Widdershins

by Alexander, Alex

  Contents

  Copyright

  Title Page

  Widdershins (adverb)

  The Bit Before

  Part I

  Part II

  Part III

  Part IV

  Part V

  Part VI

  © 2018 Alex Alexander. All Rights Reserved.

  Widdershins

  – Adverb

  In a direction contrary to the sun’s course, considered as unlucky; anti clockwise.

  “She danced widdershins around him”

  The Bit Before

  The boy had the face of a babe. He was twelve but sickly. His endless spluttering cough was one you might expect to hear from a man seven times his age. He was skinny, so skinny that his dirty clothes hung over his body like wet rags over a stick.

  The scarred man had taken him there, to the corner of the slums, to an empty place no one dared go.

  It was there that the brutish, thuggish man gave him his freedom, telling him to walk into the narrow streets and not come back.

  The boy could barely hold himself upright. He begged his master to reconsider. He coughed and wheezed and cried.

  But the man had no care for tears. He loosed the club that hung by his waist and started a slow count from three.

  The frail, pasty boy saw the ridges and grooves and brown once red stains in his master’s club. He knew what happened when the countdown was allowed to end; so he fled, down the street and into the Narrows…

  …until the fog and the darkness and something else unseen consumed him.

  PART ONE

  The Boy with Absolutely No Talents

  Laburnum was a city of two moons and two halves.

  There was the half north of the river and the half south of the river. North were its proudest establishments. The House of Lords, the High Court, the Royal Palace, the Academy and the majestic Guild of Philosophers. This was the heart of civilisation. It was from here that science, logic and order had been birthed, packaged and spread across the known world on ships and galleys of oak and iron.

  Just next door, south of the river was a very different sort of place. The cobbled streets were narrow, the buildings shoddy, green spaces were few and clouds of soot perpetually hung in the air, floating west from the factories of an industrial revolution at its peak.

  This part of the world stank. Never did a place have such a distinct odour. The stifling damp of wet horse hair, the piquant zest of a drunkard’s armpit, the smell of rotting meat and mouldy milk, seasoned with the fresh excrement of rat. And not just rat, it stank of dog muck, cat muck, horse muck, cow and pig muck, geese and chicken and fox muck. Oh yes, and human deposits too. It was a signpost to the blind that said: welcome and behold, this is the city of Laburnum. Though, the only thing to be beheld was often a nose.

  There were pockets of poverty all over the south. Places ordinary folk steered well clear of, even if it meant going down several different back roads and getting lost. The biggest of these had been carved out of maps and blacklisted by the Laburnum Tourist Board. Even the locals in the south tried to ignore its existence, as if it were that estranged uncle who always says the wrong thing at dinner parties. They had many names for it: Bog End, The Rags… Rat Bottom was a particular favourite. But most people called it by its common name: The Slums.

  This was where all the poorest of the poorest ended up. Where people who had fallen off the rungs of society found a notch to exist in.

  The buildings were broken in, falling apart and rotting. The streets were awash with dirt and filth and in some places had become indistinguishable from the sewers below, riddled with stagnant water and the furry backs of rats.

  It was a quiet place. There were no horses trotting to and fro, no coach waggons going rickety rackety along the cobbles, no one trying to sell a newspaper, not even a copy of The Tiny Issue; a paper written by people who couldn’t write and sold to people who couldn’t read for a farthing.

  The slums were engrossed in a grotesque silence. A silence occasionally broken by the cry of a starving child or the moan of a forsaken pauper.

  The inhabitants of such a place were caricatures of its worn out buildings and forlorn streets. They were the kind of poor that made beggars look somewhat well put together. A scratching, spluttering, desperate sort.

  If there’s one universally acknowledged truth about desperate people, it’s that they’re extremely good for business.

  At least, the Bowler Gang thought so. They were the ruling class of the slums. The fat cats that had floated to the top. From their HQ, an abandoned textiles factory, they orchestrated citywide crime. Burglary, smuggling, coin clipping. You name it, they did it. They were the leading criminals in the south. They were also the leading producers and distributors of the infamous Speckled Gin. A substance so strong that it was guaranteed to remove all a person’s problems after just two sips. Mind you, it also rotted brains and spoiled eyes. For those latter reasons, it was banned in Laburnum, but no City Watchman would venture into the slums to police the ban.

