The Devil and His Boy

by Anthony Horowitz

  “Nobody except the boy,” Ratsey said.

  There was a long silence.

  “Young Tom saw everything,” Ratsey continued after a while. “He knows all about us. And if the Queen or her advisers were ever to get their hands on him, that could be very difficult for us.”

  “Where is he?” Sebastian snapped. “You had him! You let him go! This is all your fault, Ratsey.”

  Ratsey sighed again. He closed his eyes. Opened them. Then lashed out with his fist, catching Sebastian right on the nose. “We’re all in this together,” he went on. “And it seems to me that the one thing we have to do, the only thing we can do, is find young Tom.”

  “How are we going to do that?” Sebastian wailed. Henrietta took out a filthy handkerchief and offered it to him. Both the Slopes looked miserable and terrified.

  “We know he’s heading for London,” Ratsey said in a reasonable tone of voice. “I’ll follow him there. I’ll find him and I’ll kill him.”

  “You’ll never find him in London,” Sebastian gasped. “It’s a huge place. A vast place. I went there once with my dad to do the Christmas shopping. It was horrible. We’d only been there a few hours and he got murdered. He didn’t even have time to get me a present!”

  “It is a big place,” Ratsey agreed. “But I know people. And the people know people. If the boy is there, I’ll hear of it soon enough.” He got to his feet. “I’ll see you two love-birds in about a month,” he said. “And don’t worry about Tom. The boy’s as good as dead.”

  at the red lion

  Three days after he had left Framlingham, Tom lost his horse, his food and almost his life.

  He had been riding hard and had stopped for the night in a small wood just outside a village. He had been too nervous to go into the village itself. He was travelling outside his parish without a licence and knew that if he was caught he would be flogged. And if they decided he was a beggar or a thief – and how else would a boy like him have his own horse? – they might burn a hole in his ear or slit his nostrils and brand him on the side of his cheek.

  And so he was on his own, asleep on a bed of leaves when the three men came. A foot breaking a branch near his head woke him. But he was quick-thinking enough to keep his eyes closed.

  “Look at the horse!” a voice whispered.

  “It’s a beauty!” whispered a second.

  “Take it! Take it! And cut the boy’s throat!” That was a third voice, slithering out of the night.

  “No need to kill him,” the first voice replied. “He’s asleep…”

  “Then take the horse.”

  “I’ve got it!”

  “Quick…”

  And then they were gone.

  Tom sat up, shivering. It had been a close escape. If he had so much as opened his eyes, a knife would have been the last thing he would have seen.

  It was harder after that. For two whole days he walked. The rain never stopped and soon he felt as if the water were going right through him. He had no food. After twenty-four hours his head was spinning and he could barely see the road ahead. At the start of his journey, he had done his best to avoid people. Now it was the other travellers who avoided him. He was a doomed, half-frozen boy, dying on his feet. Nobody wanted to come near.

  On the sixth day, just after the sun had set, Tom came to a town. At least, he assumed it must be a town. He had never seen so many tall and solid buildings so close together.

  The first of these was an inn. It was three floors high, its windows ablaze with light and flaming torches in front of the main door. The front of the inn was a brilliant pattern of black beams and white panels with a wooden balcony running all the way along the front. A cobbled pathway led underneath a wide arch and into an inner courtyard and even as Tom watched a great carriage arrived, pulled by four horses, and rattled under and in. Immediately two ostlers appeared, dressed in brown aprons, and ran forward to help the passengers dismount. At the same time, a huge man with a black beard appeared, laughing at nothing in particular and chewing what looked like a leg of lamb. Somehow Tom knew that this was the landlord.

  “Welcome, welcome!” the man bellowed. “Everyone is welcome at the Red Lion of Enfield. Come in! Come in!”

  Tom watched as the new arrivals went in, laughing and chattering amongst themselves. For a moment he swayed on his feet. He had no more strength left. If this was London, then London would be where he would die. He took a deep breath. His position was hopeless. He had nothing to lose. With the last of his strength, he forced himself across the road. The innkeeper had just seen the last of the guests into the building when he noticed Tom, covered in mud from head to foot and looking more like a broken-down scarecrow than a thirteen-year-old boy.

