Printer's Devil (9780316167826) (31 page)

“This is it,” he said, opening the door. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Stay very close, Mog, and very quiet.” He jumped
out; I clambered down after
him, and Lash flopped to the ground beside me. Still covered in soot from the chimney we’d hidden in, I must have been almost
invisible as I followed him along the greasy cobbles towards the back of the Three Friends.

First we heard it, and then we smelled it. A hubbub of noise, laughter, and voices raised in anger, getting louder and softer
as doors opened and closed. And a stench of old fish, old cabbage, and maggoty scraps of meat which had been thrown out to
the dogs in the yard or left to fester in the summer heat. There were lights on in the upper rooms of the tall, ancient inn,
and it was clear that a great many people were crammed in, in a state of some excitement.

“Tie the dog up,” commanded Cricklebone shortly.

When I’d secured Lash, on a very short rein, to an iron ring in the inn wall, Cricklebone took me by the wrist and launched
himself into a low-ceilinged passageway. Coughing slightly, as the odor changed to suggest horses, I followed his bent form
until we reached a door on our right. Cricklebone had done his detective work: he probably knew every nook and cranny of this
place. He led me inside.

Without actually being seen to arrive, we’d appeared among the crowd in the taproom, as if by magic. It was roasting hot in
here. People were drinking, and laughing, in animated little groups between us and the bar,
standing so closely packed together that I thought I was going to be smothered. Cricklebone was trying to clear a route through
the crush with polite “Excuse me’s.” He was ducking and nodding like an enormous goose, and he was being completely ignored.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” I muttered, and pushed my way in front of him, squeezing and wriggling between the people who stood
in our way.

“Nobody’s going to excuse you in a place like this,” I said over my shoulder to Cricklebone. “You just have to use your elbows.”

When I turned to move forward again, a man was blocking my way, glaring down at me. “Whatchoo mean by comin’ in ’ere muckin
everybody up?” He held out his shirt sleeve to demonstrate a huge splotch of soot I’d inadvertently left on it. “Stripe me,
stow makin’ everybody black.”

A couple of other men joined in the protest. “Yeh, moke off aht of it.”

“Flamin’ sweep in ’ere, what next?”

They were gathering round rather threateningly; but I suddenly felt myself being yanked off by the collar, and the men watched
helplessly as I disappeared, backward, through the crowd, making apologetic faces at them through my coating of dirt.

“And your elbows will get you into a fight, if you’re not careful,” Cricklebone said reproachfully, letting go
of me as we reached the stairs. “You’re
drawing attention to us,”
he added in a low voice, through clenched teeth. “Now, come on.”

I followed him sheepishly up the narrow staircase, squeezing past men and women standing in huddled pairs. The occasional
low laugh sounded in my ear as I edged past, trying not to leave black marks on the women’s skirts, which practically filled
the stairwell.

As we reached the top we could hear bizarre growls penetrating the hum of voices. The room opened out into a long, crooked
space with no furniture and a low, beamed ceiling. The atmosphere up here was distinctly different from downstairs. It was
packed full of people, terribly hot, and very dark; and gradually I realized there seemed to be no women up here at all. The
voices of the men were full of aggression, and I tried to stay as close as I could to Cricklebone so as not to draw attention
to myself. Surrounded by taller people, I couldn’t see much of what was going on, and it took me a while to realize that there
was a kind of empty space towards the back of the room, and an air of expectation, as though the men were waiting for a boxing
match. But some low metal cages by the wall, containing dark muzzled shapes scratching and grunting, soon assured us it was
dogs rather than people who were going to fight. I was suddenly thankful we’d left Lash outside.

Cricklebone bent close to my ear.

“If you see someone you recognize,” he said, “ignore ’em. Don’t stare. Don’t give the game away.” He’d been eyeing the crowd
shrewdly. “Flethick’s here,” he said into my ear, “and one or two others. Don’t look!”

In the corners of the room there were pairs and groups of men, standing whispering and occasionally glancing over their shoulders
at the crowd. Men were going through the room collecting money — bets on the dogs — but I also noticed money changing hands
which didn’t seem to have anything to do with the dogfight.

Cricklebone settled himself, leaning against the wall by a small four-paned window, and drew a pipe out of his coat pocket.
He looked quite shabby enough to fit in well with the assembled company: and when a man with broken teeth tottered up to us
to shout for stakes, Cricklebone pulled coins out of his pocket and told the man they were bets for himself and his young
friend — meaning me. The man winked at me as though we were entering into the subtlest of contracts. His face looked pockmarked
and distorted, disfigured as though he himself were a bulldog who’d seen too many fights.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” came a sudden loud voice, “we’ll start the match, if you please.” As people gathered and shuffled
aside I noticed that the back part of the room contained a sort of enclosure, an arena boxed off by low wooden planks the
height of a man’s knee.

“No shoving!” someone shouted, “and clear a way
there! Ho, clear a way!” The cages were brought on: and out of them were hauled two squat, powerful dogs, with wrinkled flat
faces and skin like old upholstery, snarling and squinting in the smoky light. I wasn’t sure that I wanted to see this. Cupping
my hand against the glass, I peered out of the window.

The dogs were held up to cheers from the crowd. When one of them snapped with a loud clack of its teeth at a hovering bluebottle,
it received extra-loud roars of enthusiasm.

“’E’s in a grand mood!” someone near me enthused, “a fightin’ mood!”

Outside, the street seemed quiet. The window was filthy and covered in scratches, and most of its surface was almost opaque;
but through a small clear corner I could make out the tapering spire of the church opposite, and at ground level the gates
giving onto the cemetery where I’d hidden, the other night when I’d watched Coben. I craned my neck to see if I could spot
Lash, and make sure he was all right; but the place where I’d tied him was out of sight of the window. I was about to turn
back to the scene in the room when a moving figure outside caught my eye.

