Mister Creecher

by Chris Priestley

  ‘Evening, Mr Gratz,’ said Billy. ‘Are you well?’

  ‘Can’t complain,’ croaked Gratz. ‘Well, I could, but it wouldn’t make no difference now, would it?’

  Gratz cackled throatily at this, as he always did – the exchange was an oft-repeated one.

  Billy indicated to Creecher that he should stay back in the shadows, then stepped forward into the little bubble of light from the oil lamp.

  ‘Well,’ said the old man. ‘Have you got something for us, Billy?’

  Billy smiled and put the sack down between them. Gratz gave a nod to his nephew, who scurried over and lifted the sack, tipping the contents on to the floor. Billy saw the old man’s tiny eyes widen in their shadowed sockets.

  ‘That had a nice, healthy sound to it,’ he said. ‘What’s in there, my dear?’

  ‘Couple of canes, Uncle – good ones. Silver tipped, maybe. Silk handkerchiefs. Neck scarves. Two nice watches, one of ’em gold, or gold-coloured, anyways.’

  ‘That’s silver and gold and you know it,’ said Billy. ‘But if you ain’t interested . . .’

  He made to pick the items up. The old man clapped his leathery hands and said, ‘Billy, Billy. No need for that . . . How long have we known each other now? Three years? Four?’

  ‘More like five,’ said Billy, without looking at the old man.

  ‘He was such a skinny young thing when he came here,’ said Gratz to his nephew. ‘He ain’t much to look at now – but you should have seen him then. Always sharp in the head though. Always had a thief’s brain in his skull. You can’t teach that.’

  ‘Ha!’ said Billy, still gathering the things together. ‘Any thieving brain I have, you put there, old man. I weren’t no thief before I met you. And you’re even worse. You thieve from thieves.’

  ‘Billy!’ called Gratz. ‘Enough now. You know you’ll get a fair price here. Ain’t I always been fair?’

  ‘Fair?’ said Billy. ‘Let me see. It’s me that takes the risks and you that has a roof over his head. If that’s fair, then I suppose you are.’

  ‘Billy, Billy, Billy,’ said the old man, wheezing a little. ‘It’s like a rusty knife in my heart to hear you talk this way. You was always my favourite. Always.’

  Billy smiled and stood up straight once more.

  ‘A fair price mind,’ said Billy. ‘None of your nonsense.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ said Gratz. ‘Anything else in there?’

  ‘Couple of pair of boots, Uncle,’ said the nephew. ‘Gentlemen’s.’

  After a moment the old man burst out laughing – a wheezing, spluttering laugh that quickly descended into a hacking cough. It took a while for him to compose himself with deep rasping breaths.

  ‘You took their boots, Billy?’ said the old man, waving an admonishing finger at him.

  ‘Took whose boots?’ Billy replied. ‘I found these things. They must have been dumped.’

  The old man nodded and chuckled.

  ‘Of course, of course,’ he said holding up his hands. He cleared his throat noisily and squinted into the shadows behind Billy. He held out the lamp at arm’s length and peered past it.

  ‘You’ve brought someone with you, Billy?’ said the old man. ‘You know I ain’t one for strangers.’

  ‘He’s all right,’ said Billy.

  ‘I’m sure he is, my dear,’ Gratz replied, in a voice that did not share the meaning of the words. ‘Ain’t you going to introduce us, then?’

  ‘He’s foreign,’ said Billy. ‘From Swissland. He don’t speak English that well and –’

  ‘Even so, my young friend,’ said the old man. He beckoned to Creecher. ‘Even so . . .’

  Billy nodded and Creecher stepped forward into the dim light, his huge frame even more exaggerated in this confined space. Gratz recoiled in horror.

  ‘A Golem!’ he shrieked. ‘Why have you brought a Golem to my house?’

  ‘A what?’ said Billy.

  But the old man was screaming now.

  ‘Get out! Get out!’

  Billy froze, startled for a moment, and then quickly began gathering up the hoard and replacing it in the sack, while the old man was comforted by his nephew. He took a sideways look at Creecher, who was now nothing more than a massive inky shadow.

  ‘Come on,’ Billy said. ‘I’ll think of something.’

