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Chapter Twenty-One
Jackson stumbled over a pair of discarded boots on the road. He glanced back at them, so puzzled by the sight of them he simply gaped for a long moment. Why had someone pulled off their boots and thrown them into the middle of the road?
He blinked at the conundrum, before lurching onwards. The air was growing colder; he was shivering. He hadn’t thought to bring a cloak. It had never been his intention to stay out this long.
He sighed heavily, as a deep tremor settled into his bones. Whathadhis intention been? It was so difficult to string it all together any longer. He had been walking for a long time, weaving from street to street. The frigid air had sobered him a lot. He hadn’t touched a drink for hours, he was sure of it. The whiskey was slowly leeching from his system, but he knew that he still didn’t want to go home.
Patricia. The beautiful actress. His wife.
His heart lurched. It was all such a mess, and he did not know how he was going to solve it. How could he bear to look into her treacherous face ever again, never mind live by her side for the term of his natural life? It was like staring down the barrel of a gaol sentence.
His eyes filled with hopeless tears. How could he have been so careless, as to open his heart? How could he have truly believed that she honestly saw him, and liked him, for who he was? No woman could ever look past his scarred face. He had always believed it and it was true. It had been there in black and white in that salacious rag.
He stopped abruptly, gazing around in confusion. He seemed to have left the well-to-do part of London far behind him. The streets here were not very well lit at all. It was strewn with rubbish and he saw a man collapsed on a corner, clutching a bottle of cheap gin. He was heavily bearded and bleary eyed.
“A very good evening, governor,” belched the man, eyeing him balefully. “A very fine evening indeed for a touch of the blue ruin.” He held up his bottle in mock salute.
Jackson ignored him. He needed to get away from this street. He reached the corner, staring up at the sign. Suddenly, he was conscious of a bedraggled child, shivering beneath a filthy blanket. A small boy, by the looks of it.
“A shilling, sir?” asked the boy, holding out a dirty hand.
Jackson walked towards him, fumbling in the pocket of his jacket. Carefully, he extracted a shilling, passing it to the boy. His heart lurched with pity for the urchin. It was a cruel world indeed where a child such as this was out on the streets unaccompanied.
“Where is your mother?” he asked gently.
The boy shrugged. “Walking the streets for coin, sir. She does better when I am not with her.” He grinned suddenly. His teeth were startlingly white, against the dirtiness of his face. “She will come back for me when she has enough.”
Jackson nodded, thinking of the orphans at St. Anne’s. He had pledged a large sum to the orphanage the day that he had first met Patricia. But the sight of this boy, who claimed he still had a mother to look after him, moved him more than anything he had seen that day. At least at the orphanage the children were clothed and fed.
It was a cruel world, indeed.
The sight of the boy shivering beneath the blanket sobered him further. Here he was, feeling sorry for himself, when he had everything. It was shameful. But still he could not bring himself to go home. Not yet.
“Do you happen to know if there are lodgings hereabouts?” he asked the boy.
The boy nodded slowly. “Yes, sir. Down that alleyway they rent out rooms for the night. Usually to doxies.” He gazed at him curiously. “It might be a bit below your standards, sir.”
Jackson shrugged. He had stayed in worse places, he was sure. During war, he had often fallen asleep in woods or huts. On leave he had procured rooms in shabby Spanish establishments where the walls were so paper thin he could hear everything in the next room. And he wasn’t inclined to be fussy at the moment. He just wanted somewhere to rest his head for the night. That was all.
“What is it called?” he asked the boy.
“The Rose Belle, sir,” he replied, grinning. “On account of the innkeeper’s wife. Her name’s Rose.”
Jackson nodded. “What isyourname?”
“Adam, sir,” said the boy.
Jackson smiled. “A fine name. Well, keep safe, my small friend. I hope your mother returns soon.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the boy, ducking his head.
Jackson walked off, down the cobblestone alley, that the boy had indicated. He saw the wooden sign of the inn moving in the breeze. A faded painting of a rose twining around a bell, with the name stencilled above it in flowing script.
He was fumbling in his pocket to make sure he had enough coin for a room when he tensed. He heard thudding footsteps behind him. He turned around quickly.
But it was all too late. He swivelled around just in time to see the fist descend into his face. Then everything went black.
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