POPCORN

by Victor Gischler

  “I'll cause a distraction”, says he, and off he pops.

  And that's how Joey Picaroni come to run away from the circus, join the Scruffians without being Fixed yet... making him the first ever stray, I s'pose.

  For he'd had it with his uncle's beatings, he were sickened by the world, and he were out to strike a blow against it.

  It's also how Joey come to burn that boss clown's caravan to ash, scrufftrader, stickmen and his uncle inside.

  Which were a good distraction, right enough.

  PART TWO

  1

  There was four of them then set out from Stepney Green - which is where they was - weaving their way south west.

  There were Eleasar Jinkalock, the fusty fop, in the dandiest gent's most tattered togs. Behind were his manservant, face stripped of greasepaint for the first time in forever -

  Well, it was in this fabble, Joey.

  Cause I says so.

  Afore him meanwhiles, on their chains, was Whelp and Yapper - which weren't as queer a sight as yer might fancy.

  No, Scruffians were out there to be seen, alright; the Trade just weren't to be discussed, weren't acknowledged. Weren't delicate.

  Yeah, you hear of some nob with a pet monkey back in them days, like as not that's code for Scruffian. A monkey in a toff's portrait, or a midget in a king's: Scruffian.

  A miser's housepet - that's how they used to put it, on account of a Scruffian don't need fed, on account of a Scruffian being Fixed. Don't get sick much neither, unless yer blade slips while's yer tweaking yer Stamp.

  So, yeah, there was just a few cocked snoots from passers-by, and the best as can be said is some were at the master's cold heart.

  So, it's Cable Street they makes for, on a secret mission to bring the most precious prize as had ever been swiped to Foxtrot Wainscot Hottentot III.

  Foxy here's sorta the boss of bosses, see - sorta - ever since Nuffinmuch O'Anyfink gone offsky, which were so far back ain't many more'n Foxy minds it. The time of pirates, like.

  Nuff were king - of the tinkers too, by way of his da as was killed when he were scrobbled. But Nuff were too Scruffian for such bollocks, so one day he just lit out for elsewheres leaving Foxtrot to run the show.

  Not that Foxy's much for playing Lord Muck neither, says it's more of a fixer thing, really, a facilliotator.

  Like Nuff were made king cause he figgered out Stamp-tweaking, Foxy's the boss cause... well, he's foxy. Course, it made him a wanted man back then.

  The Waiftaker General didn't even have his name, but he knowed there was someone masterminding all the Grey Mary ambushes and liberations.

  So Foxy, he lives on the lam, flitting crib to crib, hid so sneakily there's only one scrag as might know his whereabouts.

  And that's what brung em to Squirlet's opium den.

  2

  In an alley off Cable Street, it were, among boozers and brothels, between a slop-shop and a gin-shop, down steps worn treacherous, just one big room, lamplit low as the rafters, all smogged with the puffing of sailors and such curled up on higgledy-piggledy bunks.

  Soon as they's in the door, a scamp runs up to em - Vermintrude Toerag by name. Filthy as sin and snottery to boot, but that don't stop Jake from gathering her up into a best mates' hug... as makes Joey's nose wrinkle when she comes in whiffing distance.

  “Where's Squirlet?” says Jake.

  So Vermintrude leads em a zigzag through the bunks, Yapper dumping his chain now's they're safe, taking Whelp's off too. Up some creaky wooden stairs they goes, into Squirlet's crib, into a babble of Scruffians, a maze of oriental screens, to a nook where Squirlet Nicely's just dismissing some smuggler from a consultation. Ain't nobody can't hide nuffink like Squirlet can, see?

  She narrows her eyes at Puckerscruff's collar on Whelp, purses her lips. Jake don't even need to tell her what's what.

  - Amateurs, she tuts. This way.

  And she whirls to the panelling behind her, pokes a knothole.

  Click.

  Down the secret passage Joey follows Yapper and Whelp, who follows Jake and Trude, who follows Squirlet. Joey ain't wholly sure he's invited, he's just worrying as they's mistook him for Scruffian, indeed, when there's a merry cry - Jake! Whelp! Yapper! - as flows into What the fuck's this fucker doing here? and a knife at his throat, a scallywag with fiery hair.

  - This cuntfucker ain't Scruffian, hisses Flashjack Scarlequin.

