Authors: Jennifer Donnelly
Frankie turned around in his chair. He looked Joe up and down, noting
the work clothes he was wearing--and the prybar he was holding. "Leave
your barrow outside, did you?" he asked.
Ozzie snickered.
"I know all about you, Frankie. I know about the Firm. And I know you burned my warehouse down."
"Don't know what you're on about, mate."
"I just want to talk to him. That's all. I want to come to an understanding. Now. Before we butt heads. Before it's too late."
Frankie snorted. "You want to get off on the right foot, is that it?"
"Something like that."
Frankie took a sip of his porter. He didn't offer Joe one.
"If he's not here, then tell him to come see me," Joe said. "Any
time. My office is on Commercial Street. Number eight. All I want to do
is talk. He has my word on that."
A sickening panic flared inside Frankie. He felt threatened, not by
Bristow himself--he was soft, had to be--but by what he represented--the
straight world and its sudden pull on Sid.
"Listen, Frankie--"
"I ain't listening, mate, so fuck off and peddle your pears," Frankie said, turning back to his card game and his pint.
The next thing he knew the table was gone, smashed to pieces, and his
pint with it. Joe stood next to him, prybar raised. "You listening
now?" he asked.
Frankie was on his feet in a flash, his heart pounding, fists
twitching. He threw a hard right. It caught Joe in the belly, doubling
him over. Joe dropped the prybar and Frankie bent to grab it, intending
to open Joe's skull with it, when Joe unexpectedly reared up and
roundhoused him. Light exploded behind Frankie's eyes; he went down. He
groaned in pain, holding his head. It was a street fighter's trick.
Bristow had meant for him to go for the prybar. The bloke was from East
London. He should have remembered that. He opened his eyes. When his
vision finally cleared, he saw that Joe was leaning over him.
"That's for Alf Stevens, you piece of shit," he said. Then he
straightened and looked around the room, daring all comers. There were
none. "Give Sid my message," he said. "Tell him to come." He picked up
his prybar and walked out of the pub.
As soon as the door closed behind him a figure walked out of the shadows and into the taproom.
"Frankie, did you burn down Bristow's warehouse?" Sid asked.
"Bloody hell, boss, were you there all along? Thanks for the help."
Sid crossed the room in a few quick strides. He hoisted Frankie off
the floor and slammed him into the wall. "I said, Did you burn down
Bristow's warehouse?"
"Yes! For Christ's sake, let me down!"
But Sid didn't let him down. Instead he hit him, again and again and
again, until Frankie was begging him to stop and Des and Ozzie were
pulling him off. When he finally released him, Frankie slumped to the
floor.
"Why'd you do it?" Sid yelled. "Stevens wasn't one of us. He was an old man, Frankie! He never hurt no one!"
Frankie lifted his battered face. "I done it for you. While you were
in the hospital. I didn't mean to hurt the geezer. I told him it was
time his guv started paying us and he took a swing at me. Knocked a lamp
over. I yelled at him to get out, but he wouldn't."
"And now he's dead. And Bristow knows it was you."
Frankie stood. "You're not going, are you? To see him, I mean. Bristow."
"I don't know," Sid said, pacing. "I don't bloody know."
"First the doctor. Now the MP. Next thing, you'll be cozying up to the filth."
Sid turned white. Frankie thought he was going to take another crack
at him, but he didn't. "What do you know about the doctor?" he asked,
his voice shaking with anger.
"Jesus, guv, I don't give a shit who you're shagging."
Sid took a step toward him, his fingers curling into a fist.
Frankie stood his ground. "Go on, do it. I don't care. Everything's
falling apart and you're letting it. The Chinese, the Jews, the
Italians--they're all carving up our gaff. Scrapping over the hop dens,
the whorehouses, and pubs like a pack of mongrels. And Madden, he don't
want just this street or that one, he wants the whole riverside. Are you
blind? Can't you see what's happening?"
"I can see, Frankie. I don't care. Madden can have it. All of it."
"What?" Frankie said. "But this is yours. You built it piece by piece. Fought for it."
Sid reached into his jacket and pulled out a pistol. One of the half
dozen they'd kept for themselves from the Stronghold job. He placed it
on a table.
"I'm out," he said.
