London Calling (20 page)

There, from the shelter of a nearby doorway, she stopped to peer towards the ramshackle building. All looked silent, utterly deserted, but Susanna still kept to the darkest part of the shadows as she skirted round, and, as she had done before, made her way down the narrow alley that ran along the side of the warehouse.

At least the moon was at the full, and gave her light enough to see‌—‌and to avoid tripping over the broken crates and assorted other trash that lay in her way. At last she reached the boarded up window she had spied through before‌—‌and her heart lurched as she saw from between the broken boards a faint sliver of light.

Susanna put her eye to the crack.

The scene that met her gaze was much as it had been before: the same rough table and chairs, the same circle of men seated about a lantern in the center. Tonight, though, their faces were grimmer, their shoulders hunched forward, and they spoke in quick, urgent voices, the words too low for Susanna to catch.

And James was not there. Susanna felt her stomach sicken, and her eyes moved over the assembled men again, and then a third time‌—‌as though she might somehow have missed seeing him there. Surely, though, his absence could not mean that Philippe and the others had already—

Before she could finish the thought, a sound in the doorway of the room made the other men whip around‌—‌and the next moment James appeared.

Even as she cursed him for his reckless courage in coming here, Susanna had to admit that James’s manner was perfect. He paused in the doorway, one hand resting lightly on the knob, eyebrows slightly raised.

“You all look rather surprised. Were you not expecting me?”

There was a moment’s utter silence. A few of the men had half risen from their chairs, but at a brief gesture from Philippe, they subsided. Philippe’s face was expressionless, save for a brief flicker of his eyelids. After a pause, he turned smoothly to James.

“But of course we were expecting you, my friend. Come and sit down.” Hand outstretched, he went to greet James. “At it happens, we were just about to begin.”

It happened so fast that Susanna scarcely had time to react. Nor could she have called a warning to James, even if she had been able to summon her voice to work. In one lightning movement, Philippe’s hand went to his belt, and Susanna caught the wicked gleam of steel. James had seen the flash of the blade at the same time she did. His eyes flared wide, but there was no time for him to draw his own weapon. He scarcely had time to duck to one side, so that the thrust caught him a glancing blow to the side, instead of falling on his heart, where it had been aimed.

Susanna gave a gasp of pure terror, and looked on, helpless, as a wet stain began to spread, crimson against the white of James’s shirt. Philippe had been thrown momentarily off balance when his blow failed to land home, but he recovered almost instantly, and lunged again.

The delay had been long enough, though, for James to draw his own blade, and now he blocked Philippe’s blow with an upraised arm and made a quick thrust with the knife.

A red stain blossomed on the shoulder of Philippe’s coat, and he gave a bellow of rage. “You fools! Don’t just sit there. Help me finish the traitor off!”

His men were already up and moving, drawing knives of their own, and came forward at a rush.

Susanna gripped the boarded window so tightly she felt splinters being driven into her palm. Her thoughts were an incoherent,
Oh, God,
please, please, please
.

James saw the oncoming wave of men, and paused a moment in the act of parrying one of Philippe’s thrusts. Then, in one swift movement, he kicked out, knocking Philippe’s feet out from under him and sending him sprawling backwards into the arms of his men.

Philippe gave a scream of rage. “Never mind me‌—‌get after him.” But it was too late. James had already ducked out the door, shutting it behind him with a bang. Susanna guessed that there must be a latch or bar somewhere on the outside, for when the men rushed after him, they were met by solid resistance. The door refused to budge.

Philippe was screaming orders to his men, but Susanna did not wait to hear them. She was already running along the alley to the front of the building, where James was just emerging from the open doorway.

Susanna grasped at his arm. “Hurry! This way.”

She felt James’s sharply indrawn breath, and his body went rigid with shock as he stared at her, looking as though he were unsure whether he were dreaming or awake.

“James‌—‌hurry. We have to get away from here.”

Susanna pulled on him again, and this time he followed without a word, keeping to the darkest part of the shadows as Susanna tugged him further along Broadmead Lane, away from the warehouse.

