Page 60 of King's Man

Talmach’s eyebrows rose. “Do you need doctoring?”

“No. It was a scratch, and S — Hutchinson treated it for me. There’s no infection.”

The colonel brooded on that and then nodded. “Very well. Go home, get yourself cleaned up. Find Farris in the morning and report back to me in the normal way. With luck we’ll be finished here by the end of the week — assuming you can get me a signed copy of Farris’s agreement with MacLeod.” He smiled in satisfaction. “I’ll be glad to leave, won’t you? I can see the corruption in the very air of this stinking city. It turns my stomach.”

What turned Nate’s stomach was the thought of what Sam must be feeling at this very moment. He rose. “I’ll take my leave, Colonel. No, don’t get up, I’ll show myself out.”

“No more mistakes,” Talmach warned as Nate reached the door. “The mission is everything, Tanner. Don’t forget your duty.”

“How could I?” he said with a bow.

Duty was all he had left, after all.

Once outside, Nate paused. He was tired and aching from the journey, and leaned for a moment against the building, the brickwork still sun-warmed. He should do as Talmach suggested and go back to his Thames Street lodgings. He should ask the maid for hot water, he should bathe, eat, and sleep. And in the morning, he should try to find Sam and explain himself.

Wearily he set out, walking down to Cheapside. The street was busy, even this late, and he watched two hackneys trundle past before one responded to his hail. Despite having sat in a coach all day, it was a fair step down to Thames Street, and its Billingsgate stench would be ripe after a hot summer’s day. The less time spent in that air the better.

“Where to, Gov?” called the jarvey from his perch.

Nate stopped with one foot in the cab.Thames Street, he intended to say. What came out was, “The St. Giles Bowl.”

He jumped in and sat back against the seat, closing his eyes. Well, and why not St. Giles? Sam had dropped the name that day they’d rediscovered their friendship rolling around in the mud, and Nate had filed the information away as he’d been trained to do. Surely someone in the place would know Sam’s name and be able to point Nate in his direction?

And then he’d make Sam listen. Forgiveness might be impossible, but Nate was going to make Sam hear the truth even if it killed him. And it might, he reflected, as the hackney slowed half an hour later outside an extremely unsavory looking establishment.

“Are you sure?” he asked the driver, stepping with care onto the filthy street.

“I am, Gov. Are you?”

“Not entirely.” But he paid the driver anyway, with one eye on the sallow, pinch-faced characters slouching nearby. The St. Giles Bowl — identified only by a rough sign depicting a bowl — appeared half derelict and, behind it, London degenerated into a rat’s nest of dark and teeming alleyways. Squalid buildings hunched together, shabby laundry hung from some windows and lewd women, half-dressed, hung from others. The sewage stench was nauseating. Nate resisted the urge to put a hand to his nose, aware of eyes watching him. How far back the slum extended he couldn’t tell; he could see flickers of firelight disappearing into the dark and doubted anything would tempt him to set foot into the place to find out.

His skin itched as the hackney pulled away and he abruptly wished he had a weapon. This was the place Sam called home? Good Christ. If the quiet streets of Rosemont were heaven, then this degraded labyrinth was hell indeed. Nevertheless, here he was, and he had a job to do. Straightening his shoulders, Nate braved the menacing looks of the bravos outside the Bowl and pushed open its poorly hung door.

Greasy tallow-light revealed a tawdry tap room. A crude bar ran along one side, behind which stood a slender black man who watched Nate with overt suspicion. Several shabby tables were arranged on the other side of the bar, where men of all types drank or played at dice, and the whole place stank of sweat and gin. When Nate entered, heads turned and didn’t look away. After a moment, everyone was silent and watching. Nate swallowed, cleared his throat. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

Someone snorted. “Ain’t no gentlemen here, mate. ’Scept you, Yankee.”

“I’m looking for a man named Hutchinson. I understand that he —”

“And what’s he to you?”

The low voice came from behind him and Nate spun, stumbling back a step in the face of the burly man looming over him. By candlelight it was difficult to make out much beyond a crop of tawny hair and narrowed eyes. “He —” Nate said. “He’s a friend.”

“Is he now?” The man looked him up and down. “Let me guess. Mr. Tanner?”

He tried not to let his surprise show. “Yes, as it happens.”

“As it happens. Bloody hell, this day keeps getting better. It’s alright Moses, I’ll deal with this.” He nodded at someone and Nate looked around to find the bar keeper tucking a cudgel away beneath the bar. “Now, let’s you and me have a little talk, Mr. Tanner,” said the man, taking Nate by the elbow and marching him over to a table in the far corner of the room. Nate was certain he had no choice but to comply.

The rest of the men lost interest and returned to their business, the rattle of dice and shouts of gaming filling the room. Nate sat down on a stool and the stranger pulled up a chair across from him, elbows resting on the wobbly table between. “Well,” he said. “Nate bloody Tanner, as I live and breathe.”

“You’ve the advantage of me, sir.”

“Ain’t I just?” He grinned. “Name’s Cole. I’m a friend of Hutch’s. And you’ll be the sod what broke his heart.”

Nate looked around in alarm, but no one seemed to have overheard. “Lower your voice,” he hissed anyway.

“Nah, don’t worry. We’re all friends of Hal Foxe at the Bowl.”

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