Dodger

by Terry Pratchett

  He watched her walk away, and it looked as if her feet were in a terrible way, and this was true because Dodger had put a piece of wood in his boot which hurt like the blazes. By the time he reached the nearest wharf, his feet were killing him. Once upon a time, Marie Jo had told him that with his skills, he should be on the stage, as she had been, but since he knew that actors didn’t get paid very much he had always reckoned that the only reason to be on a stage would be to rob it.

  A waterman, coincidentally one whom Dodger had chatted to earlier in the day – Double Henry, a regular at the Gunner’s Daughter – gave a lift to the dear old lady with the warts and terrible bad teeth, and kindly helped her out quite near the morgue at Four Farthings, London’s smallest borough. Possibly somebody on the moon watching the old lady from that point on would have watched her progress all the way to the coroner’s office. It was pitiful, absolutely pitiful. So pitiful, in fact, that an officer in the morgue, generally not well disposed to living people and with something of a temper, actually gave her a cup of tea before directing her to the coroner’s office, some distance away.

  The coroner was a kind man, as generally the coroners were, which was quite remarkable given that so often they saw and knew things that decent people should neither see nor know, and this one listened to the old lady, who was in floods of tears about her niece, who had gone missing. It was a familiar tale, a tale just like one Dodger had heard from Messy Bessie: the sweet girl had come up from somewhere in Kent, seeking to improve herself and get a better job in London. A dreadful engine, if she did but know it, that took the hopeful, the innocent and ultimately the living, and turned them into . . . something else.

  The coroner, hardened though he was to this sort of thing, was overwhelmed by the tears and the lamentations on the lines of, ‘I told her, I said we could manage, we could run along all right.’ And, ‘I told her not to talk to any gentlemen on the street, sir, I certainly did, sir, but you know how it is with young girls, sir, ever the prey of a dashing gentleman with money to spend. Oh dear me, if only she had listened. I shall always blame myself.’ And, ‘I mean, the country ain’t like the city, that’s for God’s certainty. I mean, generally, if a lad and a lass got to grips and she started to swell around the waist, then her mum would have a word with her, wouldn’t she? And then her mum would talk to her dad and her dad would talk to the boy’s dad in the tavern and everyone would sigh and say, “Oh well, but at least it shows that they can have kids.”’ According to the old lady, the young couple would very quickly then go and see the vicar, and all in all there would be no harm done.

  The coroner, not only a man of this world but in some sense of the next one too, was not certain it was always as easy as that, but he took care not to say so. Eventually, the old woman explained about the girl running out of the house and how she had gone as best she could from bridge to bridge in search of the runaway. The coroner nodded gloomily at that point, because this was the same old tragic story. He knew that there were always Christian people who patrolled the London bridges at twilight, looking out for these unfortunate ‘soiled doves’. Generally, they were given a pamphlet and urged not to do it; sometimes this even worked, but then it was going to be the workhouse, and most likely after the birth the poor girl would never even see the child for more than the time it took to be delivered.

  You had to develop the hide of a rhinoceros to deal with this sort of thing on a daily basis and, alas, he found himself not very good at it, but he listened to the old woman’s description of her niece with a glum countenance. In between sobs were the words, ‘A blue dress, sir, not very new, but very nice underthings, sir, very good with the needle, so she was . . . Just an iron ring made out of a horseshoe nail like the blacksmiths make, ’cos it’s a ring, you see. Ain’t got no jewels, but a ring is a ring, ain’t it, sir. Maybe this is important, sir; she had yellow hair, lovely yellow hair. Never cut it, not like the other girls who would cut it every year or so and sell it when the wigmakers’ man came round. She wouldn’t have none of that, sir, she was a very good girl . . .’

  After hearing all this, the coroner brightened a little, and so did Dodger on seeing his expression. It had been worth the time spent to locate Double Henry and the two pints of porter had got every single detail out of him.

