The Rat-Catcher's Daughter

by KJ Charles

  “Shh,” Templeton said, with enraging calm. “Kammy’s men, you’re sure? Did they say where they were going?”

  “Yes, it was—” She couldn’t think for a second. “A strange name. Thursday Street?”

  “Thirza Street. Thank you, that helps. What did they look like?”

  “I don’t know. One of them was his nephew, the one with the awful moustache. Geoffrey. I recognised his voice but I didn’t see anything. I was outside. I heard them, but I didn’t help, I couldn’t—”

  “Of course not,” Jerry said dismissively. “If you’d tried, we’d have two people missing and nobody to tell us about it. All right, job well done, clear off. Let the dog see the rabbit.”

  “But what are you going to do?” she demanded. “Are you going to look for him? You’re going to do something, aren’t you? God damn it, tell me!”

  Templeton took her elbow in a grip that looked gentlemanly and felt like she’d lose an arm if she resisted, and steered her to the door. “We are indeed going to do something, and I expect we’ll do it quite hard. So you are going to go home, Miss Christiana, pretend nothing is wrong, and occupy yourself blamelessly where other people can see you. What will really upset Stan is you getting in trouble, so don’t. And don’t worry,” he added, a little more gently. “We’ll bring him back.”

  She clutched his forearm. “Will he be all right?”

  Templeton didn’t respond right away. “I hope so,” he said at last. “But if he’s not, I promise you, it’ll be catching.”

  Chapter Four

  STAN WAS TIED TO A chair. He couldn’t feel this was good.

  They hadn’t got Christiana, or at least he hadn’t heard anything to suggest they had. If they’d taken her—no, he didn’t want to consider that. If Kammy was still holding a grudge or, worse, if he realised Stan would hand over anything to stop them hurting her, that would have been bad.

  Not that his situation was marvellous this way, but you had to count your blessings where you could.

  He’d been waiting for a while. Kammy liked making people wait. Stan didn’t propose to complain, given what the alternative was likely to be.

  Kammy was going to make an example of him. The Lilywhites would find out soon enough, and unleash hell, but that wouldn’t do Stan much good once his hands had been broken. There went his dream of the clock shop, not to mention the repair business and locksmith work. He didn’t want to think about vitriol and what it could do to fingers, or faces. He wondered how much it hurt.

  Hell on a skillet, he was frightened. Would Kammy let him off if he agreed to the tithe? Maybe, but not immediately, because examples had to be made.

  There was going to be a lot of pain in his near future whatever happened, and Stan Kamarzyn knew himself not to be a brave man. He didn’t reckon many people could summon up a lot of courage while they were tied to chairs. But working himself into a state now was what Kammy wanted him to do, that was the point of the waiting, so he shut his eyes and thought of Christiana.

  Kammy came in maybe fifteen minutes later, along with three of his men, all big lunks. “Kamarzyn.”

  “Kammy.”

  Kammy looked at him dispassionately, and slapped him across the face. “That’s Mr. Grizzard to you.”

  Apparently he was supposed to grovel first. Stan thought about that, and about whether it would change anything, and mostly about Christiana, grey-faced and shaking at the mention of this bastard’s name. “Nah.”

  “I said—”

  “I heard you. Big man, aren’t you, living off women and taking your cut for nothing? The high and mighty Kammy Grizzard demanding tribute. Waste of space.”

  Kammy hit him again, harder, with the back of his hand this time, splitting the inside of his cheek against his teeth. It hurt.

  “You think you’re clever, Kamarzyn? You fence for that pair of bastards and think that makes you somebody? You’re nobody, and you need to learn that. Everybody needs to learn that. I run the receiving business in this city.”

  Stan spat blood, feeling an unaccustomed recklessness. The worst was going to happen anyway. It was almost liberating. “You couldn’t run a whelk stall, you oily twat.”

  “Do you know, I was going to be civil to you,” Kammy said. “I’d have been happy to discuss this like gentlemen, but you leave me no choice. Break his legs, Geoff, both of them. Ankles, then knees. Then do his hands. I want him ruined. I want everyone to see what happens when they don’t respect me.”

