Widdershins

by Alexander, Alex

  ‘…No… miss… I mean… Susie.’

  ‘You smack the piñata over and over and over and over and over and over again. Until its insides become its outsides and its outsides become its insides. Then you get to eat all the delicious sweets inside.’

  ‘…’

  ‘All we need is a piñata… Hmmm, let’s see… ah! There we are. You, sir,’ she said, approaching the Witchhunter in the stocks. ‘You look like a fine piñata to me, if you don’t mind me saying. And the insides will be sweet so sweet to taste. Greg, let us show our guests how fun games can be – they’re looking a bit bored if you ask me – must impress.’

  The dead man walked slowly up to the Witchhunter and stood in front of him. He tightened his bony fist with a joint crackling sound, raised it and punched him square in the nose.

  Then he drew back and punched him again…

  Niclas and Cassandra couldn’t watch, but both dogs growled until they looked up.

  The third blow split his eyebrow.

  They thought it would stop, but it didn't. The hard, wet, thudding sounds continued.

  Over and over and over.

  The streets of Bog End were a sad and miserable place. There weren’t many people, and the few that could be seen were sat wrapped in lice infested blankets, spluttering and wheezing. They could easily be mistaken for beggars, but they weren’t beggars. These were a people stripped of everything, but most of all they were stripped of hope – and hope, is pretty important when it comes to begging.

  The hopeless vagrants just sat there, staring at the two thugs and the cat. Some of the blighted slum dwellers made efforts to cross to the other side of the street or head inside the dilapidated buildings. The Bowler Gang hats had a reputation here. Archie and Clyde wore them like crowns, their heads held high, their chests puffed out. Here they weren’t just thugs or common criminals. They were kings.

  There were more rats nearer the warehouse than people. The worm tailed creatures piled over each other to watch the thugs arrive with their feline guest.

  Balthazar shuddered. He wasn’t welcome, and the people as well as the rats were all thinking the same thing. Which was: “Cor, blimey! There’s a lot of meat on that cat.”.

  Archie rapped his knuckles on the warehouses’ rusty, metal door.

  ‘’Oo is it?’ asked a child from the other side.

  ‘Open up,’ said Archie.

  The rusty latch slid across and the door opened, revealing a scrawny looking boy whose blistered feet produced a smell that was so potent, it drowned out all the other wretched smells.

  Balthazar scowled at the stench.

  ‘Move asthide, Montsth, we got busthinessth to attend to,’ said Archie, pushing past. ‘Where’sth Mr K at?’

  The boy gave the cat a curious stare. It wasn’t like Archie and Clyde to have a pet; and even so, he’d always took them for dog people, big scary dog people, certainly not cat people.

  ‘Dealin’ wiv a client just this minute.’

  ‘Righto,’ said Archie hanging his moth-eaten jacket on a broom.

  The boy couldn’t take his eyes from the cat’s, he tilted his head left to right and watched as it mirrored his movements.

  ‘Wot’s wiv the cat, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘None o’ your beesthwax, now, clear off ’fore I thset Clyde on you.’

  Clyde, who normally relished such opportunities to beat children, evinced that he wasn’t himself, remaining quiet – troubled by Balthazar’s presence.

  ‘Sorry, sirs,’ said Monts, running away to join the other children, who had all risen from their beds on the floor to see what was going on.

  ‘Thisth way,’ said Archie, gesturing that Balthazar follow him, which of course he did, igniting a curious bout of whispering and giggling among the children.

  On the outside, the warehouse was an uninhabitable, shabby building, made of rotten bricks and broken windows. But within its high walls, it sheltered at least two dozen dirty faced boys – each and every one of them doomed to a life of hardship and misery, a life which mercifully wouldn’t be long.

  They huddled behind the crates and barrels of gin, watching Balthazar as he was led deeper into the building, ducking when either one of the thugs looked round, and creeping on when they looked back.

  Balthazar wondered what kind of clients Mr K would have. When he saw, he realised that such a horrible man could only have one kind of client: the desperate. For the client alluded to by the child with the smelly feet, was the most desperate of men. He was a thin, twig shaped man, whose every sentence was accompanied by a cough and whose only wish in all of life was for a small bottle of Speckled Gin to help him on his way. So desperate was he for the bottle in Mr K’s hands, that he had brought his own son to exchange.