  They retreated back through the door and were about to leave the building when they heard a voice behind them.

  ‘You’re not leaving, I hope.’

  It was the nephew, holding a candle. He gently closed the door on his uncle’s room.

  ‘I thought, with old Gratz that way –’ Billy began.

  ‘That?’ said the nephew, waving it away as though it happened every day. He dropped his voice to a whisper and took hold of Billy’s sleeve.

  ‘Between you and me,’ he said, ‘my uncle is not a well man. Not a well man at all. He is easily upset.’

  ‘But not you?’ said Billy, with a quick glance towards Creecher.

  The nephew looked at the giant and then smiled, putting the candlestick down on the top of a wooden chest.

  ‘I takes as I find,’ he said. ‘And it takes all sorts.’

  He clasped his hands together, his long fingers coiling around each other like snakes.

  ‘What was that Gratz said about a Golem?’

  ‘Pay no heed,’ said the nephew. ‘The old man is – how can I put it? – a little confused from time to time. It’s a superstition with our people. A fairy tale. It wouldn’t interest you.’

  ‘It would interest me,’ said Creecher, stepping forward. The giant seemed to bring a blast of cold air with him as he did so, and the nephew flinched as Creecher moved into the light. Even so, Billy was impressed with his calmness. Creecher was a troubling spectacle at the best of times, but in that gloom he seemed all the more terrifying: like the embodiment of everything a person fears when they are trapped in a dark place.

  ‘Well,’ began the nephew, his voice now a little more strained and his smile a little more forced. ‘The Golem is a man made from clay. He is brought to life by means of magic and serves as a slave to his master.

  ‘There is a story of Rabbi Loeb in Prague many, many years ago, who created such a Golem and brought it to life, and it served my people there, guarding them and doing work for them. He was a giant, you see – much like your good self – and very strong.’

  ‘And what happened to him?’ said Creecher, seemingly fascinated by the tale.

  ‘The Golem?’ said the nephew, rubbing his clammy hands together. ‘Well, he ran amok, I’m afraid, and the rabbi was forced to destroy him and return him to the dust from which he had come. It is a fairy tale. Nothing more. But my uncle is from that part of the world, you see, and these things have a special grip on his mind.’

  Creecher made no response, but Billy could sense that, for whatever reason, he had attached some significance to this yarn.

  ‘Between me and you, my friends, Uncle is not much longer for this world.’

  He opened his hands and shrugged.

  ‘But I am here to do what I can to help keep the business afloat,’ he continued. ‘So what can I do for you, gentlemen – in return for those goods you offered us?’

  ‘I need new clothes and shoes,’ said Billy. ‘Nothing too smart, but smart enough. I need to be able to pass as a servant or a delivery boy. Respectable, but not too much. I want to blend in.’

  The nephew nodded his way through Billy’s specifications.

  ‘You want to be invisible. I understand. You’re pretty much my height and build,’ said the nephew, looking Billy up and down. ‘We can find you something, I’m sure.’

  ‘Hey!’ said Billy. ‘I don’t want your cast-offs, mind. They don’t have to be new, but they need to be decent.’

  The nephew recoiled theatrically, clutching his heart.

  ‘I’m offended that you would even think I’d pull a trick like that.’

  ‘Him, too,’ said Billy,
ignoring the protests. ‘He needs new clothes and all.’

  The nephew raised his eyebrows and tapped his fingers together. ‘That will be more of a challenge,’ he said with a grin.

  ‘Yeah – but you can do it?’ asked Billy.

  The nephew nodded.

  ‘Everything is possible, my friend. We do a little business with Mr Bartholomew down the road.’

  ‘The undertaker,’ Billy told Creecher.

  ‘He had a fearful tall man through his hands last week. I was wondering where we’d find a buyer for those clothes. You ain’t got no objection to wearing a dead man’s clothes?’

  ‘None,’ said Creecher, with a wry smile.

  ‘Very well, then,’ said the nephew. ‘He wasn’t quite your height, of course,’ he continued with a nervous chuckle. ‘But with a few alterations here and there. If I can just take a few measurements?’

