Artful: A Novel (4 page)

“You have to be getting out of London, Fagin.”

Fagin nodded. “Yes. Yes, taking a short break could—”

“Not short and not a break neither. You need to get completely out. For the love of all that’s unholy, you old fool,” he continued, running right over Fagin’s attempted protest, “you were dragged out into the street. Dozens of eyes saw you. You were hung. All London knows you were hung. The bloody newspapers wrote of it. If you’re seen as alive, it’s going to raise all manner of questions that no one wants asked, most
especially
you and me, and even more most especially, your brother.”

“Then it’s my brother I’ll be approaching to learn his opinion of this wretched notion of exile.”

“It isn’t a matter of opinion, Fagin. This is what your
brother
wants of you and for you. You’re toxic to him and to all our kind right now. The citizenry can’t know that dead don’t always mean dead, or it could ignite a witch hunt the likes of which we’ve
never seen
.”

“Witch hunt?” scoffed Fagin. “Nonsense, Harry. People are more forward-thinking than that. More enlightened. This is not the Dark Ages. This is the nineteenth century.”

“And we—all of us—desire to see the twentieth century, and will do nothing and allow no one to endanger that.”

“I don’t pose any sort of threat.”

“And if you’d been allowed to be delivered to the college?
Lying
there on the slab, still sound asleep, the moment they cut into you, you’d have sat up and started shrieking like a banshee. You think such a thing wouldn’t have gotten some small bit of
notice
, eh? You think they wouldn’t have backtracked every step of the trail you left behind, and where do you think that trail could lead? Ah, you’re silent in response to that, eh? Finally! I thought nothing save ripping the tongue from your withered head would
accomplish
that. Gods, Fagin, look at you,” he said, shaking his head in disgust. “Why have you let yourself get this way? You’ve near to starved yourself! Let yourself become a withered shell of what you should be!”

“If my dear brother is concerned over my drawing attention to myself,” said Fagin defensively, “I’d think he’d be appreciative that I’ve been restrained in my appetites.”

“There’s restraint and then there’s self-deprivation!”

“Just haven’t been as hungry as I used to be. It’s none of your concern, my dear Harry.”

Sanguine Harry said, “What concerns me is what the
Magistrate
says concerns me.”

“And he’s concerned about my getting out of London, is he?”

“He’s concerned about you getting your priorities in order, and he’s concerned about you doing it nowhere near him. He has long-term plans for you, for us, for our kind, for the whole of London and our influence, and he don’t want you being in the mix as some sort of wild card. Not gone forever, you understand. Just gone long enough so that people have time to forget Fagin. Come back as someone else.”

“Someone else?” Fagin stared at him, swimming in confusion, drowning in bewilderment. “I am what I am, my dear.”

“And whatever that is, we need you to be it somewhere else. It is”—and his voice dropped to an appropriate sense of
gravity
—“what Mr. Fang requires. Who are you to act in
contravention
of that?
”

“Who am I indeed? That is the question in front of us, innit? And I have to be findin’ that out for meself, it seems.”

“It seems so, yes.”

When they reached the outskirts of London, Sanguine
Harry
drew the horse up and extended the purse to Fagin. Fagin stared at it, and Harry said to him with a sneer, “Why starin’?
Flummoxed
by someone just handin’ you a purse, rather than you
tryin
’ to pluck it out of their pocket unawares?”

Fagin snatched it from his hand and jingled it slightly, putting it against his ear. “Decent pay just for deliverin’ bodies. Perhaps I’ve been spendin’ me time in the wrong line o’ work.”

“Then find a better one elsewhere. You’ll have somethin’ in your pocket just to attend to basic need. Creature comforts.” He gave a short, strangled laugh, amused at his own comment. Then he leaped down from the driver’s seat and watched as
Fagin
slid over to take the reins. Pointing, he said, “Give yourself the distance of time, of geography. Hie yourself to the
Midlands
.
Scotland
, perhaps. Make something new of yourself. Mr. Fang will see you anon.”

“As you say, my dear,” said Fagin softly.