  The gang was also the leading employer of children in the slums. There’s nothing at all altruistic about this. Children were often sold to them for bottles of Speckled Gin, or wandering orphans were enlisted into the ranks. This had proven to be quite a lucrative business model. They didn’t have to pay them, yet the children did most of the work. Distilling gin, clipping coins and when they were old enough, they could become fully fledged associates of the gang, stealing from southern markets and robbing southern houses. If they did well and survived long enough, they were bestowed with the highest honour, a bowler hat, which separated the members of the gang from the workers of the gang.

  It’s time now to meet one of the Bowler Gang employees. A certified slum dweller, a ragamuffin, a guttersnipe. His name is Nicholas.

  …

  Or, it would have been Nicholas, had he been raised north of the river. Down sowf, people tend t’talk different. And so ’e went by the name o’: Niclas.

  Niclas lugged in a fresh sack of juniper berries and slumped it on the floor in front of an empty copper still. All around was a forest of shiny vats, chemistry pipes and glassware that branched out between water baths and hot coal furnaces.

  The workforce, all young boys just like Niclas, were working in groups. Some were tasked with keeping the furnace hot and the baths bubbling. Some were tasked with stirring the stills, while trying not to breathe in the wobbly fumes. Some were barrelling up the latest batch of Speckled Gin and wheeling them to the stores.

  Niclas had done every task there was in the distillery. He knew it inside out, and had so far managed to avoid any accidents. Accidents which were all too common, considering none of the boys really grasped the science of what it was exactly they were doing.

  ‘Niclas!’ Someone shouted from the stairwell. It wasn’t a pubescent voice, more the voice of a croaky man, trying to shout through the pipe-smoke-infused phlegm lodged in his throat. ‘Boss wants to see ya!’

  All the boys stared round at Niclas.

  ‘Wot you done?’ said one.

  ‘Good luck, mate,’ said another.

  Something in the tone of their voices and the shape of their faces said a quick farewell to Niclas. It wasn’t usual to be called on by the boss. The only time a boy was called on by the boss, was for a beating.

  Niclas ran through the events of the last week in his mind on his way to Mr K’s office. There wasn’t really anything he could think of that he’d done wrong. But one could never be too sure of this, the boys were often blamed for all sorts. If Mr K as much as misplaced his pipe, he was known to give his club a good shining on their bony buttocks. But this time, it felt different.

  Mr K’s office wasn’t the office that spri
ngs to mind when you think of an office. There was a desk, yes. And a chair. But on the desk were a number of non-officey type things. Like wooden clubs, knuckledusters, a knife that was a bit too threatening to be a fruit knife; and, a fleet of empty gin bottles. Except for the bottle nearest Mr K, that was half empty. The boss of the Bowler Gang was a bottle half empty kind of guy. Half full bottles were the work of fantasists.

  ‘’Ello, ’ello, Nicky boy. ’Avin’ a good day are we?’ said Mr K.

  Niclas stood up straight, twiddling his thumbs behind his back and staring down at his blackened toes. None of the boys could look Mr K in the eye for more than a fleeting moment, but they all knew his face well. His nose was stubby and red, his eyebrows were bushy like whiskers, and his eyes dark like his cold blooded heart. And, from his brow to his cheek, down the right hand side, the embossed burn of the letter ‘K’ told stories no scribe could tell.

  ‘I ain’t down there, Nicky, so quit lookin’ down there.’

  Niclas raised his head and caught sight of the broad shouldered bull sat in the moth eaten chesterfield behind the desk.

  ‘Frightened are you?’ Mr K’s voice was rough. Like an old, rusty razor grating over plucked turkey skin.

  ‘No, sir. I ain’t. I’s just… confoozed, that’s all,’ said Niclas.

  ‘No need t’be. I’ve ’ad me eye on you, Nicky boy. You’ve been doin’ well in the gin department.’

  ‘Yessir.’

  ‘You’re older now. Nearly a man.’