James moved quickly, his jaw set‌—‌but Susanna saw that he was limping, and one hand was clasped to his side, where Philippe’s first blow had landed. He would never be able to outrun Philippe and his men if they were pursued. And they would be pursued; she could not let herself hope that the barred door would contain the Frenchmen for long.

Susanna looked round desperately for somewhere they might hide. And then she saw it. An iron ladder, built onto the side of the brickwork building beside them, leading the way up the roof above. She pointed.

“James‌—‌look there. Can you climb it, do you think?”

James did not waste breath in a reply. He was hunched over with pain, but he nodded briefly.

“Let’s go, then.”

The ladder ended several feet off the ground, but by standing on a broken crate, Susanna was able to take hold of the first rung and scramble her way up towards the top. Behind her, she could hear the sounds of James’s breathing, harsh and labored, as he followed. Once he stopped, and when she looked round, his face was white in the moonlight and drenched in sweat. But he set his jaw and motioned for her to go on.

At last Susanna reached the low brick parapet and swung herself over‌—‌then turned to see James swaying, white faced, on the final rung. His hair was plastered to his forehead, and she saw him shake his head as though dizzy, his fingers starting to relax their hold on the ladder.

“James!” Susanna sprang to catch hold of his shoulders, pulling him towards her, trying to drag him up and across the parapet to safety. Good lord, he was heavy. Susanna felt the muscles of her shoulders burning as she hauled on his weight. But luckily her touch seemed to rouse him; he managed to grasp the parapet with his own hands and, with Susanna’s help, to drag himself over.

They crashed together onto the flat rooftop, and Susanna felt the warm, sticky wetness at James’s side as he landed on top of her. The cut Philippe had given him was still bleeding freely.

“Sorry.” James rolled off her and lay, panting for breath, one arm flung up over his eyes.

“James—” Susanna scrambled upright to kneel beside him, slipping her arm about his shoulders. “James, how badly are you hurt?”

She thought at first he had lapsed into unconsciousness. But then he sat up with a jolt and shook his head, motioning her to silence. An instant later, Susanna heard it, too: from the street below them came angry shouts in French and the sounds of running feet. Philippe and his men must indeed have broken their way out of the warehouse back room. And now they had spilled out onto the street and were searching for James.

“Spread out!” Susanna heard one of them call. “He cannot have gone far.”

Susanna felt as though she and James crouched there on the rooftop an eternity. Her pulse was beating to the tips of her fingers and the saw of her breath felt painful in her chest. But finally, finally, the shouts of Philippe’s men grew more distant. The searchers were moving away from them.

“James?” Susanna stirred‌—‌and realized as she moved for the first time that her muscles were cramped with having remained unmoving all the time the search was going on below. “James, are you all right?”

James was slumped back against the parapet, his eyes closed. But at Susanna’s words he straightened with a suppressed grunt of pain. The moonlight was bright overhead; Susanna could see the muscle twitching in his cheek. “Susanna, what in the name of all that is holy are you doing here? You promised me—”

“I promised you that I would go back to Admiral Tremain’s house. I did not promise you that I would not go back out again.”

“You—” James opened his mouth, then closed it again. Then he turned his head away, his breath going out in a strangled sound that was almost a laugh. When he turned back to her, his eyes had darkened and his voice was low and unsteady. “God, I love you.”

He framed her face with his hands and kissed her. Though when Susanna returned the embrace she felt him flinch, and instantly drew back. “James, the knife wound! We have to get you to a surgeon—”

James’s face had tightened with pain, but he shook his head. “No. No surgeons. I can’t take the risk of explaining to anyone who I am and how I came by the injury.”

Susanna started to protest, but James said, “No. It’s all right. I don’t think the cut is very deep.” He pulled himself upright, grimacing, but went on, “Just . . . ‌give me something to make a pad with and we can be away from here.”

Without speaking, Susanna slid her cloak from her shoulders and pulled at the lining, which gave way with a rending tear. “Here, let me.” She lifted James’s coat and pressed the wad of cloth against his side. Philippe’s knife seemed to have glanced off his ribs and skidded downwards across his chest; James’s shirt was torn open and saturated with blood, though in the moonlight it was difficult to tell just how bad the injury was.

