The Newgate Jig

by Ann Featherstone

  There was no sign of my namesake, and no evidence of Brutus and Nero's canine impersonators either, just a gaggle of mummers in their stage clothes, sitting upon the upturned buckets and barrels, ready to perform Richard III. They paid no heed to me, nor to Barney who, with his shoe bag over his shoulder, sauntered over, rubbing his eye the while and looking carefully about him.

  'Here you are. Them bashers made a mess of your face.'

  He seemed unsurprised to see me. Indeed, his small, round face was almost blanked of expression. He nodded at the stable.

  'I found it. That's it. That was my Pa's shop, Kevill's Photographic Studio and Emporium. I got to thinking when Mr Lovegrove asked me. I asked the Princess if she knew. She said she thought it was hereabouts. Fancy you coming here. Was it on account of the dog-bloke taking your name?'

  He didn't wait for an answer.

  'I've seen the Nasty Man too, but he hasn't clocked me yet. I got to be careful. Still, I'm going to serve him out.'

  There was a roar of laughter from within the gaff, which broke like a gun-shot upon the quiet of the yard.

  'It don't look much,' he was saying, nodding to the building, 'but my Pa set it up like a reg'lar shop inside. There are proper winders in the roof, you know, with shutters over them and a big photographing machine with a cloth. It's still there.'

  It was a sizeable building and I could see that it had once been smart. A flag fluttered on the roof, and there were even the remnants of old advertising on the door - 'Quality Pictures' - 'Latest Styles'. But it was run down now, the wooden walls rotting and full of holes. I was surprised that the photographing machine was still inside. In this district, it should have been stolen in a blink, and so in spite of my haste to get out of the city and into Titus Strong's cabbage fields, I was curious and wanted to see for myself.

  But Barney grasped my arm and held me back, frowning and listening.

  'Not yet.'

  And then he pushed me hard into the shadow of the building.

  'It's him! The Nasty Man! He mustn't see us!'

  I was so surprised that it took me a moment to realize what he had said, and another to register that the voice, getting louder as it emerged from the gaff, was indeed the Nasty Man. He was holding a child by the wrist - it was the little creature I had just seen dancing on the stage - and looking about him. To make sure no one was here.

  'Listen to me,' he whispered in that familiar, soft voice. 'When you have danced your next little dance - which you give so beautifully, my dear! - don't run away, but come to me here and I will take you to see the fine gentleman and he will give you a present!'

  The child shook her head.

  'I would rather go home, sir.'

  'Dear child, you'll come to me. Here.'

  He was bending down to speak to her, leaning upon a black cane. The child struggled against his grasp.

  'My ma will wait at our street end for me. I have to go to the theatre tonight. She'll give me a whipping if I don't go home.'

  'And I will give you a whipping if you do. How would that be? Don't you remember how I punished you when you disobeyed me last time?'

  The child was silent. And had stopped struggling.

  'Don't you remember how it hurt? And how the nice gentleman comforted you and rubbed your little red cheeks better?'

  She was perfectly still now.

  'Perhaps another whipping?' said the Nasty Man, straightening up and drawing the cane across the cobbles of the yard. 'We'll see what the gentleman says, shall we?'

  The creature regarded her, as a cat watches a mouse, and then, as though he was considering every moment, leaned towards her and whispered in the little one's ear. She gasped and began to cry, which seemed to be his purpose for he slowly took off one of his pale gloves and, with great care, pinched the skin of her chubby arm between the tips of his fingers. She squealed and cried and rubbed her arm.

  There! Like a kitten!' he mocked. 'It shall have a hard lesson if it isn't a good kitten!' He pinched her again. 'Now it knows what to do. It'll come here, won't it, and be good!'

  He pushed her ahead of him into the gaff and stood for a moment, pulling on his glove, and looking about him. If he saw us or heard our hearts slamming in our chests, he showed no sign of it, but simply rapped the stones with his cane and strode back into the gaff.

  Barney and I stood in silence. He was breathing hard through clenched teeth.

  'Hear that, Mr Chapman? What was that about then? Something dodgy. Stealing off little kids, by the sounds of it. I will serve him out, mark me, I will. For my Pa's sake. And hers.'

