The Cockney Girl

by The Cockney Girl (retail) (epub)

  Jack waited outside, perched on the windowledge, weighing up what he should do next. He wasn’t really interested in Charlie and his dodgy dealings but he had made a promise to Rose and he intended keeping it. He didn’t want her and Jess thinking he was unreliable.

  After a few minutes going over the options, he knew what he had to do. He’d have to go and find Charlie, find out what he was up to, and that, he knew, meant going back into Chinatown.

  * * *

  It took Jack only about fifteen minutes to walk down to Pennyfields, but by the time he’d reached the Thames-side quarter, the autumn twilight had faded into another damp and almost impenetrable fog-shrouded night.

  Jack was no coward, but walking around Chinatown without the company of Sam, or even young Ted, was a nerve-racking experience for an outsider – even though the area bordered on his own home territory of Poplar. There were many stories and rumours about what went on in that part of Limehouse. It was widely accepted as fact, if rarely discussed openly, that the power and ferocity of both the English and the Chinese gangs in the area made even the police prefer to avoid that part of the docks. Everyone knew that prostitutes were able to ply their trade at the dock gates and outside Charlie Brown’s, the notorious pub used by visiting seamen, without any fear of interference from the law. Thus it was that the stories grew up and were added to. Tales were told of how, unmolested by the authorities, the gaudily made-up women could lure their unsuspecting customers into the mist-cloaked courts and alleys. There they would be coshed and robbed by the prostitutes’ accomplices. It was well known that coshes were a favoured piece of equipment in the forbidding, ill-lit riverside streets. So were hatchets. And even guns.

  As far as he was able, Jack kept to the most brightly lit parts of the unfamiliar warren of alleyways in his search for the club where he had seen Charlie fight just the week before.

  He hurried past the garish tattoo parlours; the boisterous drinking clubs; the occasionally noisy, but usually silent, gambling dens; and the stinking doss-houses full of seamen and the women whose company they had bought for the night.

  ‘An’ I reckon these are the safest parts of this rats’ nest,’ he thought nervously to himself as he passed a particularly fetid doorway leading to God alone knew where.

  The sudden tap on his shoulder made his heart race.

  ‘You want some fun, mister?’

  Jack turned round cautiously, expecting the worst. He let out a small gasp of relief when he saw a small Chinese boy of about ten or eleven years old looking up at him expectantly.

  ‘I know plenty of girls you can meet, mister. You want to come with me?’

  ‘Not tonight, son. I’m busy, see.’ Jack brushed the boy playfully on the chin with his fist and continued on his way. But then he changed his mind. He turned round and called, ‘’Old on, kid.’

  ‘Yes, mister.’ The eager youngster could sense a halfpenny to be earned. ‘What do you want? Girls? Opium?’

  ‘No. It’s a bloke I’m after. A pal of mine. Tryin’ to find ’im round these parts. Charlie Fairleigh. Know ’im? English feller. ‘Bout my age. Red sort of ’air.’

  The boy shook his head. ‘No. I know no Charlie.’

  Jack bent down closer to the child. Checking that no one was listening to their conversation, he said, as calmly as he could manage: ‘’E’ll be with another man. Chinese bloke. A Mr Chen.’

  ‘Goodbye, mister.’ The boy disappeared into the crowd and down one of the narrow passageways before Jack had the chance to stop him.

  So Jack was right, Chen was as dangerous as he had thought. He would have to be more careful whom he spoke to.

  * * *

  Jack had been walking for what felt like hours; although the area was actually quite small it was easy to go in circles in the unfamiliar streets and back alleys. He was tired and he was hungry. The windows of the food shops were filled with things that, though they looked strange, smelt delicious. Seeing two sailors in English uniforms about to go into one of the shops, Jack thought he would chance following them.

  ‘Mind if I join you blokes?’ he asked matily.

  ‘No. Sit down, man. Glad of ya company,’ said the squat, pale-haired one in a blunt Geordie accent. His shiny, ruddy face stretched into a grin of welcome.

  Jack slid on to the bench next to the two seamen.

  ‘Been round here before, like, have ya?’ asked the other man in the same northern tones.

  ‘No, I’m a stranger ’ere,’ Jack said quickly. ‘But I’oping to bet a few shillin’s on the bare-knuckle fights they say go on round these parts. In some cellar, or somethin’ or other.’

  ‘Ya mean the fights they put on down old whatsisname’s place.’

