‘What kinda man,’ he said, almost growling, ‘what kinda man shoots a dog?’
But he was talking to himself. The twins heard about two syllables of that voice and made a simultaneous decision, as twins often do, to run away as fast as their legs would carry them.
Twenty feet away Albert Garrick shifted position, pinioning Riley beneath him with the palm and fingers of one hand cradling the boy’s head, forcing it into the dirt, and one knee pressed hard into a nerve cluster on Riley’s spine. This hold would do, he decided, while he figured an on-the-hoof strategy.
Kill the girl and Riley is the general thing, he thought. Ideally the girl burns and Riley watches. But I do seem to be operating on my lonesome on account of the militia cowards fleeing. With the African down and the girl in chains, it is one on one. Man on boy. Perhaps it was always going to come down to this.
Garrick turned Riley’s head to make sure the boy could hear him. ‘Do you remember your training, son? Do you remember our snatch-the-book game?’
Riley was in no mood for the remembering of games. ‘Get off me, devil!’ he shouted. ‘Get away from Chevie.’
Garrick pressed harder with his knee. ‘This is important, boy. This could save her life. Do you remember that little game?’
Riley nodded curtly. He did remember. When they had dwelled in the Orient Theatre, books had been Riley’s only joy in life, as they transported him from the hell of being apprenticed to Albert Garrick. And, as a way to torture him further, Garrick would take whatever novel he happened to be favouring that week and place it on a small table on stage.
You can have your precious book, my son, he used to say. All you need to do is come through me.
So Riley, thus motivated, would charge his master over and over in an attempt to lose himself once more in the worlds of the penny dreadfuls or Sherlock Holmes. Initially Garrick rebuffed him almost casually, but with practice Riley’s attempts became more skilful and sly, until eventually one day he did make it past his master, only to find nothing on the table. The book had been magically spirited away from where it was supposed to be. How Garrick had laughed at that. How his eyes had teared with merriment.
‘That’s all it is,’ said Garrick now. ‘A little game of snatch-the-book. And the title of this little book is My Beloved Burns.’
With that, Garrick punched Riley full in the ear, stunning and disorientating the boy.
‘Better be nimble, son,’ said Garrick, and suddenly his weight was gone from Riley’s back.
Snatch-the-Book
Garrick strode briskly across the square towards the nearest oil lamp and lifted it down from its hook. In spite of all the falterings in this day, it seemed as though events would end on a positive note.
The witch and her familiar are dead. Hell has been banished. All hail the conquering Witchfinder.
But he was getting ahead of himself. The witch lived and the boy lived and they had overcome towering odds before.
So buck up, Alby, and do your celebrating after the show.
Half a dozen paces took him to the foot of the pyre, where he held the oil lamp aloft and projected his voice along Mandrake’s thoroughfare. ‘The gate of hell has been closed and to lock it forever all that needs doing is to burn the witch.’
If Garrick had been expecting a rousing cheer in reaction to his proclamation, then he was disappointed. The people of Mandrake had seen too many horrors and were dismayed at the thought of another. Yet none had the temerity to question Albert Garrick after all he had done.
To hell with all of you, thought Garrick. After all, this is chiefly for my own amusement.
And he hurled the lamp into the kindling at the base of the pyre.
‘Burn, witch!’ he said. ‘Burn.’
Riley got to his feet and staggered like an ale-sot. His ears rang like cathedral bells and there was a hot rod of pain in his jaw. He chose his hands to focus on and stared at them until the knuckles and nails were clear in his vision. When the ringing in his ears faded somewhat, the first sound he heard was the dry crackle of flames.
Snatch-the-book, he thought.
Riley steadied himself. When his feet would obey their orders, he turned to find Albert Garrick limbering up for a set-to, and behind him Chevie still tied to the stake, where she seemed to have been forever.
‘Come on, boy,’ said Garrick, cracking his knuckles as though he were about to attempt a tricky concerto, and not burn an innocent lass. ‘Let’s be having some sport. You don’t have all night.’
Riley, goaded and terrified, rushed into the battle like a rank amateur, hoping against hope that he could bowl the magician over and then …
And then what? Open those chains with your teeth?
But what choice did he have?
So Riley blundered in and Garrick swatted him aside simple as pie witho
ut hardly seeming to move.
‘That was so stupid,’ said Garrick. ‘I expected a ruse, but it was just stupidity. I taught you better than that.’
Riley turned himself round, cursing his own foolishness. Chevie would not be saved by blunderings. He must play it smart.
The flames took hold now in the kindling, spreading throughout the entire base of the pyre and reaching fiery fingers into the larger logs, which had been doused with oil and were eager to receive them.
Too quick, thought Riley. Too quick.
He attacked again, this time sliding in low, hoping for an upward strike against the inside of Garrick’s thigh or knee, but his former master sidestepped like a matador, then, grasping Riley’s collar, used the boy’s own momentum to roll him back the way he had come.
‘Slow, Riley son. You are oh so slow. And the flames are oh so quick.’
It was true. Riley knew that it would take him several minutes to fully shake off the blow to his head and by then it would be too late.
He appealed to the townsfolk for help.
‘Will no one stop this madman?’ he asked. ‘Do we burn maidens in England now? Is that how far we have sunk?’
But there was no help forthcoming. The townsfolk dropped their eyes and turned their backs. Garrick had these people cowed and none would stand firm against him.
And there was Fairbrother Isles flat on his back beside his man-dog partner, Pointer, a pool of blood gathering around them, black in the lamplight. So no help from that quarter.
Or perhaps there might be, for Isles was rummaging in his pocket.
‘Kid,’ he said, and that was all. However, from his pocket he drew forth something that flashed silver, and tossed it towards Riley.
A knife. Fairbrother’s beloved whittling blade, with which he had built most of the field office; both Riley and Garrick recognized what class of implement was twinkling through the air at the same instant.
Now it was a race, for Riley would surely catch the blade and throw it at his target, which would be Garrick’s heart. Garrick knew this; he himself had taught Riley to aim for the heart in such a situation. He also knew that Riley could hit a bullseye blindfolded from twenty paces with any sharp implement a person cared to mention, and, though the blade could not kill Garrick as far as he knew, it could certainly grant the boy a few moments’ advantage to free his young lady friend, and this Garrick could not permit. So his part in the race was to move his heart to the right of where it currently was before the blade reached that point.