  What I had heard, I didn't understand. What I had seen, the Nasty Man's careless cruelty to a child, I could well believe. But I didn't want to know any more of it, and neither did I want the Nasty Man to see me again in the company of Barney. Even more reason, I thought, to collect my dogs and hurry to Strong's Gardens and safety. I started for the gate, the one that led into Pilgrim's yard, but Barney clutched my arm urgently.

  'Will you help me serve him out, the Nasty Man? I've got a plan. All it needs is for you to come back here with your dogs when I send for you, to make sure of it. I mean to have him - look at this! - I've got a stopper.'

  His eyes were bright as he produced from his shoe-bag a small gun, what the hunting brigade call a cripple-stopper, used to put wounded birds out of their misery. What it would do to a man, I had no idea. He shoved it back into the bag.

  'It won't be any trouble to you. Or your dogs. I'll send for you. All right?'

  He didn't wait for an answer, but disappeared into the gaff.

  If I had taken Barney more seriously, if he had told me his plan at that moment, I would have persuaded him against it and, indeed, would have refused to be part of it. But I was eager to get out of the gaff and Fish-lane and any chance meeting with the Nasty Man. I gave not a second thought to Barney's scheme to serve out the Nasty Man.

  My dogs were in Pilgrim's yard when I opened the gate. I wanted to be on my way quickly and Brutus, clever dog, seemed to understand and came to stand by my side and leant gently against my leg, ready to be off. But Nero had gone exploring. He had discovered the tumbledown shed of rotten wood and sacks and barrels (home to rats, without a doubt) which lay at the bottom of my friend's yard. This was once quite a nobby street, popular with tradesmen and, with market gardens at the back growing vegetables and orchards full of fruit trees, a jolly place to live. But that must have been a long time ago, I thought, for now it was a crowded street and not at all nobby, and the backs overlooked not gardens but high walls and fences. Pilgrim's yard was piled with rotting books, all stacked and messed together by rain and damp. Great mouldering heaps, about to fall apart or fall over, making good nests for colonies of rats and mice. It was little wonder that the Growler from the gaff had not brought in some dogs. This would be an ideal ratting ken. But what interested Nero seemed to be beyond the book heaps. He was intent upon squeezing himself behind the paper mountains and, fearing that he might stray and wanting to be away soon, I went after him.

  It was a foul place, full of scuttling creatures and quite treacherous. Any slight disturbance caused the book heaps to sway and slide. Piles of newspapers gave way underfoot and my boot disappeared more than once into a slimy porridge of rotten paper and crunched down upon nests of sleeping snails. Of course, the terrain presented no difficulties for Nero, who was intent upon following the scent he had picked up. He disappeared for a moment, and although I could hear him, snuffling and scrabbling, I couldn't see him, so I scaled yet another mountain range of paper, stumbled and overbalanced and, crashing heavily into the shaky fence beyond the sheds which immediately gave way, I tumbled forward, onto my knees, grabbing at the thin air, and almost diving into the railway cutting below.

  I had not realized! I had no idea that the railway had come this far, and was taking its destructive course behind the yards of Fish-lane, thirty feet below. Already the rails were laid and the tunnel, a little way distant, was being
cut and covered. It was no wonder that nearby houses were leaning over and falling down, that the floor of the gaff was unsafe, and the thunder of the workings and the stink of old earth hung in the air.

  I caught my breath and looked about me for Nero, but he was nowhere to be seen. For an awful moment, I thought he had disappeared over the edge of the precipice, but the sound of his snuffling told me that he had gone in quite another direction. Over the dividing fence. Into the yard next door. It was his wagging tail I saw first, and I thought he had sighted a rat and was excited by the anticipation of the hunt.

  But then I saw that he had squeezed himself between the panels of the fence and those of one of the buildings. The gap was probably no more than a couple of feet wide and full of leaves and dead brambles and I balked at the tightness of it, but Nero was ahead of me, and was now pressing his black nose against a gap in the wall of the building and snorting hard. If he attracted attention, if the Nasty Man were in earshot, we would have trouble on our hands, so I followed, to grab him by his scruff and pull him back. It was then that I heard voices inside the building. And realized that we were behind George Kevill's Photographic Studio and Emporium.

