by Jane Kerr
Boy hesitated. It made no sense at all, but every instinct screamed that this was a golden opportunity. So how could he twist it to his advantage?
“Just put your arm in the air and wave. He’ll see you up there.” Red Waistcoat’s voice was growing more desperate as he got closer. Crowds still blocked his path. “Come on! COME ON!”
But Boy didn’t wave. He did something much better. Bringing his fingers to his lips, he whistled. Loud, clear, and shrill. The note soared over the heads of the spectators. They turned in one movement as though pulled by a single string. Boy made sure everyone was looking—and then he lifted his arm.
“Well, well! It seems we’ve a late bidder.” Peering across, Mr. Trott pointed with his hammer. “Five hundred and eighty … there on the column.”
“But he can’t.”
“He’s just a child!”
The shouts from the front row were loud enough for Boy to hear. He dropped his arm quickly. What had he done? After a lifetime of trying to stay out of sight, he was caught center stage. And there was no one to blame but himself.
“Of course he can.” Red Waistcoat had reached the column. He leant against the stone base, breathless but triumphant. “The lad’s with me. WITH ME!”
But Boy knew it was never going to be that easy. Nothing ever was. Sure enough, Mr. Albright was already pushing through the crowd, his gray whiskers quivering.
“This is outrageous, Mr. Trott. You can’t go along with it! I was invited on the understanding that this would be a fair sale among gentlemen. Not children. And certainly not grubby street urchins.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Albright, but as long as there’s money to back up the bid I have to accept it.” The auctioneer lifted his voice. “Mr. Jameson, if the boy’s with you, can I be assured you have the funds?”
“I’m good for five hundred and eighty guineas. And more besides that.”
“Then let’s finish this now.” Mr. Albright’s gold buttons rose on his chest. “I’ll give you six hundred and twenty. But that’s my final offer. You won’t get a better one.”
Faces turned expectantly. The sideshow wasn’t over yet. Boy looked down at Red Waistcoat. Even at this distance, he could see a gleam in the man’s eye.
“What say we go higher, lad? About seven hundred should do it.”
Never in his whole life had Boy imagined being in reach of so much money. It was just possible that seven hundred guineas could buy all the food in the city. He put his fingers to his lips and whistled.
“Seven hundred!” Red Waistcoat shouted. “SEVEN HUNDRED GUINEAS!”
Boy waved again and the crowd roared. For several moments, nothing else could be heard. Not even Mr. Albright’s protests.
“It looks as though the boy’s bought himself an elephant!” Mr. Trott brought his hammer crashing down. “Sold for seven hundred guineas to the Belle Vue Zoological Gardens in Manchester, owned by Mr. James Jameson.”
For one glorious moment, Boy actually believed Maharajah was his. It was as good as dipping for a sixpence and finding a sovereign instead. Maybe it was even better than that. And then he remembered. This wasn’t his victory. It wasn’t even his fight. And it certainly wasn’t his money.
On the ground below, Mr. Jameson was bouncing up and down on short legs like an excited toad, his red waistcoat bloated with pride. “I beat that snobby, stuck-up buffoon. I beat him fair and square.”
The crowd cheered again, so loudly that at first only Boy noticed Maharajah lumbering towards them. Then people were forced to shuffle aside. Boy envied them. If he had been on solid ground, he would have run until his legs gave out.
But he could only watch as Maharajah stopped in front of him. Gold eyes, bright as candle flames, stared back, then blinked.
Suddenly, the elephant swung his trunk.
Boy jerked away, then cursed his own stupidity. There was nothing behind him but air. He was going to fall, straight on to the cold, hard earth. In that terrifying half second, Boy wondered if it would be easier just to let it happen.
He never found out.
A tight grip stopped his dive backwards. Maharajah’s trunk curled around his wrist, warm and rough. Boy’s heartbeat slowed. The clever, gold eyes blinked again, and when they opened, he saw himself reflected back. A scrawny boy in stolen clothes. For a moment it was just the two of them.
“My good Lord, will you look at that! The lad and the elephant. They’re shaking hands.”
And later Boy realized that this was how it all began.
