Touched by Angels

by Alan Watts

  “It’s mine. Fuck off!”

  They were advancing on him, slowly, two of them holding lengths of wood, another a knife.

  The boy looked terrified, as he turned and started jumping up, to grab the top of the wall. It was too high. Then, as they were about to rush him, a shot rang out.

  One of the boys went down, screaming, his hand over a cut in his thigh, where Quint’s well-aimed shot had torn it open. Blood started pumping down his leg.

  He made his way towards them casually, pulling back the hammer on his gun with his thumb. He took his cigar from his mouth with his other hand and cast it away.

  The youths fanned out, as he aimed at each of them, arm outstretched. They ran, with the bleeding one hobbling behind, shouting they would get him next time.

  “You can lower your piece,” Quint told him, seeing it shaking in the boy’s hand.

  As he did, Quint could see him fighting back the tears.

  “They nearly got me,” he said miserably. “They would have killed me.”

  He whispered, “Thanks,” as he swung the cylinder out and six empty cartridges fell to the dust.

  “What do they want?”

  “My money.”

  “What money?”

  “The two hundred bucks I’ve saved. I’ve got it hidden away. I’m saving up to go to South Africa. If I don’t, I’ll die here.”

  He wiped his nose and eyes with a tatty sleeve.

  “You’re not wrong there,” Quint assured him, seeing rats tucking into a dead cat nearby. “But why South Africa?”

  “Cos there’s fortunes to be made.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  He glanced around again and said pushing back his hat, “Well, they’re gone. They can’t get you now.”

  He slipped his gun back into its holster.

  “No but they will.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Billy Tweed.”

  “Jack Quint. Come on, let’s get a drink. Then you can tell me all about it.”

  ***

  They were sitting in a smoky saloon five minutes later, where Quint listened to Billy’s tale above a piano being hammered at the far end by a little pink man in a bowler hat.

  Several women lounged around with wanton looks in their eyes. Quint knew that for a dollar, a room was free upstairs. Their make up was so thick, it was impossible to tell the age of any of them. Beneath the paint of some, he was sure, were syphilitic sores.

  It seemed the boy was living in a sort of makeshift orphanage on Mott Street, run by a fat Irishman called ‘Porky’ Warren.

  “He is a pig too,” Billy grated. He spat.

  “Doesn’t like us bettering ourselves. I’ve even taught myself how to read and write… well nearly, and he laughs and says we’re all the sons of whores. He says we’re shit and shit don’t read nuthin.”

  He rambled on bitterly for some time, about how food and lodging were free, as long as they spent their days relieving the unsuspecting of the contents of their pockets; not here of course, because there was nothing to be had, but mostly in rich lower Manhattan and sometimes beyond. They were paid a small cut to keep their mouths shut.

  Quint started sketching on a piece of paper, thinking that, where the other kids had quickly frittered their money away, Billy had had the sense to put some by.

  “So how much do you think you need?”

  “Five hundred, to book passage, and set me up when I get there.” His eyes took on a dreamy look. “Then I can go prospectin’ for diamonds.”

  “Diamonds?”

  “Yeah, like the Cullinan they found in ’05. It’s as big as an apple, worth millions and they cut it up… I reckon if a nigger can find one, I can, and then…”

  Quint eyed the boy’s face, covered in tick and lice bites, briefly. He held his hand up, and said, “You can dream all you like, but how long has it taken you to save this two hundred bucks?”

  “Nearly two years.”

  He looked down at the stain covered table, feeling more dejected than ever.

  “How would you like to earn the three hundred you need?”

  Billy looked up so suddenly, he knocked his drink over. The glass rolled off the table and shattered.

  “All you have to do,” Quint told him, “is go to every tailor and hotel you can find, in and around the harbour and ask if an attractive, well-spoken Englishwoman and a boy of about ten have entered their establishment, carrying this.”

  He handed him the sketch of a suitcase.

  “And if they have, where they might be now. They stole it from me and I must have it back, understand?”

  Billy nodded.

  “She might be going by the name of Lady Emma DeVere, but by now she could be using another. Start as close to the docks as you can and work your way out. If you find them, I’ll give you the money.”

  Billy felt his mouth drop and whispered, as he gazed at the sketch, “I’ll find them. I promise you. I’ll find them.”

  Quint grinned as he drained his glass.

  Fifty-four

  He wouldn’t find them above the tailor’s though. When Lil had dressed and seen the cause of the commotion coming from the parlour, she did the only thing she could think of at such short notice.

  She broke a pot over the woman’s head, shouting, “Leave my boy alone, you crazy bitch!” before staggering back towards the parrot cage, unsure what might happen next.

  Robert had darted behind her and was peeking around nervously, as Mrs Frank sat up and shook the shards from her hair. Her face was grazed above the left eye and her lip was cut, but even that didn’t deter her. She was up in an instant. She snatched up the strap and flew at both of them, screaming and lashing out blindly.

  Lil parried her blows and sent her flying headlong into a jardinière, which crashed to the floor, where she lay dazed among the wreckage. Her thick stockings and skirts were rucked up, while dried out petals festooned her head and shoulders.