  The pale-haired sailor dug his shipmate hard in the ribs to silence him. ‘Shut up a minute, Bert. Here’s the wee girl.’

  ‘What can I fetch you gentlemen?’ she asked in an unexpectedly English accent.

  ‘I don’t know, hen. Why don’t ya surprise us,’ said Bert. ‘Tell ya what, fetch us enough grub for six. That should do us.’ The waitress nodded demurely and left their table. ‘Now, as I was saying before Horace here so rudely interrupted me. It’ll be Mr Chen’s establishment ya looking for. And it just so happens we’re off there tonight, wer’selves. We’ll have our bit of grub then ya can join us, if ya like, man.’

  ‘Ta, Bert,’ said Jack, ‘I’d like that very much.’

  ‘What’s ya name then?’ asked Horace.

  ‘Walter,’ said Jack.

  After their meal, Jack’s two companions took him directly to the club which he had earlier been unable to find.

  ‘Here we are, Walter, man,’ said Horace to Jack, ‘Chen’s place. Now how about seeing some of that boxing and winning wer’selves a few shillings?’

  ‘Yer on,’ said Jack, following Horace and Bert into the narrow doorway which concealed the true size and complexity of the building.

  As they went deeper into the network of passages and stairways that linked the terrace of houses, Jack glanced into every open door, hoping for a glimpse of Charlie. The club was alive with people, mainly men, of every size, shape and colour, but Charlie was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘This is it,’ said Bert. ‘The arena. We’ll get wer’selves seats before the next fight starts.’

  They squeezed past the young boys who were collecting bets on the outcome of the contests and found three chairs in the back row, at the far end of the massive room.

  ‘It’s bloody hot in here, man,’ moaned Bert. ‘I could really do with a drink.’

  ‘Call one of the boys over, Bert,’ said Horace. ‘He’ll nip upstairs and fetch us some ale.’

  One of the boys was dispatched on the errand. He quickly returned with three bottles of beer. Bert greedily snatched one of the bottles and unscrewed the stopper. He was already guzzling the warm, foaming liquid when the boy tried to take it back from him. ‘You no pay, you no drink.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll pay,’ said Bert, wiping his mouth with the back of his big, tattooed hand. ‘What’s the damage?’

  ‘Two shillings, mister.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Two shillings.’

  Bert rose to his feet. ‘Two bob for three rotten bottles of beer?’

  ‘No, mister, two shillings each bottle.’

  Now Horace joined Bert in standing over the impassively insistent boy. ‘Ya taking the piss out of us or something, son?’

  ‘No. Two shillings. That is the price.’

  Horace carefully placed his unopened bottle behind him on his seat, leaned forward and took hold of the boy’s shoulders. ‘I don’t mind paying a fair whack, but I won’t be taken on by no snotty-nosed kid, do ya understand?’

  ‘Two shillings is the price. No pay, no drink,’ the boy repeated.

  ‘I’m getting fed up with listening to ya whingeing little voice,’ said Horace and started shaking the boy violently.

  ‘Leave ’im alone, ’Orace,’ said Jack, trying to s
top him from hurting the child any more. ‘It ain’t the kid’s fault. That’s the price. This is a club, not a street-corner boozer.’

  ‘Ya keep ya nose out of it, Walter,’ said Horace, concentrating on the boy.

  Two Chinese men from the row in front started shouting. The now alarmed child did his best to reply, but failed. The two Chinese men ran from the room.

  ‘Bloody cowards. Won’t even help one of their own,’ jeered Bert.

  He looked round the room, challenging anyone to take him on. Everybody had eyes only for Horace and the boy; they shouted and complained, but nobody moved. Suddenly the room went quiet and everyone except Horace and his young victim turned their attention to the other end of the big room.

  ‘I think yer’d better stop that, moosh, don’t you?’ said a calm, menacingly quiet voice.

  ‘Oh yeh,’ said Horace. ‘And who’s gonna make me?’

  ‘Do as ’e says,’ said Jack, looking not at Horace but at Charlie, who was standing in the doorway next to a bearded Chinese man.

  Charlie held a heavy, leather-covered cosh, which he slapped rhythmically against the palm of his hand.

  ‘Come near me, man, and I’ll punch ya lamps out for ya, both a them,’ spat Horace comtemptuously.

  ‘Shut up an’ leave the kid or ’e’ll knock yer block off,’ Jack warned him. ‘An’ I ain’t kiddin’, neither.’

