The rehearsal was a frustrating and nerve-racking experience for Jack. And it wasn’t because A Comedy of Errors was going to be performed for the mainly undiscerning citizens of Newcastle. He had decided to take Catherine’s and Bessie’s advice and go and see Axwell – he knew there was no chance of seeing the sheriff – and try and persuade him to act. What had added to the urgency of this thankless task was Courtney’s appearance at the dressing room door. If Courtney had overheard the conversation, he would take one of two courses of action. Firstly, get his man to kill Jack and do it quickly or, secondly, make sure the man got out of town before the law could lay hands on him.
The rehearsal was going badly and therefore slowly. Jack was worried enough about meeting Axwell again without having to put off the evil moment because Miss Puce kept forgetting her words and the deaf Mr Thrapp kept missing his cues. Tempers boiled over. Courtney shouted at Miss Puce, who burst into tears. Mrs Trump came to her defence and bawled some unladylike obscenities at Courtney. Much to Jack’s irritation, Bessie joined in on Courtney’s behalf and made her feelings for Mrs Trump abundantly clear.
Surprisingly, it was Mr Southby who restored order by stamping a large, podgy foot on the stage. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, cease this unseemly squabbling. We have a performance to give tonight! Is this the best that we can do?’ The combatants fell into an embarrassed silence. ‘Besides, I have not had a single ale this day, so can we hurry up and finish?’ This brought light relief, though Jack could see that Southby was in earnest.
It was after a courage-inducing drink that an uncertain Jack made his way down The Side to the Guildhall. The street was packed, and Jack kept shooting anxious glances in all directions just in case the one-eyed man was about. If he was desperate, he could strike at any moment. Then, on the opposite side of the street, he saw someone staring at him, or so it seemed. Jack hurried on, hugging the houses on his side. He almost choked when a hand grabbed his collar and hauled him back as he was in mid-stride. He was yanked into a narrow chare. Too panic-stricken to call out for help, he waited for the cold steel to rip through his flesh. Unceremoniously, he was swung round to face his assailant. The hulking figure of Hodsock stood menacingly over him.
‘Your two days are up. Mr Thirsk wants his money.’ At least he didn’t beat about the bush. In all the business of Courtney’s nasty, cyclopean friend, Jack had pushed Thirsk down his list of priorities. Now he had suddenly jumped to the top.
‘Honestly, I haven’t had time to raise the sum. Thirsk knows that.’
Hodsock’s massive hand grabbed Jack about the neck, lifted him off his feet and pressed him back against the wall, where he hung as limply as an empty sack.
‘Methinks you didn’t hear what I said.’
‘I did,’ gasped Jack, who could hardly breathe.
‘Well?’ said Hodsock drawing his other arm back, his fist curling into the business-end of a cudgel.
Jack, unable to speak, flapped his hands frantically like a flustered bird. He hoped Hodsock would read the sign and put him down. Hodsock momentarily looked puzzled, then released his grip. Jack slid down the wall into an awkward sitting position. He massaged his throat and fought for air.
‘Well?’ repeated the big man, who now lowered himself onto his haunches so a huge knee was inches from Jack’s face.
Taking deep lungfuls of breath, Jack managed to say, ‘I do not have the money.’
Hodsock’s fist smashed into the side of his head, sending him juddering along the wall. Pain seared through his body and he wanted to cry out. Hodsock’s giant hand wrenched his head back so he was once more looking straight into the massive, ugly face, which must have been hewn from granite.
‘Well?’ Jack had to admire his persistency even if the monosyllabic question was becoming rather repetitive.
Jack held up a hand to restrain any further blows. ‘Wait.’ He could feel his left eye swelling and wetness on his upper lip. He wiped it off with his cuff; it was blood from his nose. ‘I have something for your master which is of much greater value than the sum I owe.’ Jack could see Hodsock was unconvinced. He fumbled in his pocket and brought out Bowser’s precious snuffbox. Uncertainly, he presented it to the big man.
In Hodsock’s plate-like palm it appeared small but, as his eyes twinkled at the sight of the diamonds and the gold, even to this tough nut it was obvious that it was worth a great deal. ‘As I say, ’tis worth more than I owe. Let us say it is a gift from me to him.’
Hodsock nodded approvingly and put the snuffbox in his pocket. Once more, a great hand reached for Jack’s neck. He automatically turned away to reduce the force of the blow. But it never came. Hodsock hauled Jack roughly to his feet and even started to dust him down. ‘I hope I haven’t hurt you.’
One minute he’s altering my appearance and now he’s apologising, meek as a lamb! Not that Jack was about to quibble. Jack wiped his nose with his handkerchief. ‘Think nothing of it. It was a mere misunderstanding.’
Hodsock gave Jack a shuddering slap on the shoulder. ‘A misunderstanding,’ he said cheerfully. And with another incredulous ‘a misunderstanding’, his bruising frame lumbered its way back into the throng.
Jack gingerly touched the throbbing bump at the corner of his left eye. He had always believed that the world should live at peace with itself and he could never understand man’s obsession with violence. If you were stupid enough for that sort of thing, you could enlist in the army or navy and engage an obvious enemy. He would never think of attacking anybody, yet since his arrival in Newcastle, through no fault of his own as far as he could see, the local thugs seemed to be going out of their way to knock the living daylights out of him. Did he have a personality problem? Or maybe this was how the inhabitants of the town whiled away their idle moments. And now he had to persuade another local oaf, Axwell, to make an arrest.