The Return

There were two men onboard who wanted him dead.

Obadiah Hildebrandt made enemies with ease. He double-crossed and deceived while you and I fix our morning toast. In some places, it was said he would sell his own mother for a quick profit. He had done, twice, and both times made good on his price. When he passed through crowded places, whispers followed him like a shadow, curling with rumour and suggestion. He had learned to watch his back.

But these were two with death in their eyes.

One was the scout, a hunched and wiry man with his nose forever pinned to the trail.

Mire, he was called.

The other was silent and impossibly tall. Everywhere he carried in his hand a rusty knife, the end of which grew hungry for Hildebrandt's heart.

Banning, he was called.

They had been hard on his trail, he knew, since the waypost out on the South Downs. In this dusty shell of a building, drapes and taped up windows the only shelter against pressing winds, he had rested a few nights as he wound his way back toward the city.
The jolly faced landlord had kept him in beer and oats, stoking the embers of an open fire each night as the light began to wane. Hildebrandt had been glad of the company, taking to the funny little man. As a mark of kindness, he resolved to rob him only on the final day.
But as he made ready to leave, two silhouettes had appeared in the doorway.
'Room for two more?' Mire had asked in his sickening, treacly voice.
Banning had stood beside him, menace emanating from him like thick, black smoke.

Hildebrandt had a nose for trouble. He had known there would be others after his secret but these two carried the mark of killers. Moments later he slipped away, escaping from a window without even rummaging through the till. The landlord, he thought, had been lucky. In his absence, they burnt the place to the ground. Now the landlord lay facedown in a puddle, the wind driving hard through the open roof.
They found him again on the moors, winding down toward the busy jetty. He had seen them dark against the hillside, pressing on behind like vultures circling the dead. At the jetty he had hoped he might lose them in the busy crowds.
Hopeful, he moved toward The Return and chartered a ticket. But as he lay in his bunk on the first night, one eye open and peeled against the darkness, Hildebrandt had heard Mire's whispers carrying through the creaking hull.

They were coming; he would have to be ready.

Now, as the old steamer rattled through the mist, he watched and waited on the prow. Leaning against the handrail he saw the first of the bomb-shattered tenements poking forth from the cloud like broken teeth. From the river's edge came the sound of low singing. The suburb dwellers were down on the banks, washing their clothes in the grimy waters. In a few hours they would settle into port. The killers would be readying to strike, grinding their knife to a single sharpened point.
Hildebrandt left the rail and paced down the deck, drawing air deep into his lungs. He made a few cautious passes of the stairwell before descending into the hull, where his bunk lay fixed across two beams. He checked his bag, took the secret from it and pressed it into a pocket above his chest, then made his way back toward the surface. Emerging once more into the open, a hand reached out to greet him, wrapping solidly around him. Another pressed something sharp against the side of his belly. Mire stepped forward from the doorway, grinning smugly.
'Mr. Hildebrandt, might we have a word?'
Behind him Banning giggled, sour breath hot on the back of his neck.
They marched him toward the back of the ship, where twin paddles frothed at the water and a funnel rose out into the air, billowing steam.
Banning pressed him roughly against the rail until the air began to squeeze from his lungs.
'We understand you have something valuable,' Mire cooed, 'Might we see it?'
Nodding reluctantly, Hildebrandt reached inside his pocket, fingers settling around the secret.
'Oh yes, someone will be very disappointed to lose this, I'm sure.'
Mire paused for emphasis.
'You they might not miss so much.'
Between clenched teeth, Bannings's smans fixed into a hiss.
He was readying the knife.

Suddenly, the ship banked as another steamer passed close by. The funnel blew a thick blast and the horn sounded clear. Banning leapt with surprise and, in the confusion Hildebrandt tore the knife from his hands and fixed it deep into his chest, sending him spinning over the rail and into the river.

In a second, the smile was wiped from Mire's face. Hildebrandt advanced on him, but
turning silently he leapt overboard. Hildebrandt watched as he bobbed in their wake. If the cold didn't take him, the rats might have a chance.

He headed back toward the prow. Now they were making toward the centre of the city. The sky began to fill with broad, majestic towers of timeworn stone. Soon he would deliver his secret into the hands of his paymasters. Soon, he would collect his bounty and clear his name. Soon, he would disappear once more into the crowd.