  Billy looked at Creecher, who after a moment nodded his assent. The nephew took a pencil and small pad from one waistcoat pocket and a tape measure from the other.

  ‘Now then, now then,’ he said, dragging a chair noisily over to Creecher. He passed the candle to Billy and climbed up to stand on the chair. He was still not as tall as the giant, his eyes level with Creecher’s teeth. Billy saw him recoil from the foul breath and grinned.

  ‘I . . . I . . . I feel a little dizzy,’ said the nephew shakily. ‘What a curious view of the world you must have, my friend.’

  ‘His name’s –’

  ‘I don’t need to know names,’ said the nephew, putting a finger to his lips. ‘No need to know more than you need to know, eh? Knowledge is a fine thing, of course, but it can stretch your neck, too. Or those of your acquaintance.’

  Billy nodded.

  ‘Now then, my mighty friend,’ said the nephew, ‘if I could just ask you to raise your arms.’

  He passed the tape round Creecher’s chest, not without a little difficulty, and wobbled on his chair. Once the measurement was taken he jotted it down in his notebook with a whistle.

  ‘If you could hold that there,’ he said to Creecher, asking the giant to hold the tip of the tape to the back of his collar while he hopped from the chair and straightened the tape out to measure the length from the collar to the floor. Again he noted the measurement and again he whistled, half in admiration and half in amazement.

  He measured the giant’s boots from heel to toe and across the width.

  ‘Bigger than these,’ said Creecher. ‘They crush my feet.’

  ‘They will have to be specially made, of course, but I know a cobbler who will do a good job. He’ll be happy to take the two pairs of boots in payment, if that’s all right with you?’

  Billy nodded.

  ‘While I’m down here,’ said the nephew, putting the tip of the tape to Creecher’s groin. The giant roared and shoved him away.

  ‘Easy, easy!’ said the nephew. ‘I meant no harm. It’s what we do to measure the trouser length. It does make you wonder, though, don’t it? The size of him and what not.’

  Creecher clenched his fist and moved forward. Billy chuckled, then Gratz called from the next room.

  ‘It’s all right, Uncle,’ shouted the nephew. ‘The gentlemen have almost finished.’

  Creecher calmed himself and stepped back, scowling.

  ‘I think maybe you ought to guess,’ said Billy, grinning.

  ‘I think we’ll guess at the waist, too,’ said the nephew breathlessly. ‘That’s enough measuring for one day.’

  ‘When will they be done?’ Billy asked.

  ‘Beginning of next week good enough?’

  ‘The end of this week,’ said Creecher.

  ‘Of course. Right you are, gentlemen,’ said the nephew. ‘You know the way out, don’t you?’

  Creecher walked to the door and Billy followed him.

  ‘Terrible thing about Fletcher,’ said the nephew as Billy was about to leave.

  ‘Yeah?’ said Billy, with all the disinterest he could muster.

  ‘Found him in Fleet Ditch, they did. Skull crushed in like a walnut.’

  ‘He had a lot of enemies,’ said Billy more coolly than he felt.

  His mind reeled. So Creecher had dealt with Fletcher, after all. Billy could not deny it was a relief to be rid of him, but this reminder of the dreadful power of the giant unnerved him.

  The nephew smiled and nodded, studying Billy’s face intently.

  ‘So he did, my friend. So he did.’

  CHAPTER X.

  A rancid mist drifted in from the river. It tasted of rotten fish. Billy coughed and spat on to the pavement, yawned and stretched.

  It was a cold morning: crypt cold. Horses made their way warily over the treacherous cobbles, steam rising from their sweating flanks. Cartwheels skittered and squeaked. Hunched drivers clenched their teeth.

  Billy stood under an archway waiting for Frankenstein and Clerval to emerge from their rooms on the opposite side of the street. He stomped his feet and blew into his clasped hands, trying to warm them.

  The air was so chilled he could feel it stinging his flesh, biting into his fingertips, his nose, his ears. It seemed to have sucked the life out of everything and everyone around him, slowing the world down to a snail’s pace and painting it a dozen shades of dull grey.

  Billy cursed the two foreigners, who he was sure were sitting next to a raging fire, eating a warm and hearty breakfast while he stood freezing his balls off outside.

