Eighteen

Most of the previous night was a blur for Silas, tumbling memories glimpsed through clouded thoughts and mist-soaked streets. He remembered Archer’s kind face distorted in pain at what Silas showed him. He was standing in places where his kind died, thinking of them, opening himself up to accept the horror of what happened as he saw the last things they had seen; impenetrable walls, closed windows, no way out. The ghosts of dead friends were at his feet while Archer offered him an escape, protection, his love.

It had been wrong. Why should he single out Silas from the hundreds of others who needed safety? What could Silas have that the viscount found appealing? Why him?

Unable to cope with the weight of the man’s kindness, and terrified by his own reaction to it, he ran. He couldn’t be near Archer. He needed his own space to think, away from the stench of death and confines of the man’s overwhelming friendship. The viscount had given him a way out, and much as Silas dreamt of such a thing, when it was offered it came with a condition; that he should make himself Archer’s. It also came with a kiss that sealed the deal. Stay with him, and there would be many more. Give himself to the viscount, and he would want for nothing. He could leave the East End. He could have everything he wanted.

It was too much.

From then on, the images became more shattered. He scaled the yard wall, stumbled through the ginnel behind, lost himself and his direction in the twisting alleys strewn with fliers and posters calling for an end to the terror. Silas had his end in sight with a titled gentleman and a life of luxury, but he ran from it. Through the streets, avoiding the gangs spreading their own fear, under the railway bridges, past The Ten Bells where the nightly revelry rang out and the hurdy-gurdy played, its out of tune melody clanging from the barrel like death chimes.

He fled to Molly at the rope-house, somewhere familiar, somewhere to remind him of who he was. He found her slumped over her table, an empty gin bottle in her hand, out cold. Children had rifled her pockets and the money drawer, and the rope-room was a riot of angry voices and heavy men dragging screaming women away from the warmest bench. He ran from there, penniless and alone and kept running until he stood exhausted opposite the coffin shop in Cheap Street. A new sign in the window read, “Coffins 4/d a night.” Even the undertakers had taken to renting to those more desperate.

This was not living. He had come to the city with ambitions to succeed and provide for his sisters, but how could he do that?

The answer was simple. Accept Archer’s offer. Had it been purely a business transaction there would have been no debate, but Archer wasn’t offering money for sex. He was offering love and all that came with it.

No-one could love Silas, and, as the bells of Christ’s Church chimed the half hour — it could have been one o’clock or half-past two, he had lost track of time — the only thing he could think of was finding Fecker. Security, sensible advice and a warm body to hold. Fecks was all he needed.

They had two meeting places, the undertaker’s shop and the corner of Bishop’s Square where, in the early evening, the church sometimes gave out mugs of lukewarm soup. When they were alone, but looking for the other, they passed these places or waited at them and invariably they would meet. There was no time, no plan. You didn’t make plans in this life, but Silas knew that Fecker would be waiting for him there.

When he emerged from one of the tunnelled alleys leading to the tiny square, however, he knew instantly he’d been wrong. There was no evidence, no-one was screaming Fecker’s name, he didn’t see the face, only a long body draped in a blood-soaked blanket, but that was enough. Through the police whistles and the baying crowd, he heard his worst fear confirmed. ‘Looked Russian.’ ‘Bloody Jew, deserves it.’ ‘Just another molly-boy.’

After that, his memory faded until he was by the river, shivering and crying. Next, he was in the water, the mud sucking at his feet. He had nearly gone all the way and would have done, but for thoughts of his sisters.

He last saw them in the doorway of the tenement in Westerpool, one either side of the severe cousin who, under protest, agreed to house them until Silas returned with means to repay her. He had two pounds in his pocket, saved from weeks of labouring and hidden beneath floorboards until the day arrived. He remembered Ellie with the orange and pictured his sisters in her place. His last words to them were a promise he had yet to fulfil, and one he never would unless…

He shed his last tear of self-pity while huddled foetal beneath Iron Bridge, wet and freezing and watching the curtain of drizzle beyond the arch. He knew what he needed to do, and to do it should have been simple. ‘No contest,’ as Fecks would have put it. He cried for his friend and the memory of the body beneath the blanket exploded from him in uncontrollable tears that left him hollow. It was all he was. An empty shell of a boy who sold his body to feed his mouth.