  As the parrot squawked in delight, Lil grabbed the suitcase and they bolted out the room before she could recover. As they were charging down the stairs, they collided with Mr Frank who was about to investigate, nearly knocking him flying.

  It wasn’t till they had run through the throng, as storm clouds were gathering, that they collapsed into each other’s arms. It seemed hilarious and surreal now they were safe.

  As they felt the patter of drops around them though, Robert asked, “Where should we go now?”

  “A hotel, and this time, we’ll stay there for a week.”

  With the euphoria subsiding and still without a disguise, that naked feeling was creeping back. There were hundreds of people about.

  ***

  Quint could be anywhere among them, though by sheer coincidence, Billy Tweed passed by as he emerged from another tailor’s, after getting the same response he had in every place he’d been to so far; a shaking head.

  He kept on walking, the disappointment pricking more at every rebuff, but with the feeling he was getting a mite closer every time.

  He was forced into a pawnbroker’s by the sudden downpour. When the rain had slowed to a trickle, he resumed his search.

  Another quarter hour passed before he walked into Frank’s Tailors, to see the little owner holding his bruised nose.

  He pulled the sketch from his pocket.

  Seeing it, Mrs Frank strutted across, with such anger on her face, he thought she was going to hit him. She was dabbing blood away from her lip with a wad of cloth. She recognised the case instantly. Her husband flinched out of her way, as she snatched it and stared.

  Billy knew before he’d even asked his question that he’d struck gold, and lots of it.

  “English woman and a kid,” she hissed, going red in the face, as she cast the drawing back. “Touched in the head, crazy, terrorising a frail old lady’s like me.” For a moment, she looked utterly woebegone.

  Then she suddenly rounded on her husband, who could see the bridge of his own nose a
nd he flinched back as she raised her meaty hand.

  “Where’d they go, and when?” Billy asked.

  “Few minutes since,” she said, lowering her hand, but Billy heard no more as he charged out onto the street, nearly knocking a passing priest flying.

  He looked in both directions, knowing they couldn’t have got far. He was unprepared for the strange accent that came to him through the masses. He had heard a woman say, “… two weeks if I think it necessary.” He caught a glimpse of the same stripy pattern on the scrap of paper he held in his hand and grinned as he saw them enter a small hotel.

  Fifty-five

  The lobby was cold and drab, paint hanging from the walls in long strips. Dust was thick on everything. A Union flag, from the Civil War, torn here and there by shrapnel and bullets, hung above the door that led to the owner’s private quarters. A battle-scarred Springfield musket was wired to the wall on the other side, with a fixed bayonet that still carried the rust of dried blood.

  Robert couldn’t take his eyes from the elderly man behind the counter, as his mother talked with him. He saw that half the man’s nose was missing because a Confederate musket ball had struck him during the Battle of Gettysburg, before creasing his face and taking a chunk of his ear away.

  He regarded them through tired eyes, before saying, “Two dollars for each night.”

  “That’s fine,” Lil said.

  As he opened the door to their room, Billy Tweed was making his way back to the hovel he called home, certain she was going to stay there at least one more night.

  ***

  As the door closed behind them, Robert Smith was looking at a massive cockroach. The room, smelling of ancient sweat, was infested with them. This specimen was a good two inches long and looked as though it had bubbly faeces beneath its brown, shiny shell.

  He’d never seen one before, though he’d seen plenty of bed bugs in friends’ homes. There were plenty of them here too.

  He spent some time tormenting the cockroach, as it ran this way and that, being thwarted each time by his hand. He eventually got bored and walloped it with a dusty Bible he had found on the table by the bed. It crunched and its guts squirted everywhere.

  Lil scolded him for cruelty and feeling repulsed by the mess, insisted he wash himself down in the cracked sink, before lying down to sleep.

  There were fleas too, and the stained bed sheets smelt.

  They would have run from the hotel there and then, were they not so crushed and so scared that Quint would be waiting for them.

  ***

  Half a mile away, Billy Tweed, who was well used to cockroaches, nervously gazed up at the soot stained front of what was loosely known as Porky’s Boarding House. To the side of the fixed iron ladder leading up to it, stood a Catholic altar, one of the many shrines for the feasts held annually to honour the patron saint of each Italian community.

  A sole candle glowed from within. It was a world away from the laughing and cheering coming from above, probably where one of the weaker kids, most likely ‘Idiot Boy’ was being harassed yet again.

  Billy had spent the last three years of his life here, since his mother had died of typhoid fever, living purely by his wits and sometimes his fists.

  They were all so absorbed, that Billy, though repulsed by it, seized his chance, and made his way directly to where his money was hidden, behind a short length of skirting board. He pulled the small clasp knife he carried from his trouser pocket to prize the timber back. He put it to one side, just as he heard a howl of pain and knew that Idiot Boy had got stung again with the hornet Tony Rosini, one of the bullies, was keeping in a jar.

  The extra distraction was a welcome bonus though, as he stuck his hand in the hole. Just as his fingertips brushed the notes though, all went deathly quiet, apart from Idiot Boy’s sobbing.

  He felt the honed steel of a blade against his throat.

