The Hanged Man Rises

by Sarah Naughton

  ‘No, no. I’m fine, really, sir . . .’ he began weakly but did not protest as Hannah dragged him over to the chair the Inspector had just vacated, then settled herself on the floor and began drawing in the ash that spilled across the flagstones.

  ‘Perhaps just a few minutes . . .’

  The chair was soft and smelled deliciously of pipe smoke. The Inspector’s coat hung on the back; a pair of handcuffs protruding from the left-hand pocket glittered in the firelight. The flames were mesmerising, crackling lullabies. At home the cot was far too small for the both of them and Titus often slept on the floor, which was hard and draughty and crawling with cockroaches.

  He blinked and shook the drowsiness out of his head. If the hiding he was going to give Hannah when they got home had the desired effect this might be the last time he’d have to fetch her from the station, and his last chance to speak to Mr Pilbury.

  But before he could open his mouth there came the rumble of men’s voices outside the door. A moment later it burst open and the policemen poured in, like a great blue wave breaking on the room. They tramped over to the table, one of them carrying a tray of meat puddings, and settled down amidst much thumping and squealing of chairs.

  ‘Line your stomachs, lads,’ the Inspector said. ‘God knows what you might find over there.’

  One of the younger ones looked up. ‘Do you think there might be more bodies then, or the hair?’

  ‘Who knows,’ Pilbury said. ‘But if the mother’s as bad as they say you might find a few things that’ll turn your stomach.’

  ‘My stomach’s clad with iron,’ another man cried. ‘So chuck us one of those, Samson, before it cracks in half!’

  The officer called Samson ignored him and turned to the Inspector. ‘What would you like, sir? There’s steak and onion, lamb and mint or pork and apple.’

  ‘Not for me. I’m up to my chin in pies and tarts.’

  ‘Mrs Membery?’

  Pilbury smiled. ‘God bless her.’

  ‘Well, don’t tell her, but I think the steak and onion beats even her best efforts. Won’t you give it a try?’

  Samson’s words were light but Titus thought the glance he gave his superior showed a flicker of anxiety.

  ‘I’ll have something when you men have gone.’

  The pies were distributed and the men tore into them. Hannah resumed drawing in the cinders, but Titus could not take his eyes off the policemen. The way they sat, chatting and laughing, eating and wiping their mouths like any other human creature, seemed at odds with the sheer wonderfulness of their appearance. Their uniforms were velvet blue, their buttons flashed, their boots shone. But though they were all equally fine in appearance Titus had come to understand there was a strict hierarchy of authority. Some of them had gold chevrons on their sleeve. Samson had two, making him a sergeant. The Inspector had three, which meant he was the most important, though you would never know it from his humble manner; only these markings and the men’s deference.

  ‘Do you reckon there’s more, sir, then, than what’s been discovered?’ one of them said between mouthfuls.

  Pilbury shrugged.

  ‘Let’s hope not, but no-one ever reports these street children missing.’

  ‘There was that one father as did. The oyster catcher from Lambeth.’

  ‘They found that one,’ another chipped in. ‘Don’t you remember? Under the boat beam by the pier. His nose nibbled off by the eels.’

  The men jumped as the Inspector gave a hiss and glanced at Hannah, but she was too busy with her drawings to pay any attention.

  The door to the yard opened and a boy not much older than Titus came in. His hair was as orange as scallop roe and his face a mass of large freckles. One of his left incisors stuck out from the others, lifting his lip in a sneer.

  ‘Ooh, lovely. Any steak and onion?’ he said, thrusting himself between the men.

  ‘There’s pork and apple or nothing,’ Samson said. ‘And you should be thankful for it. A policeman’s wages isn’t enough to cover the feeding of greedy stable boys.’

  ‘I think you’ll find I am a groom,’ the boy replied. ‘Like what the Queen has.’

  Samson curled his lip but let the comment pass. The boy took the pie, smeared it with mustard and went to sit on the window seat, his dirty boots resting on the white sill.

  ‘Right,’ Sergeant Samson barked. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

  The men rose from the table.