  I listened, trying to make out who was speaking. I recognised the child and the Nasty Man. And the voice of another man. Perhaps two men. I held my breath, signalled to Nero to be quiet, and listened to the scuffling and sounds of movement within. A mild, musical voice was speaking, unfamiliar, and I could only hear snatches of what he was saying.

  . . . won't you sit here, my dear . . . yes, by me . . . much better . .. like to drink this? ... (A laugh.)... yes, it does burn your lips . . . such pretty lips . . . ah, now then . . . take off that pretty mantle . .. yes, and your dress ... let me help .. . don't struggle, my dear . . . come, sit here, on my knee . . .'

  Nero lay awkwardly at my feet. He would stay there until I told him to move. But if we moved, we would be heard. There was no possibility of shifting silently in that cramped place.

  So I waited.

  And listened.

  There were thuds inside the stable. Everyday noises. Furniture being shifted, perhaps. Someone walking about.

  Tut the machine there.' It was the Nasty Man, his voice was unmistakeable. 'Yes, it will do well there.'

  Somebody mumbled, and the voices were suddenly clearer.

  'Good. Is everything ready?'

  A pause.

  'Is she drowsy, sir?'

  Mumbled reply.

  Another pause.

  A child's moan.

  And then broken words.

  '. . . exquisite . . . like a bird ... a mouse . . .'

  'Good, good.' The Nasty Man. 'But . . . don't linger, my lord . . . the show will finish soon . . . people in the yard.'

  A muttered exchange, laughter, the sound of glasses.

  There were gaps in the wall where the wood was rotted through. I pushed my finger in to make it wider, and pressed my eye against it. I could see the edge of a red chaise and its twisty feet. And the legs and booted feet of a man. The naked legs and tiny, slippered feet of a child. I saw a man's hand upon the pale leg. I guessed she was sitting on his knee. The skirts of the Nasty Man's coat passed back and forth, the hand stroked the child's leg, and then, suddenly, darkness. I strained left and right to find another gap in the wall, but someone or something was in front of it.

  'Ow! Oh! Sir, please. You're hurting me . . .'

  I held my breath, and tried again to see.

  A pause, and then more of the child's pitiful cries. 'You stop that!' and 'Oh, I don't like that!' and cries of terrible distress.

  'Shall I bind her mouth up?' It was the Nasty Man.

  'No, no! Let it be. I like to hear her.' The other was breathing heavily, excited.

  'But, if she makes too much noise . . .'

  The child cried out. 'That hurts!'

  More movements, hurried this time.

  'Do as you're told and it won't. Now, lie still. . .'

  'No! No!'

  More sounds of struggle.

  'You'll have to hold the bitch still, sir. Otherwise the picture won't be a good one.'

  There was silence, then a small voice crying, 'Sir, please. Oh, sir, it hurts! It hurts! I want my mother.'

  A surge of laughter broke in, the Nasty Man's high and shrill. 'Mama! Mama! She wants her mama!'

  'Please, sir. Oh no, sir! Please don't do that!'

  'Keep still, damn you!'

  'Oh! Oh!!! Sir, sir, please, no! You hurt me! You hurt me! Let me go!'

  I clapped my hands over my ears to shut out the horror, but it came anyway with a voice roaring, 'Damn her! The bitch has scratched me!' and the sound of a slap - once, twice, three times and the child's terrified scream - 'Hold her down, can't you! Hold her legs!' and then, 'Now I have you! Ah, yes!'

  And on it went until I thought I would go mad - the child screaming, begging to be allowed to go, promising to be a good girl, and the Nasty Man's laughter, rising like a wicked song above it all.

  Suddenly, there was a pause. A breath. A cough. Someone shifting about.

  I put my eye to the gap again, but it was still dark. There was the sound of footsteps upon the floorboards.

  A child's voice crying: 'Oh, it hurts, it hurts,' and 'I want my mother.'

