The Whispering Road

by Livi Michael

  ‘I – run – this – gang,’ she says, stabbing into my throat with each word. I can feel the blood bursting into my head. ‘Don't you ever forget it. Or you'll end up back in the sewer where you came from.’ And she jerks my head back so far I feel a spasm of pain. Then she lets go, and I lie gasping for air like a fish. She stands over me, glaring down.

  ‘Blimey, Queenie,’ I say when I can speak again. ‘You know how to make a point.’

  ‘Just so long as I have made it,’ she says. I struggle into a sitting position.

  ‘You're the queen, Queenie,’ I say, and that strange half smile passes across her face. ‘I'm your man.’ I rub my neck wondering if she's burst an artery. ‘Never meant to give offence,’ I say. Queenie says nothing and she doesn't move either, a ray of light from the window moving across her face. I glance up at her.

  ‘So,’ I say. ‘You don't like the name River Rats then?’

  And for the first and last time in our acquaintance, Queenie laughs – a short, harsh sound but still she's laughing, and I'm laughing with her. And I'm all right with Queenie after that.

  She never said a thing about herself, where she came from or how she'd ended up there and she never asked me either. In fact, if I was to name the main law of the gang it was this – don't ask. In the poorest courts and alleys no one ever asked about anyone else. Mainly they were all sunk in their gin-soaked dreams.

  In the cellar next to us, for instance, there was a family of about fifteen all piled together, white and thin. There were some day workers from the tanning factory in the next hut, then a man and wife with two littl'uns and another on the way – her getting greyer by the day. They never thought to ask how we, a gang of children, came to be living in the next cellar along, though it was as big as theirs and if anything, slightly less wet. That was one thing I got to know about the poor – that hopelessness that followed them around like the smell. They could have slung us out and claimed an extra cellar for themselves. As it was, they barely looked up when we went past. No one asked us anything, which was just as well, and we didn't ask each other, either. All I knew about any of the Little Angels was how they got their names, and I didn't even know that about Queenie.

  Digger got his name because at one time he'd had a job digging up newly buried corpses from the paupers’ graveyard for two medical students, who'd later been caught doing it and sent down. Don't know where he came from, but he once said his mother had been a slave. That's someone who has to work all the time for no money, like in the workhouse. Ors'n'cart had been named by Queenie, who'd seen a horse and cart pull up on Cross Street in the early hours of a Sunday morning and dump a bundle near the chapel, and when she got close up that bundle turned into a boy staring at her with unwinking eyes, and she took him back with her to Angel Meadow. Pigeon had been named because she scratted and pecked about on the ground looking for food droppings. Lookout because that were his most useful role, Half-moon because of his face, Bonnet because she was never without her hat, Pickings because he was the best pickpocket around in spite of having just two fingers on each hand. He'd lift money from the inside of a gentleman's vest and the gent wouldn't even know he'd been hit.

  So there we all were, living like kings off cabbages and fish. We drank porter and gin when we could get it, and ale when we couldn't, and only if we were desperate would we try the water from the nearest pump, which came out in a brownish trickle and was nearly as thick as the river. I'd only been with the gang a short time when it began to seem like forever, as though I'd had no other life, and even Annie seemed a long time ago and far away. There was no reason, it seemed to me, why my new life wouldn't go on forever more. But then things took a different turn.

  5

  Heatwave

  The snow passed and the warm weather came. The city stank and broiled in its own sweat. Fuelled by the factory furnaces the air turned to a reeking oven. No rain fell and the river ran slowly then stopped. But great bubbles welled from beneath the surface and burst, discharging their stinking breath. The rich rode by in open carriages, fanning themselves with silk handkerchiefs pressed over their noses, while in the alleys and courtyards people lay on the cobbles, passed out with drink, and flies crawled into their open mouths.

  The heat made every one of us ill. Half-moon came out in a rash that ruined his face even more; Ors'n't cart couldn't breathe for catarrh. I'd got used to the stinging and burning of my flesh that came from living so near chemical works. The insides of my nostrils were scorched and the flesh on the palms of my hands tingled while my eyes stung and ran. But I'd cut my foot one day, running without shoes, and it got swollen and painful. My breathing was hoarse and thick, like some of the river water had got into my lungs…

  Then the vomiting starts.