Cold sank into his bones and fear made him even colder. The Wormwell auction might be over, but Boy was still trapped on top of the stone pillar. Any excitement at winning the bidding war for Maharajah had long since disappeared.
On the ground, a collection of newspapermen fired questions at Mr. Jameson.
“Gentlemen, you want to know why I bought him? Well, let me tell you this. Maharajah’s me crown jewel. We’re already the biggest and best in Manchester. Now we’re goin’ to have them flocking to Belle Vue. They’ll be comin’ from all over the north. From the whole of the country. The whole of the empire.” He waved his arms expansively.
Boy didn’t care about Belle Vue or about Mr. Jameson’s plans. He just wanted to get down, but there wasn’t a chance of escape. The crowds were fading away, and now the pavilion was almost empty. Within an hour, even the reporters had gone home. And still, Crimple remained on guard.
The keeper might as well be a brick wall. He had the muscles of a bare-knuckle boxer and the face of a man who had seen everything, and then hit it. Hard. Boy wasn’t going to be able to get past him, even if he had the courage to jump. His best hope was to hold out until he was back on solid ground.
But when Boy was finally lifted down, freedom seemed as far away as London. Crimple held his neck with one hand and his arms with the other. He was able to move his legs but only in the direction he was told to go. As they followed Mr. Jameson out of the pavilion, nerves made his steps clumsy.
“… Arthur Albright didn’t know what hit him. He wanted that elephant because he knows what a big attraction he is.” Mr. Jameson was managing to talk and drag on a cigar at the same time. “But I’ve got him. And I’m goin’ to make Maharajah more famous than the Queen herself. You’ll see. I’ve got plans.”
Suddenly, he lowered his cigar, his face as calculating as a housewife on a budget. It looked as though a decision had been made. Boy’s heart thumped faster. He gave an experimental wriggle, trying to loosen Crimple’s hold. Then an ankle kick. No luck.
Was he being taken to the magistrates? Terror turned his breath into quick, shallow gulps. The likelihood was probably a flogging, then reform school. Or maybe hard labor in prison. Nobody survived that. Nobody he knew anyway.
Boy fought again, harder this time. But his arms were pulled tightly behind his back and pain spiked through his shoulders. He groaned but the grip barely loosened. Frustrated, he did the only thing he could. Twisting sharply, he spat in Crimple’s face. Immediately, the keeper drew back a fist and Boy flinched at the fury in his eyes. Perhaps it hadn’t been his best idea.
“Oi. Stop that!” Mr. Jameson was frowning. “Stop! There’s no need for it, lad. We’re all friends now. You helped me, I’ll help you. Never let it be said that James Jameson didn’t show a little Christian charity to his fellow man, and you’ve done me a good turn here.”
His words were as solemn as a vow, and Boy didn’t trust him for a moment. No one gave away anything for nothing. He let his face fill with contempt.
It didn’t seem to bother Mr. Jameson. In fact, just the opposite. He was chuckling as they stepped outside the pavilion. Boy couldn’t understand it. Perhaps he was in the hands of a murderer and his mad accomplice. Or one of those do-gooders who collected orphans like trophies. He didn’t know which idea was worse.
“Come on, lad. I’ll give you a ride.” Mr. Jameson signaled for a nearby hansom cab. “Those reporters couldn’t stop asking about you. And it’s got me thinkin’ … if
we play this right, it might work out well for the both of us.” He opened the door of the carriage. “In you get.”
Boy was pushed inside with enough force to knock him off-balance. Hastily, he scrambled upright, but the door was already closing. Once again, he was trapped.
He leant against the cab window and tried to picture Maharajah as he’d first seen him at the auction. Strong, proud, powerful. At that moment, Boy would have given anything for the same confidence. But he was fairly certain all he had left was fear. Exactly how had he managed to jump from one catastrophe straight into another?
And if you fail, just imagine what I will do to you.
And if you fail …
… if you fail …
He forced the words away.
Outside, Mr. Jameson was shouting orders to Crimple. “Take care of the elephant, and start packin’ up the other animals. I want everyone ready to leave the day after tomorrow. Look lively now!”
