The Whispering Road

by Livi Michael

  I can't see anything, but suddenly Digger catches my arm. ‘Look!’

  To the far side of the bridge the bank slopes less steeply and there's a kind of ledge. Above it the pavement's collapsed. It's a famous place this, for people losing their step and falling in – tramps on a winter night or young toffs who've had a few too many, they all meet their end in the grimy water. Many's the time me, Digger and Pickings have hauled a body out and rummaged through its pockets. Dredging, we call it, and we get some of our best booty that way. Now I see that Digger's pointing to a body sprawled out on the side. It's too big for Lookout and it's in a man's coat. I glance at Digger and Half-moon, and I can tell we're all thinking the same thing. If we find a wallet or a gold chain, it'll help to pay for Pigeon's medicine.

  Cautiously we go down the steps at the side of the bridge, which are covered in green slime. Even more cautiously we approach the body, in case he's not dead, only dead drunk. But he's face down and doesn't seem to be moving.

  Digger goes a little way ahead, on lookout. Me and Half-moon crouch beside the body. I hear the slap, slap of the water's edge.

  The coat's soaked, though how the water lifted him on to the ledge I don't know – there's been no rain for days and the river's shrunk. I push my hand right into the one pocket I can find. Nothing. I tug the coat back and push my hand further, beneath his ribs, looking for other pockets, and motion to Half-moon to try to turn him over.

  At the same time I notice two things. One that the body's not cold, and two as I press his ribs, there's a heartbeat…

  Next thing I know he's rearing upwards, the whites of his eyes all yellow in the moon. He turns, spewing a spout of filthy water right into my face.

  Weeks!

  6

  Killer

  Weeks's arms thrash out wildly and he's got Half-moon by the neck, and he's up and dragging him backwards, roaring in triumph.

  ‘I've got you, you little b*****d!’ he says.

  My head's whirling so fast I can't think, but I can see the knife.

  ‘Help, help!’ I roar, and I can hear Digger's footsteps – but they're running away!

  ‘Shut your noise or this one gets it,’ snarls Weeks, and he presses the blade right up against Half-moon's neck.

  I see Half-moon's eyes rolling in terror and clamp my jaws shut.

  ‘How long did you think you could hide from me?’ sneers Weeks. ‘Your little lot owe me money and I'm not a man to let that go. Now, you tell me where Queenie is or I'll string you up and use your own guts as a rope.’

  ‘We're not with Queenie –’ I begin, but he starts forward, cursing, and the knife presses into Half-moon's throat so that there's a small spurt of blood and a helpless whimper from Half-moon.

  ‘Don't kill him!’ I beg. ‘I'll tell you – I'll tell you where she is!’

  And I tell him, describing exactly where the cellar is. Because for all I know he'll make us both go with him.

  ‘Now, that's better,’ he says. ‘See how much better it is when we can talk? Queenie never understood that. But here's a message she will understand.’

  And before I can say or do anything, or even think, the knife flashes and a red line appears on Half-moon's throat. His eyes look at me surprised, then roll back and he's hanging limp and Weeks just tosses him into the river. I stare at Weeks like I've lost my mind, then I'm shouting, ‘NOOOO!’ till my lungs are bursting, and his fist whips out and he has me by the throat, shaking me till my teeth rattle.

  ‘You're the little geezer that knocked me out, aincha?’ he yells, and it feels like I'm looking my own death in the face. His other arm holding the knife lifts and he opens his mouth again, then I hear a thudding noise on his back and he stops with a look of concern on his face like he can't quite remember what he was going to say. Then he's falling forward, on top of me, but I wrench myself sideways as he lands.

  And behind him stands Digger, and Digger's knife is stuck in Weeks, right between the shoulder blades.

  We don't need telling that it's time to run. We bound back up the steps to the bridge, but just as we start to cross, a shadowy figure steps on to it on the other side. Catcher. We turn, and heading towards Weeks's body on the bank is Carver. He looks up at us and roars when he sees the knife.

  We clear the bridge just as Catcher and Carver crash into one another behind us. I'm legging it behind Digger along Chapel Street, when he swings round and pulls me into an alley.

