Not far from the Sullivans’ stand, on a makeshift platform, a Chinese man with slits for eyes played a strange-looking two-string violin while his pet monkey needed all the strength in its wiry body to keep its balance on the thin beam which rested precariously on two wobbly crates.
Even their quack doctor, the one who bought their rabbit and bird feet, was set up not far from where they sat, selling his wares to anyone who had no good sense or those simply idle of mind. The charlatan swung his lucky-charm necklaces with rabbit feet so vehemently while he preached his beliefs that those nearby had to duck in fear of being slapped with a lifetime of happiness.
In the alley right next to the Black Swan Inn, a group of young men was playing Aunt Sally, adding to the revelry of the festival with their screams every time someone came close to hitting the model of an old woman’s head with a thrown batten.
By mid-morning, the day had warmed up nicely and the four boys, still on the roof, enjoyed a magic show on a nearby scaffold. It was the older boy, Ralf, who spotted the group of rascals entering the fair at the north-western end. He watched them run through the busy square, bumping into people as their innocent game of chase took them from one side of the square to the other. What the other three did not know was that Ralf had led a different life before his father had become a farmer. Times were tougher than they had ever been back then, and his family did what they had to do to survive. Both he and his brother used to run with a gang of pickpockets on the north bank. Seeing them operate down below quickly stirred up old suppressed memories of a life he had left behind.
He watched their little hands slip into breeches and jackets as fast as lightning, taking anything of value as they weaved their way through the crowds. Then Ralf saw the leader of the gang. He recognised him instantly. Slightly older now, the boy had a tremendous amount of dexterity, and he was one of the best pickpockets in Ralf’s old north bank gang.
The big brown-haired boy, who led the pack, had a pockmarked face which gave him a frightening look. No doubt he used it to scare new apprentices into a sudden fondness for pickpocketing. Ralf watched him carefully as he bumped into an elderly gentleman nearly knocking him over, his hand disappearing inside the man’s jacket and out again. Before the man had even realised what had happened, the boy tipped his cap and with a polite “Excuse me, sir”, disappeared, looking for his next victim. The gentleman regained some of his composure, firstly cursing the hooligan, then accepting the sincere apology and finally acknowledging that an honest mistake had been made. Only later when the man would buy a drink for himself and his friend would he realise that he had been robbed and by then, the wallet and its new owner would be long gone.
Ralf kept his eyes on the group and realised that they were leaving the square one by one. They were probably meeting up somewhere to count their loot, choosing what to hand over to their benefactor and what to keep for themselves. The pockmarked boy was the last to leave but not before he made one last dash through a group of three gentlemen who were deep in conversation.
The local barber was in this group and was one of their customers. In fact, he was on Ralf’s route. When the pock-faced boy brushed past the man, Ralf saw a glint of gold before the boy went through his usual apologetic routine and vanished out of sight. I got to tell the others, he thought.
‘They stole something from Mr Hale,’ he blurted.
It got everybody’s attention and stopped Finn mid-sentence, just as he was trying to explain to Tristan why he thought the rabbit was already inside the magician’s hat.
‘Who?’ Tristan was the first to react.
‘Mr Hale, the barber surgeon! I deliver bread to his tavern on Faulcon Court!?’ Ralf pointed out the man to them.
‘The barber from Stoney Street? What? Who stole from him?’ demanded Tristan.
‘It looked like gold…and round…perhaps a watch! There were a bunch of them. They went there, around the back of the milliner!’ Ralf pointed to the hatter’s shop.
Without any further thought or discussion, the four boys descended from the roof and headed in the direction of the shop.
When they rounded the corner, they found themselves in a narrow alley that ran along the back of several shops. The cobblestoned road was full of rubbish and judging by the smell, probably human or animal faeces too. Among the rubbish, a dead kitten lay baking in the sun, its corpse covered in buzzing flies. Around the body lay a few rocks, all covered in fresh blood. The group looked at the macabre scene in disgust and Finn was the first to react.
