HE WHO FIGHTS

by Mike Morris

  The fat man cracked his knuckles as he walked towards Jack, his lackeys on his heels. Jack's stomach lurched. He blinked away the forming tears. No way was he going to show that he was scared.

  "Nowhere to run now," said the fat man. "You aren't going anywhere except the magistrates — after I've beaten you to hell and back. Not even a Nostros would want to eat you when I'm done."

  Jack looked around for some way to escape, a weapon to use but the alley was empty. If this was Jack's neighborhood, they'd be broken crates and piles of garbage to help him climb over the fence. Or half the fence would be missing, taken for firewood. But, in Grayston, there wasn't a crate to step on or even a stick to use as a club. Bloody rich people. Couldn't count on them for anything. He tried jumping once more but the fence hadn't shrunk.

  The fat man grabbed him before he could try a third time and yanked him off his feet. The man's breath stunk of roasted onions as he pulled Jack closer, grinning all the while behind his silly moustache.

  "Now where's my silver, you little runt." The man's face burned with self-righteous fury.

  "I ain't got your stuff," said Jack, wriggling in the man's grasp. "I didn't do nothing."

  "He's the one who stole it, sir," said one of the other men, a doorman by the looks of him; with his stiff collar and tail coat. He whacked a truncheon into the palm of his hand. "I saw him coming out of the window, sure as day follows night." The other two nodded in agreement.

  "He's a liar!" shouted Jack. He struggled but there was no way to break the fat man's grip.

  The doorman jabbed the truncheon at him. "You're the liar. And a thief. His lordship will see you hung."

  The servant next to him looked only a few years older than Jack, but there was no help there. The third one, with mottled veins all over his beak nose, smirked at Jack dangling in his boss' grasp.

  Jack didn't want to be hung. He knew that for certain.

  He grabbed the man's moustache, yanking hard. The fat man screamed as tufts of hair came away in Jack's hand and he released the boy. The doorman and the young man both lunged for Jack but he skipped past, sprinting back towards the main street.

  The crowds consumed Jack. He ran, darting through people standing around talking about nothing important, pushing his way past servants trailing their masters. He cut left, then right, then left again.

  Horse drawn carriages filled the avenue in both directions but Jack didn't pause as he sprinted across the road and into the crowd on the opposite side. He lost himself amongst the press of bodies until he was sure he wasn't being chased anymore.

  When he didn't recognize any faces around him or hear any cries of pursuit, he stopped. He stepped to one side, out of the crush, and felt his heart begin to slow down. He was free.

  Leaning against a tree, Jack looked around. It was different in Grayston, the northern quarter of Arbour, in so many ways. People were happy, well-fed, smiling, with their stone walled houses and clean streets and big trees. They didn't have a care in the world as they strolled past stalls filled with too much food to choose from. Jealousy flared inside Jack. None of them would last a day in his neighborhood. Maybe not even an hour. He’d like to see them cope with the dirt and the lice and the rats, see them try and get by with with no food in their bellies.

  As if on cue, Jack's stomach rumbled. He’d not eaten since early the day before. Hopefully, Brendan would get the silver plates to Mr Giles in time. They could pay the rent owed and have some left over for dinner with any luck.

  Brendan. He still couldn't believe his brother had left him. He looked across the sea of faces, half-expecting to see Brendan waiting for him, laughing at Jack’s close call with the fat man. His brother had a cruel sense of humor sometimes.

  “’Ere." A hand clipped him around the ear. A shop owner stood over him. "I'm not having your sort hanging around my shop, wanting to steal something and driving off my good customers. Sling your 'ook back to Brixteth, before I sling it for you."

  Jack glared back but wasn't going to argue with the man. He flicked two fingers at the man instead and spat at his feet, then Jack was off at a run. He might be defiant but he wasn’t bloody stupid. He’d pushed his luck enough for one day. There was no need for the police to get involved. One look at Jack in his tattered, filthy clothes and they’d lock him up, even without a crime to pin on him.