  ‘Got – to split – up,’ he gasps. I don't want to be on my own, but I can see the sense in it. The whites of Digger's eyes flash in the dark. ‘Don't – go back,’ he says. ‘Don't – take them – to Queenie.’ I shake my head.

  The sound of heavy footsteps pounds towards us. Then, without warning, Digger launches himself at the opening just as Catcher and Carver catch up.

  They must be right on top of him and I hear one of them yell. Next moment the other's diving into the alley just as I'm diving out the other side.

  I come to a narrow footpath above the river and I run along it praying it won't suddenly collapse. Soon as I can, I dive back into another alley that winds and twists. Digger must be in Salford now, if he isn't caught.

  The alley leads to a court that leads to another alley and soon I'm out on Blackfriars Bridge. I'm heading back into Manchester, but away from the cellar where the rest of the gang are huddled. And still he's following, going faster now, catching up. Light from a gas lamp strikes his bald head and I see it's Carver.

  Over the bridge we go, back into the alleys off Market Place, where the great bins overflow and I can hide. My ribs hurt and blood's pounding in my ears. All around me there's rubbish from the market and human rubbish lying in doorways or on the street. But all I can see is Weeks drawing that thin red line across Half-moon's throat. And the sound of Lookout's body hitting the river. And my chest hurts worse than before and my breath comes tearing out of my throat painful-like. But I'm dry-eyed – not crying – because I never do.

  7

  Bin

  I spend all that night in a reeking bin, and I'm near chewed to death by rats. Gives me plenty of time for thinking, though, and all my thoughts are grim. Digger's gone, and he'll not be back in a hurry. Lookout and Half-moon are dead. Pigeon's in hospital. That leaves Queenie, Pickings, Bonnet and Ors'n'cart. I need to get a message to Queenie, but I daren't go back to the cellars. I have to hope she turns up at the hospital.

  Somehow I get some sleep, and when I wake up it's the full glare of day and the heat's simmering. I feel sick, which is hardly surprising given the stink. Very carefully I poke my head out of the bin, half expecting to find Carver's ugly face leering down. But there's no one in the alley except for a few starved cats flitting about.

  I hoist myself out of the bin. Doctor'll be here at eight, the nurse said. I haven't a clue what time it is now, except that the sun's been up a while and I can hear all the sounds of the market and, beyond that, the great mills steaming and grinding away.

  I nick some fruit from the market to keep me going, then head back up Hanging Ditch towards Balloon Street, staying in the thick of the crowd, looking around me all the time to right and left. Though I can't read the names of the streets it's like I've got a map of the whole city in my head. I know this city better than anywhere, better than the workhouse, because there I couldn't run about.

  When I reach Tanner's Yard a nurse is throwing the slops into the street. I stay well back, crouching behind a low wall, bite into my apple and wait. Church clocks strike for the half hour but I don't know which one.

  While I'm waiting I try to think what we might do next, but I'm out of ideas. I'm stiff and aching and though I'm eating the apple to keep my strength up, I'm not that hungry. Lots of things flit backwards and forward in my brain – Old Bert, Young Bert, Barney, Dog-woman, Travis. I think about the travelling fair and Annie, but they must be miles away by now. Remembering Annie makes me feel worse, like I'm being punished for selling her. Then I think about Digger and wonder if he
's safe and managing to hide. I won't think about Half-moon, or Lookout, but it's like there's a painful place in the back of my mind.

  Church clocks strike nine and I curse softly for I've missed the doctor arriving. If I'd seen him I might have tried to have a word. I shift position, wipe the sweat from my eyes. Feel like going back to sleep.

  Then I see her, Queenie, and she's on her own. I wait till she's passing then grab hold of her and pull her down.

  One thing I like about Queenie – she'll never yell. She whips round like a fury, though, two fingers jabbing towards my eyes. Just in time I duck, hissing, ‘Queenie – it's me,’ and she grabs my arm.

  ‘Dodger! What's happened?’

  I tell her everything. There's no easy way to say any of it, and her shoulders slump so that I think she might fall, but she doesn't cry. I expect her to tear strips off me for leading them all into trouble, but all she says is, ‘Right,’ and presses her hands to her eyes.

  The silence goes on for so long I get worried. ‘Queenie,’ I say. ‘What'll we do?’

