He spotted a rough, but strong-looking door ahead. Maybe that would lead to a more sanitized area. He would expect so, if they kept patients there. He went to the door and found a sturdy bar across it that fitted into an equally sturdy slot mounted on the surrounding frame. Below this was a lock. Creed pulled back the bar, then used one of the keys. It turned stiffly at first, but soon yielded under pressure. The door moaned open.
The stink that wafted through was of a different kind: it was of things gone bad, cream that had curdled, meat that had moulded. He wrinkled his nose. He shivered. He wasn’t happy at all.
Dim, caged lights lit the passage ahead, the kind of lights you get in prisons (and asylums, of course), themselves incarcerated behind metal grilles to prevent human incarcerates from getting at the glass. There were narrow, shadowy doors on either side, low doors, the kind that, if you were just over normal height, you’d have to stoop to enter. They were shadowy because they were deep-set into the walls. From where he stood, he could see that the first few were numbered.
‘Ready or not,’ he muttered to himself, ‘here I come.’ He entered the passage of cells.
Number 8 was about a third of the way down and he stopped and listened outside the door before trying the keys. There were no sounds from within. There had been no sounds from any of the other rooms he’d passed either. He wasn’t sure if he should knock, but then thought, what the hell, let’s surprise him. The second key did the trick. He took a breath and pushed the door open.
‘Hello?’ he said, peering in.
He withdrew his head quickly. The air outside was nasty, but this was foul. The geriatric must have messed himself and nobody had bothered to clean him up. Or there was a slop bucket in there which hadn’t been emptied for some time.
Creed stiffened his resolve, narrowed his nostrils.
‘Hello?’ he said again.
There was no answer. And there was no light either. Swinging the door wide, Creed used what light there was from the passage behind to search for a switch, which he found all right, but which didn’t work. Standing to one side so that more light might come through, he studied what he could of the room. Which wasn’t much: one narrow bed, no more than a cot, and that was all; apart from the figure beneath the sheet on the bed.
Creed went in and was surprised it wasn’t colder inside. It wasn’t terrifically warm, either, but he’d expected it to be as chilly as the rest of the basement area. He saw that there was a cast-iron radiator behind the door and surmised that although this Parmount character obviously wasn’t concerned about the unhygienic conditions his subterranean patients lived in, he at least wasn’t going to let them die from hypothermia. Handkerchief to his nose, Creed approached the bed.
A withered head, the only part of the body under the sheet that was visible, considered him.
‘Get away,’ a quavery voice.
Creed raised what he hoped would be taken as a reassuring hand. ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘I’ve just come to see how you are.’
‘Nay, I don’t know you. You’re a stranger t’me.’ Feeble though the voice was, neither its feistiness nor its Yorkshire accent was entirely lost.
‘It is Mr Pink, isn’t it? Your niece . . .’ what the fuck was her name? ‘. . . sent me to see how you were getting along. She worries about you . . .’
‘Sheila? Worries about me? Don’t make me laff, lad.’ His snort of disgust was more like a throaty hiccup. ‘Who are yer? What d’yer want with me?’ Shakily, he raised his head and strands of white hair still touched the pillowless mattress beneath him. ‘Is it time for m’feed?’
‘Uh not yet. Soon.’ Creed ventured closer and even in that poor light he could see the sheet covering the frail old man was stained and soiled. ‘Are you all right, Mr Pink?’
The figure was silent for a while, the face still towards Creed, studying him. With a rasping sigh, the shrivelled head settled back, the eyes closed as if claimed by sleep.
‘Sir . . .?’ Creed said after a moment or two, for he thought the old man really had gone to sleep.
‘Am I all right?’ the old man asked himself. ‘Am I all right?’ What started as a tiny snigger finished as a body-racking cough.
Creed waited for him to settle. ‘Your daughter . . . Sheila . . . wants you to know she can’t get down to see you so often nowadays because—’
‘Daughter-in-law,’ came the correction. ‘She’s no blood-kin of mine. If my lad were alive today he’d never ’ave seen me put away in this cesspit. He’d never let those bastids torment me the way they do.’ The last word was punctuated by a half-suppressed sob.