Frankie felt the breath go out of him, the life, the heart. The pain
of Sid's punches was nothing compared to the pain of his leaving. "Why,
guv?" he asked, in the voice of a bewildered boy.
"I don't want this life, Frankie," he said softly. "I never did."
Sid took a last look around himself. At Desi and Oz. At Lily. At the Bark. The river.
"Des, you're in charge now," he said. "I'll make it right by you. By all of you. Give me a few days."
To Frankie, he said, "Listen to Desi. Learn from him. He knows more
about the game than all of us put together." And then he turned to
leave.
Watching him go, watching him walk away from them, Frankie's sorrow
turned to rage. "Who the hell do you think you are?" he screamed after
him. "You can't just leave!"
Sid turned around one last time. His anguished eyes met Frankie's. "I
already have," he said. "Take care of yourself, lad." And then he was
gone.
Seamie, Albie, and Willa were lying on their backs in the Aldens'
garden, staring up at the sky. It was a clear night and the stars were
sparkling like diamonds.
"Ask me another, Wills," said Seamie.
"Orion," Willa said. "Right ascension?"
"Five hours."
"Declination?"
"Five degrees."
"Visible between?"
"Latitudes eighty-five and seventy-five. Best seen in January."
"Major stars?"
"Alnilam, Alnitak, Betelgeuse, Mintaka, Saiph, and... don't tell me... Rigel!"
"And..." Willa prompted. "There's one more."
"There isn't. You're trying to throw me."
"There is."
"What is it then?"
"Bellatrix."
"Damn!"
How he hated that. Willa could name the constellations and cite their
characteristics all from memory without ever making a mistake. He'd
seen her navigate with a sextant on her family's yacht. She was better
at it than he was, better than Albie, and almost as good as their
father, who was an admiral in the Royal Navy.
"I'll never get them all right," he sighed. "And Shackleton says I have to."
"You will," she said. "Keep swotting. Sounds like you'll have plenty of time for it between here and Greenland."
"Talk about a dogsbody!" Albie said, chuckling.
"Shut up, will you?" Seamie growled.
"First you're a kitchen boy, now you're a kennel boy."
"Don't listen to him, Seamie," Willa said, stifling her own giggles.
"Take a sextant with you. The voyage will be the perfect opportunity to
practice your navigation."
"When you're not scooping poop!" Albie said, collapsing into laughter along with his sister. Seamie glowered.
The expedition was still months away, but preparations were already
in full swing. Clements Markham and Captain Scott had gone to
Christiania with Fridtjof Nansen to view the Fram and confer on ship
design. Shackleton had left for Dundee two days ago to haggle with
shipbuilders. Seamie was supposed to have gone with him, but there had
been a last-minute change of plan. He was going to Greenland instead. In
three weeks' time. To round up a bunch of bloody dogs.
Shackleton had been writing to breeders in Greenland, trying to buy
sledge dogs for the expedition, but he'd had no luck. Scott had raised
the possibility of Russian dogs, but Shackleton didn't want them.
Greenland dogs were the best, he'd said. They were tougher, faster,
better able to endure extreme cold. Consequently they were in high
demand. Breeder after breeder had told him that he had no dogs left to
sell, but Shackleton, never one to take no for an answer, told Edward
Wilson, the expedition's junior surgeon and zoologist, to go to the
breeders in person--armed with a heap of cash. And he'd told him to take
Seamie with him. Wilson would negotiate, and when the dogs were bought
Seamie would crate them, feed them, water them, groom them, exercise
them, and sing to them.
"Sing to them, sir?" Seamie had said, thinking he'd heard him wrong.
"Yes, sing. They get homesick, just like humans do," Shackleton had
replied. "If they look sad, sing to them. It cheers them up. Those dogs
are more valuable to the expedition than you are, my boy. I want them
happy and well."
After their meeting, Wilson had noticed Seamie's glum expression and
told him to consider himself lucky. He could be stuck with Clarke, the
second cook, and Blissett, one of the stewards, in a Dundee warehouse,
counting boxes of Oxo cubes and tins of sardines.
He felt a poke in his side now and turned his head toward Willa.
"Stop sulking," she said. "It's better than flogging oranges or peddling tea."
She was smiling mischievously. Her color was high. There had been a
proper family dinner tonight and she'd had to dress like a girl for it
in an ivory silk frock, lace stockings, and heeled shoes. My God, but
she's pretty, Seamie thought.