  The coroner said, ‘It would be invidious of me to use the word “luck” in this context, madam, but fortuitously it may just be the case that your niece is even now lying in our mortuary and has been there for a few days. She was drawn to my attention when I visited there yesterday morning, and indeed the officer on duty and myself were much taken by the wonderful colour of her hair. Alas, all along the lower Thames this sad tableau is re-enacted far too often. In the case of this lovely young lady, I must say that I was beginning to despair that anyone would claim her as their own.’

  At this point the old lady broke down, whimpering, ‘Oh dear, whatever am I going to tell her mother! I mean, I said I’d look after her, but young girls these days . . .’

  ‘Yes, I fully understand,’ said the coroner hurriedly, and continued, ‘Do let me give you another cup of tea, my good woman, and I will take you to see the corpse in question.’

  There was another wail at this, and another flow of tears, and they were real tears, because by now Dodger was so wrapped up in the drama that he might have had a fainting fit but he, or strictly speaking at this point she, carefully drank the proffered tea, taking great care not to knock off a wart. Shortly afterwards, the coroner, having taken so much pity on her dreadful state, led her by the arm to the mortuary. One glance from the old lady at the girl on the slab, who had been cleaned up a little to the point where she looked as if she was sleeping, was enough. There was no more acting now, or perhaps the acting was so good, so perfectly in the role that there should have been a gallery of theatre-goers cheering to the rafters.

  The old lady turned a face lined with hairs, snot and tears to the kindly coroner and said, ‘I ain’t rich, sir, really I ain’t. Seeing my Arthur neatly away on Lavender Hill left me fairly skint, sir, so I reckon it will take me some time to get the wherewithal for seeing her decent, sir. Do you reckon they will have her at Crossbones?’1

  ‘That I cannot say, madam, but I hardly think that your dear niece so fresh from the country was anything like a’ – and here the coroner cleared his throat, embarrassed, and went on – ‘a Winchester goose.’ Most unusually, he took out his handkerchief to wipe away a tear and continued, ‘Madam, I cannot but be very moved by your plight and your determination to do the very best for the soul of this unfortunate young lady. I will guarantee you that – we have no shortage of ice, after all – your young niece can remain here, not for ever, but certainly for a week or two, which I reckon should be enough for me to contact those others that may be able to help you in your plight.’

  He took a step backwards as the old woman tried to throw her rather smelly arms around him, saying, ‘God bless you, sir, you truly are a gentleman, sir. I will turn over every stone, sir, so I will, right away, sir, thank you so much for all your kindness. Got a few friends I could talk to. Might help me write a letter to her mum, on the postage, and I’ll move Heaven and earth not to put you to any trouble, sir. Can’t be said that we will let one of our own go into a pauper’s grave, sir.’ At which point tears actually were pouring down the coroner’s face. And Dodger meant it. The man had been a decent cove; that was something to keep in mind.

  The coroner deputized his officer to assist the old lady back to the wharf, and before saying goodbye pressed into her hand enough money for the waterman, and so the unknown watcher on the moon watched the poor old lady work her way through the naughty city until, as she walked down an alley, she suddenly appeared to drop into the sewers, where the old woman died but was instantly – possibly to do with the Lady – reincarnated as Dodger, and a shaken Dodger at that.

  He was used to playing roles; to be Dodger was to be a man of all seasons and seasonings, everybody’s friend
, nobody’s enemy, and all this was fine, but sometimes that all went away and it was just Dodger, alone in the dark. He realized that he was shaking, and down in the hospitable sewers he heard the sounds of London floating through the grating. He carefully packed up the trappings of the old lady into a bundle, endeavouring to memorize the placement of every single wart. Then he set off.

  He was still as upset about the drowned girl as the old lady had been. It was a shame, and he would have to see to it that when all this was over the poor unknown girl did indeed get a decent burial, rather than a pauper’s grave or worse. He absent-mindedly toshed his way across the city, more or less instinctively becoming sixpence farthing richer in the process.

  Well, he’d got the coroner sorted out, but corpses need careful attention and there was nothing for it – he would have to go and see Mrs Holland. That meant going to Southwark, and even a geezer like Dodger had to be careful there. But if ever a geezer was careful, it was Dodger.