  - Easy there, says Jake. He's sound.

  - Oh? says Flashjack.

  And just like that, his arm's round Joey's shoulder, and Flashjack's firing up his footlong pipe with a fingersnap.

  - Well welcome, matey!

  Now Joey, he ain't never seen a hellion trick like Flashjack's sparking flame from his thumb, so that don't exactly settle him none.

  And it don't help that this sparky scallywag's no sooner playing best chum than he's off again, whirling down - What the what?! - to the collar round Whelp's neck, looking up with horror on his mug, at Jake, at Yapper.

  “Puckerscruff? Me peachy Puck? What's happened? What they done to him? Why's Whelp?”

  “Jack!” pipes a voice.

  And from the shadows of the hidey what the passage opens into, out steps a scamp in moustache and monocle.

  Foxtrot.

  3

  “So Puckerscruff's scrobbled”, says Foxtrot once they's all sat round the table in his den, an attic stashroom at the top of another secret passage from the hidey.

  “He can't be Scrubbed”, says Flashjack. I'd know if he were Scrubbed.

  Him and Puckerscruff were sweethearts, see. If this were some groanhuff story, it'd be Flashjack for hero, rescuing the dainty damsel, but this fabble's for you strays to savvy the Scruffian life, where's all in that war room, all of em's heroes. Still, Flashjack he's for storming the Institute pronto, on his ownsome if need be.

  “What if... ?” he whimpers.

  “The Waiftaker General won't Scrub him, old chap”, says Foxtrot. “He's too valuable. But... what would Puck himself say was the priority here, Jack?”

  And as Whelp lays his head on the scallywag's knee to comfort him, Flashjack hangs his own, and in a quivery voice:

  “The Stamp”, says he.

  For he knows whatever his sweetheart's suffering now, it were all risked bravely for that precious prize, for them pinhead plans what Foxtrot's tweezering even now into a stanhoscope - which he screws to a magic lantern, with a nod for Flashjack to fire it up as he dims the lamp.

  And there on a dirty linen sheet nailed between two posts, why, it's the plans of the Institute's nine floors, from basement cells to the Fixing Room itself, and the vault at the heart of it. It's wondrous intricate, even a little legend at the bottom as puffs the magical miniaturisation: Dancer's Daguerrotypical Diminution, it says, as Joey tells a stymied Yapper what tugs his sleeve while's Foxtrot and Squirlet discurses and deliberates.

  “Daggery typical”, whispers Yapper, eyes wide. “Can you reads anyfink? Even all's of Mister Dickens?”

  “I'm less of a Copperfield, more of a Kropotkin man”, says Joey.

  Meanwhiles, Joey's own curiosity's niggling. For a bit he just watches Foxtrot figgering routes through the Institute with Eleasar Jinkalock's cane, but finally he just has to blurt it.

  “Why?” he whispers to Yapper. “Why the moustache?”

  “It's a disguise”, says Yapper. Silly.

  “But... he's... for the love of... that's ridiculous”.

  “Is it?” says Yapper. “What'll you mind of his face when yer leaves here?”

  Poor Joey Picaroni's still trying to answer that one when It's settled then! says the moustacheoed mite himself. And turns to peer at Joey.

  - Old chap, says he, I understand you consider yourself... an ally.

  4

  So before long Foxtrot's laying out his plan, not the full-on frontal assault as Flashjack's riled for, nor the sneaky night-time catburglarising Squirlet fancies, but an infiltration, disguises and all. Sq
uirlet, Flashjack, Trude and... Joey?

  “And me”, declares Yapper even as the stray give his nod.

  Foxtrot, he looks at the scamp as has lost every crib-mate, and he ain't one to argue. Besides, they's like to need every scruff if they's to steal the Stamp.

  “And rescue Puckerscruff”, says Flashjack.

  “That too”, says Foxy.

  And he turns to Vermintrude.

  “Spruce up”, says he. The footlights call.

  A right little actress is Vermintrude, see. Stinky as a sewer rat's arsehole if she ain't on, but wipe her down, dress her up, and send her into a plod-house to loose the waterworks as a poor lost daughter of the hoity toity, she'll have em eating from the palm of the hand she picks her nose with.

  There weren't much missed back then from Earwigger working the shoe-shine network, or Lightfinger Larker going after deeds and documents instead of wallets and wipes, but when yer needed a shufty round a rozzer's records, that were Trudy's speciality.