"I suppose it is," he allowed. His eyes lingered on her. He thought
she might blush but she didn't, and it was he who finally had to look
away. Again.
"I'm hungry again," Albie said. "I'm going to see if there's any hope of a sandwich."
"Bring a plateful, will you, Alb?" Willa said. "And some pickles. And lemon squash."
"Anything else, madam?" Albie said.
"Cake."
He loped off toward the house, leaving Willa and Seamie by themselves. Willa rolled over and propped herself up on her elbows.
"It'll be lonely when you're gone, Seamie. I won't have anyone to talk about climbing with."
"What about Albie?"
"He keeps trying to make me stop. Keeps telling me I'll hurt myself,
but really he's just cross because I'm better than him and he hates
being shown up by a girl."
Seamie laughed.
"George Mallory--remember him from the RGS?--he wants to go climbing
on Mont Blanc in the spring," Willa said. "He's awfully good. I'm going
to go with him. At least I hope I am. All depends on whether or not I
can talk Albie into coming along. My parents would never let me go
otherwise. I might ruin my reputation."
Jealousy, unexpected and unwelcome, shot through Seamie at the idea
of Willa and Mallory in the Alps together. "Sounds like fun. I hope you
have a good time," he said.
"Do you?" Willa asked, arching an eyebrow.
"Of course, why wouldn't I?"
She shrugged and changed the subject. "I suppose I still have to go and tell Fiona the news? You haven't made up yet?"
"Yes, you do," Seamie said. "And no, we haven't."
He felt heavy-hearted at the mention of Fiona. He would have gone
back tomorrow if he could, but he didn't know how. He'd have to
apologize, consent to return to Groton, and he wasn't about to do
either. He knew his stubborn sister would never apologize, so he was
stuck.
"You could go and see her before you go to Greenland, you know,"
Willa said, as if reading his mind. She often did that. It unnerved him.
"No."
"I'm sure Fiona's cooled off by now."
"No."
Willa sighed. "Just a thought," she said.
She shifted her gaze back to the sky, back to Orion, the great
hunter. "Is someone looking up at him in Antarctica now, do you think?
Can they see him at Mont Blanc and Kilimanjaro and Everest? How I wish I
could be him. I wish I could see what he sees. The whole world! All of
its magic and mystery. All of its beauty and power and sorrow and
danger."
How the hell does she do that? Seamie wondered. How does she put into
words exactly what I'm feeling? Still on his back, he looked up at her,
at her face, luminous in the moonlight, at the curve of her mouth, at
her wide and wondering eyes. And he realized, with a sudden, deep ache,
that he was going to miss her. More than he would miss Albie. Even more
than he would miss his own family. She was seventeen now. She would be
nineteen or twenty when he returned from Antarctica and different. Grown
up. She might be engaged. Or married. The thought filled him with a
desperate sadness. He wanted to tell her how he felt, but he didn't know
how. He was terrible at these things.
"Willa..." he began.
She looked down at him. "I know," she said. "I'll miss you, too." And
then she kissed him, quick and hard. "Be careful," she said. "Come
back."
"Wait for me."
She winced, as if the demand had been unworthy of him. "No."
"Why?"
"If it was the other way round--me going, you staying--would you
wait? With all the deserts yet to be mapped, and the mountains yet to be
climbed, and the rivers and jungles and forests yet to be discovered.
And you just aching to get out there and map them and climb them and
make them your own. Feeling that you'd wither and die if you didn't.
Well, would you?"
With another girl he would have hemmed and hawed and come out with
some sort of fluttery flattering nonsense. Not with Willa. With her, he
could tell the truth.
"No," he said. "I wouldn't." He paused, then said, "Does Albie know what you want to do? Do your parents?"
"I talk about exploring all the time, but they think I'm just nattering."
He'd always thought she was, too, but now he wasn't so certain. "Why don't you try to get on an expedition?"
She laughed. "Are you mad? With a boatload of men?"
"Hadn't thought of that."
"Best I could hope for would be to marry a sea captain and make a few
voyages with him. No one would ever take me on as a single woman. Can
you imagine the scandal? And no one will finance a women's party,
either. I could be better than Scott and Nansen combined, and it
wouldn't matter. The Royal Geo wouldn't give me a farthing. So I'll have
to finance myself."