James sucked in his breath, but nodded. “All right.” He placed his own hands over the padded wound. “Now let’s get away from here before Philippe and the others return‌—‌and before it occurs to them to start checking rooftops.

#

Somehow‌—‌Susanna thought it was more a miracle than anything else‌—‌James managed to climb down off the roof. She offered to go before him, but he shook his head. “So that I can take you down with me if I slip and fall? No. I’ll go first, you come after.”

He did slip twice‌—‌Susanna heard the sound of his boots skidding on the iron rungs and her heart froze‌—‌but he made it the whole way down without falling, and at last dropped the last several feet to the ground. Susanna followed, landing beside him on the pavement.

It was darker here than it had been on the roof, but even still Susanna could see that James’s color was bad, his breathing harsh and ragged.

“Lean on me.” She moved to James’s side, drawing his arm over her shoulder.

James tensed, starting to object as she moved towards the public house at the end of the street. But Susanna kept moving, and said, “It’s all right. If anyone sees us, they will only think you drunk. It would help if you could manage a bawdy song or two?”

James grinned at that. But it took all his breath to manage their slow walk to the corner of Broadmead Lane, and when at last they reached the light and raucous music and laughter that spilled from the pub, James was gray-faced, his muscles shaking.

“Wait here.” Susanna helped him to sit down on an empty beer barrel that stood to the right of the pub’s entrance. And it was, she thought, a mark of how bad James felt that he did not object but only slumped down, breathing hard. “I will go and try to find us a cab.”

She had no idea if she would succeed‌—‌cabs seemed to be not at all common in this part of the city. But she was lucky; she had barely gone half a block before she happened on a cab driver leaning on his carriage and smoking a pipe.

The man looked her up and down with brief, impersonal scrutiny. But he nodded when Susanna explained that her ‘man’ was back at the public house, too drunk to walk home.

Susanna had drawn her cloak about her shoulders once again, hiding the bloodstains she knew spotted the front of her gown. And she blessed the darkness of the street for keeping the cab driver from noticing that her gloves were stained, as well.

The driver had also apparently conveyed his share of drunks home from the pub; he drew the cab up abreast of the barrel where James sat, and barely glanced at either James or Susanna as Susanna helped James into the carriage.

“Where to?” The driver grunted.

Susanna looked at James. “Is it safe to go back to your lodgings, do you think?” she asked in an undertone.

“I should think so.” James had tipped his head back and closed his eyes, but his voice sounded steadier as he said, “I’m going to be even more irritated with Philippe if he forces me to find new lodgings yet again.”

He gave the driver an address that meant nothing to Susanna, but the cab man seemed to know where it was. He nodded and clucked to his horses, urging them into motion, and the cab rolled off.

Susanna heard James suck in his breath every time the carriage hit a bump or rut in the road. But at least the ride was a short one. The carriage drew up in a narrow lane outside a tenement house whose outline leaned so much it looked as though a strong gust of wind would knock it over.

But at least no one appeared to notice their arrival. Even so late at night the street was crowded with children playing ball in the street, dock laborers either coming home or going out to their jobs, women sitting in groups and gossiping on front steps. Susanna had lost all sense of direction, but she thought they must be near the river; the night breeze had the muddy, fishy scent of the Thames.

James paid the driver, the driver tipped his hat in thanks, and the cab rolled off. Then James took a key out of his pocket and, still leaning heavily on Susanna, climbed slowly up the steps of the tenement house.

When they reached the door of James’s room, his hands were unsteady enough that it took him three tries to get the key into the lock. Susanna only watched, though, without offering to help. He had already taken far more aid tonight than she would have thought him capable of accepting.

Once inside, James directed Susanna to a striker, tinder and an oil lamp that stood on the room’s only table. She got the lamp lighted, and the room sprang into illumination around them: a cramped, tiny space, barely big enough to hold the bed that covered most of the floor. The bed sagged and was covered with a faded blanket, the paper on the walls was stained and peeling, and the air smelled of mildew and boiled cabbage.