  “Respect? You stupid greedy fleshmonger, you’ll be sorry you ever breathed when the Lilywhites get you!” One of Kammy’s men grabbed his leg, hoisting it onto a stool. Stan kicked and fought, thrashing in the chair, screaming now. “Bastard son of a bitch thieving fuck!”

  Someone had got Kammy a chair, upholstered with a flowery pattern. He seated himself opposite Stan with a little hangdog smile on his gloomy face, watching as he writhed and yelled. Waiting for him to beg.

  There were two of them holding him down now as a third, a tall fellow with a huge gingery handlebar moustache, set to tying his foot to the wooden stool. Stan tried his best to kick him in the stupid moustache, failed. Once it was done, Handlebar stood, went out of range for a moment, and returned with a mallet.

  A proper mallet. Big metal heavy end, long wooden handle. It was the sort of thing that smashed stone. It smashed defiance just by existing.

  “Jesus, stop, you mad bastard, fucking stop!” Stan screamed. “Fucking leave me alone, get off me, don’t! Please!”

  Kammy smiled mirthlessly. “This is what happens when you cross me, Kamarzyn. Every fence in London is going to know about this. Go on, Geoffrey. Break him.”

  The mustachioed man raised the mallet. Stan cried out, a wordless shriek of fear and horror. And there was a terrible splintering smash that he couldn’t understand because Geoffrey still held the mallet high and looked oddly surprised, until he realised it was the door.

  Templeton came through first, and Stan had never seen him look like that, face distorted and red. He crashed through the room straight at Geoffrey, roaring like a bull. Jerry was close behind him, and by the time Stan had looked back from Temp, he’d already put one of Kammy’s men on the floor in a heap and turned on the second. He wore spiked knuckledusters that got you an extra year of gaol time right off, and looked purely murderous. Jerry had killed, Stan knew from a three-in-the-morning drinking session that they hadn’t talked about afterwards, and the mark of Cain was written right across his face now.

  It was hellish noisy in here—blows, groans, the crash of glass, screams. The last of those was him, he realised. He clamped his mouth shut.

  Jerry slammed a punch into his opponent’s face that sent blood, spittle, and a tooth flying, and followed up with a brutal knee to the balls. He threw the man down, stamped on his gut for good measure, and turned to the door with a snarl like a cornered dog, a knife materialising in his hand about six inches from Kammy’s face as he sat in his flowery armchair. “Any of you fuckers come in here, Kammy dies first. Blade right through his eyeball. Tell them!”

  Kammy cleared his throat. “All right, everybody calm down, now. Stop!”

  Silence fell. There were about three of Kammy’s blokes crowded at the door, not moving, maybe more behind them. Two of those that Stan could see looked fairly battered already. That would probably be from Temp and Jerry making their way upstairs. No wonder nobody had rushed in to help.

  Jerry straightened a little from the animal crouch, keeping the door and Kammy in his angle of vision. “All right, Stan?” His voice was thick.

  “Yeah.”

  “Hurt?”

  “Not much.”

  “Might let him live, then. Might not. The fuck have you got to say, Grizzard?”

  “There’s no need for any of this,” Kammy said, more than sorrow than in anger. “I told you the deal. Ten per cent, that’s all you needed to avoid this unpleasantness.”

  “Listen, you turd—” Jerry broke off and inha
led deeply. “You must be joking,” he began again, sounding a bit more like the gentleman he usually pretended to be. “If you think—” He paused at a muffled cry from the window, and shot a single swift glance over his shoulder. “Templeton, what are you doing?”

  Templeton was kneeling at the window, which had been smashed in the fight—not just the glass, but the wood struts gone. His arms were extended outside, and his big shoulders looked bigger than usual as muscle bulged against his sleeves. He held something in each hand that looked for all the world like a pair of upturned boots.

  “Got a chap by his ankles,” he explained, with not that much strain in his voice, considering.

  “Because?”

  “I don’t like him.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Uncle!” screamed a voice from outside. “Help!”

  “If I were you I’d stop struggling,” Templeton called out. “I’m not a circus strongman.”