  All this waiting for Frankenstein and Clerval had given him time to think – perhaps too much time. Rumination was a novelty for Billy. He had rarely had great cause to think much beyond where his next meal was going to come from, or where he was going to sleep.

  But since meeting Creecher, when his life had taken this new course, he found more and more that his head was full of thoughts, all crowding in on each other.

  Sometimes he thought about his mother, although he tried not to. Thinking about his time with her was like holding his hand over a flame: he could only do it for so long before the pain became unbearable.

  Other times he thought about the sweep and the beatings he took at his hands, and the memory filled him with shame and anger.

  But today he thought mostly about Fletcher. The vision of his crushed head flashed with unwelcome vividness into Billy’s imagination. He replayed the events of the night he first met Creecher over and over again, so dreamlike did they seem now.

  Who, or what, was Creecher? Why did he look the way he did? Some wrong had been committed, of that he was certain. But what and to whom? And if he was right and some wrong had been done, was he helping the victim or the perpetrator?

  He thought of Gratz screeching about the Golem and then he thought of Fletcher again. What the hell had he got himself into? He should just walk down to the docks and sign himself up on a ship bound for the Americas and be done with it all.

  But Billy could not let go. He rattled the coins in his pocket. The giant might not be the most enthusiastic of robbers but his presence was better than a pistol – hell, it was better than a canon! One sight of Creecher and the hapless victims were only too eager to hand over their valuables. Billy was already richer than he had ever been.

  And he had a protector. Sticking around the giant had paid off so far. Fletcher might be gone, but his sidekick, Skinner, was still out there somewhere and he wasn’t the kind to let bygones be bygones.

  But then Billy thought of old Wicks, who used to live down by the Fleet Ditch and who had a fearsome bulldog that terrified the living daylights out of everyone who saw it. And then one day the dog had leapt at Wicks and bitten half his face off.

  Frankenstein and Clerval finally emerged and, after a moment, Billy followed in their wake. He had followed many people in his time. It was all part and parcel of being a thief. Just as the wolf or the lion picks a target from the herd, so too does the thief learn to spot a potential victim in the crowd.

  Life as a pickpocket had made Billy a keen observer of people
– and he could tell that Frankenstein walked with the hunched gait of a guilty man. But what was the source of that guilt? Was it for something he had done or for something he was about to do? And how did Creecher fit in?

  Whatever it was, it was clear that Clerval knew nothing about it and that Frankenstein had another secret life, hidden from his friend.

  Billy had come to like Clerval over the few days of following him. As guilty and world-weary as Frankenstein seemed, by contrast Clerval seemed carefree and full of life and hope. Billy had been amazed to find that he had noticed things in London that he must have walked past a thousand times and not seen, simply because he was now allowed to share in Clerval’s excitement and enthusiasm for the city.

  But seeing the city through Frankenstein’s eyes was a different matter altogether. As soon as he was apart from Clerval, he had the air of an escaped convict.

  Not far from Charterhouse Square, the two men separated. Billy dropped Clerval and stayed with Frankenstein, keeping far enough back from his quarry to avoid any suspicion, given that Frankenstein turned around frequently as he walked.

  The crowds slowly began to thin and following him became more difficult. But Billy knew these streets by heart and took shortcuts and detours, confident that he would not lose this foreigner on his home turf.

  The more they walked, the more Billy began to wonder where on earth the Swiss was taking them. Indeed, he began to wonder if the man was lost. The area they were entering was a long way from the tourist trail.

  But Frankenstein appeared to know exactly what he was doing, and occasionally took out a piece of paper – a map, Billy supposed – and consulted it, making sure of his bearings before proceeding.

  Frankenstein paused at the intersection of a crossroads and walked diagonally across, so intent on where he was going that he was almost hit by a wagon and certainly felt the full force of the driver’s annoyance. A little ruffled, he continued on his way and, once safely across the filthy street, he made straight for a covered alleyway.

  Billy waited a few moments for him to disappear from sight and then crossed the street himself, stepping straight into a pile of horse dung, courtesy of the passing wagon. A few whispered curses and boot shakes later and he was peering into the alleyway.