It was worse. His soul gaped like a bottomless pit, and yet a man was standing over it, poised to fill it with the affection it craved. All he had to do was accept.

‘You’re so full of pride, Silas Hawkins,’ he said, wiping his eyes. ‘You’d let your sisters die because of it.’

He pulled himself to his feet, weak from hunger, his flesh burning from the cold. He needed help, and in the whole of the seething mass of humanity that fought for survival around him, there was only one place he would find it. He had an opportunity. Unlike Micky-Nick and Alex Chiltern, he had a way out if he could accept its conditions; to allow himself to be loved, not used; to break the bars of pride that caged him and to admit the truth.

He had fallen for Archer the second he had laid eyes on him, but was too stubborn to admit that it was possible to be loved in return.

Fecks had loved him.

Silas howled at his loss as he left the archway and stumbled crying through Limedock. Fecks would have told him to find help. ‘Be you, Banyak,’ he would have said. ‘No proud, only happy.’

The rest of the night was an endless trudge of wet streets, persistent drizzle and unfamiliar places. He knew the direction, but not the way, and when dawn broke somewhere above the low-hanging cloud, he was in the West End. At one point he was being chased. He’d stolen from a stall, an apple to stave off the pain in his stomach. It reminded him of Fecks, and he couldn’t eat it. Daylight came, but brought no security. He was as vulnerable among the wealthy of the west as he was the poor of the east, dodging policemen, avoiding eye contact, passers-by and workers giving him a second glance, because he didn’t fit in. He ignored them. He had nothing left as he searched the cleaner streets and mews desperate to recognise a building, a name, a tree until, half-starved, soaked and shaking, he staggered into the yard behind Clearwater House and collapsed.

Suddenly he was in a bed. There was light at a curtained window and a man silhouetted against it, strong and in command. Archer tried to speak gentle words, but Silas raved about Fecker and fought back until a second pair of hands held him.

He didn’t know this other man, but he talked quietly and with authority until Silas gave in, exhausted. His vision was clear, but his mind cloudy as the doctor examined him, and Archer stood at the foot of the massive bed looking on in thought. He smiled when Silas caught his eye, but the kindness reminded him how he had treated the man, and he had to look away.

‘Not much of a bump, but enough,’ the doctor declared after examining Silas’ head. He thought he heard him whisper, ‘No lice,’ and, a little later, ‘No sign of disease,’ but the words were spoken away from him. Chubby, gentle hands examined every inch of Silas’ body, and he allowed it with dispassionate interest like an injured dog resigned to its fate. He felt no embarrassment, only gratitude that the bed was warm, the clothes he had been put in were dry, and the doctor knew what he was about.

‘The lad’s exhausted,’ the doctor declared, having listened to Silas’ chest for the third time. ‘Can’t detect any consumption. Heartbeat normal, no temperature, possibly hypothermia, but mild. Decent physical condition, considering.’ He stood away from the bed and handed Archer a folded paper from his bag. ‘Give him a little of this if he becomes agitated, but in my opinion, Clearwater, all he needs are decent meals and good sleep.’

Both sounded ideal to Silas, and he fought to keep his eyes open as the doctor laid him down and gently pulled up the covers. It was a simple gesture that took him back to his earliest memories of his mother, but in this case, he was alone in the bed, not sharing it with others.

Out of earshot, Archer spoke at length to the doctor by the window. Thomas appeared, and the doctor was shown out as the woman in black arrived bringing a bowl of thin soup and some bread. When she left, Silas was alone with Archer. There was much he wanted to say, and he began babbling as soon as the door was closed.

‘Quietly.’ Archer hushed him, sitting beside him and smiling with sympathetic eyes. ‘Did you hear Doctor Quill? Eat, rest and sleep. We shall talk later.’

‘Fecker…’

‘There has been no definite news.’

‘I saw him.’ The horrific vision turned his stomach.

‘What did you see, exactly?’

A stream of words poured from Silas’ mouth as he related what had happened. He told Archer exactly what he remembered seeing, while interspersing his facts with apologies and remorse. Archer held the bowl and spooned him hot broth that warmed his insides, and made him drink a bitter liquid from a small glass, all the time calming him and promising to help. Tears that came unbidden were wiped away by the viscount’s caring fingers, until Silas, empty of words, felt the irresistible pull of sleep.

