The Winter Rose (38 page)

"He'll pop that bleedin' thing while you're walking toward him.
That's what he did to me. Told me he just wanted to talk, tucked the
bloody thing under his arm, and then whoosh! The flash goes off and he
got me. Let him get a picture and you're done for. Right now he's got no
proof of anything. The beaks didn't take any names. But if he gets your
photograph he's at least got proof you were standing on Dean Street,
roughed up and blood-ied. It won't look good for Lytton. Not one bit."

"Why do you suddenly care so about Freddie, Mr. Malone? He doesn't
care about you. He's trying to put you in jail with all possible haste."

"I don't care," he said, looking away from her searching gray eyes. "Not about Freddie."

"Malone! Just give me a minute!"

"If you can go another few yards, I can get us out of here."

"All right."

They ran to the end of Dean Street, where Sid suddenly pulled India
into the doorway of a squat brick house. The door to the ground-floor
flat opened as they pounded down the hallway. An old woman stuck her
head out. Her milky eyes focused on Sid, then lit up.

"Hello, luv!" she said. "Looking a bit breathless, you are. Needin' me cellar?"

"I am, Sally."

"Come on, then."

She led them to the small, dingy kitchen at the back of the house and
opened a door. A flight of steps led down from it into darkness.

"I owe you, Sal," Sid said, kissing her wrinkled cheek.

"You owe me nothing. Raysie sends his regards. Lamp's on the shelf."

Sid grabbed a small miner's lamp and fumbled with a box of matches. They all heard a loud battering from the front of the house.

The old woman sighed. She reached past Sid and took down a heavy iron frying pan from a shelf. "Who's it this time?" she asked.

"Newspapers."

"Diabolical, they are. Worse than the rozzers." She patted his cheek. "You take care of yourself."

"And you, Sally," Sid said. The lamp was glowing now. Sally waited
un-til they were down the stairs then shut the door behind them.

"Mind yourself," Sid said, leading India across the dank, low-ceilinged room. He stopped in front of a battered armoire.

India hesitated. "We're not hiding in there, are we?" she asked. "It's just that it's rather small, and..."

"And what? Our elbows might touch?"

"No, that's not it. That's not it at all. I just ...I..."

"Let's go. We've no time for chatting," Sid said. He pushed aside
some moldering dresses and an ancient mackintosh. India gasped when she
saw what they'd hidden--a narrow passageway.

"Bend low," Sid told her, climbing into the wardrobe. When he was in
the passageway, he reached back for her. When she'd climbed through, he
pulled the wardrobe's door shut from the inside and put the clothes back
as they were.

"It's a bit of a slog--maybe ten or twelve streets from where we are now--but at least we won't have to run it," he said.

India looked wide-eyed at the passageway. Sid followed her gaze,
taking in the sodden walls, dripping with rainwater and, worse, the low
earth ceiling with its shroud of cobwebs, and the rutted, puddled
ground. Denny Quinn had told him about this tunnel. No one knew who'd
built it or why.

"Take hold of me jacket and stick close. Ground's a bit treacherous."

"Where are we going?"

"East."

"What about Devlin? What if he follows us?"

"No worries. He won't get past Sally. She's dead accurate with that frying pan."

"How do you know her?"

Sid didn't reply. He was fiddling with the lamp as he walked. There
was plenty of kerosene in the base, but the wick was dodgy. It was
flickering. They had a long walk ahead of them and he wanted the light
to last. There were things in the tunnel that didn't like light.

India tried another question. "Who's Raysie?"

"Sal's old man," he said.

"Where is he?"

"Dying."

"Dying? In the flat? Let's go back. Perhaps I could help him."

"In the hospital. Stomach cancer."

"Which hospital?"

"Bart's."

"That's one of the best."

"So I've heard."

Another pause, then, "You're paying his bills, aren't you?"

"What's that to you?"

She was about to reply when she stumbled. At the same time there was a
terrible, high-pitched squeaking. Sid heard her gasp, felt her hands
clutch at his back.

"You didn't say there were rats!" she cried.

"I thought it best not to. Are you afraid of them?"

