by White, Gwynn
6
Derek strode through the Southampton Spaceport market, keeping an eye out for trouble. And the slight figure of a dark-blond pickpocket. He found the former, of course—in the first fifteen minutes of his shift he’d already broke up a fistfight and rousted a drunk slumped half-asleep in a doorway—but there was no sign of the latter.
He supposed it was for the best. If he caught Diana at her trade, he’d have to take her in. Down here at the docks, a policeman couldn’t get a reputation for being soft.
“Stop! Thief!” The call made him whirl, and he sucked in his breath as he saw someone dart through the crowd.
The culprit was too short and thin-faced to be Diana. Derek let the air out of his lungs in whoosh and sprinted after the boy. Just as the lad was about to dash down the mouth of a stinking alley, Derek caught him by the collar.
He grabbed the boy’s arm for good measure and turned him about.
“Let me go,” the boy said, then stilled as he took in Derek’s uniform. A flash of fear crossed his face, quickly replaced by a piteous expression.
“Turn out your pockets,” Derek said.
“Please, sir—I’ve done nothing wrong.” The boy was a good actor, summoning the touch of a quaver to his voice. But Derek wasn’t fooled.
“Now,” he said, not loosening his grip.
The lad heaved a sigh and pulled his trouser pockets inside-out. As Derek suspected, there was nothing inside.
“Y’see, sir? Now may I go?” the boy asked.
“Off with the coat,” Derek said.
The boy slid one arm out of his frayed sleeve. Before he could peel out of the garment and bolt, Derek transferred his grip to the boy’s shoulder His captive gulped, then slowly finished removing the coat.
Two coins pinged onto the cobblestones, along with a half-eaten currant bun. Derek snagged the coat and gave it a shake. Another coin fell out, and an apple that rolled away into the mucky gutter beside the street.
“Where’d they come from?” Derek asked mildly.
He was sorry to see, up close, that the boy was quite young; a lad of about ten, if he had to guess. Two scabbed-over cuts welted the boy’s cheek, with a dark bruise beneath. Another set of bruises showed on his wrist, where someone had grabbed him roughly.
“I found ‘em,” the boy said, his gaze on the bruised apple lying in a pool of slime.
Another good thing tossed into the street to become trash. Derek pushed down the pity rising in him. He knew when he signed up for the force the job it wouldn’t be easy.
“I have to take you in,” Derek said. “Stealing’s a criminal offense.”
The boy bit his lip and looked on the verge of tears—genuine this time.
“If there’s no proof, you can’t keep me,” he said.
Still holding him by the shoulder, Derek bent and scooped up the coins. “We can hold you for a full day. If no charges are brought during that time, then we’ll have to release you. What’s your name?”
“Tipper.” The boy swallowed. “Could I have my bun?”
At Derek’s nod, he snatched up the bread, then brushed it off against his trousers and took a bite. Despite the fact that it was evidence, Derek let the boy gobble it down. Then, still holding firmly to his captive, Derek towed him back into the marketplace.
The coins the boy had pilfered probably couldn’t be traced at this point, but the apple could only have come from one place.
Mrs. Jones stood in front of her fruit and vegetable cart, arms crossed, eyes narrowed as Derek hauled his captive up.
“Have you seen this boy before?” Derek asked. At his side, Tipper hung his head low.
“Aye.” Mrs. Jones’s voice was hard. “He’s nicked from me more than once, the thief. Couldn’t catch him ‘til now.”
Derek didn’t bother mentioning that he was the one who’d caught the boy, not Mrs. Jones.
“Do you want to press charges?” he asked her.
“And how! Lock him up for good. One less streetrat nibbling away at my profits.”
Tipper shivered. No doubt the boy was aware his fate would be years of indentured servitude, followed by transportation once he came of age. Derek pushed away another unwelcome twinge of sympathy.
“Come down to the station to fill out the forms,” he said to Mrs. Jones. “We’ll set a trial date.”