There was little space left in the cab once Mr. Jameson climbed on board. His body was almost as wide as it was squat, and in the shadows, his red waistcoat was the only splash of color. The resemblance to a toad was even more obvious.
“So where is it that you live, lad?”
Boy crouched into the far corner, keeping himself as small as his lanky limbs allowed. It was one of the first lessons he had learnt around strangers: Don’t ever be a target.
“You don’t say much, do you? What’s your name?”
Boy lowered his chin and said nothing. Not because it was a secret but because he didn’t know. He’d been called Boy for as long as he could remember. There had been other crueler, ruder names, but Boy was the only one he would answer to. He’d forgotten anything else.
“Fine. We’ll play this your way. It don’t make any difference to me.” Mr. Jameson sat back and began hunting through his waistcoat pockets. “Now where did I put me … ?”
Boy pulled away so violently that he hit the back wall and rocked the cab. What was the menagerist looking for? A switchblade? A cudgel? Inside, fear formed a hard ball in his gut. He tensed, already anticipating the pain.
“Easy, lad. Easy.” Mr. Jameson had stopped searching. “I’m not goin’ to do you any harm. Honest.” Slowly, he reached inside his jacket and brought out another cigar.
Boy felt an embarrassed flush rise up from his neck. He might be frightened, but he didn’t want anyone else to know it. He eased back down onto the seat.
“Let’s see now … where were we?” Mr. Jameson lit the cigar and threw the burnt match out of the window. Boy could hardly see his face through the smoke. The taste stung the back of his throat.
“Ah, yes. A name. You’ve gotta have a name. I’ve a mind to call you Daniel after me dad, and me grandad before him. Daniel George Jameson. It’s a good, honest Christian name. You’ve got a look of a Danny about you.”
He paused, perhaps expecting some sort of response. Boy stayed silent, but his heart thumped so loudly in his chest that he wondered if Mr. Jameson could hear it.
“Very well then … you point to where we’ve to go. I’d like to meet your people. I’ve got plans for you. Big plans.”
Mr. Jameson blew out another stream of smoke and rapped on the cab roof. “Make towards Cowgate,” he shouted to the driver. “I’m sure the lad’ll let us know when we get near.”
As they moved along the streets, Boy watched the gaslights flicker through the carriage window. Gradually, the houses became more ramshackle, and the neighborhoods far less respectable.
Mr. Jameson had correctly guessed where Boy lived. It wasn’t hard. Cowgate was home to Edinburgh’s poorest families. Even here, on the outskirts, the poverty was obvious. Soon, the lighting stopped altogether and the cab slowed over deep ruts in the road.
At last, Boy saw his chance.
Shielded by cigar smoke, he fumbled for the handle, found it, then shouldered open the carriage door. It flew wide and he jumped.
“Hey, what you doin’? Come here, lad …”
But Boy didn’t look back. Landing with knees bent, he straightened and sprinted into the gloom. No one followed. He told himself he was relieved.
Weaving through the web of alleys, Boy headed towards the place he currently called home. It was lucky the route was so familiar. The tall tenements were wedged so close together that little light filtered through, even in daytime. Rows of broken windows were either boarded up or patched with rags. Smoke stained everything black. And tonight, the darkness was as thick as porridge.
As he ran, Boy sidestepped piles of rotting waste and foul puddles. Once, the smell would have set his stomach rolling, but now he barely noticed. Even the sound of rats scurrying along the gutters didn’t bother him anymore.
At last, he reached the ruins of the boarding house. This time he checked carefully. No one was waiting beneath the shadowed arches. Maybe he had a little more time before Scatcherd came after him. Besides, inside this building was everything he owned.
Stooping, Boy lifted a broken door panel and wriggled through the gap. The room wasn’t big, and it was already full to bursting.
In one corner, several children were practicing picking the pockets of an old coat. A bell attached to the sleeve rang whenever they were clumsy, which seemed to be often, as far as Boy could hear.
Watching them was a well-dressed woman, as neat and respectable as a vicar’s wife. Her name was Mrs. Sweets, although sometimes Boy heard her answer to Mary Cutpurse. Few would have guessed she was a thief. Her fine clothes meant she could mix with Edinburgh’s wealthy housewives while stealing from their bags and purses.