"No." He heard her swallow--hard. Then, "Yes. Yes, I am. And tunnels. I'm claustrophobic."

Sid sighed. "Now you tell me."

"I tried earlier, but you wouldn't let me!"

"Look, just forget you're in a tunnel, all right? Pretend you're walking on the street. Don't think about it."

"What about the rats?"

"They're more frightened of you than you are of them."

"I don't think so."

He was surprised by her admission of fear, by her sudden
vulnerability. It softened his angry feelings toward her. He reached for
her hand and squeezed it, and was surprised to feel her squeeze back.
He tried to get her talking again, thinking it might distract her. He
told her he thought he would have the supplies she wanted soon. He asked
about her clinic and if she was any closer to opening it.

"You're trying to keep my mind off the rats, aren't you?"

"You've seen right through me." He hurried his pace, pulling her
after him. The bloody wick was playing up and they weren't even halfway
through the tunnel.

"Tell me something about yourself. It's only fair," India said. "I
told you about my family, my studies, everything, when you were in the
hos-pital. Now it's your turn. Quid pro quo, remember? I'll start you
off. Where were you born?"

Sid said nothing.

"East London by the sound of your voice. What were your parents like?
One of them must have had red hair. According to Mendel's laws, at
least.

Mendel was the first geneticist, you know. He studied the inherited traits of peas."

"I'm not a pea, missus."

"I realize that, but all living things contain genetic material and
share it when they reproduce. Was it your mother? Did she have red
hair?"

Sid said nothing. But he was pleased to see the tunnel snake to the left--the turning was the halfway point.

"Do you have any brothers? Sisters? No?" India pressed. "Did you have
a dog when you were a child? Cats? A budgerigar?" She sighed, then
said, "This isn't fair! I talked to you when you were in the hospital,
now you should talk to me."

When he still didn't reply, she said, "You're angry with me, aren't you? Look, I'm sorry. I really am. Please don't be."

"I'm not. I just don't like talking about meself."

"No, I meant that I'm sorry for earlier. At the jail. You tried to
help me. You did help me, and I behaved badly in return. I can't imagine
how angry Freddie would have been if I'd gotten myself into the papers.
I owe you my gratitude, Mr. Malone."

"It's Sid. And you don't owe me anything. We're even."

"I don't understand."

"You saved me. Now I've saved you. We're quits."

"Yes. All right. Quits."

Was it his imagination, or was there a shade of regret in her voice?
He didn't have time to dwell on it because he'd seen movement up ahead.
On the ground. It seemed, in fact, as if the ground itself were moving,
but he knew it wasn't. He was just trying to figure out how to hide what
was coming from India when his problem was abruptly solved. The wick
guttered wildly, then went out. They were standing in total darkness.

"Please tell me that you know your way out of here," she said. "Please."

"I do. There's a bit of bother up ahead, though. A big puddle. Deep one. I'll have to carry you over it."

India was quiet for a few seconds, then she said, "There's not really a puddle, is there?"

Sid didn't answer. "You hold the lamp and I'll hold you. Ready?"

"We can't go back?"

"I'd wager any amount of money that Devlin's waiting right outside Sal's door."

"All right, then. I'm ready."

There was a bit of fumbling. Sid accidentally brushed India's bottom. "Sorry," he quickly said.

"It's all right," she replied.

Finally he got his arms under her and lifted her off the ground. She
was light. As light as a child. She put her arms around his neck and he
could smell the scent of her--lavender, starch, and sweat.

"It's not much farther," he said. "Once we get past the puddle."

"Talk to me, Sid. Please. Tell me something. Anything. You were a boy
once, weren't you? Tell me what you did. What games you played. Hoops?
Mumblety-peg? Croquet?"

"Aye, croquet. We played a lot of that in the East End. The cobbles make for a nice level playing field."

"You must have done something."

"I sat by the river," he finally said. "With me da. And me sister. Me
da would name all the boats. Tell us who built them. Where they'd been.
What they were carrying. He brought us things off them. Things he'd
nicked when the foreman wasn't looking. A bit of tea. A nutmeg.
Cinna-mon sticks."

