by Livi Michael
‘Now,’ I say, staring hard at Queenie. ‘Get them to line up some bottles on that wall.’
Queenie stares back at me a minute, then nods. A few of the gang run up and place the broken bottles they were carrying in a row along the wall. When they've finished I nod.
‘Now stand back,’ I order, and everyone moves.
Right, Travis, I'm thinking, and it's like a prayer. I'm remembering the time he showed me how to knock a row of cones off a gate. I've practised, like he said, but the truth is, I've never managed it.
Not the right time to mention that.
I take the first stone out of the sling and fit it in again. Everyone watches; no one moves. The air's thick with the sound of their open-mouthed breathing.
There's six bottles on that wall, placed far enough apart so that they can't just knock one another over. I step forward, then back, running finger and thumb along the length of the sling, measuring the distance with my thumb outstretched.
‘Get on with it,’ says Queenie.
I lift my sling high and whizz it round. Phhtt! Plink! The first bottle falls, no problem – crash! Then to my surprise the second one follows it. The third one wobbles a bit but stays firm, and the other three don't even move.
I look at Queenie. ‘See?’ I say.
‘You said six,' says she.
‘Well, that's how it's done,’ I say, and make to go.
‘Oh no,you don't,’ she says, and the others all press round. ‘You said six!’
Before I can answer there's a loud noise from outside the yard.
‘Give it up now, lad!’ snarls a man's voice, ‘Or you'll join the cripples in Hanging Ditch!’
And a lad's voice answers, ‘I told you I don't know where they are, Mr Weeks, sir – I don't!’ You're breaking my arm, sir, you are!’
The next minute a foul-faced man strides in, dragging a red-haired lad with him and there's two henchmen with big clubs behind. I glance round at the gang and they're all shrinking back in terror. Not so murderous now.
‘Well, well, well,’ says Foul-face Weeks. ‘Here you all are.’ He spreads his arms wide.
‘Arty – you snitch!’ spits Queenie.
‘He were killing me!’ squeaks Arty.
‘Not at all,’ says Weeks. ‘Just a friendly jog.’ And he gives Arty's arm a final jerk so that the lad howls in pain, then lets him go. ‘I could get a lot less friendly,’ he says, striding towards Queenie, ‘if you don't pay what you owe.’
I don't stop to think. I have the second stone in the sling and whizzing towards him. It hits him, clunk! right between the eyes, and he keels over with a look of surprise on his face. The gang stare at him aghast, and the henchmen come bounding forward.
Next few minutes are chaos. I'm slinging all the stones I can find and the kids are charging forward with their sticks and bottles. One henchman falls, then Queenie's shouting, ‘Run!’ and we're bounding down a narrow passage I hadn't even noticed before, between two yards.
On and on we run, though I don't think anyone's following, through a maze of alleys and courtyards where there's more bodies lying in doorways and little kids and babies playing in the dirt.
Soon we come to the banks of a river. At least it once was a river, with proper water – now it's a great churning mess of purples and browns, solid particles floating on the surface and birds walking over them, pecking. There's some great chemical works on the banks, spilling out dyes, and the stench is horrible. Under a bridge we go and into a tunnel that seems to go on forever with the sound of water roaring above, and suddenly I realize we're under the river.
Here, finally, we slow down, panting, and wait for the rest of the gang to catch up. There's Queenie and Half-moon with me, and two or three others, then the dark lad comes running, then Bonnet; and finally a girl with sores on her mouth and a long yellow plait staggers towards us, half carrying a little lad with a bent leg.
‘Have they gone?’ Queenie asks the girl.
‘They'll not follow us here,’ the girl says, then to me, ‘You got him all right.’
And I start to grin, proud of myself, but Queenie says, ‘Yes – and what happens when he comes to? He'll never let that go, not Weeks. He'll hunt us down and kill us all!’
She glares at me and I stop grinning. ‘You've brought trouble on us,’ she says.
‘Looked like you were already in trouble,’ I say, but Queenie's mad.
She paces up and down restlessly and strikes the tunnel wall, but Plaits says, ‘He's right – he'd have had you then.’