Nearby, the Fergus brothers were sorting through a pile of pennies, handkerchiefs, and cheap jewelry. They worked the same streets as Boy. Two would pretend to fight while the youngest grabbed whatever he could reach from those who stopped to watch.
They were good at what they did, but not as good as Boy. It was why he preferred to work alone. And, until today, he’d never come close to being caught.
Head down, Boy edged around the room. He’d only just reached the farthest, darkest corner when the door crashed open. The noise fell like a blanket, muffling any other sound. His stomach seized—he’d been wrong. He’d hardly had any time at all.
“Good evening.” Scatcherd’s outline filled the doorway.
Heart pounding, Boy eased back into the corner. He was almost sure the King couldn’t see him, but that didn’t stop the panic. It weighed down heavily against his chest. He had to disappear.
Slowly, Boy slid sideways along the wall. One step, then another. And all the time, he stayed aware of Scatcherd. The King had already reached the middle of the room, two of his men stood on guard at either shoulder.
“The boy. Where is he?”
The only response was a nervous cough and a shuffling of feet. Boy knew it wasn’t loyalty that stopped people answering, but fear. No one was ever sure what Scatcherd wanted to hear. At least, it gave him a little more time.
He shifted a fraction farther and stretched out a hand. His fingers hooked around a hole in the brickwork. Finally. Quickly, he ducked inside the crumbling fireplace. Darkness closed around him. For now, he was safe.
“Well? Is he here?”
Boy heard Scatcherd pivot on his heels. Then footsteps moved closer. And closer. Suddenly, a shadow blocked the light, and Boy hugged his knees more tightly against his chest. His heart raced against his ribs.
He needn’t have worried. Scatcherd was facing out towards the room, his back against the chimney wall. He appeared to have no idea that Boy was behind him—barely an arm’s length away.
“Anyone have an answer for me?”
“He was here just before. I don’t know where he’s gone now.” Mrs. Sweets’s voice had started strong, but by the end of the sentence it was shaking.
“I see.” Scatcherd’s boots lifted and shifted on the empty hearth. He was so close that Boy could have touched the polished leather. “I hope no one minds if I make certain. Just
in case.”
There were a few moments of silence, and Boy imagined Scatcherd signaling orders to his men. Then lantern lights swung around the crowded room. Boy could just see their yellow flicker, but in the hollow of the fireplace, he stayed quiet. The smell of old smoke and ashes filled his lungs.
“He’s not here, boss.”
“Nothing over this side either.”
“How disappointing.” Scatcherd released a breath much like the first hiss of a boiling kettle, and a boot slammed against the bricks. Boy was sure he felt the shudder. “Perhaps, when he returns, one of you could tell him the King expects a visit.”
Abruptly, Scatcherd pushed away, and Boy counted several tracks of footsteps cross the floor before fading into the night. A burst of noise signaled that the visitors had gone. And still Boy didn’t move. He didn’t dare.
He wasn’t sure how long he waited, but it was enough time for the room to fall quiet. People had either settled down to sleep or headed out to try their luck in Cowgate.
Cautiously, he twisted until he faced the back wall of the fireplace. He didn’t need lamplight because he had done this many times before. Counting from the bottom, he slid his fingers across the bricks. Five up. Three across. One brick sat a little proud of the others. Working carefully, he eased it out and felt into the gap behind.
The pennies were still there. All three of them. So was the silver sixpence. And the scrap of dirty silk that had once been a handkerchief. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had. Quickly, he wrapped the coins in the silk and stuffed the bundle into his trouser pocket before slotting the brick back into place.
“So this is where you’re hiding!”
Startled, Boy jerked. A face was peering down at him, but it was too dark to see clearly. A match flared, and he almost choked on the relief. It was Robbie, the youngest of the Fergus brothers. “I reckon you can come out now. It’s as safe as it’s ever goin’ to be.”
Boy would have preferred to stay where he was, but he couldn’t hide forever. Wriggling on to hands and knees, he crawled forwards. Robbie shifted to give him space. Side by side, they sat with their backs to the chimney; it was where Scatcherd had stood just a little earlier.