  Half an hour later then, why, here's Flashjack sauntering out the opium den's door, skipping up the steps, and offsky down the lane.

  Then out comes Eleasor Jinkalock, with his mangy mutts, canine and kiddiwink, and his manservant at his back as before, but with two ever so adorable tykes added to the retinue, Squirlet and Vermintrude - all spick and span - why, it's his two nieces looking pitifully pretty as a picture in their mourning gowns and bonnets - oh, the poor things as must've lost their ma and da and been taken in by this 'orrible miser of an uncle.

  Down the alley they goes, to where Flashjack's on the driver's bench of a landau what he's whoa'ing to an halt amid the bustle of Cable Street - not far from where's we helped block them blackshirts... now that's a fabble. That were afters though, when -

  Alright, alright.

  So, in goes Mister Jinkalock, and Yapper to his side, Whelp to his feet, and them two nieces sat facing, while's Joey, he clambers his way up to the groom's seat, looking right nervy in that precarious perch.

  “I'll try not to bounce yer arse too much”, Flashjack grins back.

  And they's off.

  5

  They heads out into the kerfuffle of Cable Street, turns north up Leman. Through Shoreditch they goes, to the City Road, and round onto Pentonville, rattling over the cobbles when's the traffic ain't so bad, but mostly going not much faster than yer'd go in rush hour these days.

  They's almost at King's Cross and St Pancras, when Flashjack give a little whistle, takes the pipe from his gob with one hand and swivels it to point the stem forwards as he slows the horses.

  Jake peers past him. Up ahead, three peelers is stopping coaches and carts, searching em.

  Jake tips a nod to Squirlet and she ganders over her shoulder - Arse!

  “Yapper, down”, she says. “Whelp, shift”.

  And she's off her seat, shoving Whelp aside, ignoring his growl, to tweak this and twiddle that, and hey presto! a panel goes sliding back of Jake's legs. Trust Squirlet to have a smuggler's hidey in her carriage, eh? So in goes Yapper and in goes Whelp. Takes a bit of coaxing, truth be told, and a near loss of Squirlet's nose, but eventually Yapper persuades the dog.

  So, as they reaches the peelers, ain't hide nor hair of em fugitives.

  But life ain't so easy as when the jackboots kicks yer door in, or stops yer car in a posh neighbourhood on account of yer colour, that yer can just smile, wave yer hand and say, These ain't the Scruffians yer looking for.

  No, maybe it's the Wotcher, guv'nor as Flashjack give the sergeant, or maybe it's Squirlet's glare at the peelers as has her lift her veil, but them peelers smells Scruffians. And even as Jake puts on the pomp, one peeler kicks a panel as sounds hollow. As sounds a growl.

  “Oh well”, says Flashjack.

  But he's grinning.

  And the bit of his pipe stays clamped in teeth, but the stem whirls in his hand - why, it ain't nowt but a twelve-inch spike with a tip as gleams cold steel... until it's in and out the back of one peeler's neck, smeared blood-red now, and darting again, right into the next peeler's eye, deep! The sergeant, he stands there gawping. He fumbles for his whistle, even gets it to his gob as Flashjack somersaults, lands on one knee at the man's feet. Drives that spike up under his chin.

  Catches the whistle as the bodies fall.

  6

  They takes the cobbles now hell for leather, weaving the traffic of the road in a carriage as weren't built for darting, nor for the tight streets they turn up, smashing stalls and scattering folks to doorways, Joey Picaroni clinging on for dear life in the groom's seat, his noggin near lopped when Flashjack takes em through an arch as low as it's narrow.

  No helicopters nor radios for the plods in em days though, so eventually, as they reaches Camden Town, Flashjack lets the horses slow to a steady trot. They's in the clear. And Hampstead Heath ain't far.

  So they rides up high on the Heath, by a trail as leads em to the tinker camp they's headed for -

  No, these weren't Romani; they was Scotch... Summer Walkers, tinsmiths.

  Tinkers and Scruffians has always been tight, see. Plenty of us come from em, taken by the stickmen, like Nuff.

  And they gets the same tone in tinker what we gets in scruff. So we scratches each other's backs. Like, as them scruffs ride into the camp of carts and bow tents, how Flashjack tosses the peeler's whistle to one.

