The Hanged Man Rises

by Sarah Naughton

  To Mum

  First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

  A CBS COMPANY

  Copyright © 2013 Sarah Naughton

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  No reproduction without permission.

  All rights reserved.

  The right of Sarah Naughton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

  1st Floor

  222 Gray’s Inn Road

  London

  WC1X 8HB

  www.simonandschuster.co.uk

  Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney

  Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi

  A CIP catalogue copy for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN: 978-0-85707-864-3

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-85707-865-0

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  Contents

  1 SHELLS

  2 THE PALACE THEATRE

  3 INSPECTOR PILBURY

  4 CHEAP THRILLS

  5 THE PRISONER

  6 THE BASEMENT

  7 THE WORKHOUSE

  8 EGGS AND HONEY

  9 YELLOW JACKETS

  10 A VISITOR

  11 TOFFEE APPLES

  12 A HEALTHY SUPPER

  13 SILKWORMS AND SPIDERS

  14 CHARLY

  15 STITCHER

  16 BOOT POLISH

  17 A BARGAIN

  18 PAYBACK

  19 HELL

  20 A NEW HOME

  1

  The boy sat on the end of the jetty, skimming oyster shells across the water. It was too choppy to get many bounces but occasionally a shell would strike the dredger, moored further out, with a satisfying clang. He didn’t even bother to prise open the next one before he threw it. The thought of slurping out its slick grey innards, still quivering, made him queasy. A person could get heartily sick of oysters, and Sammy often wished his father had been a cattle drover or a cheesemonger. Anything but an oyster farmer.

  Now that he was eight he’d been given more responsibilities, including this afternoon’s task of checking the size of the oysters seeded the previous week. He was taking as long as possible about it, to put off the moment he had to return to the shed to carry on de-barnacling with his brother. He’d been at it all morning and the icy water had made his hands too numb to feel when the knife slipped. It had taken this long for his fingers to warm up and now that the feeling had returned they were throbbing. He lowered them into the green water and threads of blood drifted out from them to coil around the oyster ropes. Like hair. Sammy shivered. He wished he hadn’t thought of that: not now, not while he was out here all alone. The one who was killing all the children liked to take bits of their hair as a souvenir. That’s why they called him the Wigman.

  To try and drive the thought from his mind Sammy started whistling, a cheerful music-hall tune, but the sound drifted mournfully out over the dark water and he soon stopped.

  The low sun burned crimson, glinting off the tips of the waves, and making the river appear to flow with blood. A few wisps of fog drifted in. If he waited a little longer he could say he’d got lost in it.

  He realised he’d been too long when the water turned black. The fog had become so dense he couldn’t see further than his own legs dangling over the jetty’s edge, but if the sun had gone down it must be nearly five o’clock. His father would be furious. He’d probably have taken the cart and gone home, leaving Sammy to walk all the way back to Lambeth.

  He scrambled to his feet and ran a little way along the slimy boards. Then skidded to a halt.

  His father was waiting for him further down the jetty: he could just make out his blurred shape.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Sammy called, ‘I didn’t know it was so late.’

  He set off again, quicker. The fog enclosed him in a little bubble that contained only his scared breaths and the clatter of his footsteps along the boards.

  ‘Tomorrow I’ll start early and—’

  He stopped. The shape had not moved, either to turn away in disgust or to raise a fist. It merely stood watching him, close now, but still veiled in smog. Perhaps it was a policeman.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said as he hurried up alongside the figure, ‘but my father is waiting for me.’

  The figure moved sharply and Sammy went sprawling.

  ‘Hey!’ he cried as he was roughly turned over, but the cry was cut short as rags were thrust into his mouth and a cord tied around his head to keep them in place.

  Then the man was gone. Sammy lay there a moment in bewilderment, then sat up. The rags were packed so tightly he could hardly breathe. They tasted of honey.