  ‘Yessir.’

  ‘I remember when you first come t’this place. You was but a little brat… Not much taller than this ’ere desk. Took to work like a dog takes to a sausage. I know your late mam would be proud of the young man I see before me today. Come a long way you ’av’.’

  ‘Yessir.’

  ‘Listen. You know ’ow it works round ’ere don’t ya? Boys come in, do the chores, do the labour, rise up the ranks and then one day I come along and pop one o’ these ’ere ’ats on your ’ead. And just like that, you’re in the gang.’

  ‘Yessir.’ Niclas almost smiled, but didn’t. It was the greatest thing a slum boy could do, becoming a real, bona fide member of the gang. All of the lads aspired to it… though, none had ever seen it happen.

  ‘You get respect when you wear one o’ these.’ Mr K tipped his hat. ‘People don’t just treat you different round ’ere. All over the slums people be sayin’, “look! One of ’em. One of ’em Bowlers.” You can walk up to people and just ask ’em to give you stuff. They don’t argue with Bowlers. You won’t get touched by no law enforcement sowf o’ the river either. They treat proper members with the proper respect they deserves. Do you get me?’

  ‘I fink so, sir.’

  ‘Now. It ain’t easy. It’s a mark o’ status. A badge. You don’t get just anyone wearin’ one o’ these. You gotta proooove yourself, Nicky boy. You gotta go out there and provide for our family. Provide for all these little buggers workin’ ’ard below just like you done.’ Mr K’s smile was shiny, gold and silver plated; it twinkled in the dusty light.

  ‘Do you know ’ow t’filch?’ said Mr K.

  ‘Filch, sir? Like steal?’

  ‘Yeah. That’s it.’

  ‘Uh… I guess, sir.’

  ‘Good. I want you to show me your best filchin’.’ Mr K stood. He was a lot taller than Niclas, probably seven foot; but there was nothing lanky about the man, he was a giant.

  ‘See this pocket watch. This ’ere’s exactly wot you gotta be lookin’ for when you’re doin’ a bit o’ filchin’. It’s shiny. That’s always a good indicator o’ worth. It’s ’eavy too. Another good sign. Now. Watch very carefully. I’m gonna leave it ’ere, right in the middle o’ the table, then I’m gonna turn round like so… doin’ me own fing… and… you…’ Mr K peered back over his shoulder.

  Niclas looked at the watch, then at Mr K’s back. It was pretty easy stuff this filchin’ malarky, he thought.

  When Mr K turned his head away, Niclas grabbed the watch and pocketed it. Though Mr K hadn’t seen him do it, he’d heard the chain rattle and let out a slow depraved chuckle.

  ‘Good. Good. You’re fast. You got to be fast. Always fast. And confident too. It’s all ’bout confidence and speed, Nicky. If you do summin quickly and with conviction no one’ll ever question you. The best filchers ain’t got special fingers or wider pockets, they’re just good at lyin’. And not just lyin’ wiv their tongue either. Lyin’ wiv their face. That’s the real skill.’

  Niclas’ face had a big proud smile on it. No one ever got praise from Mr K. Maybe he’d get better rations this week. Maybe even one of the two circulating pillows.

  ‘I want you to go up town. I’m not talkin’ Bog End. I’m talkin’ proper town. Do you know where Carrot Street market is?’

  ‘Uh… I fink so. Yeah. Just a little norf o’ Birch Lane and a little sowf o’ Char–’

  ‘Good. The market there’s got lots o’ shiny stuff. Lots o’ little glittery fings. I want you to go there and filch the most valuable fing you can. Fink o’ it as a little test. The first step on your way to wearin’ one o’ these.’

  Niclas hesitated.

  ‘Alright wiv that?’

  ‘Yessir. Can do, sir. I’ll get summin proper good, sir. Fanks for the opportunity ’n’ all, sir. Is that… everyfing, sir?’

  ‘Yeah. Get out.’ Mr K sat back down and took a swig from his bottle.

  ‘Fanks again, sir. Fanks so much…’ Niclas backed up to the door, turned to exit through it and felt his heart sink.

  ‘Wait.’