Trying to ignore the malodour rising from the bed, Creed leaned forward. ‘Who’s tormenting you, Mr Pink?’
‘I told you. Them bastids.’ The head creaked towards Creed again, the tired rheumy eyes wide open. ‘You’re joost another one of ’em, aren’t yer? Y’ere to spite me.’
‘No, I’m a friend. Honest. If you’ve been treated badly, maybe I can do something about it.’
Pink’s voice took on a self-pitying whine that was childish yet ancient at the same time. ‘They won’t let me be, mister, they won’t let me go. I’m old and I’m tired and I’ve seen enough of life. I don’t want any more, I’ve ’ad enough. But they won’t let me go.’ Another sob spasmed his body, and this was followed by a quieter weeping.
‘Who’s doing this to you, can you tell me that?’
‘Let me be. I don’t know who you are.’
‘I can help.’
‘’Ow can you help? ’Ow can you undo what’s been done to me?’
Creed knelt next to the bed. ‘I’m here to investigate these people, Mr Pink,’ he whispered close to the old man’s ear.
‘Eh?’ The weeping stopped and the head lifted from the pillow again.
Creed cleared his throat. ‘I’m really from the Ministry of Health – I only used your daughter-in-law’s name to get inside as a regular visitor rather than an official. We’ve had our eyes on this place for some time. We’ve had one or two complaints.’
Those watery eyes narrowed to a squint. Then the thin, buzzard-like head supported by its scrawny, buzzard-like neck flopped back on to the mattress. He mumbled something to himself.
Creed wasn’t sure if the geriatric believed him or was too weary to argue. ‘Just, er, just for my notes, to make sure they’re accurate, you are Henry Pink, retired executioner for the government?’
‘Get it right, lad – Official Executioner to the Home Office.’ There seemed to be an even greater tiredness to his words. ‘Hundreds I did fer. So many I lost count in the end. I tell yer, though, only a few disgraced themselves on the gallows. Most of ’em went off with some dignity, and I did my best to help them with that. Womenfolk went off best. Sort of resigned themselves to it. Mind, most of those ’ad thick ankles with brains to match. Understand me, lad?’
Creed nodded, but Pink didn’t notice; he was staring at the black ceiling as if seeing his past up there.
‘Did for all kinds, from Nazi war criminals to silly buggers who strangled their wives in fits of temper. From mass murderers to poor fools who made but one mistake in their miserable lives. I treated them all with the same dignity, made no difference to me what their crime were. Gave each one the respect due to those about to die. It were all about doing it right, and respect towards another was part of that. And quickness, that was another part of it. Know ’ow long it took me to hang someone, from the moment they entered the execution chamber ’til they were danglin’ in space? Know ’ow long, lad? Thirty seconds. ’S’all it took if yer did it right. Even if they struggled to the end, made no difference, none at all. Thirty seconds.’ He sighed again, a long rattling breath that conveyed satisfaction.
Creed felt sick again and it was not only because of the smell, the location, and the decrepit bundle of bones he was so close to. Hangman’s tales were not to his liking. ‘Mr Pink . . . Henry . . .’
‘Mr Pink.’
‘Mr Pink, do you re
call someone—’
‘Now they’ve come back to haunt me . . .’
‘. . . er . . .’
‘Even those I don’t rightly remember. Every night they’re ’ere, outside the door, sniggerin’, callin’ out my name, scratchin’ on the wood. They remind me, who they were, what they did. The worst of ’em, the devils, they come inside. They taunt me and spit at me and sometimes they lay the noose round my neck. And when they’re gone I cry, I can’t stop m’self, and they know I cry, because I ’ear them laff, I can ’ear their mockin’. They think they’ve driven me mad, they think they’ve done that to me, but I’ve seen and I’ve hanged more devils that were ’uman than them that weren’t. D’yer think I’m crazy, lad? D’yer think that?’
A thin, almost skeletal hand shot with surprising speed from the bedsheet and gripped Creed’s wrist. The executioner’s hand had all the strength and brittleness of a bird’s claw, but the photographer had to steel himself not to yank his own arm away.
‘No, I don’t think you’re crazy,’ he forced himself to reply.