  The innkeeper frowned. “What do you want?” he demanded.

  “Please, sir…” Tom had to concentrate to make his lips move. “Can I work for you?”

  “Work for me? What the devil makes you think I need a young cozener like you? What work do you want? What work can you do?”

  “I can look after the horses, sir. I worked at an inn. In Framlingham…”

  “Framlingham?” The innkeeper’s eyes narrowed. “That’s a long way from here. Run away have you? Do you know what happens to the cursed clapperdudgeons who run away from their masters?”

  Tom was too tired to argue. He turned round and was about to leave when the innkeeper grabbed hold of him and yelled out, “Quickly!”

  The door opened and a plump, fair-haired woman dressed in an apron and cap came out. She had a narrow face with a pointed chin and such wide eyes that she seemed to be permanently amazed about everything. “Yes?” she demanded.

  “See for yourself, Mistress Quickly,” the innkeeper replied. “This young apple-squire is asking for work!”

  Quickly – for it seemed that was her name – glanced at Tom with distaste. “He’s more mud than boy,” she remarked. “In fact he’s a muddy disgrace.”

  “Then you deal with him,” the innkeeper exclaimed. “The little moon-man wants to work. So give him work. Hard work and plenty of it.”

  Tom allowed himself to be dragged into the Red Lion, his head spinning. He had never been inside a building quite like it. Pewter plates, piled high with food, flashed in front of his eyes being carried to tables. There were pigeons and pastries, eggs and oysters, lamb, beef, pork, and huge, golden chickens. Hundreds of candles burnt in the inn but they were hardly needed with the glow of not one but three fires, turning everything bright red. And the people! Tom had never seen so many people dressed in the finest clothes, talking and laughing as they ate.

  “Through here!”

  Tom found himself being pushed through a door and suddenly he was in the kitchen – where, of course, he belonged. But, with a heavy heart, Tom knew that he couldn’t work. He could barely stand. And when the woman saw he was good for nothing, he would soon be back out in the rain.

  “All right,” Mistress Quickly exclaimed. “I want you to sit here, child.” She gestured at a seat next to a fire. “Your job is to make sure that the fire doesn’t go out. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” Tom nodded. “I’m to watch the fire.”

  “You are also to taste all the food you are given. I need to know that it’s malicious. I’ll ask you to taste a little wine as well, I think. For the same reason. Do you think you can manage all that? Sitting by the fire? Eating and drinking?”

  Tom nodded, amazed.

  “Good, good, good!” Mistress Quickly beamed. “I’ll snatch up with you later.” And then she was gone.

  Tom couldn’t believe his good fortune. He knew of course that these weren’t really jobs at all, that the innkeeper and the woman had taken pity on him and had saved him from death by cold and starvation. It was the first time anyone had been kind to him in his entire life and when, a short while later, a smiling girl brought him a plate of meat and bread and a cup of wine, he had to fight to keep the tears from his eyes. After that he slept, half leaning against
the wall, the flames from the fire warming his hands and face.

  When he awoke something was towering over him. He looked up alarmed, but it was only Mistress Quickly.

  “You feeling better?” she asked.

  “Yes. Thank you…”

  “Please! There’s no need to spank me!” She smiled. “Have you ever seen a play?”

  “No,” Tom replied.

  “Then you’re in luck. We’ve got the players in tonight. Come out and see what you think.”

  The only entertainment Tom had ever seen in Framlingham had been minstrels (usually out of tune) and jugglers. A bear-baiter had once visited the town with an old, half-starved bear. But the sight of the poor animal being stoned and tormented had only made him feel miserable. Another time, a group of players had stayed at The Pig’s Head but they hadn’t performed – the parish didn’t approve of plays. The fact was that Tom had very little idea what a play even was. He doubted he would be able to understand it and thought it would be rather dull.