‘What in the…?’ he asked. ‘’Tis just a defenceless little thing.’
No one replied, but Tristan knew his Irish friend’s blood was boiling.
They had only travelled a few steps further when a backdoor suddenly flew open on their left and put them all on alert. Flying through the air came a stream of slops. Dirty water, filled with domestic waste, splashed on the road in front of them and sent pieces of vegetable skins, fish bones and other bits of refuse flying everywhere. The rats will have vegetables with their meat tonight, thought Tristan, just as a large woman filled the doorframe, pail in hand, her forearms as brawny as a blacksmith’s. She regarded the foursome, looking them up and down, trying to make up her mind if they belonged or not.
‘Scamper!’ she bellowed when she saw the dead kitten. ‘Or you’ll get a taste of my broom!’
Not wanting to see the size of the big lady’s broom nor taste it, the group quickly carried on down the alley until they came to a fork in the road. The main alleyway continued to the left, and a small dirt road veered off to the right. The dirt road looked like it had squeezed in between the buildings before it had given up, coming to an abrupt end in a small courtyard behind the Blue Boar Tavern. The boys could not see anyone but heard some excited voices coming from the square.
They made their way up the narrow pathway, and when they entered the courtyard, a little girl nearly bumped into them as she came running around the corner. Her sooty face, matted hair and torn clothes were a sight for sore eyes, but it was her hollow and livid eyes that truly told her story. She hurried past them, then stopped and turned around, stuck out her tongue and carried on hopping and skipping down the road, singing with a hauntingly melodious voice, London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down…
They found the group of pickpockets standing in a rough circle in the corner of the courtyard, everyone’s eyes fixated on the bounty that lay spread out on an inverted hogshead. Some of the smaller children stood on their toes as they struggled to see over the top of the large wine barrel. A loud whistle rang out from a nearby rooftop followed by the voice of a young boy. ‘I didn’t see them!’
‘Damn it! I told you to keep a lookout.’ The group had all turned around to face the intruders. The pockmarked leader’s disgust with his spotter was evident on his face as he scrutinised the foursome.
‘You’d better get lost!’ Pockface addressed them.
‘You stole something from a friend of ours.’ Tristan took a step forward.
‘We didn’t steal anything from anybody,’ sneered Pockface. He pointed to the loot. ‘This here is all ours, gifted to us by the kind folk of London.’ A few snickers erupted from his gang.
‘You took something off Mr Hale and we need it back.’ Tristan’s voice wavered slightly with anger.
‘Look, do ya want to end up like that cat? Just fuck off!’
‘’Twas a harmless kitten, you sick bastard.’ Finn could not help himself.
‘Oh, my goodness, little ginger has a voice too. Well, the stupid cat got in my way, just like you four sons of bitches are doing right now. I’m not telling you again. Get going!’
The leader looked over to Ralf, who was ignoring all that was being said as he tried to sneak a peek at the items on the barrel. Then he suddenly recognised his fellow cutpurse from old.
‘I can’t see it, Tristan,’ whispered Ralf.
‘Well, well, so look who found himself a little goody-two-shoes gan
g to join. Trying to steal from the poor to give to the rich, are you?’ said Pockface. ‘A rotten apple shall always be a rotten apple, nothing more. You remember that.’
Ralf kept quiet.
‘Where is it?’ insisted Tristan, taking another step forward. Pockface was about a head taller than him, but anger dulled any common sense that he might have had.
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, and I’m not going to stand here listening to your slurs all day. If I did take something, why don’t you fight me for it?’ said Pockface challenging Tristan, much to the delight of his gang as they cheered him on.
‘Tristan, don’t,’ said Ralf when Tristan turned around to look at them. However, next to Ralf, Finn nodded his head vehemently.
Tristan’s eyes narrowed, and he turned back to face his adversary. He had never been in a fight before, but he had seen the twins fight many times. How difficult can it be? He dropped his shoulder slightly and charged at the bigger boy.