The boy was clearly guilty, and there would be no one to speak on his behalf, but the motions of justice would be carried out. Even if the conclusion was foregone.
“I’ll just do that,” Mrs. Jones said, jamming her rumpled hat more securely atop her head. “Soon as I close up for the day.”
“I’ll look for you later,” Derek said. “Good day, ma’am.”
He towed the boy through the marketplace. Though no one stared outright, he could sense the vendors’ satisfaction at seeing a thief in custody, the rustle of concern as other street urchins caught wind of the arrest.
He wondered if word would get back to Diana, and if she knew the boy.
Southampton Port Station was small and dingy, with two holding cells. One already held a drunk and disorderly, sleeping off his bender. Derek put the boy in the other cell, which didn’t smell quite so strongly of vomit.
Tipper looked small and scared as he sat on the thin cot, hugging his legs. There were no words of comfort Derek could give. He couldn’t guess at the many possibilities that had put the boy out on the streets at a young age—but the law was the law. And woe to anyone who fell afoul of it.
Swallowing back bitter memories, Derek turned away from the dank cell, trying to ignore the tear he’d seen shining on Tipper’s cheek.
* * *
“He what?” Diana stared at the grubby girl who’d brought her the information that Tipper had been caught stealing that very afternoon.
“Taken.” The girl’s voice was so soft, Diana had to lean close to hear it.
“Are you sure it was Tipper?” she asked. Her lungs clenched tight. Not Tipper, please.
The girl nodded, her expression wary behind her matted tangle of hair. “Saw ‘im grabbed wif me own eyes.”
“Thank you for bringing me the news.” Terrible as it was.
Even as her heart wailed with silent despair, Diana dug into her purse and pulled out a thin coin to give the girl. Information was valuable, and she had left her begging spot in order to bring Diana word. One coin probably wouldn’t make up for the lost income, but it would help.
The girl snatched it from her hand then darted away—almost more feral creature than child.
As soon as she was out of sight, Diana let out a hollow breath and slumped against the sooty brick wall at her back.
Tipper, in jail.
Her throat closed with grief at what that meant. Her best—her only—friend on the street, gone.
No.
She slowly closed her hands into fists. There had to be some way to save him, and she would find it. She must.
7
It was late, the sky salted with stars, when Mrs. Jones finally stepped into the station. Derek’s shift had ended two hours earlier, but something had made him stay. He’d ignored Cribbs’s look and muttered comment that the new constable was soft.
Maybe so. But when Derek’s gut told him to do something, he did it. He’d learned that lesson the hard way.
Silently, he’d handed Tipper a packet of chips from the pub, then took his own supper and pint of ale to the desk in the corner. The secretary had left a tablet waiting, the forms for Mrs. Jones to sign at the ready.
As evening fell, Derek turned up the gaslights—no fancy lightstrips for the Southampton Port Station. That kind of tech was reserved for the best parts of town, where such things wouldn’t be stolen and resold on the gray market the moment a man’s back was turned.
Finally, when he was considering giving it up and going back to his small flat, Mrs. Jones opened the featureless metal door and stumped over the threshold. She had a baleful glint in her eye as she glanced at th
e cell holding Tipper. He sat in dejected pose, head bowed over his folded arms.
“Good evening, Mrs. Jones.” Derek rose. “Are you ready—”
“Nay.” She spit the word out. “I’m dropping the charges.” She clearly wasn’t happy about it.
Tipper stiffened and carefully raised his head. Derek could see the wild light of hope kindling in his eyes. Steady now, he wanted to tell the boy. Don’t wish for too much, or the world will break your heart.
“Are you, now?” he asked Mrs. Jones, keeping his voice mild. “Are you quite sure?”
“Not a bit of it.” She made a sour face. “But I’m dropping them, all the same.”
Tipper rose and went to the front of the cell, his small, pale fingers wrapping around the metal bars.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice wavering.
“’Tisn’t kindness, I’ll have you know.” Mrs. Jones made a fist and shook it at him. “If I see you anywhere near me cart again…”
“You won’t never,” he said. “I swear it.”
