Show Me the Sky - Nicholas Hogg [26]
Waiting in line to speak to an archivist, I read that between 1787 and 1868, the convict transportation register lists 160,023 men and women arriving here in chains. Crimes punishable by shipment to Australia included stealing fish from a pond or river, bigamy, clandestine marriage, thefts above the value of one shilling, and watermen ferrying illegal numbers of passengers across the Thames.
My information seems scant considering such staggering numbers, but the archivist, a middle-aged man in a polo shirt and heavy glasses, reads the name on the card and peers above his lenses to see my face.
‘Not 1826?’
‘Possibly. This is about as much as I know.’
‘That’s quite remarkable. From tens of thousands of names, I get two Englishmen enquiring about the same man in the space of a week. Are you related?’
Suddenly my heart leaps, thuds in my chest.
‘Sir?’
I realise I’ve been standing staring into space. ‘Sorry. Related? You mean to McCreedy, or the other researcher?’
‘Well, either I suppose. People using the records are often tracing relatives, or, until the recent fad for bragging about criminal great-grandparents, forgetting them.’
I tell him I’m not related to McCreedy. Then, I give him the Billy K physical outline, suggest my cousin might have driven up from Melbourne.
‘That seems about right.’
When I ask for a name he clams up completely.
‘Sorry, sir. Confidentiality is paramount for those researching their genealogy. Even if it was your own brother, I couldn’t say.’ Then he taps the card on the desk and says, ‘Won’t be a moment.’
He returns twenty minutes later with a manila folder.
‘Not such a common Irish name, you see. Might be tricky if it were. The English seemed to think our fair land was a pleasant holiday destination for many of their neighbours, particularly those who found work on their lordships’ farms disagreeable.’
I thank him and take a seat at one of the tables. I open the folder and pull out a photocopy of a handwritten document. A judge at Bow magistrates court signed the sentence of transportation to Australia: Patrick McCreedy, convicted of breaking and entering an apothecary. I read that for the crime of manslaughter of the chemist, he was found not guilty. If he’d been charged, he wouldn’t have travelled any further than the gallows. And I wouldn’t be sitting here hoping he was a link to my missing rock star.
I walk out the library, almost skipping down the steps. Yes, ridiculous, wishful thinking, I know that much. But I’m following a Billy K lead. And no, I’m not insane enough to think I’ve stumbled upon our Billy himself. Am I? Would he really have given up everything to study the journal, to find out more about Babbage and the story that inspired him to cast off his life and run?
Now I have a lead, a bite, the fish tugging at the hook, I need help to haul him in. Whoever he is.
I walk the clean, immaculate streets downtown, and ask for directions to the nearest Internet café.
From: paraphernalia1278@yahoo.com
To: anna.monroe@metpolice.gov.uk
Date: Wed 18 Jan 2005 15:27 + 1300
Please reply via a private email account, on an external, non-MET network.
From: anna_m@hotmail.com
To: paraphernalia1278@yahoo.com
Date: Wed 18 Jan 2005 15:59 + 1300
Reply as requested. Who is this?
From: paraphernalia1278@yahoo.com
To: anna_m@hotmail.com
Date: Wed 18 Jan 2005 16:22 + 1300
To confirm this is Ms Monroe, could you tell me what you ate for breakfast on the morning of 16 Sept?
From: anna_m@hotmail.com
To: paraphernalia1278@yahoo.com
Date: Wed 18 Jan 2005 17:09 + 1300
Toast, cut off a loaf from the bakery café downstairs, with strawberry jam spread on top.
Jim?
From: paraphernalia1278@yahoo.com
To: anna_m@hotmail.com
Date: Wed 18 Jan 2005 17:21 + 1300
Who else? The man who fetched you that loaf. I’m OK, Anna. You know me well enough to know this much. I hope.
Might need your help soon. What’s the fallout in London?
Sorry to have worried you. So much to tell you, not least how much I miss you.
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