‘Guards! Thief! Stop him!’ The shouts faded behind.
He was soaring, cutting through the crowds, through the scents and colours of the flower market, through the hanging, dripping meat of the butcher’s stall, through the clothes market, where big hats, long dresses and laced corsets were pushed aside like curtains. He danced out of a tangled dress, the lady behind the stall wagging her finger and yelling scurrilously. Her shouts shoved him backwards into the fish stall, which collapsed and sent cold ice and fresh salmon slithering down his back. The cold was electrifying. Just what he needed to fire himself back to his feet.
‘Sorry ’bout that,’ he said to the open mouthed fishmonger.
‘Halt! You there!’ A guard pushed his way out of the crowd. ‘Stop in the name of the law!’
The guardsman wore the brown leather uniform and copper chest plate of the City Watch. At his waist, a silver rapier and a flintlock pistol: both of which stabbed and shot fear without being drawn.
Niclas decided he wasn’t going to stop in the name of anyone. He sped off, taking the chase into the nearest alley. Whistles rang out behind as his bare feet slapped across the cobbles. Ahead he could see the locks along the canal. Bog End wasn’t far, if he could make it, he’d be safe. He just had to make it to the end of the alley. And he was making it. He was definitely making it, and was about to get ahead of himself with a cheeky smile, when a guard stepped out in front of him. He skidded, turned, ran back the other way, and a rapier came slithering out into the air, its cold icy tip finding the ridge of his Adam’s apple. The other guard had caught up.
‘Don’t move,’ commanded the swordsman. Niclas wondered if this applied to breathing. He held his breath just in case it did.
‘Thief! He’s got my watch. Dirty rotten thief!’ said the trader, appearing at the back.
‘Is this true boy? Have you been thieving?’ asked the guard.
‘No, sir. I ain’t. I swear!’
‘Why were you running then?’
‘I just got scared, that’s all. People was shouting, whistles was blowing. I ain’t done nuffin’ wrong. Nuffin’. I swears it.’
The trader moved in, reaching for the boy’s pockets.
‘Keep yer ’ands off me! I’m no crook!’ said Niclas, swatting him away.
‘Why you dirty little guttersnipe!’ cried the man. ‘He’s a thief and a liar.’
‘Empty your pockets,’ said the guard behind, shoving Niclas forward.
Niclas sighed. He turned his pocket inside out and presented the interior to the trader who looked at him askant.
The rapier slid in against his neck again and lifted his chin to face the guard.
‘The other pocket, boy.’
Niclas reached in nice and slow, and clasped the timepiece. He stalled. The rapier pressed against his flesh. He blinked timidly, swallowed and pulled out the silver chain; at the end, swinging like a pendulum, the shiny, weighty pocket watch.
It’s a well known fact that the poorer you are, the fewer rights you have. Guttersnipes, being at the bottom of Laburnum’s food chain, have no rights whatsoever. And so, it wasn’t that far fetched for Niclas to believe his time was up. They could cut his throat, toss him in the canal and never speak another word of it.
The guard snatched the watch from his hand.
‘It’s a crime to steal, boy. Don’t you know it?’
‘I’m sorry, sirs. I’m well sorry. I’s never bin sorrier.’
‘I want him hung. He’s a slum boy, got no future besides crime anyway. It’d do the whole city good to see his little carcase revolving at the end of a rope,’ said the trader.
‘No! Please, sirs, I ain’t ’ad a choice in the matter. I ain’t. Please… You gotta let me go. Give me a warning, a slap on the old wrist. I won’t do it again, I swears it.’
The guards looked at each other and weighed up the options. They could run him through and chuck him in the water. Or, they could take him to the Guard’s Tower and have him processed. The first option was certainly more appealing, there was a lot less paper work.
And they would have probably done just that, had they not had a strange, unexplainable change of heart.
‘To the Guard’s Tower with him,’ one said, to everyone’s surprise.
They marched Niclas away from the edge of Bog End to the jail waggons, then on, north of the river to the Guard’s Tower.