  Too late he heard the crunch of pebbles below. The man had merely jumped off the pier onto the beach. Hands reached up and yanked him over. Throwing out his arms to save himself he landed heavily on his wrist, and it gave an audible crack. His scream was muffled by the rags.

  As pain overwhelmed him, he was dimly aware of being dragged up the beach and laid down. Then something heavy and smelling of sweat was thrown over him and he was left in darkness.

  He knew immediately what was happening. The Wigman had got him. Over the thumping of his heart he could hear the man chanting, a little way off.

  Biting his lip to suppress the cries of pain and terror, Sammy used his good hand to lift the coat off. Everything was grey. The smog would shield him from sight and muffle the sounds of his escape. He rolled onto his stomach, then pushed himself up onto all fours. The wall swung into view beside him, wet and black with algae. There were some steps fifty or so yards east of the pier. He began to crawl towards them.

  The sand beneath his knees was stinking and black, with tar and muck from the tanner’s yard and slaughterhouse.

  There was a splash some way behind him and the voice intoned, ‘Accept this gift.’ Sammy moved quicker, his left wrist flapping uselessly. A moment later another splash, more distant now. ‘Accept this gift.’ Closer and clearer were the booms of Big Ben striking a quarter past the hour. Would his father have gone home or was he on his way here now, his fists rolled and ready? Sammy hoped it was the latter, and was momentarily glad that the Wigman had taken him: at least it was an acceptable excuse.

  The wall suddenly zigzagged up away from him. He had reached the steps.

  Climbing onto the first tread he allowed himself a moment’s relief. Very few had escaped the Wigman to tell the tale, and most of those had wriggled out of his arms before he could do any tying up and chanting. But here Sammy was, nearly free, and with a story that would bathe him in adulation for years to come.

  Then he heard voices from above, the first deep and gravelly:

  ‘Can’t see him. Fog’s too deep.’

  The second a bad-tempered whine:

  ‘Prob’ly home by the fire, eating bread and dripping.’

  It was his father and brother. He tried to call out to them but his muffled squeak from beneath the gag was drowned by the tidewash.

  ‘He might have fallen asleep on the pier. We shouldn’t leave him.’ His father again.

  ‘He deserves it. He never does his fair share. I have to work twice as hard to make up for him.’

  ‘He ain’t as old as you.’

  ‘Ain’t far off. You’re too soft on him.’

  Sammy wasted a few seconds
fumbling at the knot round the back of his head, then continued to climb. It was hard, with only one good hand and the steps so slippery.

  ‘Come on, Pa,’ his brother said. ‘Let’s get on. If he is asleep it’ll teach him a lesson.’

  ‘I’m not sure. Not with this Wigman feller about.’

  Sucking in as much air as he could through soot-coated nostrils Sammy shouted, ‘Dad! Fred!’

  It came out as ‘Ahhhg! Ehhhh!’ but would have been audible, had a barge not come by at just that moment and given several long honks on its horn.

  ‘Asleep?’ Fred sniggered. ‘On a night like this, with the boats sounding their warnings every five minutes? I tell you, he’s home with Ma. Let’s go.’

  Sammy hauled himself up the next few steps. He was more than halfway now, but could hear his father’s heavy footsteps retreating.

  He shouted for him to wait.

  ‘Aiighhh!’

  The footsteps were growing fainter, but it was all right. He could still catch up with them and bring his father back to the beach. The Wigman wouldn’t know what had hit him.

  A blow sent Sammy reeling sideways and he crashed down onto the sand, too winded even to scream.

  He looked up mutely at his assailant. The Wigman was younger than they said, not more than twenty or so. His face was utterly colourless, like a grub dug up from the soil, and glistened like sweaty lard as the man knelt down beside him. His hands were massive, red and scarred, and Sammy watched in horror as he slipped one of them into his pocket and drew out a knife. He brought it towards Sammy’s face. Sammy screwed up his eyes and moaned, but with a flick of the wrist all the man took was a hank of hair.