  “Is that your nephew, Kammy?” Jerry asked. “Ah, family. Right, let’s clear this up: You do not touch Stan again. You don’t touch us. You don’t put your unwashed fingers into our work; you don’t touch our girls, our friends, or our dogs. You do not get ten per cent, you do not get one per cent. You leave us the fuck alone. What part of this do I need to carve into your face?”

  “Uncle!” Geoffrey shrieked.

  “I’ve a houseful of men here.” Kammy sounded entirely unmoved. Stan almost admired his nerve. “There’s only two of you.”

  “But one of us is holding your nephew out of a second-floor window, and the other has a knife on you,” Jerry said. “A state of affairs that, if I were you and thank Christ I am not, I would want to remedy. So why don’t you fuck off back to the stinking sump-hole you crawled out of?”

  “Stoke Newington,” Templeton offered helpfully from the window.

  “That’s what I said. Leave us alone, Kammy.”

  “Or what?” Kammy demanded. “Or you kill me in cold blood? I don’t think so, Crozier. For all the dramatics, you’re outnumbered, and if you touch me, you won’t leave here alive. You don’t stand a chance, unless we come to an agreement.”

  “You back off, Temp won’t let go. How’s that for an agreement?”

  “I’d reach it quickly,” Templeton added. “This is playing hell with my shoulders.”

  Kammy smiled—actually, properly smiled, as if something was funny. “You people make me laugh. You think you can threaten me? You think I’m afraid of you? I’ve met a dozen of your sort, I know what you are. You’re playing where I work. The fact is, you don’t dare let go.”

  Jerry’s nostrils flared. Kammy’s smile widened.

  “How little you know us,” Templeton said. He opened his hands wide, a stage magician’s gesture, and stood up. The scream outside dropped rapidly away.

  “Bastard!” It was a shriek. Kammy propelled himself out of the chair, and met Jerry’s knife an inch from his eye. Jerry shoved him back down as Templeton crossed the room in two strides.

  “Sit. You take him, Temp.” Jerry swung toward the door, a knife in each hand now, and hissed at the men who jostled there. He was crackling with violence, like a cat in a thunderstorm. “You want your boss following his nephew? Take one more step. One.”

  “That’s my Geoff!” Kammy shouted.

  “Yes, we’ve met,” Templeton said. “Likes hurting people, doesn’t he? Shouldn’t dish it out if he can’t take it.” He leaned down, right in Kammy’s face. “You wanted an agreement, Kammy old chap, dear old fellow-my-lad? Here it is: you stay away from us and ours, or you’re going out that window and the chair after you. Tell me I don’t dare do it, you piece of shit. Tell me.”

  “One time only special offer,” Jerry said. “Going. Going—”

  Kammy’s eyes darted back and forth, but he had Templeton right in front of him and Jerry standing between him and rescue. Stan couldn’t see Temp’s face, but he was pretty sure it wouldn’t be a picture you’d want on the wall.

  “All right!” Kammy spat.

  “Is that a deal, Kammy?” Templeton said. “You and your people leave us and our people alone. Do we have a deal, or are you taking the quick way to the street?”

  “We have a deal,” Kammy gritted out. The men at the door shifted, exchanging looks.

  “Sure? Because I’m happy to do it. Ah, well, shame.” Templeton straightened and rolled his right shoulder, although he didn’t step away from Kammy. “Mind you, I think I’ve pulled something. Ouch.”

  Jerry knelt to slice Stan free. “If you will go around defenestrating people, I don’t know what you expect.”

  “How dare you cast such aspersions.”

  “It means chucking them out of windows. They don’t teach you anything at Eton, do they? Just wanking and giving orders.” Jerry stood, pulled Stan to his feet, and pointed the knife indicatively at Kammy. “This isn’t the first time you’ve started trouble with us. Make it the last one.”

  “Can you walk, Stan?” Templeton put a hand on his arm.

  “Yeah.” He wasn’t entirely sure of that, since his legs felt weak and wobbly and he really wanted a privy, a lie down, and a cup of tea, but he wasn’t going to be carried out over Templeton’s shoulder. “I’m fine.”