Pockface stepped to his left, swung his right arm and sent his fist smashing into Tristan's face. Tristan saw the blow coming but reacted too slowly. Pockface’s fist caught him on the side of the nose and under his right eye. His body’s momentum, paired with the force of the blow, careened him sideways and caused him to fall over his own feet. In a split second, he found himself lying face down on the ground. Blood spurted from his nose while the stinging pain caused tears to stream from his eyes.
Tristan was still coming to his senses when Pockface jumped on his back and blows started to rain down on both sides of his head, expletives accompanying every punch. He tried to cover his head between his elbows to block most of the blows, but some got through and slowly his will to fight drained from his weary body. Just as he was about to give up, he felt a weight being lifted off him. Ralf had stepped in. He had picked Pockface up around the waist and threw him into the nearby wooden wall.
‘Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?’ snarled Ralf.
Pockface picked himself up and without delay, ran at Ralf who met him head-on. Before Pockface had a chance to throw a punch, Ralf landed a blow just underneath his short rib, driving his fist into Pockface’s stomach. It knocked out all of Pockface’s wind, causing him to double over, gasping for air as he struggled to breathe.
‘Anyone else wants some of that?’ Ralf challenged the rest of Pockface’s gang. No one stepped up. Their leader was still crouched down, trying to force air into his lungs.
It was then that Finn came forward. He timed his kick perfectly. The bridge of his foot connected Pockface on the tip of his jaw rocking his head backwards. The force lifted him upright before he toppled over backwards, lying stretched out in the dirt, breathing more heavily as blood and small pieces of chipped teeth came bubbling through his lips. There was no more fight left in him.
‘And that’s for the kitten, you fucking bastard!’ shouted Finn, his blood-red face contorted with disgust.
Ralf held Finn back, stopping him before he could land another kick. Then he helped Tristan up, and the four of them left under a bombardment of obscenities from the rest of the pickpocket gang.
‘You’re a son of a whore, Conway!’ Pockface, who knew where Tristan lived, had finally gotten his wind back and his angered voice travelled clearly through the corridors.
‘Go on without me,’ Ralf urged them on and walked back to where the gang had rallied around their fallen leader who was still spitting out blood. Ralf pulled his hand from his jacket’s left pocket and showed them what he was holding.
‘He was gonna keep this to himself. That's who he is – always looking out for himself first. He doesn’t care about you. I'll let you decide what you wanna do with him. I know what I’d do.'
Ralf crouched down to where Pockface was still sitting, waved the shiny object in front of the writhing boy's face and whispered, ‘My friend might be a son of a whore but at least he knows his mother's name. Can you say the same? And sure, I might be a rotten apple, but what does that make you? You think about that when your fellas here lay into you.’ As Ralf turned and walked away, he heard a light whimper coming from Pockface’s lips, and it told of someone who knew that he was about to face the wrath of his gang.
Before that wrath could spill over to him, Ralf quickly made his way back to the festival and found Tristan at the back of the hatter’s shop. His friend was sitting by himself and looked fairly battered. Finn and Timmy had run off to the Sullivans’ stall to find a cloth and a mug of water to help clean Tristan’s face.
Tristan was glad to see the familiar face among the passers-by. He sat on the cobblestone road with his head thrown back against the milliner’s wall, his shirt stained dark with blood. Ralf leaned against the same wall while he watched his bruised friend intently. The bleeding from Tristan’s nose had stopped and the blood had caked underneath his nose and around his mouth, all the way down to his chin.
‘I reckon he came off worse,’ said Ralf.
‘Too bad ‘twas all for nothing.’ The disappointment was evident in Tristan’s voice. ‘Thank you…for helping me back there.’
‘Maybe all is not lost,’ said Ralf, with a mischievous smile on his face.
‘What do you mean?’