  A man walked past with a frilly, ruffled collar sticking out of a gold embroidered doublet and Jack tried not to laugh. The man had more money than sense. Why anyone would want to waste cash on looking stupid? Better to keep it or spend it on food.

  Jack trudged on towards the river and home. It was a long walk back to the southern quarter of Arbour, a long walk empty-handed on an empty stomach.

  It took Jack a good hour to get to the river and there everything changed. The sun knew it as well, ducking behind a cloud. The world lost all color. Once over the bridge, it was a different world from Grayston with its space and big homes with hardly anyone in them. In Brixteth, people made use of every square inch they had. They didn't even waste the riverfront. Houses of every size perched on stilts over the water. Washing lines dangled between them and fishing lines dropped into the sludge-covered surface. Little boats nipped between and under the buildings, ferrying people home or selling scrap.

  Once over the bridge, the air even lost its freshness. The stink of sweat was on everyone as they hustled past. It always seemed worse than it was at first but that was because Jack had been over to Grayston, breathing the rich man's air.

  Where Grayston had wide, tree-lined avenues, Brixteth was a rabbit warren of buildings crushed together. Some streets were no more than two people wide. Buildings climbed up into the only space left — the sky, stopping the sun from ever reaching the pavements.

  There was an equal hustle and bustle on the streets in Brixteth but faces there had a determined set to them. People were going to work, coming home from work or looking for work. It might not be lawful work but everyone was on the graft of some sort. Brixteth didn't put up with any passengers. It would chew you up before you knew it.

  Still, Jack loved it there. They were his cramped streets, his dirty people, and his stinking air. He'd lived there all his life with his mum and Brendan. He belonged there.

  Arbour was the capital of Abios and home to every type of person. The rich had Grayston, the Royals the West and Hampford and the traders had the Docklands in the East but Brixteth was his.

  Old Mrs Waters waved as he passed, asked him to pass on her love to his old mum. A chicken squawked in her other hand, soon to be in her famous pot. Maybe if Brendan got enough money, they'd be able to buy a bowl of stew from her later. The thought got his mouth watering something bad. He loved her stews. He nodded at Big John who was arguing the odds with Hamish from the house next door. Those two were always at each other over something. Probably the same row had been going on for their entire lives. Hamish's two daughters were running rings around his legs as he shouted over from one stoop to the other. The girls were younger than Jack, all wild blonde hair and non-stop mischief. Their dog lay on the doorstep, looking down on them all with disapproval. Heather, the youngest, claimed it was part wolf but it always wagged its tail at everyone.

  He passed the church with the usual crowd gathered outside, listening to the preacher. Father Heath stood on a wooden box with his staff, topped with a silver circle, in one hand, and his battered holy book in the other. Behind him, two of the church ladies stood behind huge urns of soup on a trestle table. After Father Heath finished his sermon, they would dish up a free meal to anyone who’d listened. Jack had tried sneaking in line many a time but the women knew who had been there for the service and who hadn't. Most times all he got was a cuff around the ear.

  After a while, Jack stopped trying and walked on by. His mother told him often enough the church was a waste of time and God was just a way for the rich to get more money off the poor. Maybe that was the case up in Grayston but Father Heath never looked wel
l off. His gaunt face had two or three days stubble and his robes were as ragged as any of his parishioners.

  "Across the sea lurk the Nostros. Demons, ready to eat your souls. Only by God's good will do we still stand free here in Abios. Be grateful for the gift of life He has given us. Be worthy of His love so He does not forsake us." Father Heath's voice was full of emotion. Mutterings of "amen" fluttered through the crowd. He held his staff aloft, drawing all eyes to the circle. "The Circle is the Holy symbol of His Church. It represents the journey of life we all undergo, from birth to death to rebirth in the Heavens above. It represents His eye under which we strive. It represents His shield that protects us from the evil of the Nostros and the shelter His sun gives us." Father Heath's face reddened. "I ask you now to bow down before it and join me in prayer lest we ever forget. Join me in thanking God for all he has done and continues to do for His flock here in Abios."