  More silence. She takes her hands away from her eyes. We watch another nurse chucking out slops. Then she says,’ ‘We'll have to go to Bailey.’

  But you didn't want another codger, I think, especially not him. But I don't say anything and she goes on.

  ‘Bailey won't care that Weeks is dead – he should be pleased. We'll go to him and… and promise all our takings if he'll take us on. He'll be chief now… He's the only one that can offer protection.’

  Still I don't say anything. I know Catcher and Carver'll hunt us down if we don't get protection.

  ‘We'll have to get word to Pigeon, though,’ she says, and we both look towards the door of the warehouse.

  ‘Have you heard –?’ she says, and I shake my head. Queenie sighs. ‘Well, one of us'll have to wait here, and I need to tell the gang what's happened.’

  ‘I'll wait,’ I say and Queenie nods. Neither of us wants to go in because of the questions they'll ask. After a minute I say, ‘How'll we find Bailey?’

  She looks at me with those heavy eyes. ‘Dodger – you can't come,’ she says.

  ‘What are you saying?’ I say, catching her arm, but she only goes on looking at me sorrowful-like. I close my eyes. I know what she's saying. Bailey might take the others on but he'll never take me or Digger, not if the word's out that we were involved in Weeks's killing. Catcher and Carver'll be after us, and if I go to Bailey he'll hand me over as a gesture of goodwill. Something like that.

  I swallow hard, still not opening my eyes. I can feel Queenie's gaze on me.

  ‘I'm sorry, Dodger,’ she says, low, then she's off, slipping away at a great pace to tell the others. I watch her go, without so much as a goodbye, and I sink down again behind the wall. My head feels hot and cold by turns and I rest it against the brick. I try to think what it might mean, being without the gang. It means I'm not Dodger any more. I can't be Dodger without Digger and Pickings and Ors'n'cart and the others.

  I don't know where I'll go or what to do. It's one thing living on the streets with the Little Angels, and another trying to get by without them, hunted and alone. I don't hate Queenie, for I know what she's thinking. While I'm with them I'm a danger to them all.

  Somehow or other I fall into a sleep, but it's a sleep in which lots of voices are jumbled up in my head. Queenie's voice and Honest Bob's, and my mother's. I wake up with a start when my mother says, But where's your sister, Joe – where's Annie?

  I've got a raging thirst and it takes me a minute to work out where I am. Then I hear a man's voice saying, ‘That's all I can do for now, I'll be back at two,’ and I raise my head above the wall.

  It's a young, fresh-faced man, his shirtsleeves rolled up past his elbows. And the nurse with him is saying, ‘But, Doctor, are you sure I shouldn't bleed him?’

  He's the doctor then. Somehow I thought all doctors were grey and fat.

  Almost before I know what I'm doing, I'm standing up. There's two thoughts in my head, Pigeon and water, though water comes first. I lumber towards them and my legs feel like wool, and they look at me in surprise. The fresh-faced man looks like he'd normally be smiling, but there's a frown between his eyes. I start to speak, but my tongue's all thick and swollen.

  ‘Pigeon –’ I say, and the frown deepens.

  ‘What's that?’ he asks, and I try to explain, but even I can hear I'm not making any sense. I'm nearly up to them now, wobbling like a newborn calf.

  ‘What is it, boy?’ he says, but not unkindly, and I open my mouth for one last effort. ‘Water,’ I say, and sink down into the darkness where his feet should be.

  8

  Bath

  When I open my eyes, there's a china bowl staring back at me. I say staring, because the front of it's carved into a head, like the head of a cherub with wings behind. Something white's fluttering in the background. Nah, I think, and shut them again.

  I keep them closed for a long time. Sometimes I hear voices, speaking low. I keep my eyes closed so whoever it is thinks I'm asleep, but I still can't catch what they're saying. Everything around me feels soft, softer than anything I've felt before. When I open them again there's that painted cherub, leering back.

  Have I died and gone to heaven? No one told me the angels were made out of pot. And whenever anyone told us about heaven in the workhouse it seemed clear that none of us were going.

  There's footsteps and I shut my eyes again quick. A woman's voice says, ‘I only hope the master knows what he's doing,’ quite close to my head. Then she sets something down and moves off.

