He had barely walked twenty yards when he stopped and turned. Across the street, two men were talking outside a limner’s shop, which was tucked away between two larger buildings. They did not strike Tristan as the type of men who liked to get their portraits painted. When a lady joined them, one of the men looked up in his direction. Am I really being watched? He walked another couple of steps and turned around again. The man who had observed him had left while the remaining couple was still deep in conversation. He quickened his pace and turned left at the next street. The route took him past La Boutique, but he made a slight detour to forego the chance of running into someone that he knew.
He quickly settled into a rhythm, eyes glancing constantly for any suspicious or familiar characters. Now and then he stopped and stepped away from the road into a nook or alley to see if he was being followed. At the end of Castle Street, he nearly walked into a fracas where a group of older children was harassing an older gentleman outside an inn. He quickly retreated and bypassed the commotion through a side alley which led to the Vinegar Yard. He knew he was getting close now. He raced across the open ground and quickly crossed the few remaining streets until he finally turned right into Hind Alley.
Hind Alley and the surrounding streets were truly a woeful place, its paupers long forgotten by the parish and anyone else for that matter. On the right side of the alley, a large number of old melancholic almshouses were strung together in a continuous row and on the left stood old black wooden dwellings with sandy thoroughfares which led to more of the same. Unlike the rest of London, these streets were extraordinarily quiet during the day with most of their inhabitants out begging or stealing. It made a fine breeding ground for both.
The place reeked of vice and Tristan switched the parcel to his left side and balled up his right fist. I wished I had my stiletto, he thought, when he finally came to a stop in front of the given address.
The quaint little house looked out of place as if it had no business being there. Unlike the mangy hovels either side of it, it looked proper and clean. The timber appeared to be in good order, and the windows had shutters instead of sashes. When he got closer, he noticed the sign carved into the upper-right corner of the front door. Standing on his toes, he reached up and ran his fingers across the grooves. The two crossed daggers were unmistakable. He wondered how many times he had missed them and if they appeared on any of the other houses or shops he had ever visited before.
Tristan knocked hesitantly on the door. Six times, in quick succession, just like Arthur had told him. He waited a while and then looked over his shoulder. He still felt like he was being watched. Nothing. The silence was almost too much to bear, the only sound his heart thumping in his ears. From across the street, a door slammed shut, making him jump as he jerked his head around to face his adversary, fist ready. Nothing. He tried again, six times. This time, the sound reverberated from across the street. Still nothing? Then, just as he was about to look for a side entrance, the door slowly opened, and for a moment, Tristan was lost to his surroundings, completely fixated on the sight in front of him. A couple of times he blinked his eyes, dead sure they were deceiving him.
The dweller of the house was a grotesque old man. Hunched over, he leaned on the bottom half of the stable door, so close that Tristan could smell his foul breath. He did not know where to look. The man’s upper lip had most of the left side missing. Rotten teeth peeked through the opening, and when he breathed, a hissing sound came out of his mouth. He had no right eye, in its place a plain white sphere. A scar ran up his right cheek through the eyelids and ended on top of his bald head where a few strands of lank white hair tried their best to draw any attention away from his face. Something else was amiss, and then Tristan realised. His ears…they’re gone!
‘Yes?’ the man grunted and turned his head sideways so that the hole where his ear used to be pointed straight at Tristan.
Tristan felt his stomach churn. There were so many questions running through his ten-year-old mind, but then he remembered the barber’s rules and handed over the parcel. The man did not say a word, just grabbed the parcel and disappeared. Tristan took his chance and peeked through the open door. Lanterns and candles surrounded a large wooden table full of tools. Several golden and silver objects of different shapes and sizes lay spread out and shone dully in the dim light. The man’s a jeweller? What an odd place! Just then the man returned, a pair of leather spectacles resting on his nose, the opened parcel in his left hand.
‘All’s well,’ said the man with a drop of spittle leaking over his bottom lip, and slammed the door shut.