  Lookout's the first – heaving up so violently it comes down his nose and bursts the little vessels in his eyes. None of us'll sit with him except Pigeon. She says he'd drank some of the thick brown water from the nearest pump.

  ‘I told you about the water,’ says Queenie, but Pigeon just says they were desperate. She sits with him all night while the rest of us try to sleep on the concrete ledge with its broken rail. I must have got some sleep because the next thing I know I'm waking up to the sound of wild weeping. I scramble up and back into the cellar and Queenie's got her arms round Pigeon. And lying in a pool of his own blood and filth is Lookout, eyes wide open like he's still trying to look out for us all.

  I cover my nose with my hands, but nothing shuts out that smell.

  ‘I told him he'd be all right,’ Pigeon sobs. ‘“Lookout, dear,” I says, “your mam's watching over you – she won't let nothing bad happen.” But he started shaking – and the blood came and – and I told him he'd get better!’ She wails, her face turned into Queenie's shoulder.

  I can't stop looking at him, like I've never seen anyone dead before.

  ‘What'll we do with him?’ Digger says, and Queenie nods towards the river.

  The river's not moving, of course, and we don't want him staring up at us all summer, turning black, so Pickings and Digger run to fetch sacks and me and Digger, Pickings and Half-moon carry Lookout downstream towards Hanging Bridge while the others stay back to clean up the mess.

  The moon glows reddish through a haze. Seems like everything's back to front – the sun a white glare by day and the moon blood-orange at night. I can't think of a single thing to say. I'm thinking about Lookout, thrown away as a babby and thrown away now, scarcely more than a babby still. There's people around, shuffling along the streets with downturned eyes. No one asks us owt. We climb up the steps to the bridge, hoist him up and roll him over. There's a thick splash from below, then the river's ooze covers him up.

  No one says anything. Seems like someone should say a prayer, but none of us can remember how. ‘Be seeing you, Lookout,’ I mutter, and that sounds daft, but no one laughs.

  We make our way slowly back along Millgate. I've got my hands in my pockets, fingering my coin, that in all this time I've never let on about nor used. When we get back Pigeon's quiet, staring at the floor with red-rimmed eyes. No one says anything. We lie down and try to sleep.

  I didn't think I would sleep in all the heat, moths and spiders flitting across my face and the rats squeaking and nipping, but I must've, because soon I'm dreaming of Annie. It's a dream I've had before, where I'm prising her fingers off my coat, but this time I'm dropping her off the bridge into the river, and I wake with a start and a shudder.

  Pigeon's still sitting where I left her, rocking herself and crooning. I pick myself up and join her, sitting on a crate.

  ‘Can't sleep?’ I whisper, and she shakes her head. I try to think of saying something like ‘He'll be in heaven now’ or ‘He's out of his misery’, but I can't. Instead I say, ‘At least you were with him, all the time,’ and she nods at that, just a small movement of her head.

  ‘I were with someone once, who died,’ I say, and I start telling her about this kid in the workhouse, the ye
ar we all got scarlet fever, and she's listening but she doesn't stop rocking. ‘It's hard the first time,’ I say, and she shoots me a look. Not the first time then. ‘Who else?’ I ask, though I'm not sure I want to know.

  ‘Spider,’ she says, her eyes fixed on some distant past. ‘Fingers, Trapper, Hare'n'hounds, Stagecoach.’ She counts them off on her hands.

  ‘How many of you were there?’

  She holds up the fingers of her hands, once, twice, then shakes her head. Can't count.

  ‘What happened?’ I say nervously, but she shakes her head again. Even in the thin light of the moon I can see her face is greenish. I change the subject.

  ‘I knew a man once,’ I say, ‘earned his living telling stories. Well, he sold skins as well, but wherever he went he told a story and got food for it. He told us – I mean me, one about angels. Shall I tell it you?’

  No answer. Her breathing sounds hoarse and the shaft of moonlight's gone so I can't see her face. I start telling her anyway, about the shepherd on the hills and the crowd of angels bright and fierce, and I can tell she's listening. As I tell it I'm thinking about Travis and wondering what he's up to now, but soon all I can see is Dog-woman running down the side of that hill, finding her pack, like I've found mine. I come to the bit where she's living in the forest, and the pack she lives with gets old and dies but she outlives them all, when I feel the touch of Pigeon's hand on my sleeve.