‘You need to rest,’ the viscount repeated, and the last thing Silas saw, was Thomas entering the room and standing huddled with Archer deep in conversation.

‘Find me something suitable, would you?’ Archer asked, and Thomas followed him into his dressing room.

‘It will be dark in a few hours, Sir.’

‘I know, but I shan’t hang around. Quill has given me a letter of introduction. I shall be no more than two hours at most.’

‘I wish you would let me come with you.’

Thomas opened drawers and laid out what he thought his master would need while Archer stripped to his underclothes.

‘I’m not taking you back there,’ he said. ‘I told you as much. You will be of assistance to me here. Stay with Silas even while he sleeps, but try and wake him around five.’

‘If you’re sure you will be safe?’

‘Of course, I will,’ Archer snapped back. He immediately pulled himself up. ‘My apologies.’

‘Not at all, Sir. We are having something of a stressful week.’

‘Hell, Tom,’ Archer said, grinning playfully. ‘You sound more like Tripp every day.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Thank me?’ Archer laughed as he pulled on a pair of breeches. ‘You want to end up like that?’

‘It is my ambition to become a butler, Sir, yes.’

‘And you will, Tom.’ Archie buttoned his fly. ‘You will be my butler, I hope, but please, take the position as you, not as a relic from my father’s day. We are a new generation. We have advancements, we have new technology. The phonograph, the telegraph and a device that allows one man to speak to another across distances, nothing my father would have understood or accepted. And that reminds me. As soon as I return I will need to know if there has been an afternoon post.’

‘Very good.’ Thomas handed him a sweater. ‘Would this do for your journey?’

‘My word, I’d forgotten about that. Will it still fit?’

It was a crew jumper Archer had kept from his navy days and, surprisingly, it fitted well.

‘You are expecting important news, Sir?’

‘I am, Tommy, and it concerns us all. I will tell you in good time, but for now, I need a jacket. Not too fancy, not too ostentatious, something down to earth.’

Thomas found a suitable garment and helped Archer into it. ‘I’d suggest a warm coat and perhaps a bowler, rather than the top hat.’

‘Do I possess one?’

‘I can lend you mine. It’s downstairs.’

Now dressed, Archer regarded himself in the full-length mirror. ‘What do I look like?’

‘To me? Like an unshaven Billingsgate fishmonger but without his apron,’ Thomas replied.’ ‘Well, you did ask,’

‘Thank you, but the question was rhetorical.’

‘My apologies, Sir.’

‘Thomas,’ Archer said, turning to him. ‘You never have to apologise for anything. But, you do have to do a few more things for me that are beyond the usual scope, but not beyond the pale.’

Thomas nodded gravely.

Archer rattled off a list of instructions, none of which fazed Thomas in the slightest. In fact, they polished his smooth features with pride.

‘I will be back as soon as I can,’ Archer said, striding back into the bedroom.

‘You did say only two hours.’

‘I don’t know how long this will take, Tom.’ He stopped to look on Silas, sleeping soundly on his side. ‘I will aim to meet with you and Silas around seven. The draught wasn’t too heavy, but if he sleeps on, so much the better. However, if you can wake him and he is able, have him ready. The sooner I get this matter off my chest the better it will be for everyone.’ He paused at the door. ‘One last thing. You’re to treat him as any other guest.’ With that, he was gone.

Silas woke to the sound of running water. He was drowsy, and it took a while for him to focus, but when he did, he slid up in the bed and remembered where he was.

‘Hello?’ he called. ‘Archer?’

Thomas appeared at the bathroom door, his jacket off and his sleeves rolled.

‘Mr Hawkins, you are awake,’ he said, pointlessly.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Running you a bath, Sir.’ Thomas glanced into the bathroom and back at Silas. ‘Mrs Baker brought you some grapes,’ he nodded to the table near the window, and then to the armchair. ‘And, once bathed, you are to put on those.’

‘Where’s Archie?’

Thomas stiffened. ‘His Lordship is out on business,’ he said. ‘But we have instructions.’

‘We? When’s he back?’