  When the room's quiet I shift my head and open my eyes again. This time I'm looking at a window. It's partly open and the fluttering thing's curtains, white as snow. The light hurts my eyes and when I close them there's an orange square burning my eyelids.

  I can't work any of this out, so I give up trying and go back to sleep.

  My dreams are jumbled, full of Queenie and Digger and Annie. Half-moon's there and when I see him I feel a gladness that's almost a pain, but I can't remember why. And somewhere in the background, Dog-woman's prowling.

  Half-moon says, ‘Can you sit up?’ and when I don't answer he says it again. I open my eyes and see grey trousers and a green waistcoat. Not Half-moon's gear. Whoever it is has his hands behind my shoulders propping me up. I see a face bending down, and it's a face I've seen before, young, with a crease between the eyebrows. Something stirs in my memory and instinctively I cover my face.

  ‘Put your hands down,’ he says, and, ‘Open your mouth.’

  I'm too weak to do anything other than what he says. He peers into my mouth like he's looking for my lunch. You're out of luck there, I think, realizing how hungry I am. Then he sticks something cold on to my chest and listens. What's he listening for?

  ‘That's a lot better,’ he says, letting me go so that I sink back into the softness of what I now realize is bed. Never slept in one before, or at least not one like this. I sink down into it, and further down, like it might close above my head.

  ‘Do you know where you are, boy?’ he asks, and I shake my head. ‘This is the house of Sheridan Mosley, of Mosley Street. A very kind gentleman who's taken you in.’

  The name sounds important, as if I should know it, but I don't. The voice is coming back to me though – a pleasant voice though he talks funny. The doctor, I think and suddenly I can see the warehouse where we took Pigeon. It hurts to think about it, so I stop thinking and close my eyes.

  When I open them again the doctor's gone but a woman's there. A very stout woman, nearly as broad as tall, grey curls slipping out from her cap.

  ‘You're alive, I see,’ she says, leaning over me to plump up my pillow. Well I knew that much, but there's a lot more I don't know. Next thing, though, she's pulling at the neck of the gown thing I've got on and scrubbing at me with something rough and wet.

  ‘Eh – stop that!’ I say, batting at her feebly.

  ‘Oh, you've got a tongue in your h
ead, have you?’ she says. She doesn't stop scrubbing, though, round my face and ears. I cough and spit, but she carries on, muttering to herself.

  ‘Never seen so much filth in all my days,’ she says, scouring my neck. ‘Look – you've stained the pillows. Mr Mosley's best linen!’ She picks up the china bowl. ‘Look at the state of that water!’ she says, showing me a grimy pool before taking it away.

  Shouldn't've washed me then, I think of saying, but she's already gone. I never did hold much with all this washing. The workhouse nurse used to say, when she'd delivered a baby, They get washed when they're born, and when they die, and that's good enough for them, and that's the one thing we ever agreed on. If we were meant to get wet, we'd have scales.

  Nothing happens for ages after that. I go back to sleep and in my sleep it seems I can sense someone bending over me, not doing anything, just breathing. Even with my eyes shut I can feel the gaze on my face. I don't like it and I twist away, but I don't wake up.

  Next thing I know, food's coming. Hurrah! I think, trying to sit up and failing. I can hear the rattle of wheels outside the door and the smell of something delicious wafts in. Then the maid comes in. She's very young – not much older than me – and ugly, with a pockmarked face, but she smiles at me as she pushes the trolley near and I think she's probably all right.

  ‘Can you sit up?’ she says, and I try but I still can't manage. She lifts the lid off a bowl and the smell of rabbit wafts up, reminding me painfully of Travis. It's soup, though, and I can see her thinking it'll end up all over Mr Mosley's best linen.

  ‘I'll just go and get someone,’ she says and disappears, calling, ‘Mr Bung?’ down the stairs. I strain towards that soup, cursing my own weakness.

  There's heavy footsteps and the maid reappears with a jowly man, heavy-lidded eyes and a hairline that's retreating towards the top of his skull. He tramps over without words, looking very ill-pleased about it, and hoists me up. The little maid feeds me herself from a silver spoon, smiling and winking encouragement each time I manage to swallow.