Wild Intentions (The Legend of the Thief Taker)

by Chris Hales

  How should he answer this question? If he answered it honestly he risked the possibility of great danger. A lie could well earn him an equal amount of harm. Braving the first notion he answered. “You're a liar.” He did not strike, instead his grin grew wider. “You're hardly as honourable as you would have people believe.” He drank slowly from his ale as Hitchin continued to study him. “It's rare you ever arrest a thief. Usually you go through their stash, taking those things which you think have the highest value. I get the impression you're in command of your own little band of thieves, as that's the place where you can enforce your notions of power to greater effect,” he sat back, calmly drinking and speaking no word.

  Hitchin began to laugh, drawing the attention of others in the tavern. “I knew you were a smart one when I found you,” he said. “And none of this worries you?” he asked with little concern.

  Jonathan shook his head. “No,” he stated. “I don't know much about this world, but I think I understand it.” He set his mug down and moved his chair closer. “These people and I have something in common,” He cocked his head in wonderment. “We all desperately struggle to survive. I borrowed money, they steal. If they don't their lives, their families will suffer and die.” He winked at Hitchin. “That doesn't concern me, but, I do sympathise.”

  Hitchin threw his hand out, waving it around the tavern. “Look around, Jonathan,” he followed the gesture and watched the scruffy men who inhabited the tavern carefully. “This is my world. I am master here. These people fear me...,” he curled his outstretched hand into a fist and chuckled. “Don't get me wrong, they'd all kill me, given the chance and I them, but I'm in charge around here and don't let anyone tell you any different.” He could tell it was no idle boast. People did look on him with an air of disgust and fear, but none was prepared to act on their feelings of hatred. He was no larger than any of the other men, but he was insanely malicious and vindictive. He was a special breed of maniac, “You can have a place in this world. I can offer you that.”

  He couldn't fathom where this offer had sprung from.

  “I want to increase your responsibilities,” Hitchin continued. “Introduce you to the workings of my world. As you’ve already pointed out I'm a city marshal by day and a crook by night. That's a lot to deal with and I need help.” He was stunned, sitting rigidly in silence. “Manage my books and organise my thieves.” Hitchin sat back, awaiting his response.

  “Manage your thieves,” he mumbled to himself. “How do you know whether I'd truly be of any use to you?”

  “Because of your father,” responded Hitchin.

  “My father?” he asked in a befuddled manner.

  He pointed at his face, directing the finger at the deep scar which ran downwards. “That's an old mark,” Jonathan caressed the wound unconsciously. “You must have been young when your father delivered the blow.”

  He was highly impressed. He had grown used to the large scar which dominated his features. His father had enjoyed beating him, often to ensure his persistence in education. “I was,” he noted.

  “Therefore,” he continued. “I think it's safe to assume he ensured your education in arithmetic was at its best. So your business as a buckle maker was as successful as it could be.” Again he was correct. “Unless you want to inform me I'm wrong and can find a better candidate.”

  He could not. Such an arrangement could certainly work for him. He had been searching for excitement and thrill since his first day in the capital. This may be the realisation of all his dreams. “No, I can do as you ask,” he said, “but, I do wonder why you ask me, of all people. Surely you can find someone better. More trustworthy.”

  Hitchin leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Choose one of these?” he indicated to the patrons with disappointment. “None of them have a clue when it comes to education, and I don't trust any of them.” He returned to his reclined position. “You see, Jonathan, I'm wealthy, but I'm a very busy man. I got money coming out of my arse, but it's not money which drives me,” he knew this and he could predict the words which would spill free next. “I live on power. Power and control, but I need help…, and I've chosen you.”

  “It occurs to me,” Jonathan said with a smirk. “That I can't be of much use to you while I'm in Woodgate. It would be beneficial to us both if I was free.”

  He laughed, slapping his hand on the table with glee. “That it would...”