‘I am unable to say. You are to take a bath, dress and be ready for His Lordship by seven. If you would like, Lucy could cut your hair. Rooms have been prepared for you, and I would suggest we move you there as soon as possible. Your presence in His Lordship’s bed is perhaps acceptable in a time of crisis, but now you appear recovered… You understand, Sir?’

‘I do, Tommy. Do you have to call me Sir?’

‘Yes.’ Thomas glanced again to the bath.

‘And what should I call Archie?’

‘Anything but that. Excuse me.’ Thomas vanished into the bathroom, and the water stopped running. He returned a moment later trailing steam. ‘Your bath is prepared.’

Had he not been so upset about Fecker, Silas would have laughed. A footman running a bath for him and announcing that it was ready as if was the throne before a coronation? Never in his wildest dreams.

Silas jerked in shock. ‘Where’s my clothes?’

‘They were burned.’

‘Burned?’

‘I had to do it before they fled of their own accord.’

Silas was in no mood for jokes. ‘And my coat?’

‘That too.’

His face crumpled before the tears rained hot on his cheeks.

‘What is it?’ Thomas took a step closer.

‘You burnt the only things I own,’ Silas said, sniffing back the shock.

‘Your money is safe,’ Thomas assured him. ‘But there was no saving even your coat. I am sorry if this upsets you.’

It wasn’t Thomas’ fault, Silas supposed. He wasn’t to know.

‘I did, however, keep this.’ Thomas sat beside him and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a pebble. It was a perfectly round piece of rock, black and white in equal swirling measures.

Silas snatched it from his hand, coveting it.

‘I sensed it might be of some sentimental value,’ Thomas said.

Silas nodded, unable to speak until he had swallowed hard and taken a few deep breaths.

‘This is the only thing I own,’ he said. ‘Not bothered about the clothes, but this and my hat… Fecker gave them to me. I suppose I lost the hat last night sometime. Thought I’d lost this. I know it’s only a stone.’

He looked up from it to Thomas whose eyes had moistened.

The footman stood. ‘Can I be of any more assistance?’ he asked.

‘I’ll be alright, Tommy,’ Silas replied, swinging his legs from the bed. ‘Thanks, yeah? For this.’ Thomas said nothing. ‘Tell you what, though. A haircut sounds like good…’

Silas crumpled to the floor as soon as he stepped on it.

Thomas was by his side in an instant, helping him to his feet and sitting him on the bed.

‘Be careful, Mr Hawkins,’ he said. ‘You are not yet fully recovered.’

‘Thanks, mate.’ Silas’ head thumped, and he thought he would bring up the broth, but the room slowly stopped spinning. ‘Maybe you could help me to the bath. I’ll be fine from there.’ Despite it all, he winked at Thomas. ‘Unless you want to join me.’

He didn’t get the reaction he was hoping for. Instead of being embarrassed and blushing in his appealing way, Thomas’ face flushed with fury.

‘Don’t speak like that here,’ he spat. ‘You have no idea of what a scandal would do to His Lordship. A maid only has to hear something like that for his entire house to come crashing down. You are here as his guest, not his whore.’

Silas was the one to blush. ‘It’s how I am,’ he mumbled, and tried to stand.

‘It must be how you were. Here.’ Thomas took his arm. ‘Silas,’ he said, breaking etiquette. ‘Archer is in love with you, and you know it. It’s not my business to know yours, but it is to know his. If you have no feelings for him, dress and leave. But if you care about the man, you will take a bath and do as you’re told. Either way, you’re here because he cares about you and I’m here for the same reason.’ He cleared his throat and spoke professionally. ‘Now, Sir, if you are ready, shall I help you dress and show you out? Or will you accept His Lordship’s hospitality?’

Silas fixed Thomas with an inquisitive stare before the wrinkles of his forehead flattened, and his lips crept into a smile.

‘Assist me to the bath, if you would, my good man.’ He put on what he considered an educated voice.

‘As you wish.’

Thomas helped him across the room, but Silas stopped by the table. ‘Oh, and, Thomas?’ he said, his faux accent strengthening. ‘Bring the grapes.’

Thomas tugged him onwards and adopted his home accent. ‘Oi, nipper. Don’t push your luck.’