‘Then that might be your mistake, lad.’
The old man lifted himself and the covering slipped from his shoulders to reveal a body so loose-fleshed and emaciated that Creed turned away, thankful that at least the shadows obscured the worst of it.
Pink chuckled quietly, his bony shoulders jerking as if on strings.
‘I was going to ask you, Mr Pink,’ Creed began again, ‘if you recall hanging someone named Nicholas Mallik? Just before the last World War, it would’ve been.’
The chuckling, and the jerky movement ceased. A high-pitched keening sound came from the back of Pink’s throat, the kind a smallish animal that was in pain might make. He lay down, turning on to his side so that he faced the wall, away from Creed; he pulled the bedsheet up around his ears.
Creed reached over, intending to reassure the ex-hangman, but the thought of touching that scraggy old body, let alone the dirty sheet he lay beneath, stayed his hand. It hovered an inch or so above the knobbly shoulder and only strong effort of will eventually forced it down. Pink’s body flinched at the touch.
‘It’s all right, Mr Pink. Mallik can’t hurt you. He’s dead now, isn’t he? You hanged him yourself.’
‘He’s the worst, the very worst.’ This was said with a great bitterness. ‘He dances on me and it’s my grave he dances on, only I’m not dead, and he likes that, he don’t want me dead, he wants me where he can hurt me, where he can punish me . . .’
‘Don’t you remember hanging Nicholas Mallik? About fifty years or so ago, before the big war? Don’t you remember that?’
Pink swung round with such agile ferocity that Creed nearly toppled backwards.
The old man peered over the edge of the cot, his face only inches away from Creed’s. ‘He won’t let me forget, that one won’t. He haunts me, does Count Nikolai Mallik. Haunts and taunts, taunts and haunts. Devils enjoy that. It’s what gives ’em life.’
‘You hanged him,’ Creed persisted.
‘Oh, there were a big fuss. All them little ones he’d murdered. Cut ’em up. Worse.’ He looked at Creed slyly. ‘Worse ’n that. Ate ’em. They said.’ He nodded slowly. ‘Home Office wanted best man, that’s why they called in Henry Pink. There were none better’n me in those days, plenty who thought they were, but the governors of them prisons knew who were best. You know, they were frightened of him, this bastid Mallik. The authorities were frightened of the man. So cut-and-dried wicked, y’see. Never knew anyone as bad as him, not before, not after. He shone Evil, it came out of his eyes and flesh.’ Pink gave an exaggerated shudder. ‘It was in his very stink.’
He fell silent, remembering this distant past.
While Creed’s thoughts were racing. Was Mallik alive, or was he dead? Had Cally told the truth, or had she lied? The executioner had said Mallik was still punishing him, so had a deal been struck and the child-murderer not been hanged at all? Or was this merely the dream-ramblings of senile dementia?
‘Tell me what happened that day, Mr Pink,’ he urged as gently as he could.
Pink looked at him sharply. ‘What day would that be?’
‘The, uh, the day of Mallik’s execution.’
‘Why d’yer want to know?’ The thin line of his crinkled mouth set firm.
‘Just interested. You had quite a reputation in your day, Mr Pink.’
‘Best there were. Everyone knew it. Wrote a book about it once.’ He leaned forward again and Creed held himself rigid, for foul air travelled with the old man. ‘The Home Office could count on me.’ Pink touched the side of his nose with a skinny finger and winked. ‘They knew they could trust me.’
Trust you to do what? Creed wondered. To do the job well, or to conceal the truth from the public?
‘Knew he was the Devil soon as I set eyes on him.’
‘Mallik?’