  But when he followed Mistress Quickly into the courtyard, the first thing he heard was roars of laughter from the crowd who now lined the balconies leading round the inside of the inn and who were packed neck-and-neck on the ground below. The players – about a dozen of them – had set themselves up at the far end, using one wall of the inn as the backdrop to a makeshift stage. Torches and candles blazed everywhere turning night into day. And as Tom watched, they acted out their story, turning the Red Lion into another world.

  It was a mad story.

  The play was about two sets of identical twins, two masters and two servants, who accidentally turned up in the same city. Because they looked exactly the same, the masters kept on confusing the twins and the twins kept on mistaking the masters until everyone was chasing everyone else all around the stage. Tom soon found himself swept up in a way he had never known before. It was as if all his own problems were forgotten. For two hours, William Hawkins, the Slopes and Gamaliel Ratsey simply didn’t exist. It was a wonderful feeling, to be so lost in something that nothing else mattered.

  If Tom had kept his eyes on the stage like everyone else, he might not have seen what happened next. But he enjoyed watching the audience too – he had never seen so many people having such a good time – and it was while his eyes were on them that he saw the thief at work.

  The thief was a boy, a couple of years older than himself. He was wearing a thick red cloak with a tall hat on his head and brown trousers ballooning out at the knees. The boy had a rather round face, long fair hair and thick lips.

  The boy was standing right behind a wealthy-looking merchant and, as Tom watched, he reached forward, his hand disappearing underneath the man’s cloak. At the same time, his other hand drew out a short sword and cut through the man’s purse. Tom gasped. It had taken less than five seconds and now the purse was in the boy’s pocket and he was already moving on to the next person in the crowd.

  Mistress Quickly was standing next to Tom. “What is it?” she demanded.

  “There! He took that man’s purse!” Tom lifted his hand and pointed at the boy. At that very moment, the boy looked up at Tom. And to Tom’s astonishment, his face broke into a broad smile.

  But Mistress Quickly wasn’t amused. “A foist!” she yelled. “There’s a pock-picket in the house!”

  At once the play was forgotten as the audience exploded. They knew there was a thief among them. The only trouble was, they didn’t know who he was.

  “There!” Mistress Quickly shouted again.

  The thief took one last glance at Tom. Slowly he shook his head as if to reproach Tom for spoiling his fun. Then he pointed at a fat, bald man two rows behind him. “That’s him!” the thief cried out.

  “What…?” the bald man began, then yelled as someone punched him full on the nose. The bald man reeled back, blood flying, then crashed into two more members of the audience. This sparked off a second fight and moments later the entire audience was shouting and swearing, exchanging blows and sprawling over the courtyard. On the stage, the actors tried to continue the scene, realized it was hopeless and stopped to watch. Now it was the actors who had become the audience and the audience who provided the entertainment. Just in front of the stage, two men began a sword fight. A very old lady lashed out with a surprisingly strong fist. A merchant had the shirt ripped off his shoulders while two more grappled with each other’s beards.

  Tom looked down at the battlefield, searching for the boy who had started it all. A moment later he saw him. The boy had reached the archway and was slipping out into the street. The boy looked back and saw Tom. He took out his stolen purse and raised it in a defiant gesture, then drew a quick finger across his nose. His meaning was clear. To hell with you! To hell with you all!

  Then the boy turned and a moment later he had gone.

  paul’s walk

  The following morning, Mistress Quickly and the innkeeper said their goodbyes. There was a cart making the short journey from Enfield to London and they had arranged for Tom to be given a ride.

  “You look after yourself, young rakehell!” the innkeeper boomed. “And when you get to London, make sure you head for St Paul’s.”

  “Where’s that?” Tom asked.

  “St Paul’s Cathedral. You can’t miss it. Ask for Paul’s Walk. That’s the best place to find work.”

  “Goodbye!” Mistress Quickly cried. “It was lovely beating you!”

  The cart set off and although Tom had slept well the night before, he found his eyes closing once again and soon he had drifted back into sleep.