  ‘This skinny runt ain’t worth the bottle it’s in,’ Mr K was saying.

  ‘I begs you cough, I begs you, Mr K, please take ’im in, show ’im a good life – ’e’s a strong boy – looks small but ’e’s strong coughcough.’

  ‘Are you quick boy? Quick wiv yer ’ands?’ said Mr K.

  The trembling boy didn’t know what to say, he looked to his decrepit father for an answer and was given an eager nod.

  ‘I fink so…’

  ‘Fink so?’ Mr K, not impressed by the conferring going on, snorted, filled his mouth with spit, then spat at the father’s raw feet.

  He tossed the bottle to the boy.

  The boy’s hands fumbled in the air. His father’s face twisted. The bottle fell and was caught.

  ‘Good reflex, boy,’ said Mr K.

  The boy smiled. He couldn’t believe his catch.

  ‘See cough, ’e’s useful coughcough.’

  ‘Quick ’e might be, but useful, let’s not push it. Go on boy, give yer father the bottle ’n’ go ’n’ join the others.’

  The boy was sad to go, but knew it was for the best. It was a blessing to be brought into the company of the Bowler Gang. He held out the bottle to his elated father, who snatched it without giving him the slightest thank you or goodbye.

  ‘Get out o’ ’ere, ’fore I change my mind,’ said Mr K; and with that, the transaction was done; the child joined the others, the desperate man’s thirst was quenched, and Mr K turned his attention to the patient Archie and Clyde.

  ‘Wot is it? Why you just standin’ there?’

  ‘Bossth, we’ve got you a visthitor,’ said Archie.

  ‘A wot now?’

  ‘A visthitor.’

  ‘It’s… it’s…’ Clyde tried.

  ‘Thshut it, Clyde. Remember the talkin’ cat we toldsth you ’bout? The one thshacked up with little Nick? Well, thisth ’ere’sth it.’ Archie stepped aside to reveal the black cat. ‘’E wantsth to talk thsome busthinessth with ya.’

  Mr K sharpened his eyes and scrunched up his brow, if just one more second of silence had gone by, he would have snatched Clyde’s club and beaten the two of them dead.

  But the cat spoke.

  ‘Good evening,’ said Balthazar.

  The children gasped behind the barrels, giving their position away.

  Archie and Clyde looked at one another, uncertain of what was going to happen next.

  Balthazar waited.

  What ensued was unexpected by all.

  Mr K didn’t lose his temper, nor his mind, he remained perfectly composed – a manner which Balthazar found most suspicious.

  ‘Archie, Clyde,’ said the cruel man at last.

  ‘Yes bossth?’ Archie stuttered.

  ‘I want them kids beaten, beaten till their backsides run red.’

  At this, the scampering of a dozen terrified children sounded from behind the barrels and crates.

  ‘Yes, boss,’ said the two thugs.

  ‘You best come into my office,’ said Mr K, and he turned and walked away.

  Balthazar wasn’t one to be afraid, he’d encountered much worse men and women in his life than the Bowler Gang’s boss. But something about this man was unsettling.
r />   He followed.

  Mr K’s office lay behind a red brick archway. It was a small room, littered with bags of juniper berries, oranges and empty barrels piled up on their sides. At one end, there was a tall dusty window of little glass squares; it was fragmented and most of its glass panes were missing. Just before it, facing into the room was Mr K’s ragged leather chair, and before that, his cluttered desk.

  Mr K’s desk was not equipped with much paper. There wasn’t a book in sight and not a pen or pencil to be found. It looked instead very much like an armoury, and a menacing one at that. It was armed with two brass knuckledusters, one iron truncheon embellished with wonky nails and knobbly studs, and there was a frightful collection of knives including one butcher’s cleaver that was lodged upright in the wood – and that was just a glance. Bottles were strewn amongst the deadly objects, some empty, some full, most in between. Evidently, thought Balthazar, this was a man who liked to drink, but despite the amount of booze around him, he hardly seemed intoxicated at all. To the boss of the Bowler Gang, Speckled Gin was nothing but water.

