The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins - [98]

‘I confess that I am a gambler. I confess that I am over-fond of liquor and low company. I have wasted many nights in taverns and brothels and cannot say that I regret it. I confess that I broke a woman’s heart – and that I do regret, more than anything in this world.’ He swallows hard. The ladies fan themselves. ‘I confess all these things. But I swear upon my soul, I am not guilty of murder.’

A cheer goes up, the loudest of the morning. He has won them over, now at the end, with the rope about his neck. They do not care if he is guilty or innocent. In the face of death, he has conducted himself well, with wit and swagger. This is a good dying. And in the end, that’s all that matters. Beneath him, a few paces from the gallows, he sees the Reverend James Guthrie shaking his head, face tight with disapproval. It is his duty to record the last confessions and dying words of the condemned. He will have to write these words in his own hand.

This is the first cheerful thought Hawkins has had all day. He looks up at the gallery, at the rows of women. My God, all those women. His lips curve slowly in a wolf’s grin. Let them remember that…

And then he sees her. Judith Burden. She is sitting in the middle of the gallery, black-gloved hands in her lap. She holds his gaze. Smiles.

His heart slams into his chest. That dress. That black, widow’s gown.Of course.

‘Wait!’ he cries, but it is too late. Who would believe him now?

‘Courage, sir,’ Hooper murmurs.

The white hood slips over his head, rolls down until it covers his face. He breathes, and the air sucks the cloth against his lips. Courage. Yes. That’s all he has now. That and a few last, precious breaths. Use them well.

He closes his eyes and thinks of Kitty. The fresh, sweet scent of her. Powder-white skin, smooth and soft as silk. Her fingers against his chest, her breath hot and urgent on his throat. A soft cry of pleasure.

He had this, at least, before the end.

The noose tightens about his neck.

God forgive my sins.

Someone pulls the horse forward. He feels the cart move beneath his feet. A moment later his body swings free.

The Ballad of Thomas Hawkins

Tom Hawkins was a parson’s son

With evil in his heart

A deed most wicked he has done

And so he’ll ride the cart.

He stabbed Jo Burden with his blade

The blood is on his hands

A noose old Hooper he has made

The gentleman will hang.

They rode him off to Tyburn’s tree

They led him to his death

They stretched his neck for all to see

He took his final breath.

All rakes and scoundrels, now I pray

You learn this lesson well

A gentleman was hanged this day

And now he burns in hell.

Part Six

Chapter Twenty-Two

Life. It rips through me.

As the air sucks into my lungs.

As the blood pulses through my veins.

Life. How it burns.

I open my eyes and see nothing. My arms are pinned to my sides, my knuckles pushed hard against solid wood. My fingers and toes are numb. I can feel movement beneath me, the roll and sway of a cart. We are travelling at a furious pace, hooves thundering on the cobbles, but I am held tight in the darkness. I try to move, and pain screams through my cramped muscles. I stop. Breathe. Take in the scent of wood, fine grains of sawdust catching my throat.

I am trapped in my coffin.

I kick out at the lid in a frenzy, crying for help. My voice is a thin rasp, my neck swollen and bruised. No one will hear me over the rattle of the cart. The memory of choking, flailing on the rope seizes me. I cannot breathe. I will suffocate alone here in the darkness.

Terror gives me back my strength. I kick harder and the wood splinters against my boot.

‘Quiet, damn you.’ A rough male voice. ‘Lie still. If you want to live.’

I fall back, panting heavily. I feel as if I have lain asleep without moving for a hundred years. I try to stretch, and my legs cramp again. It is torture, but I push through it, gritting my teeth. Sensation returns to my fingers and toes, a throbbing pain laced with a thousand hot needles. As if pain is the only proof of life.

Where am I? Am I safe? I concentrate on the sounds outside my narrow wooden box. I can hear drunken cries, the high squeal of street hogs, ballad singers and hawkers, and a low bell tolling my own death. The cart slows, caught in the crowds, then surges forward again. Someone curses the driver. The cart turns and the noise changes. Whispers, and the sound of a bottle smashing. A baby screaming somewhere high above our heads. The wheels of the cart rattling over broken cobbles. The driver coughs. ‘Damned dust.’ We roll to a halt, the horses snorting and chewing at their bits.

The coffin begins to move, sliding from the cart. It swings into the air and I roll inside, smashing my knee. What if I am to be thrown into the Thames? I take a deep breath, ready to fight, but the coffin is carried higher, resting on solid shoulders. Boots thump and voices curse as we tilt and turn up the stairs. I count four storeys. The men are grunting now with the effort.

A door opens. The coffin is lowered to the floor with a heavy thump.

‘Here he is, then.’ Someone kicks the side. ‘Ten pounds.’