  Jack watched the crowd drop to their knees. Father Heath caught his eye and smiled, gesturing for Jack to join them. For a moment he nearly did. He liked the preacher — the man had a way of talking that made you listen. But then he remembered his mother's words and the ribbing Brendan would give him if he found out.

  Jack nodded to the preacher and ran off. Five minutes later, he turned into Elgin Street. He lived in one of the old houses, blackened from fire and half fallen down. The old timers said dragons had burned it but that was just a tale they told the kids to keep them from misbehaving. Jack had never seen a dragon nor had anyone he knew. It didn't stop him from checking the skies though. It would be stupid to get eaten just because he hadn't seen something with his own eyes.

  Jack jumped over some rubble scattered across the street. Most of the buildings in the road had collapsed in some way but there was no money to fix them; people just blocked off what they could or moved somewhere else. He passed the Butcher's son squatting in a pile of rubble, doing his business. Jack's mother made him go down by the water for that but a lot of people just couldn't be bothered. What was another pile of muck in Brixteth?

  The stairs to Jack's home were just as broken as the rest of it. The third step threatened to collapse if you put any weight on it and only a fool would trust the left railing. Inside was dark as always. Mold added to the damp in the air.

  Jack and his family lived in a single room at the top, on the third floor. Mr Giles rented it to them for two coppers a week. For that, they got four walls and a roof that didn't leak. The floor and walls were warped and half rotten, but at least they still did what they were supposed to do. The door didn't lock but they'd only had to fight off squatters once. Mr Giles’ reputation managed to keep most troublemakers away. Still, they kept a few good bricks hidden to deal with anyone trying their luck.

  Inside, his mother slept in the single cot in the room. It was a few hours before she started work at Jerry's bar so Jack crept in. She didn't like being woken early. At least he could only see only the one empty bottle at the foot of the bed.

  Jack hated her drinking. It didn't make her happy like it did other people. She'd either get angry or sad or start screaming and shouting. She'd hit one of her boys, depending upon who was nearest — but more often than not it’d be Brendan. His brother said it was because she didn't love him like she loved Jack but he couldn't see that. She didn't appear to love either of them that much when she drank. She'd been like that ever since his father died.

  Jack climbed up on to his father’s old oak chest opposite the bed. He ran his fingers over it, feeling all the different places his father had been to in the chipped and scratched surface. Perched there, he felt close to his father once more and safe in the world.

  He liked watching his mother sleep. It was when she seemed most at peace. Her tightly furrowed brow disappeared and there was the faint hint of a smile on her lips. Perhaps she dreamed of father again, like Jack often did, and happier days.

  The sudden click of the door opening shook him from his vigil. Brendan's face popped round the door, a big smile on his face. He beckoned Jack to come with him as if everything was all right. The cheek of him. Jack felt his anger churn in his gut. He bet Brendan wouldn’t even say sorry — the git.

  Jack slipped off the chest, ready to give his brother a piece of his mind but, as he passed his mother, he knocked the empty bottle with his foot. It rattled along the floorboards before stopping at the far wall with a clunk. Jack froze.

  "Who’s that?" she asked. She tried pushing herself upright but her left arm didn't want to cooperate. “Is that you Jack?”

  "Shush Mum, go back to sleep. I'm sorry I woke you."

  "You're a good boy, Jack. I knew that from the moment you were born." She rolled on to her back, her eyelids fluttering. "My little baby."

  "My little baby," mimicked Brendan from the doorway. Jack gave his brother the finger.

  "Sleep tight, Mum. I'll see you later." He bent down and kissed her forehead. Her skin was hot despite the mildness of the evening.

  "Don't stay out late and keep out of trouble," his mother mumbled as he left the room.

  "How's my little baby?" said Brendan, puckering his lips and making wet kissing noises.

  Jack swung a punch at his brother. "Bugger off! Where'd you go anyway? I nearly got pinched today!"

  Brendan laughed as he blocked his brother's blows, pissing Jack off even more. "I didn't leave you. I just knew we'd do better on our own and someone had to get that stuff to the fence to be sold. No one's fast enough for my kid brother." He tried to ruffle Jack's hair but Jack wasn't about to let him off the hook that easily.