  As the Wigman was tucking the lock into his pocket, Sammy brought his knee up sharply and the knife skittered across the sand. Sammy flipped himself over and went after it, grunting as his wrist collapsed and he lurched sideways, but righting himself and clawing onwards.

  The knife glimmered on the black sand and Sammy’s fingers were almost touching it when he was hauled into the air. With his good arm he clawed at the Wigman’s eyes and throat but the arm was clamped down and his face was pressed into a chest that stank of tallow and sweat. Sammy sank his teeth into the soft flesh until a fist descended on his head.

  The blow and the lack of air were making him dizzy and he began to see strange things in the darkness: shadowy figures gathered at the edges of his vision, murmuring to one another. Or was that just the shush of the river on the beach?

  The murmuring grew louder and the cold air slapped him alert as he landed on the sand. Water lapped around him, filling his ears, seeping into his clothes. The Wigman knelt down next to him, cut the cord around his head and pulled the rags from his mouth.

  ‘Let me go, please,’ Sammy gasped. ‘My father’s rich, he’ll pay you whatever you ask, I won’t say who you are I swear . . .’

  But the man wasn’t listening. He reached into his pocket again, took out an object and pushed it into Sammy’s open mouth. The slick congealed thing slipped straight to the back of his throat, its end fitting snugly into the opening of the airway. Then the hands launched him out into the dark water.

  Escape was still possible. He could swim well. He would simply roll onto his stomach, cough out the thing, whatever it was, and make for the other shore.

  Then something heavy fell across his abdomen and he went under.

  As the water surged into his nostrils he looked up to see the shadow of the Wigman step back, leaving just the fog, now endless green stretching all the way to the sky.

  2

  ‘Mother!’ Titus said for the third time.

  One of the shrouded shapes on the bed finally stirred.

  He tugged the stained sheet down to reveal his mother’s face: the evening sunlight falling on her cheek gave it a deceptively healthy glow.

  ‘Have you seen Hannah?’

  Next to her the other shape rolled over and a sour smell, of sweat and drink and urine, wafted from the blanket. There was no sense trying to ask his father anything so he shook his mother’s bony shoulder until she peeled one eyelid up.

  ‘Has she been back here?’

  ‘Ungh.’

  He went to the window and pulled back the rag, tucking it behind the songbird’s cage. As usual three wan children sat in the window of the house opposite, staring at the little yellow bird. The houses leaned into one other so much that occasionally Titus would unhook the cage and hold it out for them to poke their fingers inside, thinking it might make them smile. It never did.

  But there wasn’t time for playing now. Titus had returned from delivering some mended shirts to find his sister missing. She was supposed to have spent the day sewing. Until Titus found himself some proper employment, mending other people’s clothing was the only source of income in this household – though it was left to him and Hannah to do it, as these days his parents were dead drunk by noon and asleep by four. Normally his sister’s disappearances just infuriated him, but it was six thirty now and he hadn’t seen her since lunchtime and, what with all the murders, he was starting to get worried.

  ‘Mother!’ He went back to the bed. ‘Wake up and do some work!’

  This time she didn’t even stir.

  He swore to himself, threw the sheet back over her head and made for the stairs.

  As soon as he stepped out into the alley the wind rushed at him, finding all the holes in his clothes and worming into them. It was strong enough to have blown the smog away and directly above him the little patch of sky visible between the roofs was a beautiful clear violet.

  He didn’t have time to admire it. He set off down the alley in the direction of the river.

  This time when he found Hannah he’d give her a proper hiding. Like Father used to with his belt. Titus had tried reasoning with her and extracting promises but neither had had any effect other than to make him look like a sap. Stitcher, in comparison, probably seemed like the height of rakish glamour to her, with his silk cravat and mother-of-pearl pocket watch making him look far more sophisticated than his fifteen years.