  ‘Good advice,’ said Charlie, acknowledging Jack with a polite nod. ‘If yer’ll excuse me, Mr Chen.’

  Charlie strolled slowly towards the sailor. His lack of haste added an even more sinister ingredient to his already threatening appearance.

  ‘Going to knock my block off, are ya, man?’ said Horace, letting go of the boy, ready to confront this new challenge. ‘You and whose army?’

  ‘I don’t need no army, mate,’ said Charlie gently. ‘Just this.’ He raised the cosh and gave Horace a sharp rap to the side of his head. ‘Now, move.’

  Momentarily stunned, Horace dabbed his finger at the blood which was beginning to seep from the wound on his temple. ‘Ya’ve cut me, ya dirty cockney bastard. I’ll have ya for that.’

  ‘No yer won’t,’ said Charlie, all friendly intimidation. ‘Now don’t be a silly boy. Yer can choose. Do yer wanna leave ’ere walkin’, or would yer rather be carried out?’

  Horace drew back his arm, ready to smash the smile off Charlie’s face. But Charlie brushed the fist away as if it was an annoying fly.

  ‘Get him out of here, Charles. He is becoming a nuisance,’ said Mr Chen as he turned to leave the room.

  ‘You ’eard the gentleman. ’E wants yer to leave ’is club.’

  ‘Can’t ya get a job working for a decent Englishman?’ taunted Horace. ‘Got to work for foreigners, have ya?’

  ‘Leave it,’ said Bert, fidgeting with the back of his chair. ‘He’s not worth it, man.’

  ‘Right, Bert. Why should I bother with the oily rag when I can deal with the engineer himself?’ Horace snatched away the startled Bert’s chair and threw it with all his force at Charlie. The unexpected blow knocked him sideways, giving Horace the chance to run for the door, swiftly followed by Bert.

  ‘Nice company yer keeping nowadays, Jacky boy,’ said Charlie as he picked himself up off the floor and made after the two seamen. ‘Lovely friends, I don’t think.’

  ‘They ain’t nothin’ to do with me,’ panted Jack, doing his best to keep up with the much fitter Charlie. ‘Yer the one with the dodgy mates.’

  As they reached the street Jack glimpsed the two seamen disappearing into a side road. ‘There they go, Charlie. Down there.’

  Despite the situation, Charlie couldn’t resist teasing Jack as he sprinted after his quarry. ‘This is a turnup, Jack. Yer ’elping me out. Wouldn’t ’ave thought yer’d approve. Mind yer, yer almost family now, I suppose.’

  Jack didn’t have enough breath both to answer and continue pursuing the two men, but he was pleased that Charlie seemed to have accepted his relationship with Jess. Charlie’s disapproval would have been more than a major obstacle for them.

  ‘Down there,’ shouted Charlie, ‘the steps down to the river.’

  ‘Christ,’ said Jack, gulping air painfully into his heaving lungs, ‘they’ve got Chen with them.’

  ‘Mr Chen to you,’ said Charlie without a moment’s pause or a hint of irony.

  ‘Mr Chen,’ repeated Jack.

  They stopped at the head of the steps and squinted down into the darkness, their eyes growing accustomed to the murky light.

  ‘Don’t make a sound,’ whispered Charlie. ‘We’ll surprise them.’

  ‘Say they’re armed?’

  ‘Sssh.’ Charlie crouched and moved silently down the stone steps. He tapped Jack on the arm and pointed to the water’s edge. Bert had the Chinese man held firmly from behind. Horace stood in front of him running a long, thin knife teasingly up and down the man’s body.

  ‘Where shall we start then, Bert?’ asked Horace. ‘How about this reet girly pigtail? Or this tatty old beard?’ He flicked Chen’s beard with the slim blade.

  Charlie crept forward, staying hunched over until he was standing directly behind the little group at the water’s edge. ‘Why not start with me?’ he asked. ‘Or do yer only fight unarmed men?’

  The surprise of hearing Charlie so close to him made Horace drop his guard just long enough for Charlie to grab the knife.

  ‘Dear oh dear oh dear. Tut, tut,’ said Charlie, waving the stiletto in Horace’s face. ‘What a clumsy boy yer are. Yer wanna be more careful with a dangerous chiv like this. Now be a sensible lad,’ he said to Bert, ‘an’ let the gentleman go, eh?’