‘That’s who yer want to know about, i’nt it? That’s the real reason you’re ’ere. I’m not afraid of talkin’, lad.’ He lay back in the bed, drawing the sheet up to his chin so that only his head was visible again. ‘Aye, I remember the first time I set eyes on him. Day before execution, it were, and I’d come to size him up. I watched him through the Judas Hole and he had his back to me, just lookin’ out the bars of his cell window. Pentonville, that were the prison. I’d already checked the execution chamber, made sure everything were right. I’d chosen the rope – always preferred the old ’un, never the new – tested the drop and left the sandbag to hang overnight t’stretch rope. Next job was to examine the condemned man himself to decide the length of the drop – didn’t want him stranglin’, y’see, nor his head torn off. Y’ave to get the drop perfect so the neck’s broke outright. Like I say, I peeped through the Judas Hole and the Count was standin’ there, lookin’ t’other way. He seemed to sense me and he turned round to look me in the eye. I’d never seen such malicious evil in all me life before, and never did since – ’til they got me ’ere, that’s t’say.’ For a reason best known to himself, he sniggered. ‘’Til they got me ’ere,’ he repeated. ‘That look he gave me preyed on me mind all night. Usually I gets a good night’s sleep before a hangin’, sound as yer like . . .’ (he said this as if still in occupation) ‘. . . but that night I ’ardly slept a wink. I think I was a-feared t’fall asleep.’
He shook his head, as though still dismayed by this rare loss of sleep. ‘Next mornin’, just before nine o’clock it would ’ave been, a group of us went to condemned cell. Sheriff, prison governor, a doctor and one or two senior prison officers. They went into execution chamber while me and my assistant went t’fetch prisoner. Waitin’ for us calm as you like, were Nikolai Mallik. Calm as you like. Never said a word, though, not one blessed word. I told him to turn about and he did that without fuss. I strapped his wrists, fast like. There were no priest present in that cell – Mallik didn’t want one. We took him through, and he didn’t bide his time, I’ll say that for him. No stumblin’, no resistin’. He walked like he were takin’ stroll through park. Mallik didn’t even flinch when he were confronted by the noose hangin’ there. He stepped right up to it like he didn’t give a monkey’s doodah. He stood on the T, escortin’ officers on either side of him in case of trouble. Then he looked me right in the eye and you know what the bastid did?’ Pink took a deep, unsteady breath. ‘He smiled at me, pleasant as yer like. Not a grin, nor a laff. Just a smile, an “I’ll see you some time tomorrow” type of thing. That nearly unhinged me, I’ll tell you that for nowt. I took the white cap from me breast pocket and was glad to cover them over, them evil smilin’ eyes. My assistant strapped his ankles at same time, then I went through routine: noose over Mallik’s head tightened towards t’right shoulder, fixed rubber washer, pulled the pin holdin’ trapdoor and pushed lever. He was gone and rope were straight. It were a clean kill, clean as you like.’
‘You hanged him?’
‘’Course I bloody hanged him. What d’yer think I was there fer? I went down below with doctor and h
e confirmed what I already knew. In those days it was my job to measure corpse, and the Count was a little bit longer than before, I can tell you that. But there weren’t a twitch and nary a murmur. He was gone all right and a good job an’ all, I thought at time.’ He uttered a long, whining moan and closed his eyes. ‘I wish he’d bloody well leave me alone now, though.’
31
‘Joe.’
It was more of a hiss than a whisper.
Creed wheeled round and Henry Pink ducked beneath the sheet.
Cally entered the chamber, first glancing back down the passage, presumably to check that she hadn’t been followed. Pink went foetal, pushing himself close to the stone wall, his back to his visitors.
‘It’s okay,’ Creed reassured him. ‘She’s a good guy.’
A muffled kind of wheeze-grunt came from under the soiled sheet; the old man remained hidden.
‘I don’t know what the bastards who run this place have been doing to him, but he’s terrified,’ Creed said to the girl. ‘He may be difficult, but nobody deserves this.’
Cally came close and her tone was low and urgent. ‘Don’t worry about him now, I want you to see something I’ve just discovered.’
Creed rose to his feet, not liking the sound of her voice at all. Even in the dimness he could see she was badly shaken.
She held on to him. ‘I had no idea such things were going on here.’
He thought she was referring to poor Henry Pink and his living conditions at that moment. ‘Yeah, well, I think we can get this place closed down easily enough once we expose what’s happening. All we need is the evidence.’ He dug into his pocket, indicating the huddled figure with a nod of his head. ‘This’ll make a great shot.’
She tugged at his arm. ‘There’s no time for that. Come with me, I’ll show you something much worse.’