  ‘Fetch your helmets and lanterns,’ said Samson. ‘And I want everyone to bring their batons. We don’t know how strong he’ll be.’

  As the men were filing out the Inspector added quietly:

  ‘Your pistols too.’

  There were astonished murmurs from the men.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Samson said and the men departed, with Pilbury following. As he passed the children he slipped something into Titus’s hand. A penny. Titus thrust it into his pocket before the stable boy could see.

  For a while there was just the crackling of the fire, but then the stable boy broke the silence.

  ‘He’s mad.’

  Titus turned to see him regarding them from the windowsill.

  ‘The Inspector. Letting you two thieving scroungers come beggin’ here all the time.’

  Hannah’s sooty finger stopped dead in the act of drawing the pupil of a pony’s eye. Titus stared at him, all drowsiness swept away in a surge of anger.

  ‘We’re not thieves,’ he said quietly. ‘Or beggars.’

  ‘My arse!’ the boy snorted.

  He ran his tongue down his protruding tooth. Titus looked at him for a moment, then turned back to the fire. Hannah jerked her chin towards the door that led back through the station but Titus shook his head. If they slunk away now it would be as good as admitting they were cowards as well as thieves.

  For a moment there was silence but for the stable boy slurping up the pie. Eventually the slurping stopped and the boy slapped his hands together. Titus heard his footsteps approaching and the boy swaggered into his line of vision.

  ‘I heard your old man’s mad as a hatter. Is it true he once jumped into the Thames to escape marauding Russians?’

  This was not true. Their father had turned to face his imaginary foe with a poker and a carving knife and was forcibly disarmed by the police. It had taken three of them. Back then his father was hale and strong; he had returned from the Crimea unharmed in body, but what he had seen had so injured his mind that only the oblivion brought on by drink could ease his suffering. Titus could not blame him for it, nor even his mother who had dealt with her husband’s spiralling insanity the same way. It angered Titus that the sacrifices of people like his father had been forgotten: instead of being lauded as heroes they had become objects of distrust and ridicule.

  He stood up, and Hannah rose to stand beside him.

  ‘You great fat—’ she began but Titus hushed her.

  ‘He’s a good father and was a brave soldier,’ he said, holding the boy’s gaze. As there was almost a foot between them this meant he had to look down a little, but this would be no advantage in a fight: the boy must weigh several stones more.

  ‘Brave like you, you mean? Hiding behind your sister?’

  Titus sighed. ‘Come on, Hannah.’

  ‘That’s right, run away, like your dad!’

  As they stepped out into the courtyard a blow to his back sent Titus stumbling forwards. Pushing Hannah aside he turned round. The stable boy swaggered towards him, his fists drawn up to his chest.

  Titus sized him up. He was too bulky to be fast, plus he was now heavy with the pie. Titus would be quicker, but lack of food meant his stamina would drain quickly.

  He didn’t actually want to hurt him. In fact he was grateful the boy had chosen this way to try and humiliate him. A far more effective method would have been simply to make his comments in front of the Inspector.

  He backed away and positioned himself in a patch of shadow. The boy’s face in the light from
the kitchen was a round moon, his eyes wide as he tried to pick out the contours of Titus’s frame. Finally he came at him, his fat fist pulled back behind his shoulder.

  The blow to his solar plexus sent the boy reeling back. He struck the stable wall and crumpled, gasping for air with little squealing noises, like a newborn piglet.

  Hannah was laughing from the threshold of the kitchen but Titus hushed her. The insult was paid for. There was no need to crow about it.

  When the boy was able to breathe again Titus helped him up, then turned and headed back to Hannah. But as he walked towards her her grin froze.

  A moment later there was a blow to the back of his neck. Once he’d steadied himself he spun round and swore. The stable boy’s face was twisted in fury. From his pocket he’d drawn a curved hoof pick.

  Titus dropped his weight onto his back foot and raised his fists. The stable boy came at him, arm wheeling, and Titus felt a little rush of air as the hook swiped less than an inch from his cheekbone. The boy was too angry to control himself and would not care if he took Titus’s eye out.

  Then something landed on the cobbles to his right. It was a carving knife. He risked a glance back to see Hannah standing in the doorway.