Tristan stood there for a wee while, unsure about his next step and then realised there was nothing else to do but to head home. He slowly started the journey back to La Boutique and with each increasing stride, the anxiety and fear slowly dissipated and made way for relief and exhilaration that warmed his insides like a cider. Soon he started jogging, the newfound empowerment putting a spring in his step and the further he ran, the more his heart felt like bursting out of his chest. He wanted to scream, to tell the world of his achievement and his pleasant surprise with the ease in which he had concluded the transaction.
The elation gradually disappeared over the evening and much later that night while he was polishing the shoes of La Boutique’s patrons, the vision of the earless man was all that remained fresh in his memory.
The next day, Tristan arrived at the Two Daggers around the usual time. His stiletto in its leather sheath was neatly concealed under his jacket. Last night, he had made a vow to never again leave home without it.
Mr Hale was waiting for him upstairs. Next to him sat Annabelle and across from them, with his broad back to Tristan, was Arthur. Tristan took his usual seat next to the big man. On the table, a cider was waiting for him and next to it, a small leather pouch.
‘I understand everything went well,’ said the barber.
I haven’t told you anything, thought Tristan. ‘Yes, sir,’ he replied politely.
‘Well, here’s to you, my boy!’ The barber raised his tankard, and with the exception of Annabelle, they all took a couple of swigs.
‘Good job, lad.’ Arthur winked at him and nodded his head in approval.
Tristan made up his mind the night before. The barber had told him explicitly not to converse with anyone, but the man did not rule himself out. With that in mind, he wiped the excess cider off his mouth with the back of his hand and asked the question that had been pestering him for most of the day. ‘The man from yesterday, he had no ears’ – the barber choked on his ale, and next to Tristan, Arthur did the same, only his choke was followed by a hearty chuckle – ‘and his face was all mangled.’
Hale had recovered somewhat and after he had finished clearing his throat said, ‘You are an inquisitive lad, I will give you that…I will give you that indeed. I’m sure your boldness shall one day be rewarded, or punished. Let me guess. You want to know what happened to him?’
Tristan nodded.
‘Are you sure?’
Tristan nodded again.
‘Alright, then. This once, and only this once, I shall indulge your curiosity.’
Tristan picked up a different tone in the barber’s voice, a silent threat perhaps. He wondered if he had crossed a boundary of sorts. ‘I’ll tell you anything that you want to know, if you think that’s fairer, sir.’
‘Nothing to do with fairness, lad. I find your mettle quite refreshing, but don’t you take that as an invitation to go around asking questions if you’re not prepared to hear the answers.’ Hale turned to Arthur. ‘Fetch us a couple of gins. Not the cheap stuff that you sell to the tipplers downstairs. Our special brew.’ As he watched Arthur leave, he said, ‘A finer gin you would never taste in your life, lad, all courtesy of a man now long dead. God rest his soul.’
Tristan wondered what the gin was for and looked forward to it for Sissy did not allow him any strong liquor. But even more eagerly, he was awaiting the barber’s story.
&n
bsp; ‘What do you believe in?’
Tristan thought hard. In what do I believe? Sissy believed God had a hand in everything, so it seemed the right answer. ‘God, sir?’
‘Mmm. Well, son, I believe in metal. From an early age on, you could say my father shaped me into believing it. First ‘twas iron and steel. Later tin and copper. And now ‘tis gold. See, I prefer something real, lad, something concrete and preferably something I can touch.’ With venom in his voice, Hale said, ‘That day my father got murdered I lost what little faith he had instilled in me. Isn’t that amazing what a difference one letter can make? God. Gold. Glorious gold…with its golden shimmer that’s more intoxicating than a beautiful woman or a bottle of the world’s finest rum.’
Next to Hale, Annabelle snorted with disgust. The circles around her eyes were darker today, and she appeared even more retracted than the last time Tristan had seen her. ‘You watch your foolish talk, Nathaniel Hale. Maybe you should fornicate with gold and see if she's as warm in the loins as I am.’ Her speech was slurry, but she had not lost her wit.
