Chapter 22
The children who lived in the lanes and roads off Usher’s Quay were always jostling any adult who passed them by with requests for sweets, coins, stories, or jokes. They rarely got anything more than a clip round the ear or a curt rebuff, but when they did get any of the things they looked for, they were over the moon. They never got anything from Mullins unless he’d been drinking early in the day and was stumbling home before evening, when they had to be at their own homes, but they were always happy to see his friend Cleaves.
He was the type of man who, though having none of his own (his wife had died in childbirth when they were a year married, and the child also passed away), loved children and was always smiling when he saw them. When he came to call on Mullins, the word would go out that he was in the area, and when he and Mullins left the house, there would be a crowd of children waiting near the door for what he had to offer. It was rarely sweets or coins, but he often had a joke or a story that would have them squealing with delight or disgust—which is the same as delight in children—and then running to spread his words to anyone who had been unfortunate enough to miss them.
Mullins looked out his window to see Cleaves running into a game of football and tackling the children as they rallied around him, laughing and shouting for him to shoot at the goal. Mullins was impressed with the dexterous movements of his friend, and he smiled at the excitement he caused amongst the children. Cleaves was laughing himself as boys grabbed on to his coat, trying to get the ball off him; he planted a shot at the goal that missed by miles and tumbled over onto the ground as he lost his balance, taking a few running children with him. He got up, laughing, and dusted himself down.
“I think that was a goal,” he said, and the children protested at how far away from the goal it was.
Mullins stepped out of the house and closed his door and turned to face Cleaves, who had walked over when he saw Mullins come out.
“You ready to tear it up?” Cleaves said, smiling.
“I’m aching for a drink at this point,” Mullins said.
The children had abandoned their game now and were gathering around Cleaves, calling on him to tell them a joke or a story. Their voices were getting rowdier by the second, and they seemed even louder with the reverberations off the stone walls. Cleaves winked at Mullins and raised his hands to quieten the children. When they were silent, he looked from one to the other with a serious look.
“I only know one story, children, and it happened in this very place not long ago at all,” he said, waving his hand over their heads at the roads and buildings that surrounded them. They were all silent now, and their eyes glistened with eagerness to hear this tale. “The most handsome man in the world was walking down through Wormwood and all of a sudden, what should he see?”
The children called out, guessing:
“A giant?”
“A monster?”
“A pretty lady?”
“A football match,” Cleaves said seriously. “And then he did something wonderful.” They were rapt now, waiting to hear what he could have done, this handsome man. “He rushed onto the pitch, took the ball, and scored the greatest goal the world has ever seen!” he cried out, and he laughed heartily as the children realised that he was talking about himself and the miss he had just done only moments ago.
“Tell us a real one,” they said.
“Tell us about the Dolocher,” one said, and the sound of that name said by a child sent shivers down Mullins’s spine. He could only imagine what their young minds must have formed from what they had heard about the killings.
“There is no Dolocher,” Cleaves said, as though the idea was ridiculous. “Listen, I’ll tell you one, but you have to promise me you won’t tell your parents who told you because this one is so scary that you might have nightmares and then wet your beds!” They all laughed and promised that they would not tell and claimed that no story he could tell them would induce them to wet their beds.
“Ok, ok, this is how the story goes.” They all crowded in to listen.
“Not many people know this, but under Trinity College, deep under the ground, there are tunnels and passageways that lead to great crypts and tombs.” Already Mullins could see the fear rise in some of the collected eyes. “One day, there was a funeral, and the guard at the gate saw the widow and thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Only really important people can be buried there, and no one is allowed to visit the tombs once they have been filled. A few days after the funeral, the widow came and asked the soldier to let her in to visit her husband’s tomb, but he told her that he was not allowed to let anyone in. She cried and cried and pleaded and pleaded with him, and finally he said that he would let her in just once but that she would never be able to come in again. She agreed, and he brought her through the dark and scary tunnels until she came to her husband’s tomb.
“A few days later, she came again, and again she pleaded to be let in, but this time the soldier did not budge, and he wouldn’t let her in. She asked him if he could at least bring a small flower she had in her hair and place it on the tomb for her, and said and that she would never come to bother him again. The soldier agreed, and he went down into the tunnels alone. Just as he closed the door of the husband’s crypt, he heard a scraping noise, and he realised with fright that it was one of the old stone doors falling shut. He ran frantically, as he knew if the door closed, he would be trapped inside forever. Boom! The door closed.” The children jumped at the loud “boom” and then stood looking at Cleaves for a time, waiting.
“Did he get out?” one asked, finally tired of waiting.
“No, but that is not the scary part,” Cleaves went on. “The woman had let the door close because she was angry with the soldier for not letting her see her husband’s tomb, and she told the soldiers who came looking for him that he had run away with a purse of gold she wanted to put in her husband’s tomb.
“A few months later, there was another funeral. The day before it, a couple of soldiers went into the tunnels to make sure that everything was alright and that the doors were open, and to make room for the new arrival.
“They carried their fire torches deep inside until they came to a large, closed door. This door wasn’t supposed to be closed, so they knew they had to open it. They used all their strength to open it, and on the other side, they saw the most gruesome thing they had ever laid eyes on.”
“What was it?” the children asked.
“The skeleton of the soldier who had been locked in, standing there with his pike in front of him, and all around him there were the skeletons of the rats he had managed to kill before they had swarmed all over him and plucked all the meat from his bones. Some of the skeletons of rats were even stuck on his pike, where he had poked right through them.”
“Ewwwww,” they all said in delight (though some were clearly unnerved by the story), and then Cleaves laughed to set their minds at ease.
“We have to go now, so no more stories until the next time,” Mullins said. He nudged Cleaves to get him walking before he started to tell them another story. “Those kids will be up all night,” Mullins laughed when they were far enough away from the children.
“One or two, maybe, but children love that type of thing,” Cleaves laughed back.
“What do you suppose they’ve heard about the Dolocher?” Mullins asked.
“As much as you or me. Maybe more than you or me.”
“Yeah, children can pick up a lot of things that adults miss.”
“Adults choose to miss a lot,” Cleaves said.
Mullins nodded, but he wasn’t really focused on it. “You be careful when you’re doing your deliveries,” he said to Cleaves.
“I’ve been on the lookout since the first killing, but I think they happen a lot earlier than when I go out delivering.”
“Where do you get all these stories anyway?” Mullins asked after a few more steps.
“A city lives or dies on
its myths,” Cleaves said, tapping the side of his nose and smiling broadly.