  Mrs Holland. She had no other name; well, she was a gang all by herself, and if that wasn’t enough there was her husband Aberdeen Knocker, known to his friends as Bang, who had in all probability never seen the city of Aberdeen, which was somewhere up north, like maybe in Wales. The soubriquet had settled on him as such things did on the streets of London, indeed as the name Dodger had landed on Dodger, but Bang’s skin was as black as your hat and a very black hat at that, and he had been married, theoretically at least, to Mrs Holland these past sixteen years. Their son, known to everybody for some reason as Half Bang, was as smart as a dungeon full of lawyers and really being of use in the family business, which was basically property and people.

  But Mrs Holland was a great organizer with a very fertile imagination. Probably every sailor who had docked in the port of London had gone to Mrs Holland’s League, as they called it, usually to meet the young ladies who adorned the upper floors of the building while Mrs Holland took charge of everything in her office downstairs. Of course, Mrs Holland being Mrs Holland, sometimes it was rumoured those sailors, once they were rascally drunk, were shanghaied and sent on a lovely cruise whose destination might be round Cape Horn, or possibly Davy Jones’ locker. But when not giving sailors nice long holidays, Mrs Holland arranged things.

  Around the docks Mrs Holland was Queen, and nobody questioned the fact when Bang was by her side. It would be difficult to pinpoint her actual occupation these days, though Dodger was well aware that once upon a time she had been both a nurse and a midwife, and apparently had made a living by causing things to turn up or more often to disappear. If you were the kind of person who would come seeking more definite information about her activities, you were the kind of person who was likely soon to be inspecting the Thames bridges from underneath.

  Dodger got along with the family, of course – especially Bang, who had once fascinated a young Dodger by showing him the scars where his shackles had chafed him most cruelly, and the place where he had been branded by the slavers like an animal. Despite his history, he was a gentle and very amiable person, although right now, answering Dodger’s knock, he was holding back the growling slathering dog of Satanic proportions that was the family’s front-line security. They also had a blunderbuss the size of a French horn and famed to be packed with black powder and rock salt and, on occasion for very special customers, miscellaneous nails as well for the hard of understanding.

  There was Mrs Holland herself, all chins and smiles, and that meant a lot of smiles above the blunderbuss. Mrs Holland had bright blue eyes which, Dodger had often noticed, twinkled with sincerity every time she told you an outright lie. As she put down the blunderbuss, she said cheerfully, ‘Dodger! As I live and breathe! Welcome! Welcome!’

  Very shortly afterwards, in her little private room, with the dog, name of Jasper, lying there peacefully in front of her but nevertheless ready to leap and snarl on command, she listened to Dodger’s story. She looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, ‘Ah well, it’s amazing how lively a corpse can be after it is dead. Stiff one day, and playful as anything the next. What you are suggesting ain’t no journey for the unprepared, but I have the knowing, oh yes indeed. I ain’t no stranger to corpses, as you are aware. So just you listen to your favourite aunty, right? Well, first of all, what you are going to need is . . .’

  Dodger learned things quickly, and after a few minutes said, ‘I’m in your debt, Mrs Holland.’

  She smiled at him and said, ‘You know, I always thought you were one of my smart boys, Dodger. As for being in my debt, well, who knows? One day you will have an opportunity to pay me back. And it’s all right – I know you are not a killer, so you wouldn’t be my chosen in that respect, but in other matters. Well, as they say, one hand washes the other.’

  Dodger glanced down at her podgy hands; it looked as if neither of them had been washed in a week, but he understood the meaning and accepted it. Favours were currency down here, just like they were on the street. He also knew she always had a twinkle in her eye for Dodger, although it didn’t do to rely on a twinkle.

  Just as he was leaving, she suddenly went all solemn and said, ‘I reckon you’ve been stirring things up, my little lad. And there’s some people that I don’t like the stink of the moment I hears about them, and one of them is a cove by the name of the Outlander – ever heard of him?’