But all the time they were followed. The scene in the market had attracted a lot of attention, but one particular set of eyes lingered long after the commotion had settled.
Two green eyes belonging to a cat.
The furnace cast an orange glow across the dungeon, and the shadows of torturous tools flickered in the firelight.
Niclas had been hoisted six feet up in a dangling cage. It was a tight fit and both his arms and one leg hung out of it.
Below, humming to himself in twisted nonchalance, the torturer crossed the room and set a branding iron down on the coals. From Niclas’ vantage point, he could see the small white circle of the man’s scalp, sitting like an island at the top of his long, slimy hair.
‘I’ll be wiv you in a minute,’ he said, casting a grin up at the boy. He reminded Niclas of the famished rats of home. He had pointed ears, a shrunken chin and a rodent’s overbite. His back was hunched and he hobbled when he walked, elbows bent at his side and his fidgeting hands leading the way.
He picked up a roll of parchment and folded it out.
‘Wot ’av’ we ’ere?’
‘Please, it weren’t me, you got to believe me!’ said an elderly man, rattling his cage across from Niclas’. He had been quiet up until then. So quiet Niclas thought he was dead.
‘Smugglin’ is it? On the first o’ this ’ere month, you was caught in possession of three and forty gallons o’ Speckled Gin – oooh, nasty stuff.’
‘I demand a lawyer,’ said the prisoner.
‘Lawyer, eh?’ The torturer was a man who did everything by the book, and the book had a very clear passage about this bit. ‘Can you afford a lawyer?’
‘…’
‘I’ll take that as a no.’ He returned his eyes to the scroll. ‘The punishment for such a crime is life imprisonment, on the basis that you confess your crime promptly. If you will not confess, you must seek representation… court o’ law… proven innocent… fair trial… We can probably ignore all this can’t we? Let’s see… blah… blah… blah… ’ere we are! If you cannot afford representation, and you will not confess your crime then the jurisdiction lies with the acting officer of the law – that’s me. So, tell me, do you confess your crime?’
‘I didn’t do it.’
‘I have to ask you again. It’s a legal thing.’
‘I’m innocent.’
‘Yes. Everyone’s innocent. As you ’av’ clearly stated that you will not confess, and as you cannot afford representation to make your case, I, as the acting officer o’ the law, hereby find you in breach of the 1620 Smugglin’ Prevention act of Parliament, and am granted the power to sentence you.’ The torturer signed the bottom of the parchment rolled it up and tossed it onto his table.
‘…but…’
‘You can choose how you go if you’d like. Death by sword, death by choker, death by club, death by water, or – a personal favourite of mine, death by boiling. Both my iron maidens are in use I’m afraid… and there’s a three week waitin’ list for the gallows. Probably a pear of anguish around here somewhere though.’
‘No, stop! I confess. I confess. I did it. It’s the Bowler Gang in Bog End. Said they’d pay me a pretty penny if I took the boat along the canal. I never knew what was in it. I swear it.’
The torturer sighed. ‘Come now, man. Keep with it. We’ve done that bit, you’ve already chosen not to confess and we’re onto your sentencin’. So… which is it?’
‘B… B… But…’
The torturer raised his hand to his pointy ear. ‘Did I hear… boiling?’
‘But… I confessed.’
‘You can’t do this. You can’t! I have a son! I have grandsons!’
The torturer’s hand wandered to a nearby lever, where it hovered as he took in these last words. His hesitation inspired hope. False hope. He shrugged and gave the steel arm a swift jerk and the chain shot free, rattling through the rusted mechanism. There was a splash, a short scream and Niclas tore his eyes away. The torturer kept his eyes fixed. He enjoyed watching the struggle people made as they were boiled alive, and often wondered what must go through their minds in those final effervescent moments.
Once the splashing had stopped and the ambient bubbling resumed, the torturer turned his attention upwards.
‘Right, lad, filchin’ was it?’ he asked, unrolling another scroll.
Niclas trembled.
‘I tell ya, the amount o’ times I’ve ’ad one o’ your lot in ’ere for thievin’. Suppose you know wot’s comin’?’