  ‘Dodger,’ she says, swaying a bit, and then it happens. She's sick, all over my feet.

  I leap up shouting, ‘Help! Doctor! Help!’ and soon everyone's stirring. Pigeon's on the floor now, retching and spewing, and all I can think is, Who's next?

  ‘We need a doctor!’ I shout.

  ‘Don't talk daft,’ snaps Queenie. ‘There's no doctor comes down here.’

  ‘Then we have to take her to one,’ I snap back. ‘We can't just sit here waiting for her to die!’

  Pigeon groans and spews up brown water into the water she's lying in.

  ‘Get her on to the crates,’ says Queenie, her face all creased with worry.

  We pick her up and she's light as though even her bones are empty, but she's racked and heaving, Just like Lookout, I'm thinking, and cold dread sits on my stomach.

  ‘Queenie, listen,’ I say. ‘We've got to at least tell a doctor. We've got to try. I'll go. I'll be as fast as I can. And if he won't come, well then –’

  I can't think what we'll do if he won't come.

  ‘We've got no money for doctors,’ Queenie says, and without thinking my hand goes to my pocket, where the coin is. I say nowt, but Queenie's sharp eyes take this in.

  ‘There's doctors on King Street,’ Digger says, and just then Pigeon gives a groan that comes right from her feet, and throws up clear across the room.

  ‘I'm going,’ I say. ‘I'll be back as fast as I can.’ And without waiting for argument, I set off at a trot, up on to Long Millgate, take a left on to Toad Lane, which turns into Hanging Ditch, and follow that all the way to Deansgate, where King Street joins. It's a fair trot of over a mile, but I don't want to cut through the alleys and courts at this hour. I keep my head down and trot fast and no one bothers me.

  The houses on King Street have brass plaques and there's a special sign that means doctor that Queenie pointed out to me once when we were begging. First one I come to I pull the bell rope hard as I can and keep pulling until a manservant comes, looking out, then down at me. He steps forward with an oath and I step back quick.

  ‘Please sir, I need the doctor.’

  ‘Clear off, you scally.’

  ‘But it's my friend – I need him to come.’

  ‘Doctor's sleeping. He'll not come out for the likes of you.’

  ‘But I can pay!’ I say, holding out the bright silver coin, not without a pang.

  He steps forward then, raising his stick. ‘Be off with you, you little thief!’ He brandishes his stick and I retreat, then he goes back in and slams the door. I glance upwards and see the curtains twitch and a head in a nightcap look out then quickly withdraw.

  The next house I come to no one answers, swing on the rope though I do, and the next there's the sound of dogs barking and snarling and someone shouts through the door, ‘Clear off or I'll set them on you.’

  ‘But I need a doctor!’ I shout, driving the dogs to a frenzy, but the door stays shut.

  There's four doctors on King Street. When the last door opens I fall to my knees. An old woman's standing there in her nightdress, with a shawl and nightcap, holding a lantern and peering out as though even with the lantern she can't see.

  ‘Who is it?’ she says.

  ‘Ma'am,’ I say, desperate, ‘don't shut the door, ma'am, please.’

  She holds the lantern higher and squints down. ‘What do you want?’ she says sharpish.

  ‘A doctor, ma'am, please… I need the doctor.’

  ‘At this time?’ She starts to close the door.

  ‘No, ma'am, please – look, I can pay!’ and I hold out the coin again.

  The lantern sways and bobs. ‘What is it?’

  ‘A – a sovereign, ma'am… I think.’

  ‘A shilling more like. Be off!’

  I gape at her. A shilling? I'm thinking, and I feel a murderous rage towards Honest Bob.

  But she's closing the door again and I lurch forward and grasp the hem of her nightdress. ‘It's not for me, ma'am – please… my friend's sick, sick to death.’

  She twitches the nightdress away. ‘What ails him?’

  ‘Her, ma'am – she's not here, I couldn't bring her, she's too sick. Oh, ma'am, tell the doctor please. He has to come!’