  “You've already told me how you don't care for money, although you have it,” there was no harm in pressing his point. “You can easily pay my debt in full.”

  He shook his head. “I'm not a man who clears another’s mess,” he said, “but I will double your pay.”

  Jonathan's gamble had failed, but he was hardly ready to give in. His freedom was essential if he was to work with him. “You need me,” he said, locking eyes with his. “Double my pay, by all means, then triple that, then double it again.” This was a dangerous game he was playing. If he did attack he doubted anyone would step in. “If you agree to this we may have an arrangement.” He felt every fibre of his being tighten.

  He only laughed. “I've killed boys for demanding a lot less,” he said, “but you're right, I need you.” He relaxed. “I'll give you what you ask and more.” He stood and moved around the table. “I'll allow you to walk on your own this night. Be back at the compter by daybreak. If you're not there I will track you down and I will kill you.” He believed him. “I have people to see. Do you duty,” he held his large hand out to his loyal debtor. “We have an agreement. Don't let me down.”

  Jonathan shook his hand and stood. A deal had been struck and he felt both nervous and excited. Where all of this would take him, he couldn't fathom.

  11

  Jonathan soon realised his duties were far harder with the absence of the terrible marshal. He quickly discovered Hitchin hardly expected him to do any good on his walk. It was simply an act of kindness. A taste of freedom. None of the thieves he noticed as he paraded the streets of London allowed him to get close to them, or their business. Hitchin petrified them and his very presence urged them to succumb to his will. Jonathan's being there was hardly as persuasive.

  It was as he snuck down an alley something strange caught his attention. It leapt from the corner of his eye. A young man stood by the rear door to a large house, looking decidedly guilty. He hovered on the spot, persistently glancing about himself. Jonathan knew something was up. He knew there was more to this.

  Quietly he shifted along the alley, keeping himself as close to the wall as he was able. The young man was oblivious to his approach. Jonathan moved quickly, throwing an arm around his neck and squeezing forcefully.

  “Evening,” he said, desperate to do his duty for Hitchin. “What are you doing, hanging around here so suspiciously?”

  He wasn't able to answer, his pressure preventing any sound from escaping his mouth. Instead he panicked, rushing backwards, causing his attacker to impact with the wall. Jonathan's grip relaxed, allowing the man to spin and throw him to the ground. He was hardly willing to let Hitchin down so easily. He stood quickly, rushing at the man with all of the force he could muster. Together they landed in a heap, into the mud and stone which littered the ground.

  Each flailed wildly, attempting to do the other harm. It was Jonathan who found a weapon. A heavy loose cobble which lay by his side. Striking the man about the head he finally relaxed, breathing deeply and trembling from the short fight. The young man lay still on the ground, no contest left within him.

  He spun his head as the back door shot open. Preparing himself for more conflict he stood, fists raised.

  “Are you quite finished?” said the figure who stood in the doorway.

  She was beautiful, her long blonde hair rustling in the strong breeze. Her thin cotton nightgown hugged her features, displaying her exceptional figure in the moonlight. Jonathan froze momentarily, caught off guard by the vision before him.

  “It's all alright,” he comforted. “I got him. H
e won't be bothering you again.” He brushed his hair back from his shoulders and sighed audibly.

  She walked to him and placed a gentle hand on the unconscious man's forehead. “I do hope you’re wrong,” she shot Jonathan a cold stare. “This is my lad.” She stood, hands on hips, glaring at him with distaste.

  “Your lad?” he asked, suddenly feeling culpable himself.

  Two other girls arrived at the doorway, curious as to the commotion. Jonathan looked to them and quickly realised his mistake. The first of the girls he recognised as the young lady he had gallantly helped on the street weeks beforehand. This is a bloody whorehouse, he thought.

  The woman called the girls to her, holding out her hand to the unconscious lad. “Take him inside,” she ordered as she made her way back to the door.

  “I'm sorry,” Jonathan apologised. “I didn't realise.”

