But even though he was only minutes behind Colm, there was no sign of him, and Declan paused, irresolute. St Stephen’s Church was a fair distance and he had no money for an omnibus. He would have to walk. It would take a long time and he was not sure of the way, but Colm would be walking as well so Declan would probably catch him up. He set off.
There was no sign of Colm, but he found his way to Canning Town in the end, getting lost a couple of times and asking passers-by to direct him. They were incurious, these London people; they had their own lives and their own worries, and they were not interested in an Irish boy trying to find a church. Declan, his jacket already rain-soaked, his scarf sodden and his hair wet, had never felt so alone in his whole life.
When finally he reached St Stephen’s the daylight was draining from the day and he was aching in every bone from a mixture of hunger and exhaustion. Several times he had to stop and lean against a wall because he felt sick and dizzy, and people passing by glanced disapprovingly at him. Declan realized they thought he was drunk, which was a wild irony when he had not even the money for an omnibus.
The cemetery was deserted and it did not look as if anyone had approached Romilly’s grave since the morning. Declan hunched up his shoulders against the cold, then went inside the church, grateful for the warmth and the chance to sit for a while on one of the pews. He had expected to find the church reassuring, but the faint scent of incense on the air and the massive silence in the church was painfully reminiscent of Kilglenn.
St Stephen’s clock chimed six and there were movements from beyond the vestry. Evensong, thought Declan. Or at least some kind of evening service. He could not face it. He could not kneel in a church and chant the prayers that had been the fabric of his life – not when Romilly had died so brutally; not when he had again recited the sin-eating ritual over her dying body. But I’ll confess it all, he thought. When all this is over, then I’ll confess.
He went out of the church, his mind still on Colm. Might Colm be in Bidder Lane and the house where Romilly had died? Declan began to make his way there, but it took longer than he expected, because waves of dizziness swept over his head with a horrid pulsating rhythm.
Bidder Lane, seen in the sodden dusk light, was a bleak place, and the house where Romilly had died had a deserted look. When Declan knocked on the door there was no response. He peered through the downstairs windows. Of the two rooms visible, one had a couple of kitchen chairs and a deal table, the other had a sagging sofa and a bundle of old newspapers.
Despite the cold, he was starting to have the feeling that he was burning up inside – almost as if his bones were slowly heating up and as if the marrow in them might eventually start to boil. Had Father Sheehan felt this at the start of his terrible death on the Moher Cliffs? But Declan did not want Nicholas Sheehan’s ghost gibbering at him, and he forced himself to keep walking, trying to ignore the grinding pain and the sick throbbing in his head.
He reached the intersection of Bidder Lane and Clock Street, where the man Bullfinch lived. Some of the street lamps had been lit by this time, and in the blurred light from them, he saw the unmistakable figure of Colm crossing the road, walking away from him. Declan was aware of instant relief, because Colm would help him to get back to their lodging house. He called out but Colm seemed to be too far away to hear, and so Declan went after him. Colm had vanished, but there was a break between two of the houses, and Declan made for this. As he got nearer he heard the river sounds – soft hoots from the barges, the occasional call of a man’s voice, footsteps echoing eerily on the wet cobblestones. There was no sign of Colm, and everywhere was deserted. Declan could smell the dank river smell and see lights from moored river-craft. He went forward again, his footsteps ringing sharply on the wet cobbles, stepping carefully between scatterings of debris: odd lengths of rope and sodden bits of unidentifiable rubbish. Mist swirled around him, seeping into his throat and making him cough.
Directly ahead was a flight of stone steps. He went down them, and paused at the foot. A second flight went all the way down to the river itself, but he had reached a jutting shelf that extended along the quayside wall. About fifteen or twenty yards along was a massive circular hole with a brick surround, cut into the quay wall. It looked like the opening to a tunnel. Declan had no idea what it was. He stepped on to the lower steps, but his foot skidded on a pile of debris, sodden and slippery. He grabbed at the handrail, but pitched forward.
He fell in a helpless jumble of flailing arms and legs, banging against the hard edges of the stone steps. Through the tumbling confusion he managed to think he must be almost at the foot and that at worst this would mean a few bruises. Then his head banged against a jutting section of bricks; the world exploded in sick dizzying lights, and blackness closed down.
He clawed his way back to consciousness, at first aware only of the ache in his head and the fact that he was lying on something hard and uncomfortable. Then memory began to unroll in thin ribbons, and he remembered walking along Bidder Lane and Clock Street, trying to find Colm. There had been the river sounds – he could still hear them. He could still smell the river, as well, and there must be a tavern nearby because he could hear laughter and piano music.