  He was woken by the sound of a bell tolling. He sat up and blinked. The cart was rumbling past a priory with a cluster of neat houses lying in its shadow and at first Tom thought he was still in the countryside. Behind him there were fields and gently sloping hills. But when he twisted round and looked ahead, more and more houses and shops sprang up and a moment later he knew that they had plunged into the city itself.

  London!

  It was the noise that struck him first. There were people everywhere, shouting and shoving as they tried to reach the market stalls. At the same time, the stall-owners and shopkeepers were shouting back at them, each one of them trying to make themselves heard. “What do you lack? What do you lack?” – this from the shopkeepers, standing in their doorways. “Sweep! Chimney sweep!” “Ripe apples red!” “Fine Seville oranges” – at every street corner there was someone with something to sell. Horses stamped and stumbled in the mud. Cartwheels creaked and rattled. Dogs barked and cows bellowed their protest as they were driven to market. In workshops open to the street, half-naked metalworkers smashed down with their hammers and yelled instructions to their hurrying apprentices. Carpenters in leather aprons sawed and chiselled. A group of sailors wove past, half-drunk already, singing and laughing. So much noise! Tom pressed his hands to his ears and tried to stop his head from spinning.

  And then there was the smell. Vegetables and spices in the market. Fruit – fresh and rotting. Great hunks of cheese. Kegs of rich, ruby wine. The smell of people, sweating and dirty. The smell of animals. And, of course, the worst smell of all, coming from an open drain that ran down the centre of the road, a foul-coloured stream that never stopped flowing, carrying all the sewage of London to who could say where!

  Tom climbed out of the cart, marvelling at all the people around him. Colourful signs hung in the air, advertising the shops below. A black horse, a white rose, a yellow snake. Higher up, the inhabitants had stretched lines from one side of the street to the other so that they could hang out their clothes which fluttered like misshapen flags against the blue sky. A woman in expensive clothes hurried past, pressing a scent-bottle to her nose and trying not to look at anything. In the distance a group of boys were throwing mud-balls and laughing at a man with dark skin and foreign-looking clothes; presumably a visitor.

  “Dirty postcard?” A man with a broken nose, several broken teeth and a badly twisted neck had suddenly stepped in fron
t of Tom. “Want to buy a dirty postcard?” he asked.

  “No…”

  “Each one’s engraved! And you won’t find a filthier sonnet!”

  “No thank you!”

  The innkeeper had advised Tom to go to St Paul’s Cathedral and that at least was easy to find. The driver of the cart pointed the way and Tom followed a narrow, curving lane until it suddenly opened into a great square where a priest, dressed in black and white, was addressing a crowd of a hundred people. The cathedral stood behind them; a mountain of bricks and stone, of soaring windows and towers. Tom wouldn’t have believed it was possible to build anything as big as this. The main tower seemed almost to touch the sky – and surely would have if only it hadn’t managed to lose its steeple.

  He went inside.

  It was almost noon and St Paul’s was beginning to empty. Tom walked slowly up the central aisle, its great stone pillars standing like some enchanted forest all around him. A door slammed shut and the sound echoed through the chamber. There were a few men lounging against the pillars. Some were talking in low voices. In the shadows, one man was counting coins into the outstretched palm of another. Everyone in the church seemed to be watching someone else and it occurred to Tom that nobody was actually praying.

  He reached a tall, wooden door, covered from top to bottom with slips of paper. A handful of men had been examining these as Tom approached but now they dispersed and he found himself alone. The pieces of paper were covered with words. Tom recognized a few of the letters but, of course, he couldn’t read.

  “What are you looking for, my dear boy?”

  The speaker was a small, fat man, almost as round as he was tall. He reminded Tom of a snowman. His eyes were as black as coal. His nose was long and pointed. And his head seemed to balance on his shoulders without the benefit of a neck. He was wearing black trousers and a white shirt, frayed at the elbows. The fur on his collar looked suspiciously like rat.

  “What?” Tom wasn’t even sure that the man was talking to him.