  Chuckling, the woman let the girls pass with the unconscious man. “You must be the only one in London who doesn't know what this place is,” she commented plainly. “Come inside and have a drink, let your nerves settle.”

  He walked to her and tingled at her odour. “If you have your lad watching this house, shouldn't you be a little more careful who you let inside,” he said, a strong hint of amusement padding each word. “You don't know me from Adam.”

  She simply stepped aside to allow him entry. “Oh,” she giggled. “I know a lot more about you than you realise.”

  12

  Her house was larger than he ever expected. The kitchen which led into the thin alley behind the house was large and warm.

  “So, what's your name?” she asked.

  “Why should I answer that?” he responded with a smirk.

  She smiled at him, passing a glance to the girls who tended to the knocked out man. He slowly came around, groggy with glazed eyes. “I thought it was common courtesy,” said the woman as she sat at a large, circular table.

  Jonathan sat opposite and removed his mud stained Jacket. “Jonathan Wild,” he answered.

  The woman leaned back in her seat to collect two glasses from the counter behind. Pouring them both a glass of whisky she sat back and smiled. “Mary Milner,” she introduced herself. “How long you been working for Charlie then?”

  “Charlie?”

  She'd forgotten how he hated being called this. “Sorry,” she apologised in a fraudulent fashion. “Charles Hitchin.”

  Jonathan laughed, sipping from his whisky. “And how do you know I work for him?”

  “I can smell it,” she laughed, joining him as he drank. “A debtor has a definite odour,” she only laughed harder, rocking in her chair. “And your stench is of Charles Hitchin.” She continued to chuckle, absently brushing her hair back with one hand. “You're not the first of his lads to come knocking at my door,” she said, still finding something very amusing in Jonathan's position. “Although, you're the first to do it in such a dramatic fashion.”

  He gazed at her carefully, studying the fine features of her face. She's beautiful, he thought, falling head first into her deep blue eyes. He looked about the kitchen, drawing in every detail. “You're a whore,” he stated harshly. Possibly a little too severely.

  “A prostitute, Mr Wild,” she retorted. “Whore's do it for free.”

  He couldn't help but laugh. She wasn't afraid of holding the truth at bay. She was entirely as she appeared. He cast his eye towards the girls, cocking his eyebrow with intrigue. “A thief to boot, it would seem.”

  Mary immediately liked this young man. He was equally as plainly spoken as she. “How do you know such a thing?” she requested.

  He whistled loudly, drawing the attention of the two girls. Pointing at Isabel he enquired. “You,” he winked pleasantly. “What's your name?”

  “Isabel,” she replied favourably.

  Turning back to Mary Jonathan sipped once more from his whisky. “You see,” he explained. “Isabel and I have met before.” Mary shot a stern glare towards her girl. He didn't seem the type of man to lay with prostitutes. “We bumped into each other on the street.”

  “He helped me escape two constables,” she finished. Mary was not impressed.

  He leaned across the dark wood of the table. “It would seem I'm in the company of thieves.” He leaned back grinning broadly. “I imagine, not only are you their madam, but you're their gang leader as well.”

  She rose from her seated position and glided to the girls. “Take Jimmy upstairs,” she glanced at him. “I believe we need to talk..., in private.” The girls moved quickly, hoisting the man to his feet and rushing to the stairs which led to the depravity beyond. Isabel offered Mary a sickening look of jealousy and complemented Jonathan with her childish eyes.

  Mary soon returned to her seat, a new bottle in hand. “If I may ask,” she begged. “How did you fall into employment with our Charlie?”

  Jonathan watched as she filled his glass and relaxed in her seat. “He asked, I agreed, we came to an arrangement.”

  She shook her head, disappointment washing over her quickly. “That's a dangerous game to play,” her words became heavy, more serious and laced with warning. “Trust me, Charlie will only ever bring you pain and torment. The best advice I can give is to stay as far away from him as you're able.”