  Dodger shook his head and Mrs Holland began to look uneasy. She glanced at her husband and then back at Dodger and said, ‘I don’t know if I’ve ever met him, don’t know what he looks like, but by all accounts he is your dyed-in-the-wool, stone-hard killing cove. I think it might be his first time in England, but I’m getting word that he’s been asking questions about “somebody called Dodger” and some girl. Don’t know much about him. Some say he’s a Dutchman, sometimes they say he’s a Switzer, but always they say he is a killer, who comes out of the dark and goes back into the dark and gets his money and disappears. No one knows what he looks like, no one knows him as a friend, and the only thing that anyone knows is that he likes the ladies. They say that he will always have a girl on his arm, never the same one twice.’ Her brow wrinkled. ‘Don’t know as why I ain’t seen him here yet, given that liking. Maybe we will. But no one can tell you what he actually looks like. I mean that: sometimes they say that they’ve met him and he’s tall and thin, and other times that he’s a fairly short cove. From what I understand, I reckon he must be a master of disguise, and if he wants to talk to you he sends one of his ladies with a message.’

  Mrs Holland stared down at the small and smoky fire in the grate and looked unusually troubled. ‘I cannot say he is in my league, the Outlander; he’s more like a nasty dream. Mostly, of course, he stays in Europe where they deserve people like him. I don’t like the idea that he’s turning up here. I quite like you, Dodger, you know that. But if the Outlander gets on your tail, you’re going to have to order up a whole new bag of smarts.’

  Dodger checked his face was as cheerful as he could make it. ‘And no one’s ever really seen him, yes?’

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Holland. ‘Like I said, lots of people have seen him, but they never seem to see the same man.’

  Her concern was palpable; Dodger could feel it pouring off her, and this was a woman who would have no great compunction about sending a drunken sailor to, quite probably, a watery grave. Now it seemed that there were some things that even she got nervous about, and she said, ‘It might surprise you, my boy, that a nasty old creature like me has got some standards, and so if I was you, I’d keep my eyes open even if I was asleep. Now give me a great big kiss, ’cos it may be the last one I’ll ever have off of you!’

  Dodger did so, much to the amusement of Bang, and he was careful not to wipe his face until he was well away. Then he went back home via the sewers, as much as that was possible.

  So somebody that you couldn’t really describe was out there after him and/or Simplicity . . .

  Well, they would have to wait in line.

  1 The Crossbones cemetery in the
borough of Southwark was known as the single women’s churchyard, after the single women in question plied their single women’s trade under licence from the Bishop of Winchester, who owned that part of the riverside, which was why they were humorously named ‘Winchester geese’. Delicacy, of course, prevents the author from describing what exactly they were trading. Although it does suggest that the Church of the time had an understanding and, one might say, very forward-thinking approach to the matter.

  CHAPTER 14

  A lighterman gets a surprise, an old lady vanishes, and Dodger knows nothing, hears nothing and – unsurprisingly – was not even there

  THERE WAS SO much that needed doing, he thought as he hurried home. He had to get ready to go to the theatre later on, but first of all and most importantly, what he had to do was pray. Pray to the Lady.

  Dodger had been in churches occasionally, but on the whole the street people kept clear of them unless the promise of food was in the offing; after all, a cove could put up with quite a lot of ‘Come to Jesus’ for the sake of a full stomach, so now he was down in his beloved sewers wondering how to go about a prayer.

  He’d never seen the Lady, although Grandad had always talked about her as if she was a friend – and he had seen her before he died, and if you can’t trust the word of a dying man then who can you trust? Oh, he’d always half-heartedly asked her for help almost automatically, but he’d never really prayed from the guts upwards, and standing here with the sounds of London overhead and apparently a real assassin looking for him, he needed a prayer.

  He began in the time-honoured way by clearing his throat and was about to spit when he hesitated, because at a time like this you didn’t want to offend anybody. Kneeling down was not something you generally did in the sewers, so he straightened up instead and said, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say, Lady, and that’s the truth. I mean, it’s not like I’m a murderer, is it? And I promise you that if Simplicity is spared, that poor girl up in the mortuary in Four Farthings will get a place in Lavender Hill; I will see to it, and flowers too.’ He hesitated and continued, ‘And she will get given a name, so that at least I can remember her, and that’s it, Lady, because the world is rather bad and extremely difficult and all you can do is the best you can. And I’m just Dodger.’