‘See, lad, it can even invoke the strongest of emotions,’ grinned Hale. ‘Annabelle, my love, you know at the sight of my golden wand your loins open just like a lily’s petals in the morning sun. Why don’t you take your here medicine and head on upstairs so that us men can have a pleasant conversation among ourselves?’
Tristan sensed the barber was not asking and was surprised at the enthusiasm with which Annabelle grabbed the bottle of tincture from his hand. She shuffled past Hale, who slapped her on the rump with a great guffaw and disappeared before Tristan had a chance to say goodbye.
‘There we go. Peace and quiet. Where’s that bastard with the gin?’ Hale moved across to the corner and made himself comfortable. ‘Where were we? Our man with no ears…interesting fella. He used to work at the Royal Exchange, one of the best jewellers in town, albeit a crooked one. But then gold can be a fickle business at the best of times and easily make the good go bad.
‘In our line of business, we do get a lot of gold and silverware. The man you saw yesterday has worked for me for many years. He used to change those items beyond recognition and sell them legitimately through his jewellery shop at the Exchange to the rich folk of London. But then he got greedy.
‘One afternoon, my delivery man disappeared together with a very valuable parcel – the only kind I dispatch. They eventually found his body washed up, about six hundred yards downstream from the bridge. He was killed in a very particular or shall I say, a very peculiar way. That helped us to track down his murderers, a gang of rogues who operated out of Whitechapel. A couple of nights later, we headed over there and dispensed with every single one of them. Their leader, after most of his blood had stained the street outside their lair, eventually gave up their benefactor’s name – the jeweller.
‘The next day, we visited the jeweller at his home, and after some gentle persuasion from Arthur, the man confessed. I asked him if his ears were not working because I remembered explaining to him, in explicit terms, the details of our particular arrangement. I asked him if his eyes didn’t see my lips move, saying those words. I asked him if he had told anyone about our little venture. He failed to answer any of those questions convincingly so I thought I would take from him as he had taken from me. And that’s what I did, lad!’ The barber gave a sinister laugh. ‘See, we made an example of him as one would do when a small mutiny needs quelling so that no one would ever second-guess the consequences of interfering with our business. Well, after we had finished with him, he certainly couldn’t go back to his family or his shop so I put him up in a place where he could still work on his jewellery. Don’t get me wrong, the man’s great at what he does and his attention to the smallest of details can baffle the mind. And he does all of this under my protection, of course. As for the shop, we put a new person in there, and he still works for me till this day, both eyes, both ears and lips still intact, selling the jewellery made by the man you saw yesterday.’
The barber’s last words were wasted on Tristan. We made an example of him was the only thing that echoed in his head. They mutilated that man beyond recognition. Hale’s recount had a chilling effect on him, and he was upset with himself for wanting to know the jeweller’s story. But more so, he was horrified by the barber’s niche for brutality. Under the warm and likeable demeanour was a cold-hearted man he had to watch out for. Tristan wondered if, this time, he had gone too far in his search for adventure, agreeing to work for this man. The barber interrupted his thoughts.
‘Remember our blood oath, boy.’
Tristan nodded. He needed no reminding. He was being pulled deeper into the abyss. All of a sudden, the full realisation of what he had gotten himself into dawned on him. The responsibility weighing on his shoulders together with the consequences of failure made his stomach churn, and he felt nauseous as the walls in the dark room started closing in, slowly suffocating him. The man whom he had grown to like had taken on a different persona. Or perhaps it was his own fault? Perhaps he had bluffed himself into thinking highly of the man?
‘And understand, lad, that yesterday’s delivery was as easy as it gets,’ the barber carried on, seemingly oblivious to Tristan’s inner turmoil. ‘You do the job well, and the reward is great. You do it wrong, and there’s a chance you may die.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Tristan jumped to his feet. ‘I have to go.’
Without waiting for a response, Tristan sped downstairs, racing passed Arthur who, with drinks in hand, looked on curiously as the young delivery boy burst out the front door.