  “Good man. Kammy’s going to conduct us out, aren’t you, old chap? To seal the deal.” Templeton took him by the arm and led the way down the stairs. Stan followed, with Jerry watchful behind him. I’m the filling in a very dangerous sandwich, Stan thought, and wondered if he was going to get hysterical.

  They got a cab from Hardinge Street. Stan could barely keep himself on the seat. Every muscle he had felt like it was either twanging tight or broken. His face throbbed and his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

  “Shock,” Jerry said. “You’ll be all right. Is it just the face?”

  “Yeah. That bastard with the moustache was going to do my ankles. Ankles, knees, and hands, he said. God. But, Temp—”

  “I refuse to apologise.”

  “You threw him out of a window.”

  “Dropped. Anyway, he deserved it. Kammy was about to set him on your girl friend when we intervened that time. Remember him, Jerry? Thing like a dead weasel on his face.”

  “Oh, was it that one?” Jerry said with mild interest. “I didn’t see before you threw him out of the window.”

  “Dropped.”

  “He was going to hurt Christiana?” Stan took that in. “Well, fuck him, then. You think he’s all right?”

  “I very much doubt it.” Templeton’s tone suggested the subject was closed.

  “How did you get here?” Stan asked instead.

  “We’d heard Kammy’s collectors were out, thought we’d drop—” Jerry paused significantly “—by the shop to make a plan. Your girl told us what had happened.”

  Stan sat up. “She did?”

  “She was terrified for you,” Templeton said. “Didn’t stop her giving us orders. I like her. You should let us meet her properly.”

  “No,” Stan said. “She’s not our sort. She’s decent. Law-abiding. She doesn’t deserve to be mixed up in this stuff.”

  “Up to you.” Jerry shrugged. “Are we taking you back to the shop?”

  Stan did go back. He washed, changed his clothes, and had a half-hour lie down and a little cry, clutching the bedsheets and sobbing the terror out in private. Then he washed his face again and went out to find Christiana.

  HE’D BEEN TO HER LODGINGS a couple of times before, but never gone in. It was a house for unconventional theatre people run by a friend of the Grand Cirque’s manager, where the lodgers were free to be themselves within the four walls as long as they respected one another’s privacy and were careful about who they let in. Stan was conducted into a little parlour and firmly instructed to wait while the landlord sent to see if Christiana wanted her visitor.

  The rattle of feet on the stairs at high speed suggested she did. She burst into the room. “Stan!”

  He didn’t even notice himself ri
sing, or how they came together. He just found himself in her arms, face pressed against her chest, with tears leaking from his eyes again and her hurried, broken words incomprehensible in his ears. It didn’t matter. He was safe and so was she.

  Christiana hugged him ferociously then stepped back, keeping her hands on his arms. “But are you all right? You aren’t. Oh God, your face.”

  “It’s not bad, honest. Kammy hit me a couple of times before the Lilywhites turned up, that’s all.”

  “They got there. Thank God.”

  “Thank you. Temp said you told them what had happened, that you were trying to find them.”

  “I didn’t do anything.

  “You really did,” Stan said fervently. “If the Lilywhites had been two minutes later—Kammy was really going to hurt me. Temp said you’d met the bloke with the ginger moustache before?”

  “Geoffrey Grizzard. That pig. Did he hurt you?”

  “He was going to, with a sodding mallet.” Stan regretted that as her eyes widened. “It’s all right, honest. Actually, it’s better than all right because he’s not going to hurt anyone else for a while. Temp threw him out of a window. Dropped,” he added, in fairness.

  “He...” Christiana’s mouth moved silently.

  “Second floor. And then he said he’d throw Kammy out as well unless he agreed to leave the Lilywhites and me and everyone to do with us alone, and Kammy said he would. They shook on it.”

  She let go of his arms. “Do you think he’ll keep to it?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he’ll go out for revenge. It’s possible. He’d be a fool, though, because Temp and Jerry...well, to be honest, they scared the stuffing out of me, and I’m on their side.”

  “You look sick as a dog.” She took his hand and pulled him to the sofa. When they sat, she didn’t let go. “Is it time to get out of that world?”