Derek crossed his arms, thoughts circling rapidly through his head. What had made Mrs. Jones change her mind?
“Does this have anything to do with the gangs?” he asked. “Breggy?”
“Pah!” She spit on the floor.
It was none too clean to begin with, but Derek still sent a sidelong glance at the splotch of saliva.
“I’d never truck with scum like him,” she said. “Are we done here?”
Derek nodded. He couldn’t force Mrs. Jones to stay at the station, no matter the questions buzzing through him.
“Well, let ‘im out.” She scowled at the cell.
Derek set his palm to the lock. It hummed, scanning his prints, then the cell door clicked open. Tipper stood there, poised for flight, yet seeming unsure where he was flying to. It could easily enough be from the pan into the fire.
“Watch yourself,” Derek said.
Relief on Tipper’s behalf pooled in his belly—but it didn’t mean the boy wouldn’t land in jail again within the fortnight. On the streets, any reprieve was only temporary.
“It’s not a trick?” Tipper asked, sending a glance to the station door.
Derek wondered the same thing. Was the gold-toothed gang leader waiting just outside, ready to indenture the boy into an endless servitude?
“I’ll escort you out,” Derek said, setting his hand on his taserclub.
“Git on with you.” Mrs. Jones jerked her head at Tipper. “Let’s be done with this.”
She marched for the door, Tipper a small shadow behind her. Derek followed, his senses on high alert.
The night was clammy, the noxious odors in the air more pronounced without the distraction of daylight. Sewage, rot, the salt-tinged muck of ebb tide. He paused in the shadows of the station’s doorway and scanned the street. No gang members seemed to be waiting in the stinking night.
Mrs. Jones grabbed Tipper’s thin shoulder and hauled him forward into the fitful glow of the nearest gas streetlamp. Eyes narrowing, Derek didn’t step out of his concealment.
A figure dressed to blend with the dark detached itself from the mouth of a nearby alleyway. Despite the trousers and concealing hat, Derek recognized the form immediately: Diana.
She cocked her head, and Mrs. Jones let go of Tipper’s shoulder. The boy scampered toward Diana, a grin spreading across his face.
“It’s done,” Mrs. Jones said.
“Thank you.” Diana held out a purse.
The other woman snatched it from her hand. “Don’t think you can short me, streetrat. I can always finger your friend again—this time for permanent.”
“It’s all there,” Diana said, her voice cold. “Every shilling.”
With a snort of contempt, Mrs. Jones shoved the purse into a pocket deep in her skirts. She gave Tipper a venomous look, then turned on her heel and stalked away.
“Oh, Di.” Tipper flung his arms about Diana’s waist.
She patted his back. Despite her smile, her expression was strained. Derek wondered how much had been in that purse, and just how she’d gotten it.
He moved silently out of the doorway, and Diana’s head jerked up. She tensed for flight, but stilled when she saw his face.
“Bribery is also a criminal offense,” he said calmly.
Tipper jumped back at the sound of his voice. “C’mon, Di,” he whispered sharply. “Run!”
She took his hand in a reassuring grip, but her gaze met Derek’s.
“I did what I had to,” she said.
The sincerity in her eyes made his stomach do an odd little flip. How could this girl living on the streets have such a depth of character? He hated what he was about to do—but he was a sworn officer of the law.
“So must I,” he said. “Come into the station.”
“No,” Tipper said, the edge of panic in his voice.
“Let Tipper go without a fuss,” Diana said, “and I’ll come. Shh, Tip, it’s all right. He can’t keep me.”
It was debatable, but, curse the girl, she’d read Derek’s intent well enough. He wasn’t going to lock her up.
“I’m coming, too,” the boy said bravely, though his face was pale.
The two marched forward like prisoners going to transportation. They could have run, of course, and there was little Derek could have done about that. But the unlikely connection between himself and Diana held. It was not trust, not quite. More just a sense that, beyond the roles of constable and streetrat, they had recognized one another as human.