‘No, sir…’ Niclas had a clue. His eyes had been watching the branding iron warm in the furnace. The letter T at its end was glowing white. The torturer swiped it up and headed for the levers below the cage.
‘Your age, lad?’ he asked.
‘Err… I dunno, sir.’
‘You don’t know your own bleedin’ age?’
‘No, sir.’
‘When’s your birthday?’
‘Birfday, sir?’
‘Yeah you know. The day your sweet mother brought you into this cruel world.’
‘I don’t ’av’ no mother, sir.’
‘Well you must ’av’ done at some point. Say, you’ve never had a birthday? No one’s ever gone round singin’, for-he’s-a-jollygood-fellow?’
‘…No, sir.’
The torturer shrugged. ‘That’s too bad. Right, well, let’s get a good look at you. Yeah… Hmmm… I’d say you look about five and ten. That sound reasonable?’
‘If you say so, sir.’
‘Sure you’re not four and ten?’
Niclas shook his head, uncertain.
‘If you was four and ten you’d be considered a babe in the eyes of the law. That means a good solid branding, a few lashes to the back and a kick on your arse out into the street.’
‘Yessir…’
‘But you’re five and ten, right?’
‘I dunno, sir.’
‘Well… I’m gonna call it. I think you’re five and ten. That’s between babehood and adulthood, so… you should really know better than to be going round filchin’. Yep! I’m afraid I’ll ’av’ to take a finger.’
Niclas gasped and his fingers fled into the shelter of clenched fists.
‘Please, sir, please don’t take me fingers. I needs ’em.’
‘For wot, pocket picking?’
‘No sir, I promise, I won’t ever steal again. I’ll be on the straight and narrow from now on.’
‘Sorry, lad, regulations is regulations. I gotta follow the book. Besides, it’s not very often I get to remove body parts. There’s summin very therapeutic ’bout choppin’ off someone’s phalanges.’ The torturer searched his table for the required implements. Unable to find what he was looking for, he stalled and rubbed an ear lobe.
‘Please, sir, I don’t want to lose ’em. Please, sir. I begs you, I begs you.’
‘Don’t be vain, lad. Now I err… I seem to have misplaced me saw, so, don’t you be going nowhere. I’ll be as quick as I can.’
The torturer left the room through a large iron door, leaving Niclas alone to ponder which of his eight fingers and two thumbs would be the least missed.
The loss of his fingers wasn’t even the worst of it. He was going to be branded with the hot iron. A letter “T” for “Thief” on his face for all to see. Mr K wasn’t fond of branded guttersnipes. Once marked, the children became no use to the Bowler Gang. Niclas remembered the last time a boy returned to the gang’s warehouse after getting caught filching. His burn was fresh and still blistering on his cheek but Mr K showed no sympathy. Nor did he beat him. They went for a walk and an hour later only Mr K returned. No one ever saw that boy again. It was an unsaid rule among the boys, that if you were caught and branded, it was best not to go back.
All was silent in the dungeon, save the creaking cages and shuffling coals. But as the boy dangled in the air, stroking his hands and trying to stifle fresh tears, he heard a noise from within the shadows.
Rats. It sounded like rats, and Niclas would have cast it to the back of his mind as just that, had it not sounded again.
‘Pssst, boy.’
This time he thought he heard a word, but he saw no space for a speaker to hide and no cages with living people to speak.
‘Are you deaf, boy?’
‘Where are you?’ said Niclas.
‘Shush, he’ll be back any minute. There isn’t much time,’ said the voice. ‘A question, boy, what would you give to be free?’
‘Free? Like escape?’
‘…Yes.’
‘Err,’ Niclas looked his cage up and down and gave his head a glum shake. ‘I’d probs give whatever I could, but I don’t see ’ow–’
There was clank from the levers below and the chain rattled free. With a sudden swoosh and clanging clang, the cage crashed into the floor. A very startled Niclas looked up, his hands clutching the bars and his heart pounding.
‘Listen, boy, I have the keys to your cage and I can free you.’
‘Let me out. Let me out. Quick!’
