moment they thought that the figure sprawled on the bed was not Romilly after all. This was someone much older, someone husked dry of life and hope and delight . . . And yet the stringy hair had once been bright copper, and the waxen skin had been like porcelain . . .
A thread-like voice said, ‘Hello, Colm. You took your time getting here . . .’
She was lying amidst blood-soaked sheets, and on a marble washstand was a basin, covered with a stained cloth.
Colm said, ‘Oh, Jesus, Rom, what happened to you?’ To Declan’s shame Colm was already seated on the edge of the bed, reaching for the thin hands, apparently heedless of the mess. He swallowed hard, then followed suit, sitting on the other side, reaching for Romilly’s other hand. Once it had been smooth and soft; now it felt like sandpaper and although he had expected it to be cold, it was not: it was as if the bones beneath were burning their way through what little flesh was left.
‘Bloody butcher,’ said Romilly, and even amidst the horror of the room, this was a small extra pinprick of shock because Romilly had never used bad language in Kilglenn.
‘We know you were . . . going to have a child,’ said Declan, awkwardly.
‘I was, but I didn’t intend to go through with it,’ said Romilly. ‘So I thought, I’ll get rid of it while it’s nothing more than a speck.’ Neither Colm nor Declan said anything, and Romilly said, angrily, ‘Listen, I know it’s a mortal sin and I’ll fry in hell . . . But can you see me with a kid? I’d hold it wrong way up half the time. And how was I supposed to feed it and clothe it when I’ve hardly been able to feed and clothe myself?’ She broke off, twisting in the bed as if trying to escape pain. ‘But wouldn’t you know I’d get even that wrong?’ she said. ‘Wouldn’t you know that man would prod around too sharply and tear something?’
‘What man?’
‘Bullfinch. Butcher Bullfinch, some of them call him,’ said Romilly, and the name came out on a gasp. ‘Only I didn’t know that until afterwards. They all said – Cerise and old Floss – both said he’d be all right.’
‘Bullfinch did this to you? Injured you?’
‘Yes.’ She moved restlessly in the bed again and Declan and Colm looked helplessly at each other. Neither had the least idea what to do
Declan said, ‘Romilly, is there help we can get?’
‘The woman downstairs is doing that,’ said Romilly. ‘She’s gone to find Bullfinch.’
‘Bullfinch? Rom, we can’t let him near you again!’
‘She said he should put right what he did.’
‘But you need a real doctor—’
‘Declan, I can’t afford a real doctor!’ said Romilly. ‘This isn’t Kilglenn. Doctors here charge for what they do. And I haven’t a brass farthing in the world.’
‘I’ll get a doctor,’ said Colm, standing up. ‘We’ll find the money. Tell me where—’ He broke off as a door banged below, and footsteps came up the stairs.
‘’Oo are you?’ demanded a hard-faced female wearing a man’s cap.
‘Romilly’s cousins from Ireland,’ said Colm. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m ’er landlady, and if you’re her cousins, why din’t you come sooner like she wanted?’
‘We came as soon as we knew,’ said Declan. ‘Did you bring help?’
‘Bullfinch won’t come, the perishing old sinner. Says he can’t do nothing and it ain’t his fault. Frightened I’ll shop him to the rozzers, more like.’ She saw their look of bewilderment and said, ‘Tell the p’lice what he done. Don’t you have p’lice where you come from?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘I don’t know what they do in your country, but they’re ’ard as a brick wall when it comes to abortion here,’ said the woman. ‘And we don’t want no trouble.’ Then, in a sharper voice, ‘Rom, you’re bleeding again, aincha?’
‘I think so . . .’