He snapped the reins, and the horse began its slow, steady movement toward the King’s highway. Sanguine Harry remained where he was, his arms folded, not trusting Fagin for a moment, not moving from where he stood. A statue would have been
more lively
.

Finally, when Fagin had dwindled to little more than a speck, Sanguine Harry growled, “Idiot,” in that low manner that was the very antithesis of mellifluousness, and shoved his hands into his pockets as he turned away.

It was at that point that he realized his handkerchief was gone, along with his own purse, at which point he howled
Fagin’s
name in white fury, and Fagin, who by all rights should have been much too far away to hear, nevertheless did, and his toothless mouth smiled in amusement.

“Idiot indeed,” said Fagin, and kept on going.

FOUR

I
N
W
HICH IS
T
REATED THE
B
EGINNING OF THE
U
NUSUAL
E
VENING
W
HEREIN THE
A
RTFUL
D
ODGER
M
EETS THE
F
IRST OF
T
WO
Y
OUTHFUL
I
NDIVIDUALS
W
HO
S
HALL
B
E OF
S
IGNIFICANCE

H
aving explicated in detail the circumstances that enabled several of our dramatis personae to leave behind the dire predicaments in which their previous biographer
stranded
them, it is now time to move forward an indeterminate amount of time—months, years, who can say? For time, like memory, is malleable to the needs of those who observe it. But we say again, as we already have, that the Artful Dodger is both older than when we left him and not as old as he will be when we eventually take our leave of him.

His body had not grown tremendously in stature, but he was fast and wiry, lean, and with not an ounce of fat upon him. He had taken to carrying a walking stick, having helped himself to it when a swell had been discourteous enough to leave it leaning against the wall of a shop, a truly insulting action as it displayed an utter disregard for the talents of upstanding thieves such as the Artful. It was a clouded cane, made of malacca, with a rounded metal grip and a small strap which he could loop around his wrist to make certain that it did not slip away. It became a permanent part of his appearance, the gentle tap-
tapping
of its end signaling his approach when he was predisposed to make his imminent
arrival
known to all within hearing.

As for his face, it became less rounded and rather more
mature
, whereas his eyes—uncharitably described in the past as ugly—became more thoughtful, although they were still
capable
of narrowing in thought or calculation when the
opportunity
called for it.

But however much his physical stature may have remained unchanged and unimpressive, the same could not be said of his reputation amongst the more lowly denizens that populated Drury Lane, particularly—it should be noted—amongst the ladies of the evening who worked their wares there. With them, the stature of his reputation continued to grow, and one had been heard to comment—not without cause—that the Artful Dodger stood fully six feet tall if he were perched atop his own charisma.

Just so you do not misapprehend: The Artful did not make arrangements for the ladies or profit in any manner from their activities. Mostly what he did, the service that he offered them, consisted of nothing other than treating them with simple respect. You might think that this would be their birthright as living beings, but ponder: With how much respect do people treat slabs of beef? Beef is pounded, sates the appetite, and is extended no particular consideration beyond that. The sad truth is that oftentimes the ladies are seen as similar objects in that they are pounded in a variety of ways for the purpose of satisfying certain appetites, albeit unwholesome ones, and the remains are left behind for someone else to worry about.

And the ladies were accustomed to this. What they were unaccustomed to was the Artful’s consistent treatment of them in his daily interactions. He would routinely bring them little sweets and trinkets that happened to come into his acquisition, courtesy of the inability of London’s more prominent citizens to be wary about who happened to be dipping his fingers into their pockets. Snuffboxes; small bottles of perfume; and, of course, handkerchiefs were always popular and gratefully received. Of particular pleasure and interest to the ladies was that the Artful expected naught in return for all his favors, which was something of an unusual experience for them. In fact, a few of them even offered to compensate Dodger for his efforts in the only way they knew how, and every time the
Artful
explained to them that, while he appreciated their generosity, it was of no interest to him. “It is not,” he would say, “how a gen’leman behaves.” This caused great merriment to the ladies, whose primary clientele consisted of gentlemen, and when they pointed that out to him, Dodger said airily, “The measure of a gen’leman is how he treats ladies. They can call themselves what they wants, but if what they says don’t match up with how they behaves, well, what they do says far more of who they are than what they says they are does, if you gets my drift.” Which the ladies did—or thought they did—and that was generally sufficient.