  At the end of Old Pye Street, Titus took a left into Perkins Rents and headed for the ramshackle mansion where Stitcher lived with his ‘family’: a menacing crew of pickpockets, tarts, professional beggars and other boys who lived off their wits. The area beneath the house was honeycombed with tunnels to elude police.

  The door stood half open but there was little light coming from inside. The inhabitants tended to sleep during the day. Titus stepped into the gloomy interior. A line of stolen white silk handkerchiefs ran the length of the hall, like ghostly bunting. The windows had recently been patched with newspaper and the face of the Wigman leered out at him, swarthy and low-browed; more like a monkey than a man. Of course the woodcut was all guesswork. No-one really knew what he looked like, and there were plenty who didn’t even think he was human. The artist was clearly very skilled, however: the black eyes were cold and cruel and horribly alive.

  A creak of floorboards above his head made him jump.

  ‘Hannah?’ he called up the stairs.

  A minute later, a white face swam up out of the gloom of the first-floor landing.

  ‘Oh, hello, Titus,’ a woman’s voice croaked.

  It was Rosie, bleary-eyed. She must have been sleeping off her last client.

  ‘You lost Hannah again?’

  He blushed at the sight of her in her petticoat and looked at the floor. At seventeen she was only two years older than him but she looked like a full-grown woman.

  ‘Any idea where they’ve got to, Rosie?’

  ‘I think Stitcher mentioned some show on at the Palace. They’re expecting a big crowd.’

  ‘The Palace? On Victoria Street?’

  She nodded and stretched, then trailed back to her bedroom.

  ‘Thanks!’ he called after her, then raced out into the street.

  As he came out onto Victoria Street the dirty and tumbledown piles that crowded the narrow alleys gave way t
o modern white-stucco mansions, theatres and glittering public houses. The gas lamps had been lit, and well-dressed people ambled towards Westminster Bridge, the tips of their canes and gold watches aglow.

  Even now, so long after having forsworn the bad ways of his past, Titus couldn’t help noticing the handkerchiefs hanging out of pockets and the silk umbrellas held so loosely.

  A bill pasted to a wall on the other side of the street caught his eye and he dodged the traffic to get across to it. He’d only had six months in the Ragged School and the words were such a jumble of colours and sizes that it took him some minutes to work out what it said: The medium, Signorina Vaso, was apearing at the Palace tonight – at 7.30 pm.

  He squinted up at the face of Big Ben – twenty past seven – and started running.

  There was still a queue outside when he reached the theatre, and they all looked mighty respectable. Nobody was pushing or queue-jumping or shouting at the people in front to hurry up. Stitcher’s mob would stick out amongst this lot like a bunch of sore thumbs.

  An elderly woman in a tasselled shawl was saying to the woman next to her, ‘Of course Doctor Magnusson tells me these shows are simply the worst for my nerves, but you just can’t keep away, can you? And this girl’s supposed to be extraordinary . . .’

  The queue moved forward sedately and, peering over the hats and bonnets, Titus could see that the theatre foyer was in almost total darkness. Rich pickings if the gang had managed to sneak in another entrance.

  He went down the alley on the left of the building but the only windows were high in the wall and too small even for Stitcher’s little brother and main accomplice, Charly. Doubling back, Titus tried the alley on the other side. He was in luck. Down at the far end light spilled from an open doorway.

  Only as he was about to slip inside did Titus notice the thread of tobacco smoke rising into the air from the shadows.

  ‘Don’t even think about it.’

  A man stepped forward, dressed in a tailcoat and top hat.

  ‘You want to come in, you pay like the rest.’

  He was trying to cover his accent but Titus could hear it smearing the edges of his clipped words, and now that he looked more closely he could see something of the slums in the man’s gimlet eyes and hard mouth. His face was pasty and pocked but it had merged into the shadows, thanks to the coarse black hair that covered his cheeks and chin and came down low on his forehead. In contrast the man’s lips were a moist blood-red. He licked them before spitting onto the ground.