‘Give over, Pigeon,’ Queenie says. ‘He'll have us now, when he finds us.’
Pigeon? I'm thinking. Don't any of this lot have proper names?
‘We'll have to move territory,’ Dark-boy says.
But another says, ‘We'd have had to anyway. We're always moving.’
‘Who is he anyway?’ I say.
‘What's it to you?’ says Queenie.
‘Well, I hit him, din't I? Suppose he comes looking for me?’
There's a pause, then Pigeon starts talking, helped out by one or two others.
Seems like this Weeks guy is a bad lot – as if I hadn't guessed. Gangs of kids live on the streets, by thieving mostly, and whatever they take they have to give him half. He's their codger – whatever that means – and he's got a gang of his own. He mainly works the streets around Strangeways, the big workhouse in Angel Meadow, but his territory extends all the way to Hanging Ditch. Beyond that there's another codger who looks after the Rookeries of Deansgate. Bailey, he's called, because he takes charge of them going into and out of the New Bailey prison. He bails them off and then they owe him, and he presses them that come out into working for him, because they can't get work anywhere else. Weeks does the same with the workhouse.
‘So there are more street gangs then?’ I say, and Queenie looks at me as though I'm daft.
But Pigeon says, ‘Hundreds.’
There are the Toads of Toad Lane, the Rooks of Deansgate, the Cocks of Cock Pit Hill and the Shambles, who don't sound like much, but they're all older and hard as nails. Weeks controls the Little Angels and the Toads and another gang called the Shude Hill Mob; Bailey runs the others. From time to time they raid one another, or meet up at Cock Gates and fight for territory.
This is a whole new world. ‘But where do you all live?’ I ask, realizing as I say it that it's a daft question.
‘In a palace, of course,’ says Queenie, sharp. ‘That's how I got my name.’
Then Pigeon does a passable imitation of a queen walking with her train. ‘Just look at my castle,’ she says, pointing at the dripping tunnel. ‘And the throne, and the four-poster bed.’
They're all laughing now – except for Queenie – and I laugh with them.
‘But how do you eat?’ I say. ‘And who tells you what to do?’
‘No one tells us what to do,’ says Bonnet. ‘We fend for usselves. Free as birds.’ She spreads her ragged skirts wide.
‘That's enough questions,’ Queenie says. ‘This is getting us nowhere. What'll we do?’
Then there's a conference, one after another of them putting forward ideas.
‘Go to Bailey.’
‘Move right out – miles away.’
‘Join up with another gang.’
I stare round at them all in the half light from the tunnel mouth. There's only ten or twelve of them, not hundreds like I first thought.
‘Aren't there any more of you?’ I say, interrupting, and Queenie glares.
But Bonnet says, ‘There's enough of us to look after usselves, that's all. Too many and there's nowhere to hide.’
That makes sense. I go back to nursing my shin, where one of them clouted it. But I can't help wondering what it'd be like to live in a gang, with no grown-ups telling you what to do. In spite of the dirt and the fact that some of them have no fingers, or only half a face, in spite of the dangers, or maybe because of them, it seems like an exciting life to me. Living free, like Travis said.
‘So are we going to Bailey then?’ one of the lads asks.
But Queenie says, ‘No!’ very sharp, then adds, ‘He'll only trade us in.’
‘Come off it,’ says Pigeon. ‘Bailey'd do anything to spite Weeks.’
‘You were thinking of going to him anyroad,’ says Half-moon. ‘Weeks kept upping the stakes.’
‘I'm not going to Bailey!’ Queenie says.
‘So, anyway,’ I say into the pause, ‘when are we leaving?’ Truth is, I'm tired of them discussing stuff and I want to know how I'll get back.
‘You can leave any time you like,’ says she. ‘We don't want you.’
‘I'm gutted,’ I say.
‘And you won't be coming back here, neither,’ she says, turning nasty now.
‘Hold off, Queenie,’ says one.
‘He knows too much,’ she says. ‘He could bring people to us.’
I manage a hollow laugh. I've just been set upon, hit with a stick, and had to run for my life down a stinking sewer. ‘Why would I want to?’ I say.
