Gaslight by Mark Dawson Page B

his brother and went inside. It was a small shop, with shelves on the walls bearing packets of cigarettes and cigars and a oak counter laden with more, plus a generous selection of confectionary. A display case behind the desk held an array of pipes. A sign above the case advertised MANUFACTORY ROLLED CIGARETTES, a stylised finger pointing down to a tray where individual cigarettes were laid out.
    The man at the counter was talking. He made no attempt to lower his voice.
    “How was this week?”
    “It’s good, my friend.”
    “The money last week, it was light.”
    “Light?”
    “It was not enough. This week, you give me more.”
    “But I haven’t any more to give.”
    “Nonsense.” As Harry watched, the man went around behind the counter and opened the till. He reached down and took out a handful of coins. “This is better,” he said.
    “Please, Mr. Scarpello, I can’t afford it.”
    “You can. And next week you pay double. You understand me?”
    “Mr. Scarpello––”
    He looked him straight in the eye, a cool gaze that augured violence. “You understand?”
    “Of course. Double.”
    “Very good.”
    The man turned, buttoning up an overcoat. He noticed the Costello boys and, with elaborate charm, tipped the brim of his homburg in their direction. “Afternoon, lads,” he said as he sauntered past and onto the cold streets beyond.
    He left an awkward atmosphere in his wake. Rowcliffe’s face was washed over with a curious mixture of emotions: fear, relief and worry. He tried to make small talk but it was stilted and uncomfortable; aware, no doubt, that these two new customers had just seen him emasculated. George was close to broke himself but he had enough to paid for two packets of Player’s Weights and they went outside again. The expensively-dressed man was halfway down the street. As Harry watched, he noticed two men cross to the other side to avoid him.
    “Who is that?”
    George looked at him incredulously. “You don’t know?”
    “I’ve been away, George, remember?” Harry had fought, George had stayed behind in Soho thanks to a spurious condition he had dreamed up with a quack who wrote medical notes in exchange for cash. It was a touchy subject between them and Harry didn’t often bring it up. “I know he looks like a dandy,” he said, nudging the subject back to the man and away from the war. “Or a peacock.”
    George glared at him. “Don’t ever say that to him.”
    “Who is he?”
    “Antonio Scarpello,” he said.
    “Never heard of him.”
    “He’s with Sabini. You know who Sabini is, right?”
    “I think so.”
    “He runs Soho. Everyone pays him. Even father.”

2
    IT TOOK HARRY an hour and a half to finish his round. The muster point for the local lamplighters was the yard behind the Dublin Castle in Camden. A couple of the other men were already there, smoking cigarettes and gabbing with the foreman. Harry had no time to be social this evening. He handed in his paperwork and reported the pertinent details: there were faulty lamps in Berwick Street and Dean Street and he needed another box of matches. He bade the others good night, got back onto his bicycle and made his way back down to the Tottenham Court Road, crossing the junction with Oxford Street and then turning right into the maze of cobbled roads and alleyways that comprised the black mile of Soho. He had been working here for a couple of weeks but he had a firm grasp of the local geography from boyhood memories of visiting the area.
    The French was on Dean Street. Harry propped his bicycle against the wall and popped his head into the public bar. George was sitting alone, a half-empty pint before him and his bag at his feet. He noticed his brother in the doorway, quickly finished his ale, collected the bag and made his way outside.
    Harry collected his bicycle and they set off at once.
    “How much have you had to drink?”
    “Just a couple.”
    He looked across at his brother. “How