  Mr K slumped into his chair, reached down and slid the footrest out from under it and through the gap between the desk.

  ‘Take a seat,’ he said.

  Balthazar hopped up onto the leather cushion and sat, his head just high enough to gaze over the weapons; but not the forest of bottles, so Mr K moved a few of them to the side, clearing a path to the cat’s face. Then he reached for the nearest bottle and pulled the cork out with a very satisfying PLOMP. He poured the poison down his throat, swallowed, then extended the bottle across the table.

  ‘Drink?’

  ‘I don’t drink,’ said Balthazar.

  ‘That’s unfortunate.’ Mr K took another swig, completely unaffected by the gin’s notoriously crippling, sour taste. He leaned back and threw his boots up. They weren’t particularly nice boots, like everything in this part of town they were old and dirty. But there was very little mud on their underside. This suggested to Balthazar that either Mr K was very thorough on the welcoming mat or that he simply just didn’t get out that much.

  ‘To wot do I owe the pleasure then?’

  Balthazar peered round the boots.

  ‘You don’t seem particularly bothered by my talents.’

  ‘Wot talents?’

  ‘My talking talents.’

  ‘I’ve seen many fings, trust me, you ain’t nuffin’ compared.’

  ‘And what sort of things have you seen, I wonder?’

  Mr K sat studying the cat and stroking his scar. He wasn’t in the mood to elaborate.

  ‘Interesting fashion statement,’ said Balthazar. ‘M for murderer. T for thief. I wonder, what does K stand for?’

  ‘You wonder too much. You wanna talk business, let’s talk business.’

  ‘Very well. What’s your business with the Narrows.’

  Mr K gave no answer, but his eyes widened ever so slightly, so slightly anyone else would have missed it, but not Balthazar.

  The thug resisted the urge to look out the window behind.

  ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘Just wondered, that’s all.’

  ‘Be careful cat. I can’t be swindled and I ain’t no gen’l’man.’

  ‘Believe me, I never took you for one.’

  ‘Don’t fink yous a guest ’ere either. You’re gonna speak what you’ve gotta speak, then I’m gonna cut your paws off, skin ya and turn ya into a soup.’

  ‘What a lovely idea,’ said Balthazar, ‘I hope you’ll use a lot of salt and pepper, I’m probably quite chewy.’

  Mr K swung his boots from the table and lurched forward.

  ‘You know,’ continued the cat, ‘you shouldn’t assume I’m clueless to what’s going on here. I find it strange that you would set up your enterprise so close to such a place as this Narrows place seems to be. I’ve heard about you sending children into it, that’s also a source of great wonder. But what’s got me wondering even more is that in this day and age, in this city, a man can talk face to face with a cat without the faintest glint of trepidation in his eye.’

  ‘You’ve a lot to say, ain’t ya?’

  ‘Funny that, I don’t think you’re saying enough.’

  Mr K took another protracted gulp from the bottle, and let the gin slide down his throat to warm his insides.

  ‘’Ow’s Nicky? Lyin’ dead in a gutter somewhere?’

  Balthazar certainly hoped not, but didn’t want to play all his cards just yet.

  ‘I didn’t believe ’em ’bout you,’ said the thug. ‘I fawt the lad ’ad done a runner ’n’ them two was too scared to tell me the troof. Told me you beat ’em up. Ha! So I beat them up. You cost me one o’ my employees. More than that. One o’ my boys. I put a roof over ’is bleedin’ ’ead for a good ten years. And he repays me by eloping with some furry animal. He best be dead, I tell ya.’

  ‘You talk as if you were doing him a favour,’ said Balthazar, finding the idea that a man like Mr K could care about the little creatures he worked to death night and day just a tad amusing.

  ‘Same story. Mother didn’t want ’im. A little hungry mouth is a dear expense. I don’t know where you’re from but round ’ere they chuck ’em out on the street like chamberpots. O’ course they try ’n’ silence ’em before they come into this world. My gin’s good for that. Mother’s Ruin they call it. But some o’ ’em always get through. And wot a world they come into eh? A nasty, spittin’ world. I’m an opportunist. I gives ’em opportunities.’

  Balthazar listened, then gave a slow nod. ‘If you say so,’ he said.

