William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

the wound, but there was nowhere to lay Scuff down, nowhere to hang the lantern so he could see. His legs were freezing and clumsy, his heart was pounding, and the stench of sewage all but made him gag, but he was moving as fast as he could, always uphill, against the flow of the water. Once he passed a series of iron rungs in the wall; alone he would have climbed, but not with Scuff.
    He rounded a corner. The light seemed clearer now. He must be nearing the surface!
    Then he saw a figure ahead of him, a man, thin, with his arm raised. There was a shout, but in the tunnel it echoed. Against the roar of the water going over the weir he could not make out the words. It must be raining harder.
    The shot still took him by surprise, ricocheting off the wall and sending brick chips and dust flying. He threw himself against the wall, sheltering Scuff as much as he could with his own body.
    There was another shout, and another, but they sounded further away. He looked around and at first thought there was no one there. Then he saw the lantern held high, Orme’s familiar figure behind it. Relief washed over him like a warm tide, almost robbing him of the little strength he had left.
    “Orme!” he shouted. “Here! Help me!”
    “Mr. Monk, sir! Are you all right?” Orme ran over, slipping in the water, his lantern swaying wildly, his face crumpled with concern.
    “Scuff’s shot,” Monk said simply. “We’ve got to get him up.”
    Orme was aghast. “Now? Just now?”
    “No! No…we caught up with the assassin and he shot at us.”
    “Right, sir. I’ll lead the way,” Orme said steadily. “Come with me.”
    It seemed a long way before they finally emerged into the open cutting. By now Monk had abandoned his lantern, simply following Orme’s light ahead. He wanted to hold Scuff gently, in both arms. The boy was beginning to stir, and every now and then he let out a soft groan.
    When they reached the end of the cutting and were on level ground again, they stopped. For the first time Monk saw Scuff’s face in the daylight. He was ashen, and there were already hollows of shock around his eyes. Monk felt a tight pinching in his heart. He looked up at Orme.
    “You better get ’im to a doctor, Mr. Monk,” Orme said anxiously.
    Scuff’s eyes flickered open. “I want Crow,” he said weakly. “It ’urts summink awful! Am I gonna die?”
    “No,” Monk promised. “No, you’re not. I’m going to take you to the hospital—”
    Scuff’s eyes grew wide and dark with terror. “No! No ’ospitil! Don’t take me there, please, Mr. Monk, don’t take me…,” he gasped. His face turned even whiter. He tried to reach out his hand as if to ward off something, but only his fingers moved. “Please…”
    “All right,” Monk said quickly. “No hospital. I’ll take you home. I’ll look after you.”
    “You’ve got to get ’im treated proper, Mr. Monk.” Orme’s voice was sharp with fear. “Just carin’ isn’t gonna be enough. That bullet’s gotter come out an’ the ’ole stitched up…an’ cleaned.”
    “I know,” Monk answered, more sharply than he meant to. “Get a message to Crow and have him come to my house. My wife’s a battlefield nurse.”
    Orme saw the futility of arguing when time was so desperately precious. He ran out into the street and stopped the first hansom passing, ordering the startled passenger out to find another hansom. This was police business. The man saw the injured child and made no demur.
    Orme left to look for Crow.
    It was a nightmare journey. Monk sat cradling Scuff in his arms, talking to him all the time about anything and nothing, wishing he knew how to help. The trip seemed to last forever, and yet it was perhaps no more than half an hour before he climbed out, paid the driver, and carried Scuff to the front door.
    The house was dark, empty, and cold. God! Had she gone back to Portpool Lane already? He could have wept with fear and the aching loneliness of knowing he was inadequate to do what was needed. Where was Hester? Why was she not here? What could he do without her? He felt panicky and sick. There was no time to wait!
    He must keep Scuff warm! He was slipping away, bleeding too fast. His face was gray and there was barely a flutter of his eyelids.
    Monk must warm up the room, riddle the stove, put on more fuel. He should boil water to make it clean. Where was Hester? Why was she not here? He had no idea how to get a bullet out! He could kill Scuff just by