  ‘Ignore him, Bert. Ya keep hold of the Chinese bastard.’

  ‘Ttttt! See, that was another mistake,’ said Charlie. ‘Yer’ve gotta learn some manners. An’ I’m gonna ’ave to teach ’em to yer, ain’t I?’

  Before Horace could protect himself, Charlie had drawn the knife down his cheek, leaving a thin streak of blood.

  ‘An’ now perhaps yer’d like to apologise to Mr Chen for yer bad manners?’

  Bert let go of his prisoner and rushed to his friend’s side. ‘Horace. Come on, man. Let’s go back to the ship.’

  ‘No. Yer don’t understand, son,’ said Charlie, explaining slowly, as if he was talking to a child. ‘’E ain’t goin’ nowhere. Not ’til ’e apologises to Mr Chen.’

  ‘Let ’em go, Charlie. Eh?’ said Jack. ‘It’s finished. Come on,’ he coaxed. ‘No point carryin’ on with this. Let’s go an’ ’ave a drink.’

  ‘You keep out of this, Walter,’ said Bert. ‘This is nothing to do with you, man.’

  Charlie turned his head and looked questioningly at Jack. ‘Walter?’

  ‘Look out!’ yelled Jack, throwing himself forward to protect Charlie from Horace, who had taken his chance to grab a slime-covered rock from the mud. Jack rammed his shoulder full into the seaman’s broad chest, knocking him off balance. Then Charlie threw himself down on top of him and began punching the sprawling man over and over again with sickening repetition.

  ‘Don’t, Charlie, don’t. Yer’ll kill ’im,’ yelled Jack.

  Even the combined efforts of Bert and Jack pulling together weren’t enough to drag the incensed Charlie away from the object of his anger. Grunting and panting, the four of them rolled and scrabbled around in the black Thames sludge.

  ‘Leave him. He must do his job.’ Chen spoke with such detached authority that Jack and Bert both stopped immediately. They slithered unsteadily to their feet, leaving Charlie to batter the exhausted Horace into the mud.

  ‘I dunno about do ’is job,’ said Jack, his voice slow from the shock of what he was witnessing. ‘But this ain’t the sort of work ’e should be doin’, I know that.’

  Chen disregarded Jack and spoke to Charlie. ‘Finish him,’ he said simply.

  ‘Get out of ’ere, Jack,’ said Charlie as he raised the knife above his head, ready to plunge it into the cringing seaman.

  �
�No!’ screamed Jack and pitched himself forward. He wouldn’t let Charlie become a murderer. No matter what.

  He was too late. He couldn’t stop Charlie bringing down the knife. But he made him miss his target. Instead of stabbing the semi-conscious sailor, the knife came down and went straight into the side of Jack’s throat.

  Jack twisted away, swooning from the pain. He fell on to his knees and rolled over until he was face down at the water’s edge. The knife, still deep in his flesh, acted like a brake, stopping him from rolling any further. He moaned, barely able to make a sound. His mouth and nostrils filled with the soft, cloying muck left behind by the tide, his life-blood pulsing from him.

  ‘Jesus Christ, he’s done him in…’ Bert half dragged, half kicked his shipmate into the safety of the shadows, out of the murderer’s reach. He would get them both back on board before anyone missed them; before anybody could associate them with Walter or whatever his name was. He was too busy manhandling his stunned, heavy load to notice Chen signalling to one of the Chinese boys who had appeared silently out of the Thames fog.

  ‘Jack. Come on, Jacky boy.’ Charlie had forgotten the man he had just been trying to slaughter; he could think only of Jack. He knelt beside him in the mud, unaware of the incoming tide, cradling the dying man in his arms. Not just any man, but Jack Barnes, good old Jacky boy, the feller who was going to marry their Jess. A decent bloke. ‘Don’t mess around, Jack,’ he pleaded. ‘Come on, mate.’

  ‘Leave him. There is no more you can do.’ Chen stood behind Charlie and spoke in the composed manner which told so eloquently of his power over others. Even the power of life and death.

  ‘’E’s dead, Mr Chen. I’ve killed ’im.’ Charlie looked up at his master imploringly.

  ‘Nonsense. It was an accident. He was brawling with those drunken sailors. My people will deal with the details.’

  ‘But, Mr Chen…’

  Chen lifted one satin-draped arm and Charlie was silent.

  ‘This unfortunate man will be found tomorrow; yet another lamentable victim of too much drink and too little control.’