There's a pause. I get the feeling that no one speaks to her like this and she doesn't know what to make of it. She looks me up and down.
‘He helped us out,’ Pigeon says and the others chime in. ‘Safe passage,’ one of the lads says and the others agree.
Queenie rubs her forehead. ‘I can't think – too much has happened… Look,’ she says. ‘You don't know us and we don't know you. Maybe we can keep it that way.’
‘Suits me,’ I tell her.
Grudgingly Queenie nods. ‘Safe passage,’ she says.
As she says it she makes a little sign with two fingers, pointing to her heart, mouth and away to the opening of the tunnel. ‘Where is it you've come from?’
‘Ancoats,’ I say. ‘The fair.’
‘Digger,’ says Queenie. ‘Ors'n'cart.’ Dark-boy steps forward, and the one with no teeth.
‘Go with him – the back route, through the tunnels. And make it fast. And you –’ she says to me – ‘don't try to come back or bring anyone with you or it'll be the worse for them – and you.’ She pushes her face close to mine, ‘You'll never find us, but we'll find you. See?’
I believe her. No choice.
‘Right,’ she says. ‘What are you waiting for?’ And with the two big lads pressing in on me I set off downwards, into the dripping tunnel.
16
Free
The tunnels are like a stinking maze, one turn after another. Neither Digger nor Ors'n'cart speak as we pound along. They could be taking me somewhere to do me in for all I know. At least they seem to know which way to go to avoid the water – I can hear it crashing and roaring overhead. And faintly above that, the noise of the city. Don't know how I'd ever find my way back here.
At last Digger stops and crouches, and Ors'n'cart climbs on to his shoulders. He's pushing at something metal, like a grate, then he hoists himself upwards, and Digger nods at me and I climb up the same.
Ors'n'cart hauls me out, into a ginnel between two houses, then he lowers his arm in for Digger. My ears are roaring from being in the tunnel so long. Digger leads me to the end of the ginnel and there's a long, narrow street, gas lamps flickering and flaring like there's wind in the pipes.
‘End of this street,’ Digger says, ‘turn left, and right again. Then you'll be in fields.’
He makes the funny sign with two fingers, on his chest, lips, and away. Then he turns to go. I'm surprised that they haven't attacked me – I'm still alive.
‘Er, right,’ I say to his retreating back. ‘Safe passage,’ but he doesn't look round as he disappears into the ginnel.
I make my way along the street, limping. My shin's hurting and my heels where my boots rub. All's quiet, though, here and there a lamp shines from a window. Feels like I've been gone hours. I turn the corner and there's more houses and a dirt track to the right, which I follow, and soon I can see open fields and the huddle of vans.
Nothing's changed; it's as though I've never left. They're all eating stew round the fire. I'm glad I've not missed food, for I'm starving.
No one even looks up as I approach. It's like they've not even noticed I've gone and come back. Then I see that one of the brothers is sobbing in another brother's arms, and Flo's holding Annie in hers. Flo says, ‘Hush now,’ to Annie, stroking her hair. Everyone looks scunnered.
Straight away I know what's been going on.
‘What's up?’ I say, hanging back. I've been here before, but right now I don't want to know.
‘Can I have some stew?’ I say, and Balthasar gets up to get me a bowl. His face is pale and his hands shaking. Don't want to know, I'm thinking.
Then Honest Bob lifts his head, as though stirring out of a dream, and notices me for the first time. ‘Where've you been, lad?’ he asks sharply, then, as I sit down, ‘Faugh! You stink to high heaven!’
That's the thanks I get. ‘You'd stink too,’ I say, ‘if you'd been where I've been.’
‘Where's that then, lad?’ says Honest Bob. ‘In a midden?’
‘It's a rare gift that lass has got,’ he says to Flo. ‘We've got to put her on show.’
‘Nay, Bob, never,’ says Flo. ‘Look at how it takes her! She's ill – shaking!’
Nobody's even listening to me. And Annie's got her face buried in Flo's chest.
‘I've been chasing gangs of thieves,’ I say. ‘They were breaking into your precious vans.’