‘Wait,’ demanded the voice. ‘Have you any family, boy?’
Niclas didn’t understand the meaning of the question but knew that the quicker he answered the quicker he’d be out. Possibly with all fingers and thumbs intact.
‘I ain’t gots no family, no, sir.’
‘No life ahead of you but the slums? No future ahead of you but poverty, crime and misery?’
‘…… Probs not.’
‘And are you a thief?’
‘I’m not a bad person, I promise. I won’t ever steal again if you let me out of this ’ere cage,’ said Niclas rattling the bars.
‘Let’s not jump to conclusions, boy. I want you to make me a promise. Can you do that?’
‘Anyfing, sir, anyfing.’ Niclas couldn’t stop his eyes from twitching towards the door.
He envisaged the torturer’s return and the consequences that would follow if he were found on the floor. It would be more than a finger he’d lose. He’d be put on the stretching rack, have his toes hammered in or have the hot poker put right up his–
‘I need your help with a matter of great importance,’ said the voice. Something was beginning to feel odd. Had Niclas had the time, or the capacity to think about it, he might have found it suspicious that someone was pottering around the Guard’s Tower, looking to recruit some help. But time was short.
‘Yessir, I’ll help with your matter of great impotence. I promise.’
‘Swear it.’
‘I swear it.’
‘Swear on your life.’
‘I swear it on me life, sir.’
There was an exasperating silence. Then the cage keys chimed against the ground.
Niclas reached out. His soon-to-be-saved fingers tapped the copper ring closer. He snatched it up and shakily began to unlock the cage, eyes dancing between the lock and the door.
Then, like a fly slipping out from beneath an upturned glass, he was free.
‘Where you at?’ he called.
He looked round eager to meet his liberator. But there was no one there. No one at all. Except a black cat, which ambled over and sat before him. Niclas gave the cat a dubious frown and turned to address the room.
‘This your cat, sir?’ he asked.
‘Listen, the only way out is…’
At first, Niclas thought it entirely ordinary that the source of the voice should be a cat. But after a
moment’s thought, he felt his eyes grow and his jaw drop. Then, as if in delayed response to an iron mallet thumping his knee, he leapt up and made a high pitched, squawky sort of gasping sound. A bit like this: ‘Wu-ah-huh! You’re talkin’?’
‘Good of you to notice. You’ll need to get over that quite quickly, if you’re to get out of here alive.’
‘But… you’re a… Am I dreamin’? Are you real?’
The cat sighed. It had expected this. ‘No, I am not real. I am a hallucination. A figment of your imagination. Does that make you feel better?’
Niclas didn’t know what a hallucination was, and he wasn’t fond of figs, thus, he just stared, unable to close his mouth.
‘Sorry, sir, you’ve got me all in a muddle. I ain’t never seen–’
‘Shut up!’ snapped the cat. ‘Your only way out of this is the chimney. You look as dirty as a chimney sweep, so it should be no problem for you. When you get to the top, you’ll be very high up, so try not to fall. You’ll see the clock tower towards the west. That’s where we will meet, in Potfoot Alley directly behind it.’
Niclas could have asked many more questions, but seeing the cat was frightfully serious, he asked only one.
‘Chimney?’
The cat darted its nose to the furnace. There, above the orange coals was a large stone column.
‘You want me to climb that?’
‘Climb or you hang. What’ll it be?’
The climb seemed endless, like one of those forever stretching corridors in a nightmare. There was a bright dot of light in the distance above, but it wasn’t getting any nearer. It helped to count the bricks as he passed them. Granted, it didn’t help much. His hands, arms and clothes were black with soot. The stuffy air filled his lungs and the heat nipped at his feet. At least it can’t get any worse, thought Niclas. Of course, that kind of thinking is practically asking for it.
The iron door slammed below and the whistling torturer sauntered back into the room. Niclas froze. His lungs shuddering beneath his shirt as he listened and imagined the look that was formulating on the torturer’s face. His whistling had stopped, and there was no other sound in Niclas’ ears other than the thump of his own heart.
Widdershins Page 2