Painting the Darkness by Robert Goddard

Author:Robert Goddard
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781407068336
Publisher: Transworld

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The cab dropped me in Long Acre, and I followed the driver’s directions to the Lamb and Flag. It was the worst of times to arrive: all the taverns and drinking-dens of Covent Garden were discharging their fuddled patrons on to the streets. Beneath lamp-posts, men pursued bar-rail differences in loud slurred voices. In gutters, drunks who had tripped on the pavement’s edge hauled themselves upright, cursing mankind. In dark alleyways, prostitutes struck terms with addled clients.

In the Lamb and Flag, the landlord and two broken-nosed assistants were persuading their last customers that it was time to leave. Of Thompson there was no sign. Behind the bar, a girl was washing her way through stacks of empty tankards. When I approached, she said, without looking up: ‘We’re closed.’

‘I was due to meet somebody here earlier. Perhaps you know him.’

‘Doubt it.’

‘His name’s Thompson. He’s lost an arm, so—’

A smile suddenly crossed her face, ‘Oh, Cap’n ’Arvey! ‘Course I knows ’im. ’E is popler t’night.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re the second bloke bin lookin’ for ’im. ’E sent the other one packin’.’

‘Thompson has been here, then?’

‘Only jus’ left. You must’a precious near passed ’im on the doorstep.’

‘Which way did he go?’

‘Lives Lambeth way, far as I know. Reckon ’e’ll be makin’ for Waterloo Bridge.’

I hurried into the street. If the barmaid was right, I might yet overhaul him. But, as soon as I struck out, I realized my difficulty. He might have taken any one of a dozen routes to the bridge. At the very first junction, I came to a halt, undecided which way to turn.

Then, as I peered down the narrow street to my left, I thought I saw him. A drunkard and his whore were approaching me, clutching each other as they staggered and swayed along the pavement. But surely … yes: beyond them, a one-armed man was flitting silently between the gas-lamps. I was about to shout after him when, suddenly, he vanished. He passed into the shadow between two lamps and did not emerge. Then another figure, whom I had noticed before, did the same. With a jolt of fear, I remembered that I might not be the only one looking for Thompson. I ran towards the space which had consumed them, my footfalls bouncing back at me from the shuttered buildings to right and left.

It was the entrance to a narrow alley. At its far end, I could see the glass roofs of Covent Garden Market. In the alley itself, empty crates and baskets stood in disordered stacks. And there was Thompson, threading his way along the straggling path between them.

‘Thompson!’

He stopped and turned round. ‘Who’s there?’ he demanded.

‘It’s me: Trenchard.’ I began to walk towards him.

He raised his arm in recognition. ‘Thought you weren’t goin’ to show up, old man.’

I was running headlong then, frantic to prove I had not foreseen what was about to occur. His hand was still raised, his face creased by a frown of puzzlement. He had started to walk back along the alley, he had passed a doorway to his left, he was no more than twenty yards from me.

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