  “Now get up, slowly,” hissed a voice, “and pass it over, or I’ll kill you.”

  It wasn’t Rosini’s voice, but another’s, though it all amounted to the same thing.

  He stood, slowly, with the boy keeping the blade pressed to his throat the whole time. “Now we know where you’ve been stashing it. No… don’t move, ’cept to hand it over… no sudden movements.”

  Billy passed the wad carefully backwards and felt it vanish from his hand, feeling tearful as it did. His humiliation and anger were made all the worse by the triumphant cheer that went up.

  “Thank you,” the boy told him, in mock gratitude. He was about to say something else, as he took the blade from Billy’s neck, when Billy’s own knife flashed in the candlelight.

  The thug doubled up as though a branding iron had been laid against his stomach. He staggered back in shock, looking down as he dropped the money.

  A six-inch slit ran upwards from about three inches below his navel, to about the same distance above. Blood gushed out, spilling down his bare legs, and outwards, in spurts, to where it splattered over the floor.

  He threw his own knife, but missed. It hit the door and stood quivering in the wood.

  Billy snatched up his money and backed off.

  His eyes were on the boy as he collapsed onto his knees, as he tried to push the two halves of the cut together.

  Billy held the knife out, daring anybody else to come near, before whipping the door open.

  Porky Warren stood there, in a bright chequered suit, with a lit candelabra. They stared at each other for a couple of seconds, before Billy thumped him in the face.

  He leapt over him as he went down and tore off, down the three flights of stairs, to the ground floor.

  The door was locked. He kicked it several times, before it gave. Then he was gone, through the crowds, and off into the night.

  Fifty-six

  Billy stopped running after several hundred yards and ducked behind some barrels outside a saloon. Dull light spilled from the windows.

  As his breathing steadied, he started to shake, not knowing whether he’d killed the boy or not. He looked at the money and wiped spots of blood from the top one with his sleeve, smearing it in dark streaks.

  Gritting his teeth against the waste, he pulled the note clear, knowing there would be a hue and cry very soon. Blood-covered money would bring them down upon him quicker than ever. He crunched it up, threw it in the barrel and listened as he waited.

  He could hear the sound of voices and laughter from within. These were typically big tough men, more often of the older generation, who could remember far wilder times, where justice was meted out at the end of a bullet or the hangman’s rope. They would come after him mercilessly if there was a reward in the offing.

  An hour passed. By this time, although he’d not heard any commotion, he didn’t trust the quietness either. Anybody could be out there in the shadows, biding their time. The men came out the saloon in dribs and drabs.

  He smelt cigar smoke so strongly as one of them passed, his breath was locked in his throat, convinced a big hand would grab the scruff of his neck, or he would feel the business end of a revolver in his ribs.

  It didn’t happen, though he heard a sigh of relief as one of them urinated against the other side of the barrel. After this he was alone once more. He peered out, but could see nobody about, apart from one or two tramps, dead to the world.

  Soon there was a lot of activity. Two-horse drawn wagons of the fire brigade charged past, with their bells clanging madly. The firemen in their black uniforms and brass enamelled helmets hung on for grim life.

  Billy was glad of the diversion and soon got his bearings. He quickly made his way to the hotel the woman and child were staying in. Terrified he could be spotted at any moment, and with dawn breaking, he studied the building from the other side of the road. It was terraced, with no alley either side.

  He hunted for a way in from the front, even though his instincts were telling him to lay low, and come back the following evening, when he would have many more hours to play with.

>   If he did that though, it was possible they could check out at first light and go elsewhere. He didn’t relish the thought of following them, if the police were on the lookout.

  He made his way across and saw two halves of a trap door in front, where he assumed goods were delivered in bulk. Each half had a flush metal grab handle. Although immensely heavy, he managed to lift one and swing it over onto the ground.

  Feeling conspicuous, he laid on his belly and looked inside to see if there was a ladder to stand on while he pulled the trap door closed. He saw one and lowered himself onto it.

  He reached over as far as he could, to grab the trap door at its furthest point and pulled as hard as he could. It was not designed to be closed from the inside and needed much more effort. By the time it was edge on to the ground, he felt as though his shoulder would explode with the strain.

  As it passed the point of no return though, gravity took over. It swung shut so suddenly that after braining him he was thrust to the bottom of the cellar where he crashed among several crates containing tea leaves and another full of flour, which exploded like a big white bomb. Then, in the darkness, both of the room and his concussion, he saw nothing for nearly ten minutes.

  When he blinked his eyes open, he had the headache from hell.

  Mellow light from a candle filled the brick-lined cellar where he was lying on his back. A hessian sack was folded under his head. Everything, himself included, was covered with flour.

  It took a minute more for rational thought to come back, instead of the bizarre dreams that had been assailing him. Then he knew he couldn’t be alone. He craned his throbbing head up and looked to the far end of the room.

  A man sat astride a small barrel, vaguely white, where he had beaten as much flour from himself as possible, with an unlit cigar stuck in his grinning mouth. His hat lay, upside down, on a stool by his side.

  It was Jack Quint and Billy was so relieved to see him, he sank back on the sack and closed his eyes, until he heard the click of his gun being cocked.