  ‘Where is your friend?’

  At least she's not shutting the door in my face, but she's not getting the doctor either, and when I tell her where Pigeon is she steps back immediately and starts to close the door again.

  ‘No, ma'am, please… She keeps spewing and no one can stop her. She'll die if the doctor won't come!’

  She steps back, twitching her nightdress away. ‘Is it the cholera?’ she says, a note of fear in her voice.

  I haven't a clue but I nod my head vigorously. ‘That's it, ma'am, that's it – and we don't know what to do. Oh, please tell the doctor. Please!’

  ‘The doctor's out, child,’ she says, but her voice isn't unkind. ‘And if it's the cholera there's not much he can do. Keep her warm and clean and give her sips of good clean water.’

  What country's she living in? ‘There's no clean water by the river, ma'am. When will the doctor be back?’

  She sighs. ‘I don't know, child. Look, there are special hospitals for the worst cases – it's them you want, not the doctor.’

  I seize this. ‘Where, ma'am, where?’

  She gives me three addresses, one at the back of Piccadilly, one near Strangeways in Angel Meadow, and one not too far from where we are, on Balloon Street. ‘They'll give her a bed for the night,’ she says.

  I thank her several times as she shuts the door. Then I hare back towards the river.

  Just like last time, the gang's sitting on the concrete ledge outside the cellar, while Pigeon spews her guts up inside. I tell them about the hospital and there's a furious row, because Queenie doesn't think she should leave.

  ‘She'll die if we keep her here!’ I shout, hearing all the time the terrible retching and heaving from inside.

  In the end me and Digger say we'll take her, and Half-moon insists on coming along. Pigeon can't walk so we make a chair with our hands and carry her, Half-moon propping her up behind. It's hard going. Up Long Mill-gate in the other direction, turn right up Balloon Street, stopping every few yards so that Pigeon can spew. And we've gone the length of Balloon Street without seeing no hospital. Half-moon runs ahead of us, checking the alleys. Finally he says, ‘There's a warehouse in Tanner's Yard and someone's in.’

  We're out of ideas so we follow him. Sure enough there's a warehouse and a light shining beneath the door. We bang on it, loud as we can, and to my relie
f a woman comes out in a nurse's uniform, carrying a lantern.

  ‘You'll wake the patients,’ she says very sharp.

  ‘Please, ma'am – it's our friend… she needs the doctor.’

  The nurse takes one look at Pigeon, all greenish pale and lolling, and steps forward to help her in. I'm so relieved my knees are trembling and my mouth dry and Digger has to explain.

  The warehouse is a single, huge room, no windows, lined end to end with bodies sprawled on blankets – no beds. Two other nurses pass between them, carrying lanterns and jugs. There's a moaning and groaning as from souls in hell.

  ‘Mary,’ says the first nurse. ‘Make up another bed.’

  More blankets are brought. ‘Where's the doctor?’ I say.

  ‘Doctor Kay'll be here in the morning,’ she tells us. ‘You can come back then,’ and she ushers us towards the door.

  I feel a huge wrench, leaving Pigeon there, crumpled on a blanket. None of us have ever been parted before. But the door closes on us firmly.

  ‘Doctor'll be here around eight,’ she says through it, and we stand around outside not knowing what to do.

  ‘We could wait here,’ Half-moon says, but Digger says there's no use waiting, we should come back in the morning like the nurse said. Then a church clock strikes three and we realize it's already morning, and we make our way back through the deserted streets towards the river.

  We trudge on through the silent streets, and neither me nor Digger says anything. Only Half-moon trots behind, asking questions.

  ‘What'll we tell Queenie?’

  ‘What'll we tell the doctor?’

  ‘Suppose he asks us where she's come from?’

  ‘Shut up, can't you?’ Digger says because, obviously, we don't know the answer to any of these questions, and Half-moon falls silent. We carry on without speaking, conscious that Queenie'll be furious, feeling like we've given Pigeon up to the enemy. And soon we pass the bridge where, only a couple of hours earlier, we ditched Lookout's body. Seems like we've hardly had time to think about him, but now we pause on the bridge, looking down, wondering if we'll see an arm or leg.