‘She'll get used to it,’ says Honest Bob. ‘A bit of training – and a proper show. We can do it so she's well prepared. She wouldn't even have that much to do for the punters.’
‘I'm not listening,’ Flo says. ‘I'm getting this child to bed.’
Am I talking to myself? I think. ‘They were stealing our stuff,’ I say.
‘And you chased them off,’ says Balthasar, placing a hand on my shoulder. ‘Well done, lad. Now, have you finished with that bowl?’
‘They'll come from far and wide,’ says Honest Bob, his eyes glittering. But Cora stands and sweeps Annie into her arms, carrying her back to the van. The weeping brother's led away by the other two, and Ivan helps Balthasar clear up.
‘There were hundreds of them,’ I say, to no one in particular.
It's no use. No one's interested. Yet I got into all that trouble when they did break into the vans!
I lie awake that night, listening to Flo and Balthasar whispering about Annie, and how Vito, Pepe and Luigi's sister had spoken through her, in a language only they could understand.
I feel sore in my heart. I let my thoughts run on, over everything that's happened to me in the past few hours, and suddenly I'm wondering what it'd be like to be one of them; the street kids, leader of my own gang. I can see myself now – the bravest and fastest of them all, cock of the gang, just like I were cock of the workhouse. I'd lead them into war on the rival gangs and win. My gang'd be the strongest and best. Queenie'd have to step down.
If I wanted to go and find them, though, I'd have to act fast, before they move on.
Soon as I think this, my thoughts turn to Annie. I can't see her there, living off her wits in a gang. Just like always, she's holding me back.
It's daft, thinking like this. I'm not going to go running off with that gang. Besides, they wouldn't have me. Yet even when I finally sleep I dream of running along alleyways and across walls, over rooftops and bridges. There's dozens of children with me, paint on their faces and feathers in their hair. They're carrying pan lids as weapons and they beat them with ladles. Rooks are gathering on the rooftops and below us there's the angry faces of Old Bert and Barney and Honest Bob and Weeks, looking up and shaking their fists. Because they're stuck on the ground and trapped in the gutter, and we're up high, flying free.
In the morning things go from bad to worse. First off I'm told to feed the horses, and I spill a whole sack of grain on the ground.
Course Honest Bob's there, watching. ‘Are you daft or useless, boy?’ he roars. ‘Get that picked up!’
So I'm there scooping up grains out of the grass and beating the birds off, and when I turn round Annie's watching. For the first time in days, Flo's not with her.
‘What?’ I say as she stares at me, then I take a step or two towards her. ‘What game are you playing?’ I ask her but she says nowt, only tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘I mean, what is it, Annie, can't you stop showing off?’
No answer. I feel like shoving her. ‘What about going to Manchester? They're not going to want to let you go at this rate.’
Annie hangs her head.
‘Annie, Annie,’ calls Flo. ‘Come and try this costume on.’
‘Go on then,’ I say. ‘Run off to your new friends.’
Annie doesn't move. She's staring beyond me and when I look there's a whole flock of blackbirds pecking at the grain. I run at them, swearing, and right at that minute Honest Bob reappears.
‘Haven't you picked that up yet?’ he bellows. ‘Are you feeding the birds?’
‘Drop dead,’ I mutter, and next moment he's grabbed the front of my shirt, shaking me.
‘You've outstayed your welcome, lad,’ he says, very low, then he lets me go. ‘Get it picked up – every grain. Then take them to water.’ He stomps off and when I look round Annie's scuttled off too.
With the best will in the world I can only fill half a sack with the spilled grain. So the horses get just a bit each and the birds do very well. Even filling it that much takes forever, so I'm late leading the horses to the spring. I stand by watching them lap at the water, which even here is a murky brown, quite different from the springs we passed with Travis. It makes me think of the river last night, churning all different colours, and from that to the street gang, wondering where they are now, and what they're doing. What would it be like, to be their leader? I'd make the rules, give the orders. They'd bring me their booty, so I wouldn't have to do much, but I'd still go out raiding from time to time to show them how it's done. We'd outraid all the others and win all the fights – because we'd all have slings. And all the other gangs'd want to join us…