  ‘He’ll kill you otherwise!’

  Titus put his foot on the handle of the knife and slid it back to her.

  ‘He’s not worth hanging for,’ he said.

  ‘Too scared for a proper fight,’ the stable boy sneered.

  ‘A proper fight is with your fists.’

  The boy made a noise in his throat and then spat a gob of phlegm that struck Titus’s shoulder. It stank of meat.

  ‘If you hurt him I’ll kill you!’ Hannah cried.

  The boy crept a few paces forward.

  In a quick and fluid movement Titus kicked him hard in his upper arm and the hook clattered to the cobbles. But he was more agile than Titus had expected and immediately crouched and swept it up with his other hand. Titus sprang at him and managed to force his arm up his back. The boy cried out in pain but, before the fingers loosened on the hook, he flung himself forwards and his body weight threw them both onto the ground. Titus was pinned beneath him. He was so heavy Titus could barely breathe. With one arm pressed against Titus’s throat the boy brought the hand holding the hook up between their bodies. Titus felt the tip of it gouge along his thigh towards his groin. The boy grinned at him.

  ‘At least you won’t be spawning any more vermin . . .’

  Titus butted him in the face.

  The boy’s head snapped back and blood exploded from his nose. He tumbled back onto the cobbles to roll around, clutching his face and spluttering.

  Titus got to his feet. His ribs were bruised and the inside of his left thigh was wet with blood. Even now the stable boy’s feet wheeled, trying to trip him. Titus gave him one last kick between the legs and the boy was finally subdued, then he turned and hobbled back to the kitchen. But a larger shadow than Hannah’s was now blocking out the light.

  ‘WHAT IS THIS?’ Inspector Pilbury roared.

  ‘We had a disagreement,’ Titus muttered.

  ‘He attacked me, sir!’ the stable boy sobbed, staggering up and holding out his bloody palms for the Inspector to see. ‘He meant to kill me with that!’

  He pointed a shaking finger at the knife still lying on the cobbles.

  ‘It’s not true,’ Hannah cried. ‘He started it and Titus was only protecting himself—’

  ‘QUIET!’ Pilbury bellowed.

  Hannah’s mouth snapped shut.

  ‘You!’ He jabbed a finger at the boy. ‘Get back to the stable and prepare the carriage before I horsewhip you, and you . . .’ his tone grew weary as he turned to Titus, ‘take your sister home.’

  Head bent, Titus shuffled past Pilbury into the kitchen. Hannah had started to cry and he put his arm around her. As they trudged out of the kitchen and along the corridor the policemen were emerging from the offices. Their ridged, bell-shaped helmets gave them an imposing appearance but their faces were anxious and several had taken the opportunity for a hasty pipe.

  As they passed the front desk, heading for the open door, the sweet smell of tobacco was replaced by something more choking. Fingers of grey crept across the threshold.

  ‘Smog,’ Hannah said, wrinkling her nose.

  ‘That’s not smog,’ the duty sergeant said, ‘it’s smoke. Coming up from the south-west by the look of it. Another fire in the Devil’s Acre, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  As they stepped out onto King Street the prison cart thundered past them. The sight of that black iron box made Titus’s heart pound. He had accompanied his father here on one occasion in that coffin and the journey still haunted his dreams. The barred window was barely the size of a handkerchief and when the door clanged shut upon them and the driver whipped up the horses Titus had almost fainted with terror. It was like being transported through hell. The total darkness, the thundering of the road through the iron walls, the violent shaking of the whole and the urine-stench of fear was enough to send his father even madder: he had thrashed like a wild animal and broken his son’s nose.

  The cobbles reopened a cut in his foot. Until last year he had owned a pair of shoes, paid for by their mother’s dressmaking, back when she sewed until one or two in the morning instead of sleeping off drink, but they were long ago sold. Most Acre children went barefoot, and soon their soles were so tough that a steel tack could barely pierce them.

  At the corner Titus turned back for one last look at the police station. He’d been determined to prove to Pilbury that he was more than just a wretched street brat destined for drink, crime and the gallows, but the fight with the stable boy had ruined everything. Titus had shown himself to be the same as all the rest.