He kept talking, hoping his voice would cover the squeaking and
scrab-bling. They were underfoot now. He was trying not to step directly
on any of them, but it was impossible. There were so many. He thought
that he must be walking directly through the largest rat colony in all
of London and was glad of his heavy boots.

"Oh, God, I can smell them," India said. "There must be dozens. Hundreds."

Her arms tightened around his neck. He could feel her trembling. She
leaned her head into his chest. He rested his cheek against it. "Almost
there. Almost out," he said.

And they were, though he didn't want to be. He wanted to stay like
this, with the sweet weight of her in his arms, with her needing him. He
wanted to keep walking with her, out of this unforgiving city, out of
his unforgiving life. He wanted to walk all through the night, then sit
with her somewhere radiant and beautiful in the morning. By the coast.
At the water's edge. Where the stiff salt breeze would blow away the
stench of his sins and the sea would wash him clean.

It was a mad notion and he quickly shook it off, though he didn't put
her down, not even when they were past the rats. He carried her all the
way to the end of the passage, placed her back on her feet, then said,
"Should be a door 'ere somewhere."

He started to feel the walls, his hands searching for the way out.
He'd had to find it blind before, when there had been no time for a
lantern. He remembered that it was narrow and low. His fingers finally
found a hollow, an opening dug into the dense London clay. He crouched
down and crawled forward. His head knocked into something hard and
curved--a wooden keg. He pushed it out of the way and light spilled into
the passage. He felt for India and pulled her through.

"Where are we?" she asked, blinking in the gaslight.

"Cellar of the Blind Beggar. A pub on the Whitechapel Road," he
an-swered, rolling the keg back into place. He turned back around, saw
her forehead, and grimaced.

"What is it?"

He took out a handkerchief and touched it to her wound. It had opened
up again and the cloth came away bloody. "Who doctors the doctor?" he
asked quietly.

"It's nothing," she said, taking the cloth and pressing it against her head.

"You didn't answer my question."

"The doctor doctors the doctor," she said wearily.

"When's the last time you ate?" Sid asked. Her hands were still trembling. There were dark smudges under her eyes.

"I don't know. Saturday morning, I think."

It was now Sunday evening. "Come on upstairs. I'm buying you supper."

"I couldn't. I've caused you enough trouble. I'll just find a cab--"

"And pass out on the way home, making it a doddle for the driver to
rob you blind. I think you should eat something before you go."

She surrendered. "All right then, Dr. Malone. I will."

They went upstairs. While India cleaned herself up as best she could,
Sid found a table in the pub's snug and ordered a pint of porter and a
Cum-berland mash, twice. India tried to decline the ale and order tea
instead, but Sid wouldn't let her.

"There's no goodness in it," he said. "Drink the porter."

She was looking worse by the minute. He feared she might collapse if
she didn't get some food. He'd chosen the table closest to the pub's
hearth. A fire burned in it. It was twilight now and the evening had
turned cool. He hoped the heat would do her good. Their drinks arrived.
India sipped hers, then took several deep, hungry gulps. She put the
glass down and looked around awkwardly. The intimacy they had shared in
the darkness, the feeling of the words coming so easily, was gone and an
uncomfortable silence had taken its place. She was the first to break
it.

"Thank you for the drink. And for bringing me here. It's good to sit."

"Rough night?"

"Very."

"What happened?"

India told him everything. When she finished, she said, "It was very
odd. The four or five women who started it all, they didn't look like
prostitutes. And I didn't see them again afterward. In jail, I mean.
They weren't ar-rested."

"Sounds like a staged job. Somebody wanted to break up the rally,
maybe make the speakers look bad, so he paid someone to start trouble.
Maybe the rozzers as well. Donaldson and his pack are as bent as a
hairpin."

"Who would do such a thing?"

Sid gave her a look. He wondered how anyone so smart could be so stu-pid. "Who was the big draw, luv?" he asked.

"Joseph Bristow. He's supposed to be running for the Tower Hamlets seat."

"And who stands to gain if Bristow's made to look bad?"

"I don't know."

Sid rolled his eyes.

"Who?" India asked.

"Lord Freddie, maybe?"