  There were murmurs, a hurried conversation. I couldn't hear it, or see beyond the chaise. But then the Nasty Man said, 'This is a tidy mess. I think you've cramped it, sir. Look at the blood everywhere.'

  'If she hadn't struggled so ... It wasn't my fault,' said the other. There was fear in his voice.

  'All the same, sir. My lord.'

  'What are we to do?'

  The child moaned in pain. The murmur of conversation. And then the Nasty Man again, 'Well, of course, I can do it. But it will cost you.'

  'Anything.'

  'An extra - ten pounds.'

  'Yours,' said the other, 'when you've done it.'

  'What? Kill it now, sir?'

  'Here. In front of me, man. Get it done.'

  The Nasty Man laughed, but there was no humour in it. 'I am at your service, of course. But there'll be no pictures of this. You - put the machine away.'

  I put my eye to the gap. The chaise and its twisty legs. The Nasty Man's light-coloured britches and another man, standing close by. And the pale legs of the child and its bare feet and curled toes. I looked away. What did I need to see? Now I could hear everything that was happening and put pictures to it in my head - her cry of fear and panic, a thud as she fell to the floor, the sound of a struggle as she tried to get away, the feeble kicking of her heels. A beat of four. Or was it the sound of my heart thumping in my chest? Then someone cleared his throat and spoke in a voice trembling with emotion - or excitement?

  'Ah. Perfect.'

  Another beat. Then people moving about.

  'You. Get rid of it,' said the Nasty Man.

  Sounds again of movement. A cough.

  'She scratched my face. I think there's blood on my face.'

  'Hers, I think, my lord.'

  'My pictures? You did make them, didn't you?'

  A third man spoke, but his voice was so low I could not make out what he said.

  'Collect them at the usual place. From him.'

  The door opened and closed. Once, twice. There was the sound of footsteps receding.

  I waited. Nero shifted and looked at me, ready to go. Inside the shed someone was moving, breathing heavily. I forced myself to look through the gap, but it was black again. If I stayed here until the door opened, I could see who was inside. And then - what would I do? Run to the magistrate? Fetch Tipney and his mummers? Rouse up Pilgrim? A child had been killed. Someone must want to do something.

  Nero, however, had other plans and, though he didn't move from my side, he was tense and set up a low growl which would soon be heard within, so, risking all, I touched his head and we made a mad dash, scrambled frantically out, over the Alpine range of paper, slipping and sliding and causing great avalanch
es and disturbing a nest of rats which ran squealing across the yard, chased by Nero and joined by Brutus.

  I peered over Pilgrim's fence. The stable was quiet, the door shut. There was no one in the yard, and stillness settled over everything, as though the world was holding its breath.

  Pilgrim stood in his doorway, frowning.

  'Where have you been, Bob Chapman?'

  ('Over the fence and far away.')

  'What did you see?'

  ('You should have told him, you devil!')

  'How should I know he would go poking about over there? We don't go any further than here!'

  Pilgrim shuffled towards me, then stopped and drew a line with the toe of his boot upon the brick cobbles.

  ('Death to go further! That's what the big man said!')

  'Didn't he just? But didn't you sneak down there, along with the rats, to see the amusement?' ('Not I.')

  'You know you did.'

  ('I'll bite your tongue out, you.')

  'Listen to him.'

  ('You lie as fast as a dog can trot.')

  'Listen to me! Corpus delicti!'

  ('Baw baw!')

  'Corpus delicti, Bob Chapman!'

  ('Beggar me! You're another!')

  I couldn't bear to hear him a moment longer. With his voices ringing in my ears, I ran through the shop, scattering books left and right, upturning tables, tugging at the door and breaking the latch. I ran into the street with Brutus and Nero at my heels, and down Fish-lane, like a madman, and kept running, knowing that if I had stayed a moment longer, I would have beaten my brains out upon the very stones of the yard.

  Nowhere to Hide — the Aquarium — Return to

  Tipney's Gaff — Into the Darkness

  I have given up Strong's Gardens today.

  I turn my face to the Aquarium. A safe haven. Balm in Gilead, as Titus Strong would say.