I pressed my nose against the glass and tried to block off the room’s reflections with my hands. I watched him walk, unconcerned,
along the street on the cemetery side, and cross into the light. Tall, heavily built, in coarse
dark clothes with no hat, it was unmistakably the bosun.

But he was alone. Where was Nick?

I tugged at Cricklebone’s sleeve.

In the pit, the dogs stood poised, restrained by their owners and chivied by the enthusiasm of the crowd which set the air
buzzing. One of them scrabbled impatiently on the floorboards, trying to lunge at his adversary.

I watched the bosun walk under my line of vision, as though to stand against the wall of the inn, or maybe to come inside.
And now my heart gave a sudden jolt, as somebody else ran into sight. From the opposite direction, and again sticking close
to the cemetery wall, a black-cloaked and black-hatted figure moved with graceful wary speed, clutching something to his chest.

“Mr. Cricklebone!” I hissed, bashing his arm.

“What is it?” He bent close and I caught the scent of his tobacco.

“I thought you told your friend to burn his disguise.”

“So I did.”

“Well then, who’s
that?”

The man from Calcutta stood deliberating, directly opposite the inn. He was looking up and down the street. The object in
his grasp flashed briefly and I thought it looked familiar. Suddenly he was off down the hill to the river, and although I
couldn’t be certain it was the camel he was holding, it was the right size.

Five seconds later the bosun crossed the street again — and began running, awkwardly, down the hill in pursuit. He was gaining
on the man from Calcutta very quickly indeed.

“Come on,” said Cricklebone, taking my arm, “after them.”

As we pushed through the crowd, the dogs leaped forward. Snarling like drills, they went for one another in a blur of hide
and teeth, powerful legs lashing out, clawing wildly. Teeth seemed to slide over the smooth cannonball heads, desperate for
a grip.

“Excuse me,” said Cricklebone, time and time again.

They were well-matched. The supporters roared them on as they stumbled and kicked out in the wooden pit, shaking each other
by the neck, yowling and crunching their jaws together. Blood had been drawn and it smeared dark lines across the dogs’ foreheads
as they jumped and slid together in vicious rage.

We were having trouble getting out. People were so engrossed in the fight, shouting so loudly, they formed a moving wall between
us and the door, impervious to our requests or our attempts to push through. Cricklebone gave up saying “Excuse me” and began
forcing his lanky way through the throng.

The dogs showed no signs of flagging. Each was determined to wear the other away, leaping back for more after every assault,
ignoring the wounds which
were opening up, scrabbling among the fur lying loose on the floorboards. Almost comically, amid all the violence, they assessed
one another with furrowed brows before lunging again, snapping at one another’s throats.

At last we reached the top of the stairs and Cricklebone sent me down first, hanging onto my arm from behind, almost pushing
me in his urgency. The roars continued from upstairs as the bulldogs clashed resiliently, tearing open splits in their opponents’
faces, biting at eyes and lips.

The heat was bringing cascades of black sweat down my face as I pushed through the crowd downstairs, taking little heed this
time of people’s clothes, treading on their feet and digging my elbows into their bones as I forced a path between them. The
roar of violence upstairs rang in my ears; and just as we reached the front door a huge cheer seemed to go up, as though one
of the dogs had finally been defeated and was lying in a silent, bleeding heap, as the grim, spattered victor was held up
for applause.

Nick opened his eyes, and at first he didn’t believe them.

Bells?

Then in a flash it came back to him. How long had he been up here? How had he managed to fall asleep? He sat up, rubbing his
neck, which had acquired a
sharp welt from being pressed too closely against a beam corner.

There was a sudden hollow sound from far below. Everything was still utterly dark: but someone was moving. The sound came
again. It must have been this which had woken him.

Gingerly he pulled himself to his knees and peered over the planks down into the long shaft of the hollow tower, his line
of sight guided by the bell ropes which hung down, down into the darkness. He could see nothing. But there were scufflings
echoing up through the fusty air, getting increasingly distinct. And he thought he could hear someone panting.

His father must be coming up to see what he was doing.

Trying to be as quiet as possible, he stood up and pressed himself back into the hollow space. And a gun slipped quietly out
of his belt and fell, before he could catch it, over the planks and down, down into the depths.

The scufflings stopped as it landed with a metallic bang somewhere far below. What an idiot he was! He’d completely forgotten
he even had the gun, and now …

“Oozat?”

A voice boomed up at him from the depths, and he froze, letting the echoes subside. There were a few seconds of silence; then
the sound of slow, purposeful footsteps.

Nick swallowed hard. Suddenly he felt sharply and brilliantly awake. He could see the bells glinting very slightly in the
moonlight. His mind was racing. The voice wasn’t his father’s. Below him was Coben, the man he’d been sent to shoot. Coben
knew someone was up here. And he was coming up to get him. Nick was suddenly convinced he was going to be killed. There were
only two ways down: to use the steps and meet Coben coming up, or to fall down the shaft to the platform forty, fifty feet
below. Still the hollow steps echoed up the tower, and the panting, more controlled, was getting nearer and nearer. If only
he hadn’t dropped the gun!

He couldn’t resist a brief glance out over the edge, between the bells, into the chasm. He saw nothing. But there was an almighty
crack
, and the whole tower seemed to tremble, and one of the bells gave out a sharp, buzzing ring. It took Nick a few seconds to
realize it had been a bullet. He flung himself back into the hole.

Coben was shooting at him. He’d probably picked up the gun as it fell at his feet. Now he was firing up at the bells, trying
to hit Nick.