Humanity. A liability, perhaps, here in the Southampton slums, but in the wider world, he could not help but be glad of it.
Derek showed them to his desk, and resisted the urge to pull out a chair for Diana. Probably Tipper knew her true gender, but there was no need to underscore it.
“Join me in a quick snack?” he asked, pulling out a few of the ration bars he kept in a drawer, in case of skipped meals.
Tipper, of course, gladly grabbed one. Diana, after a quick glance at Derek’s face, took another. Instead of ripping the wrapper off and devouring it, as her friend was, she slipped it into a hidden pocket, then folded her hands in front of her.
“Good of you to rescue Tipper,” Derek said. “I don’t imagine it was cheap.”
A pained look crossed her face, and she swallowed. “It wasn’t so bad.”
And the moon was made of green cheese.
“Am I going to hear about a burglary, tomorrow morning?” he asked mildly.
“No.” Again, that clear-eyed gaze. “The money came from a bit I’d put by.”
Tipper gasped and turned toward her. “No, Di! That was for your passage out.”
She gave him a shaky smile. “I still have plenty left.”
Tipper blinked at her. Derek wasn’t sure if the boy heard the lie in her voice, but he certainly did. Buying Tipper’s freedom had taken everything Diana had.
“Are you going to arrest me for bribing Mrs. Jones?” she asked.
“No,” Derek said. “I could, of course, but I’ll settle for information instead.”
She pressed her lips together, then gave a quick nod. “What is it?”
“Breggy.”
At the gangrunner’s name, Tipper lifted an unconscious hand to the bruises on his face. So, these two were in trouble with the gangs. Made sense. Free agents on the street were dangerous to a gangrunner’s control.
“He’s been leader since last summer,” Diana said.
Easy enough to guess what had happened to the last one, but Derek asked anyway. “And the leader before him?”
She lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “Found washed up on the riverbank. Too soft, I suppose. He never recruited the streetrats hard as Breggy does.”
“Aye,” Tipper said. “We were right enough before the change-over. Now he’s raised the tithe, and—”
Diana jabbed the boy with her elbow. “None of the copper’s business, Tip.”
Of course it was Derek’s business—eve
rything that happened in the underbelly of Southampton was. He filed the information away to mull over later, but it was evidence enough that Diana and her young friend were in trouble, and steering straight for more.
“The Quakers have a school in London,” he said. “Open to anyone, and it’s free.”
Diana frowned, a bitter twist to her lips. “London’s worse than here.”
“’Sides, we have no way to get there,” Tipper said.
“I’d pay your way.” Derek’s wages weren’t substantial, but he could afford two train tickets to the city.
A streak of light speared the sky, followed by the roar of takeoff as another ship blasted off from the spaceport, straining to escape gravity. All three of them watched it go, until its glow was swallowed up by the rest of the night.
“We’re going off-planet,” Tipper said, bravado in his voice—as though if he spoke the words strongly enough, they would come true.
Diana set a hand on his shoulder, but said nothing.
“It’s not safe for you here.” Derek met her gaze. “You’d best be gone soon, the both of you.”
The thought caused an odd little pang in his heart, but he ignored it.
“Maybe so.” Her voice was soft. She glanced up at the stars, just a brief look, as if the answers were up there, somewhere.
And maybe they were—but he didn’t know if either of them would ever get that far.
He cleared his throat. “Where’s Breggy’s den, then?”
“You can’t go there.” Tipper sounded aghast.
Diana nudged him again. “He won’t, Tip. It’s just information. The price of our freedom, remember?”
The boy subsided, and Diana took a breath.
“He’s in the Wool House,” she said.
Of course. The old stone building was near enough to a fortress. It was located perfectly for a gangrunner’s needs, in the heart of the slums next to the quay.
“Can we go now?” Tipper asked, rocking up onto his toes, then back.
Diana met Derek’s eyes and inclined her head, asking the same. In truth, he had no reason to keep them any longer.