William Monk 06 - Cain His Brother

swore at him with a string of oaths he would have expected from a bargee.
    Caleb had vanished.
    Monk got into his stride again. Someone else was running along Harrap Street, coattails billowing. It must be one of the constables.
    He swung around the corner and saw Caleb running easily, almost dancing as he turned around and waved, his face laughing, then scampered on towards the river.
    Monk extended his pace, his lungs gasping, his blood pounding. It had been too long since he had been obliged to chase a man on foot. This was a hard way to discover it.
    The constable caught up with him and forged ahead. Caleb was still twenty yards beyond them, and running easily, every now and then leaping, as if in mockery. They had passed the turning to Leicester Street and were approaching Norfolk Street. Where was Caleb making for?
    Caleb passed the corner of Russell Street and there was nothing ahead of him but the dock and the stairs! A wild thought crossed Monk’s mind that he was going to jump into the river. Suicide? Many a man would think it better than the hangman’s rope. Monk would himself.
    Then he would make for the wharf, not the stairs.
    It was already mid-afternoon and the light was failing. A grayness crept up from the river and robbed everything of what little color there was. The mist deadened Caleb’s flying footsteps as he raced across the stones to the edge ofthe water and the flight of steps downward. The constable was only a couple of yards behind him.
    Monk’s breath labored in his lungs but his ankle was easing.
    Caleb disappeared down the stairs and the constable after him. Then there was a yell and a heavy splash, then a scream of fear, choked off almost instantly.
    Monk reached the edge of the wall just as a second constable came behind him.
    Caleb was on the steps, feet wide apart, balanced, laughing, his head thrown back. The constable was thrashing around in the water, sinking, dragged down by his boots and his heavy clothing.
    “He’ll drown!” Caleb shouted, looking at Monk. “You’d better pull him out! You can’t leave him, Mr. Righteous!”
    There was a barge about ten yards out, the first of a string moving slowly upriver with the incoming tide, low in the water, heavy with bales covered over with dark canvas. The bargee in the stern looked at the man in the water and threw his hands wide. He could not stop the impetus of his vessel. There were another dozen behind him, like railway carriages.
    Monk hesitated only a moment. The constable was drowning. His face was white with terror. He had not the faintest idea how to swim and his own panic was killing him. There was a piece of timber lying on the edge. Monk threw it in and waited long enough to see it float.
    The instant was enough. Caleb charged up the steps again, thrusting past him and onto the river wall, racing upstream towards the Artichoke Tavern fifty yards away.
    The second constable arrived, swerving to go after Caleb and leave Monk to rescue the man in the water.
    “Get him!” Monk shouted, jabbing his arm down the steps towards the water, and spun on his heel to run after Caleb.
    The constable gasped, saw his colleague struggling,clasping for the wood, and swung around, plunging down the steps after him.
    Monk sprinted along the hard pavement behind Caleb, who seemed to be veering away from the edge as if he would go around to the front of the tavern and the door. Why? Had he friends there? Reinforcements? He could hardly hope to hold off half a dozen police! There was no escape through the back—it fell sheer into the rising tide.
    Monk was only fifteen yards behind him.
    Then suddenly Caleb swerved again, turned on his foot and picked up speed, running straight towards the river. He was going to kill himself after all. He ran even faster and at the dock made an almighty leap. Only then did Monk realize what he meant to do. The barge was only twenty feet from the shore. He landed awkwardly, sprawled across the canvas, and all but pitched off the far side, but he was on it and already it was carrying him away.
    With more rage than judgment, Monk backed off to give himself a launching distance, then in desperation leaped as well.
    He landed with a numbing crash on the third barge. The breath was knocked out of him, and it was several seconds before he could even think to rise. When he did his hands were grazed and he found it hard to expand his lungs and gasp in the damp, darkening air. He could see the dim shape of