He’d not argue that point. “Clearly God has other things in mind for you.”
The man’s thin lips pulled into a line. “I do not believe in God.”
“He believes in you.” Jackson shrugged. “Enough to have sent me your way at this very moment in time.” Aha! Now that could explain the odd set of circumstances that had delayed him thus far.
“Because of you…” The man slowly shook his head, lips parting in wonderment. “It is because of you I am not dead.”
“Indeed, you are far from it. Already your colour is returning.” With a final clap on the fellow’s back, Jackson rose and offered a hand. “Let’s get you on your feet before an overladen manure dray rolls by and dirties you with roll-off.”
After a quick adjustment to straighten the elaborate mask, the man’s pencil-thin fingers clasped his. This time Jackson didn’t put quite so much muscle into lifting the man lest he fly into the road and be crushed beneath a wheel. Once standing, Jackson released his grip and studied the fellow. If he’d had a hat, he’d lost it to the breeze, his stringy brown hair peeling back from an angular face—leastwise what could be seen below the masquerade covering. He didn’t wobble. Didn’t clasp the rail for support. He stood on his own bird legs without aid, seemingly steady enough. Physically, anyway. There was no way of telling how broken the man’s mind was.
Jackson rubbed away the grit on the left half of his face, thinking fast. He couldn’t very well drop the man off on an asylum doorstep, not morally, at any rate. If the fellow were simply a bit off form from some recent tragedy in his life, locking him away with lunatics was unjust. Still, diagnosing if he was mad or merely eccentric was far beyond Jackson’s expertise…that’s it! There was a doctor’s office just down the street from the station. He could bring the fellow there for a good go-over and let the doctor decide just what sort of help he needed.
Jackson swept out his hand. “How about you tell me your story as I am on my way to work.”
The man’s head jerked back. “You…you wish to listen to me?”
“Of course. Clearly there is something troubling you or you’d not have…well, you know.” He swallowed. No sense in revisiting the near-death experience.
The man’s mouth gaped into a large O, and without any warning whatsoever, he flung himself at Jackson, embracing him in a killer of a hug. “Oh, thank you. Thank you, my good man!”
Jackson peeled him off, not wishing to attract another group of gawkers. “No thanks needed. Shall we?” He angled his head. “I cannot afford to be any later than I am.”
“Oh! Far be it from me to hinder you. I owe you my life, sir, so in no way shall I cause you to be even a minute—nay, one second—late to your job.” He hooked his arm through Jackson’s, tugging him into motion with surprising vigour.
“I think we shall do better unattached.” He pulled away, uncomfortable with the man’s excessive gratitude. “What is your name?”
“Ezra Catchpole, at your service.” He dipped a bow as he walked. “And you are?”
“Jackson Forge.”
“Oh, Mr. Forge, I cannot tell you how obliged I am to you, how your act of bravery has buoyed my very spirit, has restored my hope in mankind.” His voice squeaked into a wistful pitch. “Perhaps life may be worth living after all.”
Leaving behind the bridge, Jackson turned right at the next crossroad and gave Catchpole a sideways glance. The man didn’t sound quite as insane as he’d first credited, for Jackson knew exactly the despair lost hope could bring. He’d been there before after witnessing ugly crime upon crime, all the injustice of the London streets, the downright evil he’d seen, felt. Always, though, God had reminded him to look past the darkness to see the light that yet remained in the world. And if Ezra Catchpole didn’t believe in God, as he claimed, then no wonder he’d been ready to end it all at the bottom of the Thames.
“What happened that caused you to be so low, Mr. Catchpole?”
The lips below the mask twisted into a bitter line. “Loss. Unspeakable loss.”
“Such as?”
Catchpole eyed him as if he were the crazy one. “I said it was unspeakable, sir.”
Jackson’s brows rose. Apparently the man literally meant what he’d said.
“Tut-tut. Take no offense.” Catchpole skirted a loose chicken, then dodged the lad chasing after it before rejoining Jackson’s side. “Rather, take heart you have completely refurbished my bleak outlook, and I shall spend the rest of my days repaying the debt I owe you.”
“You owe me nothing, Mr. Catchpole.”
“Oh, but I most emphatically do!”
That could be a problem. He had enough troubles to deal with without having to evade an overly clinging scarecrow bent on compensating him for some imagined obligation.
“Truly, I insist there is no duty on your part whatsoever.” He stopped in front of Dr. Stapler’s door and pushed it open. “Here now, be a good fellow and tend to that scrape on your jaw. Let a medical examiner assess you fully. Will you do that?”
Catchpole gazed up at him. Not only was the man thin, but the top of his head barely came to Jackson’s chin. “Do you really think it necessary?”
Jackson nodded sharply. “Without a doubt.”