  But Mr K was tiring of the chit chat. He put down the bottle and ran his hands over the weapons on his desk, drawing them close to the cleaver.

  ‘I don’t fink me and you are on the same page of fawt. I’ve been more than reasonable and given you a chance to talk your business wiv me. Now I’m–’

  ‘I want you to tell me everything you know about the Narrows. In exchange, I will divulge the location of a rather large stash of gold,’ said Balthazar.

  For some reason unknown to the cat, this amused Mr K and set him off leaning backwards, quietly laughing to himself.

  ‘Gold is it?’ he said. ‘And wot will you suppose I spend it on?’

  ‘Whatever you want. Whatever a man of your taste desires.’

  Mr K paused. Smiled. Stopped smiling. He took another swig of his poison.

  ‘Let me give you an education. ’Ere in the slums, people ain’t livin’ on the breadline – we live far below it – on a line that exists somewhere above dead and somewhere below livin’ – sufferin’ with every breath we take. Now I like a bit o’ shiny just as much as the next man, but I’m curious as to why I’d need gold – when right here, I gots a livin’, breathin’, speakin’ fortune right in front o’ me.’

  ‘I don’t follow,’ said Balthazar, watching like a fearful pigeon as the thug rose out of his chair and walked around the desk.

  ‘I ’ad to work me way up in this city I did. I was one o’ ’em boys once. No hope. No future. No one to look out for me. I gave poor buggers like meself a chance to make summin o’ ’emselves. I gave ’em summin to live for. And you know how I was repaid?’

  Balthazar shrugged.

  ‘To the gallows they said. So I’s exiled. I ain’t been norf o’ the river for sixteen stinkin’ years. Sixteen stinkin’ years I been rottin’ away in this ’ole.’

  Mr K had a brooding expression drawn across his scarred face. He lifted a sack of juniper berries and poured them through his open hand.

  ‘It was ’ard, makin’ a name for meself at first – gettin’ the business up ’n’ runnin’. But when I ’eard ’bout the Narrows and ’eard the stories, I knew it was meant for me. See I feared it, I feared it just like all them other buggers. But I knew if I was ever gunna be anyfin’, ever gunna establish meself proper, I’d ’av’ to show I ’ad guts.’

  The bag had run empty, and Mr K was now fluffing it out with both his hands.
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  ‘I remember it well, the day I went there to see for me own eyes wot was causin’ all the upset; wot was going on there; wot was the source of all ’em rumours.’

  ‘What?’

  Balthazar didn’t see it coming. He had been lulled into a false sense of security listening to the thug speak, and when it happened, it happened fast. One moment, he was listening intently to the thug’s every word, trying to see where the conversation was going. The next, he was struggling for air, plucked at the neck by Mr K’s rough hands.

  The thug’s grip was tight enough to stiffen his whole body.

  ‘She’s gonna like you,’ he said. He held the cat out in the air, tilting him like a specimen and admiring his liveliness. ‘Oh yes, she’s gonna like you lots.’

  Then, just like that, Balthazar was stuffed into the sack.

  Jarh began to move over the face of Nei.

  The street dogs howled.

  The alley cats yowled.

  The night brightened in a blue, iridescent glow.

  A midnight sun was beginning to show.

  By now the Witchhunter’s face was hideously bruised. Both his eyes were black and one was swollen up like a raisin. The skin over the bridge of his nose was cut. Blood had run from each nostril and from his mouth, and it was matted in his stubble, smeared over his cheeks, down his neck and the collar of his shirt. Though, it was likely the blood was not all his. Greg had been hitting him without respite and with such ferocity that it was hard to see whose blood was whose.

  The witch had been laughing to herself all the while, giggling and snickering, with the occasional outburst of laughter that was sudden enough to make the children jump.

  The Witchhunter had tried to hold his nerve. He was a man who was used to holding his nerve. But there came a point where the pain was too much, and at that point, fearing he would lose consciousness if he did nothing, he let out a long protracted scream. It was an angry sound. A manly groan that made Niclas shudder and Cassandra close her eyes.

  ‘Oh,’ said the witch, ‘how beautiful. What a lovely thing it is. Your pain. Your hate. Your impotence to do anything about it. I find it greatly satisfying.’