  He sipped from his whisky, revelling in its taste and the energy it offered. “Unfortunately, I'm not in a position to do that. It seems I'm tied to do his bidding.”

  She wasn't willing to let the matter rest. Jonathan was the most interesting of Hitchin's lads she had met for quite some time. “I simply warn you,” she said. “The men Charlie plucks from Woodgate only ever end up in one of two places.”

  He pushed an empty glass towards her. “And where is that?”

  “Buried in the woods or at the bottom of the Thames.” Her warning missed the mark. Hitchin and his way of working intrigued him far too much. It was something he would investigate and excel at.

  “I'll try to remember that,” he reassured her.

  She cocked her head as if she were trying to gain a different perspective. “It’s funny,” she commented. “You don't seem his usual type.”

  Jonathan didn't understand. “Meaning?”

  She crossed her arms and smiled evilly. “He doesn't usually go for the rugged boys.” She drew a finger down her face in an imitation of his deep scar. He simply sat there, oblivious to the point she was trying to make. “He likes the boys,” she tried to explain gently. “He's a bum bandit, a fairy, a dirty little sodomite.”

  This truth had escaped him. Or maybe he simply wasn't willing to see it. Charles Hitchin did not strike as the sort. “Well, he'll have no bloody luck with me,” he defended. “I like girls far too much. And I have to say, you've certainly caught my eye…”

  Mary blushed, standing and smoothing her dress seductively. “If you’re planning to make a move on me, Jonathan,” she smiled sweetly. “I should warn you, I charge, and I doubt you have the money to pay.”

  He finished his whisky, glaring after her as she moved to the stairs.

  “That doesn't mean to say I don't take credit, however.”

  Vanishing up the steps Mary left him revelling in her obvious invite. This was certainly turning out to be a better evening than he had ever expected.

  13

  David Collins sat outside of the Old Bailey, basking in the rare sun as other city marshals passed about him. Midday at the Bailey was always the busiest of times. It was when the most significant of cases were heard and the criminals caught the night before were usually hauled before the magistrates.

  He hated the manic rushing of the marshals. They loped about as if they reviled the workings of the auspicious courthouse. It was as if they didn't want to be present at all. He waited patiently for Tom, who had been called to see the magistrates. Tom's dread for the meeting was noticeable and he had left him outside while he attended his meeting. It had been a considerable amount of time since his departure and Collins was growing worried.

 
; Eventually he emerged from the Bailey. His face gave the impression of bad news. Sitting next to him, on the low slung wall, he sighed audibly.

  “So, what was that all about?” he asked with distant hope.

  He shook, running the palm of one hand across his forehead wearily. He turned slowly and cocked his head. “We've been reassigned.”

  “What? Why?”

  Tom stood, pacing in small circles with annoyance. “We weren't making any progress,” he explained. “So, they've chosen to hand it to another. One who apparently has more experience with matters such as this…”

  “That's ridiculous,” screamed Collins. “Just when we were making progress.”

  “Don't kid yourself,” he said flatly. “We're no closer to catching this murderer than we were at the beginning.” He was disappointed with himself. Murder was hardly an easy thing to solve, yet he knew he could have done better. “If I'm brutally honest,” he continued. “If I were in their position, I'd have probably done the same.”

  Collins wasn't as willing to accept defeat. If he had learned anything from Tom it was his unfaltering persistence. “So who's in charge of it now?” he asked.

  “I don't know,” he admitted, “but, I doubt they'll have any more success than we did.” Tom had more experience than anyone, or so he thought. His reputation as a city marshal was almost flawless. His inability to catch this murderer was his only blemish. He was, however, interested to discover what his replacement would do.

  “What are we supposed to do now?” He was irritated. He was desperate to prove himself equally as much as Tom.

  He shook his head and passed an eye over the procession of marshals who filed into the Bailey. “Back to criminals and thieves, I guess,” he said. At least he excelled at this.