Lifeblood by Tom Becker Page B

belching smoke rings from its interior. No longer would anyone be able to descend the steps and hide away from the world in the pitch-black. A group of regulars milled around outside, in the dazed hope that somehow it would reopen in a few minutes.
    On the pavement on the other side of the street, Jonathan winced as another bolt of pain jarred his skull. He felt dreadful. Being knocked out twice in a matter of hours was clearly not good for him. He rubbed the bump on his head, and looked around as the Grand returned to something like normality.
    â€œI’m surprised anyone bothered to put the fire out,” he said.
    â€œSelf preservation, boy.”
    Carnegie’s clothes were singed, and his face blackened with soot. He was down on his haunches next to Jonathan, the prone bulk of Arthur Blake between them. He paused as a thick cough burst up from his lungs, and then carried on.
    â€œIf the Midnight goes up, maybe another building follows – next thing you know, the Grand’s burnt down, and so has your house. Fire’s everybody’s enemy.”
    â€œEven so, I’m surprised.”
    â€œDarksiders might be a bad bunch, but we’re not stupid.”
    There was a protracted groan, and then Arthur heaved himself up. An ugly bruise was swelling on his temple. “What happened?” he asked groggily.
    â€œWe got jumped by a man called Correlli,” replied Carnegie. “He’s a hired hand. I’ve had enough run-ins with him in the past to know that he’s one of the toughest characters in the borough. You really don’t want to mess with him. Anyway, he torched the place and scarpered. I managed to drag you and the boy out before the place burned down. Nearly got barbecued in the process, mind you.”
    â€œWhat did he want?”
    â€œJust your standard threat – ‘stay away or else’. I’ve had hundreds of them. Correlli doesn’t come cheap, though. Someone really doesn’t want us investigating this case.”
    Jonathan frowned, remembering something. “Who’s Edwin Rafferty?”
    â€œEh?”
    â€œYou mentioned him back in the Midnight.”
    Carnegie scratched vigorously behind his ear. “Oh, right. I asked one of the barmen if he’d noticed anything unusual in the past day or so. The only thing he could think of was that he hadn’t seen Rafferty – and apparently it was very rare he wasn’t in the Midnight. So I thought I’d bring it up with our friend back there, see if it got a reaction. I think we struck lucky.”
    â€œIt didn’t feel very lucky at the time.” Jonathan rubbed his head.
    Carnegie chuckled. “Being a private detective isn’t all fun and games, you know.” He turned to Arthur. “Does Rafferty mean what I think it does?”
    The reporter nodded.
    â€œMoney. And lots of it.”
    Â 
    Several hours later, his head still pounding, Jonathan found himself standing in a cramped terraced street in the Lower Fleet, where residents listened through paper-thin walls to their neighbours’ bickering and quarrelling. Dirty puddles swamped the cobblestones. The sky was stained with acrid smoke. Edwin Rafferty resided in a particularly grim dwelling underneath a railway bridge, and every few minutes his house winced as a train rattled overhead. The windows were coated in a thick film of grime, while the front door was hanging off its hinges. Even in the depths of the Lower Fleet, the building emanated squalor.
    â€œI don’t get it. I thought you said this guy was rich?” Jonathan said.
    â€œHis family are,” Arthur replied. “One of the oldest and most disreputable families in Darkside, the Raffertys. Made an absolute fortune from smuggling.”
    â€œWhat went wrong?”
    â€œEdwin went wrong. He spent more time in pubs than on boats. His family got so sick of him drinking away their fortune that they disinherited him. Shall we go