Jack left Bowser slumped in his chair by the fading fire. He put up with the drink-sodden snorts and snores for ten minutes before deciding he could slip away.
The cold night air came as a jolt. A thick blanket of snow lay on the steps and what little he could see of the street. Wave after white-speckled wave swept down from the dark above and soon his hat and coat were covered. He tried to hurry on, his feet crunching deep footprints into the virgin snow. And he was carrying yet another worry with him – the snuffbox. What on earth was he going to do with it? As he had watched Bowser sleeping, it had crossed his mind to flit Newcastle the next day; London perhaps. There he could sell it; that would set him up nicely. He would have escaped Thirsk, Bowser, and Courtney and his murderous henchmen – and come out of it with a handsome profit. But one squint at Bowser’s portrait above the fireplace had changed his mind. Bowser had business connections in London and heaven only knows where else. He was the type to have him sought out. Jack would be forever glancing over his shoulder. One day or night he would be found and left dead in some alleyway, or floating in the Thames with his throat cut. He could try disappearing abroad. With the war on, that was even more dangerous. No, he would have to stick it out for a week or so. At least that would give him time to formulate a safer escape plan. However, that didn’t solve the immediate Thirsk problem.
So preoccupied had he been that he suddenly realised he hadn’t turned right at the Pilgrim Gate, but had carried straight on. He found himself in the centre of the town. The snow flurries, now on blizzard scale, blinded him and he became totally disorientated. He took refuge in a shop doorway so he could find his bearings. Within a few minutes, the snow began to thin out and he prepared to venture back out into the street. He saw a man walking in his direction and was thinking of accosting him to ask the way back to Acorn’s when he froze. Though the man had a hat on and a coat pulled tight to his neck, there was no mistaking the eyes – or, to be more exact, eye. It was Courtney’s henchman. If he was spotted, he would be done for. He swung back into the doorway. His heart punched against his chest and his legs wobbled with fright. There was no way of escape.
What made him think of it at that moment he never knew. It was a trick Digges had played on him once. With his back to the street, he crossed his arms so that his left hand rested under his right armpit, while the right hand was wrapped round the right side of his neck. His hands started to move, tease and pinch. With his head bent low, the effect Digges had created was one of a passionate embrace with an unseen woman. Much to Digges’ amusement, it had totally fooled Jack, causing him some embarrassment because he thought he’d walked in on his mentor kissing and canoodling with one of his many admirers.
Jack could hear the man’s feet thudding rhythmically through the crisp snow. He drew level and Jack felt faint. ‘Wastin’ your money, bonny lad,’ the harsh voice called. ‘Too bloody cold to get it up!’ It was followed by a coarse laugh.
At that moment, Jack thought he was going to be sick. The muted footsteps carried on down the street. He leant his head against the door and gasped for breath. His whole body was shaking.
He had never been so frightened in his life, so why did he find himself inexorably drawn after the man whom he knew had already tried to have him killed? Was it instinct that made Jack follow him – albeit at a safe distance? Was it the realisation that by identifying this man he could find the evidence to convict Courtney and therefore fulfil his promise to Bessie? Was it simple self-preservation? If this man was caught, he could get Axwell off his back and he needn’t fear for his life every time he stepped onto the street. Or was it the knowledge that a quick conclusion to the murder case would mean a swift exit from this town that was causing him so much grief? Afterwards, he mulled over the all these reasons as, lying in bed, he sweated nervously over his rashness. In Christ’s name, the man could have turned round at any stage, and that could have been the end of Jack Flyford. It was too early to depart this life; he was only just starting to discover its plentiful pleasures, even if its present complications were rather overshadowing them.
He followed the man through a labyrinth of dark streets and left the town at Carpenter’s Tower. Jack realised he was in Sandgate because he recognised the huge, long, Dutch-looking frontage of the Keelman’s Hospital, though its most prominent feature, the impressive central clock tower, was lost to sight in the falling snow. Jack was worried that the man might see him in the open spaces in front of the hospital. Fortunately, he didn’t look back, and Jack saw him disappear into the higgledy-piggledy, hastily-built jumble of dwellings that housed Newcastle’s wretched poor and the hard, down-trodden, permanently blackened keelmen and their families. These slums were forever collapsing only to be quickly resurrected by unscrupulous builders who would once more stuff them full of people until they fell down again. Jack crept round the corner of a rickety wooden lean-to, and saw the silhouette of the man hesitate before the door of a tall, shabby building; the first of an uneven row of hovels. The man pushed the door open and was greeted by an apologetic flickering shaft of dingy light. Jack moved from behind the protection of the lean-to to get a better view. Then he suddenly pitched forward. There was a groan as Jack tried unsuccessfully to gain his footing. Flat on the ground, he rolled on his side – he had stumbled over a drunk who was completely covered in snow. The man in the doorway stopped. Jack buried his head in the snow like a child who thinks he can’t be seen because he himself cannot see.
The man took a step out into the street. ‘Who’s there?’ he barked.
This time, he knew he must react quickly. He raised his head slightly, making sure that his hat shielded his face and called: ‘Gi’ us a dwink,’ in his best drunken Geordie voice. ‘Me fwend an’ me wan a dwink.’
The man remained still for a moment, though to Jack it seemed like minutes. ‘Miserable sots,’ the man uttered, and entered the building.
Jack lay prone until the door closed. Then he stood up, dusted himself down and retreated to the corner of the lean-to. A candle was lit in a high upper room of the house. He decided to wait and see if the man was going to reappear.
He tried to keep himself as warm as possible. The snow stopped. He expected silence, but now he could hear the noise of the Sandgate – dogs barking; yells of cold and hungry children; the cries of women, in pain, in fear, in fleeting pleasure; drink-fuelled singing in the distance; and, close by, the even snores of the snow-covered drunk. About thirty long minutes later, the light in the window went out. Jack tensed himself for the door reopening. It didn’t. Now he knew where the man lived. In the previous half-hour, he had made mental notes of useful landmarks so, come daylight, he could find the place again.