‘Don’t stand about like a couple o’ useless pricks,’ said the woman, turning to the two boys. ‘One of you get downstairs and find cloths and towels. We’ll see if we can cheat old man death by ourselves.’
In the nightmare hours that followed, Declan and Colm lost all sense of time. It was only when Romilly’s landlady lit candles and set them around the room that they realized night had fallen.
At first they thought Romilly was going to bleed to death, and the woman clearly thought so as well. She ordered Colm to lift the end of the narrow bed and she and Declan slid house bricks under it, so that Romilly’s head was lower than her body. Beyond embarrassment, they helped to wad thick towels between Romilly’s legs in an attempt to staunch the flow.
The thick greasiness of the burning tallow candles mingled sickeningly with the stench of blood and sweat, and Romilly was moaning with pain, hunching over in the bed, clutching her lower stomach. Declan said in a low voice, ‘If she was still bleeding, wouldn’t she have lost all the blood by now?’
‘She ain’t bleeding,’ said the woman, watching the huddled figure on the bed. ‘Not to speak of, anyways. I reckon it’s a poison that got in when that butcher skewered her with his filthy needles.’ She glanced at him. ‘You ever cut your finger and saw it turn bad and fill up with pus? So you have to jab it open to drain away the poison?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s what’s wrong with her now. I seen it before with girls who had this done. But the poison’s inside, so we can’t do nothing to drain it away.’
‘Could a doctor?’
‘Dunno. But even if he saved her, she’d be off to prison straight after.’
Colm said, ‘I’d rather she was alive in prison than dead in this room.’
Shortly before midnight Romilly seemed to sink into a kind of stupor; her skin was hot and dry, and weals broke out in patches. She seemed unaware of where she was and when Colm took her hand and told her she would soon be well, she stared at him with no recognition.
Speaking very quietly, Declan said, ‘Colm – should we get a priest to her?’
They stared at one another, the tenets of their upbringing strongly with them. You did not, if it could be avoided, allow someone to die without confessing and receiving absolution.
‘Yes,’ said Colm. ‘Yes, we should.’
‘Do you know where we can get a priest?’ said Declan, turning to the woman.
‘I never have no truck with Romans,’ said the landlady, closing her mouth like a rat trap. Declan and Colm looked at one another. Declan could hear Colm’s thought as clearly as if they had been spoken. What you did on the cliffs of Moher in a lashing storm, you can do again here.
‘No,’ said Declan in a low, furious voice. ‘She deserves the proper ritual.’
‘Then I’ll go and find a priest,’ said Colm. ‘There must be a church around somewhere.’
‘You ain’t got time for that,’ said the landlady. ‘She ain’t got long.’
They sat on each side of the bed, holding Romilly’s hands, feeling helpless and angry. As a distant church clock chimed twelve, Romilly fell back, and a dreadful choking cough came from her lips.
‘She’s going,’ said the landlady. ‘Nothing we can do now.’
Oh yes there is . . . Declan said, ‘Would you pour me some water from the jug.’
‘And fetch a piece of bread,’ said Colm.
They bent over the bed, and the landlady stood at the foot, watching them. After about five minutes, she said, ‘She’s gone.’
‘I know,’ said Colm.
‘What was that you said to her?’ She looked at Declan, who hesitated.
Colm said, ‘He was just chanting an old prayer we have.’
They managed to arrange a funeral at a small, rather bleak church a few streets away, and there was a brief, impersonal service, which took the last of their carefully hoarded money. Neither of them had any idea what they were going to do next. Declan was distraught at Romilly’s death, but Colm swung between bitter grief and a black raging fury that Declan found frightening. Twice he went off by himself, hunching his shoulders when Declan would have accompanied him. Declan had no idea where he went – he thought he probably just walked the streets, trying to come to terms with Romilly’s squalid death.
After the funeral they returned to their lodgings. They would be given an early supper and also breakfast tomorrow morning, but after that they would be expected to pay their reckoning. Neither of them knew how they would do it.
Colm had spoken very little since Romilly’s death, but as a thin spiteful rain began to beat against the windows, he suddenly said, ‘So this is how our wonderful dreams of making a golden fortune in London town end. In a shabby bedroom, hungry and destitute.’
Shortly after two o’clock, Declan found himself thinking they had just over four hours to get through before supper was served downstairs. Neither of them had been able to eat much breakfast because of facing Romilly’s funeral, and they had not been able to afford a midday meal after it. He was starting to feel slightly sick and a bit light-headed with hunger.
A nearby church clock was chiming the half hour, when Colm suddenly stood up and said, ‘I’m going out.’
‘Where . . . ?’ But Colm had already gone, the street door downstairs banging.
Declan grabbed his jacket from the bed and went down the stairs after him. When he reached the street there was no sign of Colm. He stood irresolute for a moment, then turned up his collar and began to walk through the driving rain towards the east. Towards Canning Town and the Church of St Stephen where Romilly was buried.
The present
Benedict fought his way free of the clinging cobwebs of Declan’s world, and little by little became aware that he was in Nina’s flat.