  ‘…Sir?’ he said, turning back.

  ‘Where you goin’ wiv me pocket watch?’ Mr K said this without a smile, his face hard and cruel.

  ‘…Sorry, sir. I… Sorry.’ Niclas sidled up to the desk and dropped the watch, like a little bird dashing to and from a crocodile.

  ‘Fanks. Sorry. Bye,’ he said, and escaped out the door with awkward finesse.

  Out of Bog End, a little north of Birch lane and a little south of Chardy Street, the traders and merchants were shouting out once in a life time deals under the colourful marquees over their stalls.

  ‘Twoforahalfpenny! Twoforahalfpenny! Ladies and gentlemen, wot a bargain this is. Get your very own boot brushes. Twoforahalfpenny!’

  This is Carrot Market. Where anything can be bought from black striped eels to cashmere scarves and the latest perfumes all the posh folk north of the river wear.

  Niclas had been to Carrot Market a few times before, but only ever in the company of Archie and Clyde, Mr K’s most loyal thugs; and only ever as a mule to carry back the sacks of botanicals and juniper berries. This was his first time alone. And his first time filchin’.

  There were lots of people there, more than he remembered; and, despite his earlier enthusiasm, he was now well and truly bricking it. What if someone saw? What if he got pinched? The City Watch didn’t treat guttersnipes nicely, and they treated thieving guttersnipes even worse.

  These kind of thoughts weren’t useful. They were as distracting as pink elephants. And everyone knows it’s best to keep pink elephants where they belong, chained up in your imagination somewhere.

  Niclas scanned the stalls for shinies. There was a lot of stuff on offer. Mostly junk. Rusty iron trinkets, copper pipes, earthenware bowls, workman tools; none would do. What he really needed was a shiny, weighty pocket watch…

  …something twinkled out of the corner of his eye. It was a twinkle that whispered into his ear and said rather politely, “Ahem! Oi, Thief. Over ’ere.”

  Niclas made his way over.

  On the stall’s counter was a blue velvet cloth, and on the cloth, a constellation of twinkling jewels dancing in the pale sunlight. There were rings, necklaces, earrings, bracelets and charms, and there, in the middle of it all, a silver pocket watch. The shiniest silver pocket watch Niclas had ever seen.

  The trader looked to be occupied, closing a sale with a lady at one end of the stall. He hadn’t ev
en noticed Niclas yet.

  ‘My lady, you simply must have these earrings. They have quite a slimming effect on yourself, if I may say so.’

  Niclas glanced over his shoulder. No one was looking. They were all too busy to notice him. If there was ever a clear coast, this was it. He tweeted a nonchalant whistle, exuding a bit of confidence just like Mr K had said, leaned in and swiped the watch.

  This particular trader, however, was no fool. No matter how preoccupied he seemed, the eyes in the back of his head never left his merchandise. They had been stuck on Niclas since he’d arrived at the stall, and had sounded the alarm the instant the boy’s dirty finger tips touched the watch.

  The trader’s hand clasped hold of Niclas’ wrist like a striking adder. Their eyes locked together, each waiting for the other’s next move.

  ‘Thief!’ said the trader, filling the boy with venomous fright. He tried to pull his hand away, but the grip was rooted. People were beginning to stare, stop what they were doing, whisper to one another. It was a stand off. The tighter the trader squeezed, the tighter Niclas held the watch.

  ‘Guards! Thief! Thief!’ The trader, suddenly livid, spat the words into Niclas’ face.

  Niclas swayed. He couldn’t get free and the City Watch were coming. He could hear their boots on the ground. He’d be nicked for sure. Pinched. Beaten. Strung up to hang. Or worse. What was worse than being sent to the gallows you might wonder? Worse was imagining what Mr K would do if he returned to Bog End empty handed. It was too much, he was taking the watch.

  With a brute thrust of his shoulder, he turned the stall over and sent its valuable contents tumbling onto the street. The trader lost hold and Niclas pulled the timepiece away. He stepped back from the fallen stand, hesitated to take in the drama he’d caused, and then, seeing that the proverbial horse dung was about to hit the proverbial fan, legged it.