  “Bit of tin any use to yer?” he says.

  Yeah, there's even the fabbles of Tinker Bill, who'll knock on the tradesman's door of some townhouse, asking, Mend yer pots, ma'am? And there'll be some Scruffian chained, fancying no more of Bill than the other groanhuffs as does nuffink for her.

  But what's this? Bill's dropped summat! And, Ain't I a butterfingers! says he as he kneels by the scamp, slips her a skellington key, and whispers she'll know when's to run.

  And blow me, but not long afters, there's some almighty havoc at the front door. And that's yer scamp's chance to slip her shackles and be offsky.

  But most of all's, any Scruffian as has had their Stamp tweaked... if it weren't done by a tinker's hand, it were done by a tinker's wits.

  It's one thing an accident in the mills as cuts wildness into some scallywag's chest; it's another to finick out the fear whacked deep into a workhouse scamp. Or to gives yerself horns like as an hellion might.

  If it weren't for Nuff bringing us together, most liberated Scruffians would like as not have an arse on their elbow, savvy? That were why our heroes were come, for a tweaking of hextrarordinary complexification.

  7

  Peeling white knuckles from his perch then, Joey come down into the hullaballoo of hugs and handshakes, and after's stew at the campfire and chatter as swings from merry to maudlin, he watches curious as they gets down to business.

  All but Flashjack - cause who'd know where's to begin with a Stamp so chopped yer wonder how he ain't got bleeding tentacles! - they all strips to their waists, and the tinkers set to tweaking.

  Joey he's flummoxed at the nipples as appear on Yapper's back... till the scalpel's put to peeling the patch... and the needle and thread come out.

  Rake Jake Scallion don't get done neither, right enough. He don't get a Stampless chest growed on his back, sliced off, and stitched to his front so's when they's finished, with the stitches hid, all em Scruffians could pass for littl'uns as ain't never even seen the inside of the Institute.

  No, Jake's busy at his own part, sat on a rock by the fire with a tin tray on his lap for table, eyeglass in and quill in hand, or notary's stamp, to forge the indenture papers, signed and sealed, as says them waifs was bought fair and square.

  “Here”, says one tinker lad of a size with Flashjack and Joey. “Youse two'll be needing summat tattier to wear”.

  So offsky they trots, to a tent, while's Squirlet and Vermintrude follows some girls, to change into garments as weren't never more aptly called threads.

  As he pulls his new breeches up and knots a string for a belt, Joey clocks that Stamp of Flashjack'
s - show em, Jack.

  Yer ain't wrong, mate. He can't even mind where all em tweaks began - can yer, Jack?

  Anyways, that's why Flashjack were left as is. Fuck knows, another tweak and he might explode.

  There were some heated debate, as they says, over Whelp then. Yapper, he says the dog's Stamp, well, it's mostly hid by his fur, see, and even where it does show all's they need do is muck him up, and if Whelp can't come into the Institute with em, well he can drop em off with Jake, be there's for backup. But Squirlet, she ain't having none of it.

  The stickmen's looking for a scruff with a dog, says she. And a lolloping scallywag dog like Whelp's distinctive. No, she says, no, and Foxy put her in charge. Nuff said.

  8

  So now here they is, five workhouse waifs straight out of their stripy shirts and shifts, and back in the clothes as they came in with, each with their own certificate of sale now, one guinea per gamin, and three pounds six shillings each for the beansprouts, all made out to Eleasor Jinkalock from Whitechapel and Spitalfields Union Workhouse on Whitechapel High Street -

  No, it weren't the Charles Street one, Jack.

  No, it weren't. That were the infirmary by then, where they brung Ripper Vicky's dead.

  And you wasn't even there, Puckerscruff, so keep yer oar out.

  Says yer arse!

  These orphans, so the cover story went, was to serve in Mister Jinkalock's Most Illuminating Demonstration, to the board of the Central London Railway, of the superiority of his motivational methodologies in the stimulation of Scruffians as were recalcitrant by vulgar birth, to the task of tunneling, whereby aforesaid Mister Jinkalock professed his convictionalised expectation, through aforseaid Most Illuminating Demonstration, to win the contract for constructional labour on the proposed extension of the City and South London Railway to Islington, the indentured scruffs of his competitors currently working among the navvies being notoriously, to aforesaid competitor's discredit, shiftless little bastards.