Once outside, Tristan took in big gulps of fresh air and tried to calm down his innards, but he could not stop the inevitable. As he ran to the small piss-reeking alley between the tavern and the drapery, cider started foaming up and exploded through his mouth and nose. He saw the vomit fly through the air and land on the ground, quickly soaking into the loose sand.
There were faint voices behind him. No doubt, they belonged to some tell-tales who could not wait to share the story about the crapulent boy with anyone who wanted to listen. Tristan’s head jerked as he spewed two more times, but luckily, his ordeal ended as swiftly as it had started. He wiped his face on his sleeves and turned to give those meddlers a good look, but the street was empty. Feeling much better, he made his way back to La Boutique.
Inside the tavern, Arthur arrived upstairs with the drinks and a puzzled look on his face. ‘I saw our little friend bolt for the door.’ He put down the glasses with gin, scratched his barren head as he sat down and pulled Tristan’s mug closer. ‘He didn’t even finish his cider. Perhaps he didn’t like your story about our man losing his ears?’
‘Aye.’
‘Well, should I go and get him?’
‘Let him be, Arthur, let him be. We’ve all been innocent once, even evildoers like you and I.’
‘Well, I’d drink to that,’ said Arthur, raising his gin before he burst out laughing.
‘Indeed,’ grinned Hale. ‘Besides, I got the little fella right where I want him.’
Chapter 8
It was an early spring Sunday morning. Outside it was pitch-black and cold. Dark clouds had ridden in on a gale northeasterly during the night and quickly banished any pleasant thoughts of a nice warm day. The cold wind was howling angrily and rushed into La Boutique through any small crevice it could find, making those without company or enough linen shiver. The same wind bashed the loose shutter in the kitchen against the frame and woke Sissy earlier than usual. When she finally worked up the courage to get up and face the cold morning, the banging had stopped. She made her way to the kitchen, looking forward to the heat from the open hearth to warm up her cold bones.
Sissy saw him sitting on the bench by the kitchen table. Golden locks peeked out from underneath a wide-brimmed hat. The buff coat, his most prized possession, was a couple of sizes too big. It was a man’s coat after all, and his broad shoulders struggled to fill it. But Tristan was growing into it, and fast. Too f
ast for her liking. He would be fourteen soon, and his voice had started to deepen. He was wise beyond his years, and if need be, Tristan could hold a fitting conversation with just about any person who came through La Boutique’s front doors, from the innkeeper nearby to the Lord Mayor from across the bridge. And tried as she might, she could not think of another boy, not even among his friends, who would buy a buff coat with his money and not squander it away on something meaningless or of lesser value.
My boy is turning into a young man. A tall one too, just like his father. She bethought the night when the poor helpless baby had been delivered into her arms. That fateful night, so many years ago now, had changed their lives forever. And yet it still felt like yesterday.
But that was then, and this was now. She had noticed how the women had started looking at him differently, and he at them. She also knew how quickly some of the ladies could snare a young man, naive or not, in their honeyed traps. Boundaries would have to be set, and soon, for if her boy were caught doing something untoward with one of the ladies, Madam would surely intervene. Sissy knew she needed to talk to him, but she rarely saw him anymore for he left early each morning and usually returned late at night. Only sometimes did she have the luxury of his company and perhaps a few quick words before he turned in for the night.
His chores at La Boutique were long forgotten, and he was now paying board, a deal which he had negotiated with Madame himself. Sissy was proud of him. She knew he was doing deliveries for several businesses. She had also heard from the girls that he worked for a somewhat notorious man in Southwark. She had decided a long time ago not to interfere, yet she constantly reminded him to stay true to himself. But he had his mother’s carefree soul, and his gayness of spirit was all that mattered to her.
She stood there in silence and cherished the moment, watching Tristan go through his motions, undisturbed. He was fidgeting with the golden cross around his neck again. He had this habit of twirling the cross underneath his shirt every time he contemplated something important or if something was bothering him. Lost to the here and now, round and round it went. Then he suddenly stopped and devoured two more pieces of bread followed by a glass of warm milk which he scoffed down in two big gulps. A loud burp resounded around the kitchen.
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