  And now they were heading back where they belonged.

  They crossed Victoria Street, dodging the mounds of horse dung and the carriages that swirled up out of the grey, before finally passing into the environs of the Devil’s Acre.

  4

  The darkness seemed even deeper after the glitz of Victoria Street and the smoke grew thicker at every step. They picked their way slowly down Abbey Orchard Street and into Perkins Rents. This wider street made a tunnel for the wind and the smoke cleared enough for them to see a few feet in front of them. Just in time Titus managed to avoid treading on a broken bottle sticking up from the mud.

  A rustle to their left made him stop dead and thrust Hannah behind him.

  ‘Evening, Titus. And how’s my little darlin’, then?’

  The voice from the shadows was very familiar.

  ‘Evening, Stitcher.’

  A boy with soot-black hair jumped onto the tumbledown wall next to them. The halo of gold bobbing along the other side of the wall must be Charly. Charly was so fair that people who saw him and Hannah together took them for siblings. Titus’s own hair was blond (when it was clean enough to tell), but nowhere near as fair as Hannah’s.

  ‘Found your way home all right, then?’ Stitcher said to Hannah. ‘Only we was worried as we left in a bit of a hurry, what with Charly’s dicky tum. River mud always makes him heave. Did you find anything?’

  Hannah glanced at Titus and bit her lip.

  Stitcher jumped down from the wall and landed as nimbly as a cat in front of them. Though at least two heads shorter than Titus, Stitcher was fifteen too. Charly, who now climbed over to join them, was seven but as small as a toddler.

  ‘Mudlarking again, were you?’ Titus said.

  ‘Yeh. Never find much these days though,’ Stitcher said with a shrug. ‘The water moves too quick now with the embankment and all.’

  You had to admire Stitcher’s attention to detail when it came to lying – it was entirely true that the recently completed embankment, built over the new sewer system, had narrowed and deepened the river’s channel, making mudlarking even more dangerous.

  Titus nodded in agreement, then added, ‘And what with the tide being in all day.’

  Stitcher cl
eared his throat a few times before continuing:

  ‘Yeah, well, there is that bit of beach by the glass factory what’s a bit higher than the rest and . . .’

  ‘You wasn’t mudlarking. I picked her up from the cop shop.’

  ‘Well, that ain’t nothing to do with me. We left her down by Westminster Bridge cos Charly had the shits.’

  Titus stopped and turned to face the black-haired boy.

  ‘You wanna muck up your own life, Stitch, go ahead, but if you try and take Hannah with you, you’ll have me to answer to.’

  ‘You threatenin’ me, mate?’ Stitcher said, smiling amiably.

  ‘I’m promising you,’ Titus said.

  For a moment they just stared at each other.

  ‘You know what,’ Stitcher said eventually, ‘I miss you.’

  Titus swallowed but held his gaze.

  ‘It ain’t as much fun without you.’

  He reached forwards and laid a hand on Titus’s shoulder.

  ‘What are you tryin’ to prove? That you’re clever? We all know that. That you’re better than us; that you’re one of them? You think they’re gonna let you escape from this place?’ He swung his arm round, taking in the soot-stained walls, the rags at the windows. ‘Go ahead and try it. You go earn a penny a month in the tanners’ yards or the shipyards or the sewers. And when she grows up Hannah can bloody her fingers making dresses for rich tarts, or get phossy jaw in the match factories. Or there’s always whoring, until she’s too old or too rotten.’

  Seeing Titus’s expression Stitcher held his hands up in supplication.

  ‘It’s only the truth. Why don’t you just let her enjoy herself while she’s young enough to get away with it, eh? Your mate on the force ain’t gonna let her get into too much trouble, is he?’

  ‘Leave her alone, Stitcher,’ Titus said quietly. ‘I mean it.’

  ‘Or else what?’

  But before Titus could reply Charly leaped in front of him and started skipping and dancing in such a peculiar fashion that Titus couldn’t help laughing. A moment later the child had vanished and Stitcher was up on the wall again. In his fingers glinted the Inspector’s penny.