Malachy said, ‘Jeb’s guilty, don’t worry about that.’
Magnus had dropped the poster when Paul hit him. He bent over, spotting it with blood, and picked it up. It was neatly printed in black marker pen.
TOMORROW
12.00 Noon
EXECUTION!
at TANQUERAY HOUSE
of MURDERER, CHILD-KILLER & ESCAPED CONVICT
JEB SOAMES
SUPPORT A RETURN TO LAW AND ORDER
A simple map and list of directions followed below.
Magnus spat a gob of blood and snot on to the grass. ‘You forgot to mention the refreshments.’
‘Father Wingate said you were a bit of a joker.’ Malachy patted Magnus on the back and steered him towards the house, keeping an arm around his shoulder as if they were old friends, enjoying a walk home at the end of a long, boozy lunch at which Magnus had been the booziest. ‘You used to be a comedian, didn’t you? I think I saw you once at the Hackney Empire. You were good.’
Magnus pulled free of Malachy’s grasp, resisting the urge to elbow him in the ribs. ‘I never played the Empire.’
‘Are you sure?’ Malachy’s face wrinkled. ‘I was certain it was there.’
Magnus tipped his head back, trying to staunch the blood. ‘Maybe you meant the Comedy Store. People often get them mixed up.’ The venues had been different in size, style and clientele and had been located in different districts of London.
‘That sounds right, the Comedy Store.’ The Irishman grinned. ‘You did a routine about not fitting in.’
All of Magnus’s routines had, in one way or another, been about his inability to fit in. But most comedy routines were. The trick was to make the audience believe you were both ordinary and extraordinary; a misfit-dynamo who held the stage feeding the absurdities of their lives back to them.
Magnus said, ‘On second thoughts it couldn’t have been the Comedy Store.’
‘No?’
‘No.’ Magnus gave him a fuck-you stare, still holding the blood-soaked hanky to his nose. ‘I never performed there either.’
Malachy was unfazed. ‘Ah well, I’m sure I saw you somewhere.’
The bleeding had almost stopped. Magnus spat on a corner of the hanky and attempted to clean the blood from his face. His nose and eyes were throbbing and he knew from experience that they would bruise. ‘What did you do before the sweats? No, don’t tell me.’ He held a hand to his forehead, as if he were receiving a telepathic message from another realm. ‘You were a double-glazing salesman.’
‘I was a lawyer.’
‘I’m guessing you worked for the prosecution.’
‘You’re wrong about that too. I always stood for the defence. I spent decades keeping villains like your friend Jeb out of jail. I guess they took their toll.’
‘So now you’ve decided to become judge, jury and executioner.’
‘We’ll draw lots to decide who carries the burden of the actual act.’ Malachy turned to face Magnus. They were almost at the house but the steady sound of hammering followed them, like nails going into a coffin. ‘I know you think I’m a manipulating bastard who sees this crisis as an opportunity to grab some power—’
Magnus interrupted him. ‘I couldn’t have put it better, except I wouldn’t have used the word crisis. Cataclysm is closer to the mark.’
Malachy put his hands in his pockets and walked across the gravel where the line of motorbikes was parked. ‘You’re right, cataclysm is a better word. The sweats were a cataclysm which has imposed a level of equality on everyone. We’re all bereaved and we’re all frightened. Everyone has lost their sense of purpose. Those of us who were in the cities have all experienced lawlessness and most, with the exception of those hoping to profit from it, recognise the danger of anarchy.’
Magnus said, ‘Killing Jeb will be murder. An illegal act can’t signal a return to law.’
They had reached the house. One of the pups was lounging in the shade, its tongue hanging out. Its tail gave a couple of weary beats and it shut its eyes. Malachy sat on the stone steps that led up to the front door.
‘I disagree. Whatever that man told you, he is guilty of killing the woman and her child and probably of killing the priest. Okay, there are hundreds — thousands more people who have committed equally horrible crimes during the sweats. We can’t punish them all, but we can punish Jeb Soames. Public execution is an extreme measure, but it will serve as a warning to others and a rallying call to the districts around here to unite. Ultimately it will save lives.’
Magnus sat on the step beside Malachy. It was the kind of day his mother described as heaven-sent. The sky was hung with cottony clouds that put Magnus in mind of white sails against a calm sea. Swifts reeled and swooped, performing Spitfire antics above the lawn, and promiscuous bees hummed as they pressed themselves into flower after flower. He touched his nose gently with his fingertips. It was tender and his nostrils felt crusted with blood, but the bleeding had stopped. ‘You’re forgetting that capital punishment isn’t legal in this country.’
‘Not under normal circumstances, but these are not normal circumstances. Execution also has the virtue of being popular. It may not have been legal before the sweats, but people wanted it.’
‘You’re as mad as the old priest. He believes sacrificing Jeb will appease God.’
Malachy leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. ‘I’m not a spiritual person, but Father Wingate is expressing through religion exactly the same argument I’ve just put to you.’
Magnus stared towards the drive. The avenue of trees was still and bound in shadows. Rooks cawed in their upper branches, black-coated and out of sorts, like puritans distressed by the festive weather.
‘You spent years defending people, now you’re about to kill a man who maintains his innocence. Don’t you have any doubts at all?’
Malachy looked off into the middle distance. ‘The time for doubts is past.’ He got to his feet, scuffing the palms of his hands together, as if they were dusty. ‘Father Wingate said you and Jeb met in jail. What were you in for?’
Magnus had half expected the question. He said, ‘I tried to save a woman from being attacked. It got messy and the police picked me up. It was just after the sweats took hold. Special measures were in place and I got thrown in Pentonville without a trial.’
‘Quite a string of bad luck. Some might say an unbelievable string of bad luck.’ Malachy tossed Magnus a set of keys. ‘I heard you were headed north.’ He nodded to the row of motorbikes standing outside the house. ‘These are for the Honda on the left. I imagine you want to hit the road as soon as possible.’
‘Are you telling me to leave?’
‘I’m telling you to be careful. You don’t want to end up in the same situation as your friend.’
Magnus said, ‘He’s not my friend.’
‘So why are you defending him?’
‘I don’t know.’ Magnus watched the swifts’ quick climbs, their sharp turns and swoops. No matter how many there were, cutting through the air, they never collided. ‘A friend of mine once wrote me a letter. It said, Life isn’t worth living once you realise the world is hollow. Maybe I’m scared of finding out what he meant.’
Forty
The Honda took the country roads’ winds and bends with ease. Magnus had left Tanqueray House with just the clothes he was wearing and the rush of air felt cool and reckless against his bare arms and head. He remembered what Raisha had told Belle about homes with children being easy to spot and tried to imagine the kind of house that would contain what he was in search of. It would be an old countryman’s cottage, he decided, somewhere neatly painted with a kitchen garden out back and a variety of prize roses out front. He had noticed a likely house, not far from the cemetery, on the way back from burying Jacob. An elaborate model of a sailing ship in full rig sat in its front window. It was the kind of object Magnus had coveted as a boy and he had been tempted to break in and steal it for auld lang syne. The ship had suggested more than his island childhood: it spoke of masculinity, order and patience.