  "They said they were going to hang me. There were four of them.”

  "And did they hang you? I don't see a rope around your neck."

  "No," mumbled Jack .

  Brendan scrunched down so he was face to face with Jack. "Sorry, I didn't hear that. Did they hang you?"

  "No," said Jack, louder. "No, they didn't."

  "And you're not in front of the magistrates tomorrow are you?"

  "No thanks to you."

  "Well, I don't think you've got anything to moan about then," said Brendan, pulling a purse out of his pocket. He held it in front of Jack. "Instead of complaining, and since you've still got your neck, how about we go get a pie or two to eat?"

  The thought of food won over his anger. His brother was the way he was after all. "I saw Mrs Waters putting a fresh chicken in her pot."

  "Well, chicken stew it is then," said his brother, slipping an arm over his shoulder. The two brothers walked down the stairs. "Now, when you say you ‘saw Mrs Waters put a chicken in her pot', you did see it go in, didn't you? She couldn't have swapped it for a rat while you weren't looking?"

  Mrs Waters' place was two streets away. It was no more than a big room with some broken down tables and chairs with a small kitchen at the back. If you needed something hot and quick without spending too much money, it was the place to go. Mrs Waters seemed to be able to get hold of real meat and vegetables when no one else could. She spread them out in her stews and pies with some great chunks of bread on the side. A big lady, always laughing, she could just as easily batter someone over the head for upsetting the other customers as hug them to death in her meaty arms. She’d a soft spot for Jack and Brendan. She often gave them scraps or leftovers at the end of the day, even if they had no coin, so it felt good to walk in through the front door, knowing they could pay for a real meal.

  The small bell above the door chimed as they entered and a sea of faces looked up at them. The ovens and the mass of bodies inside created an aroma of spiced sweat and stew. For some reason, all the customers were men. His mother said it was because men were too lazy to cook for themselves but Jack knew she was just jealous of Mrs Waters' cooking. Jack loved it all. His father used to bring him here for a meal before he went off to sea, sitting Jack on his lap while they shared a bowl of stew.

  "All right lads," said Mrs Waters, ambling over, her face flush. "You are way too early if you're after leftovers. Come back in
a few hours when this lot has cleared off and see me round the back. I'll let you know what I can do then, eh."

  "We want to eat now, please," said Brendan, squaring his shoulders. "Can we have a table?"

  "We've got money," piped up Jack.

  "Have you now?" replied Mrs Waters, one eyebrow raised. "And where'd you get that then? I'm not going to find my family jewels missing am I?"

  "No. We earned it," answered Jack.

  "We've been working over the river," added his brother.

  "Well, then young sirs, you may have my finest table." Mrs Waters bowed and swept her arm towards a rickety table tucked into the far corner, two chairs on either side. "And perhaps you would like a menu of my fine fare?"

  Jack didn't know what a menu was but it didn't sound as good as chicken stew. Mrs Waters laughed when he told her so and pinched his cheek.

  "You sit there, young man and I'll bring you a bowl of my best." Mrs Waters placed two spoons on the table. Jack watched her waddle back to the kitchen as he sat down. His feet barely touched the floor.

  "I spoke to Mr Giles," said Brendan. "He's got another job for us."

  "But we've just done one."

  "Well, he's got another. Another house up Grayston. His sister's cleaning there. Said it's full of stuff and dead easy to get into. She's even going to leave a window open for us. It's a walk in the park."

  "You said that last time and I nearly got pinched. And the time before that."

  "This time's different. We've never had a window left open for us before, have we? So tomorrow, early, before it gets too light, we'll head over and we'll be in and out before anyone's awake. It will be..."

  Brendan's voice drifted off as he stared at something over Jack's shoulder.

  "What is it?"

  "Don't look now but some bloke's been watching us."

  "Is it the law?" asked Jack, beginning to turn.

  "I said don't look! He's not the law. He's something different. Definitely not from around here. And I think he's only got one bloody eye."