Ralf fumbled around in his pocket and brought forth a gold watch which he handed over to Tristan.
‘Would you look at that!’ Tristan could not believe his eyes as he held up the pocket watch, watching it glisten in the sun. ‘How…how did you do it?’
‘I’m certain you can figure that bit out,’ came Ralf’s reply. ‘Let’s just say I had led a different life before I met up with you lot. We weren’t farmers all of our lives.’ He looked down at the ground in front of him. ‘I took my chance when he sat on top of you. The bastard never meant to put it with the rest of the loot. Not him. He still had it tucked away in his pocket.’
‘Unbelievable.’ Tristan could hide neither his admiration nor his appreciation for what his friend had done. He held up his hand and showed Ralf the scar on his palm as a reminder. ‘None of us cares who you were or what you did. You’re one of us now.’ He did not know why, but then added, ‘Your past is in the past, Ralf. Nothing else matters.’
At that moment, Finn and Timmy returned, and they were quick to pounce on the gold watch, carefully passing it backwards and forwards, admiring its beauty. Finn cradled the watch like a precious jewel in his hands. ‘Can we keep it?’ he joked.
Tristan used the old damp rag with an overwhelming fishy stench to wipe most of the dried blood from his nose and chin. His right cheekbone was still swollen and tender to the touch. It was going to be a beauty of a black eye. He lightly blew his nose to clear some of the blood and snot that were clogging it, discarded the fetid cloth and took the watch from Finn. It was his turn to study the masterpiece. The back was made up of finely twisted gold wire around a golden disc with the initials E.P. engraved on it. The white enamel dial had beautiful silver numerals. Tristan had seen some magnificent watches on display at the jeweller shops inside the Royal Exchange and he knew that even with a few small scratches on the crystal it was probably still worth a lot of money. A lot of money, even if split four ways. For a wee moment, he contemplated keeping it, but his righteous conscience quickly squashed the wicked voice in his head.
‘No. Let’s take it back.’ Tristan jumped up and led the way as they entered the crowd to return the watch to its rightful owner.
It did not take them long to find the tall man among the masses, and the rest of the boys held back as Tristan walked up to Mr Hale. The three men were still deep in conversation and did not notice the boy standing next to them. Tristan cleared his throat, and then a little louder a second time. He finally drew their attention.
‘And what do we have here?’ It was Hale who spoke first.
‘Mister, I believe this belongs to you,’ said Tristan, and with his bloodied hand, proudly presented the watch to the man.
Hale took it from him, he turned it around a couple of ti
mes, looked at it real close and put it in his waistcoat. He then focused his attention on the young boy in front of him. ‘Mmm…’ His dark brown eyes looked at Tristan, who suddenly felt like he was being interrogated without a word being spoken, like the man was looking through him, not at him.
‘We got it off a bunch of pickpockets, sir. If you don’t believe me, you can ask my friends over there. We fought them for it.’ Tristan started blurting out the whole story. ‘They were run—‘.
‘No need to explain further lad. I believe you. I believe you.’ Hale looked at his two companions who smiled back at him. They could all see the dark flecks of blood that still covered Tristan’s upper lip and chin. The boy’s eye was almost swollen shut, and the blood that pooled underneath his eye was starting to turn his skin purple.
‘Tell me, lad, do I need to know who took this from me?’ Hale put his hand on the outside of his jacket, lightly tapping the spot where the watch was tucked away. ‘See, this watch is very special to me, very special indeed. I just never thought someone would ever dare taking it from me.’
‘We took care of it, sir, they…the boy who stole it won’t be doing it again any time soon,’ said Tristan. He could not help to wonder why the man thought that he was so special that no one would dare steal something from him. Pickpockets did not care who their victims were.
Hale could see the slight look of disbelief on Tristan’s face. He liked the boy already, and the lad was certainly not of the gullible kind. No, this boy is a clever one, and he brought my watch back. Trust is such a hard thing to come by these days.
The Fire Within Page 8