So did Mr. Jack Dawkins live his life, without any general direction or clear idea of where he was going or what he was doing. He made some effort to check into the whereabouts of his former fellow gang members, but had no luck in locating any of them save one: He discovered where Mr. Brownlow had taken Oliver Twist to live out the remainder of his youth (as was detailed in his biography by Mr. Dickens. Anyone wishing to learn more can seek out the book, which can be found more or less anywhere). This he found to be ironic, learning the whereabouts of the one individual he did not particularly care about.

One day was very much like the next, as he continued to reside in the crumbling digs that represented a link to his former life. From time to time, he fancied that he could
perceive
ghosts long gone dwelling within, watching him, pinking his memory, and there were some days—the night being the
Artful’s
preferred time of doing business—where sleep did not come easily to him. It was during the evening that he stole food where he needed, purchased it when he was flush enough to do so, and on rare
occasion
wondered if there was any sort of grand scheme or plan for him, and kept returning to the conclusion that it was not terribly likely. He was what he was, and if there was indeed a God—a proposition that the
Artful
was dubious over at best—then He certainly counted on men of far greater rank and position than the Artful Dodger to
implement
His grand plan.

It should be noted, however, that the Almighty has a
wicked
sense of humor, and often had little concern for whether or not one such as Artful paid obeisance. Indeed, He occasionally
delights
in sending one of His pawns in the chessboard of life into the thick of the fray. And in the unlikely event that the pawn should happen to reach the far side of the chessboard, well then . . . anything can happen. And has been known to.

So it was that late one evening the Artful Dodger was returning from his nightly perambulations when he heard the sounds of a scuffle from a corner of Drury Lane, and a female cry of protest, bordering on outrage.

He knew the voices of every female who did her business thereabouts, and the voice he was hearing now was certainly not one of them. He quickened his step, and when he rounded the corner, he came to a halt, his eyes simultaneously widening in surprise and narrowing in suspicion, which was certainly something of an accomplishment that no one save the Artful Dodger could likely have carried out.

A rotund man in a patchy gray coat, sporting a head of hair that was mostly head rather than hair, was accosting a young woman whom Dodger had never seen before. Younger than the age of majority, certainly, although perhaps not by much, her face was round and not exactly lovely, but possessed of a vague prettiness. She was hatless, which was surprising, with brown hair parted down the middle and drawn tightly on either side of her head. She wore a simple brown dress with a white shawl tossed over it.

Yet for all that made her seemingly unremarkable, Dodger was still struck by an ineffable something about her. She held herself with a pride that was typically absent from those with whom Dodger spent his time, and although she was shorter than the man who was currently trying to engage her services, nevertheless she seemed to tower over him through the sheer force of her personality.

Not yet intervening, Dodger sidled over to one of the girls, Mary by name, and inquired as to what was transpiring and whence the girl had come.

Mary shrugged beneath the folds of her cloak. “Ne’er seen ’er b’fore. Just showt up from n’where, standed on that corner, lookin’ around like she ain’t ne’er seen a street b’fore.”

“Must be new to the life,” opined the Artful.

“Bloke’s doin’ her a favor, ya ask me,” said Mary, tilting her chin in the direction of the fellow who was continuing to ask after the girl’s services. “That there’s Sarah’s corner. Sarah’s with a client, she is, but when she comes back, she’ll do that little tart up a treat. Look at ’er, standin’ there,”—and her voice dripped with
contempt
—“puttin’ on airs like she’s so much better’n the rest of us.”

The Artful did look, and the longer he watched the exchange between girl and man, the more he started to think that perhaps this was a mistake. She did not dress or act like any of the ladies of the night with whom Dodger had familiarized himself. She didn’t look hungry; clearly, she had regular meals. Her clothing was immaculate, and there was no pox or any sign of disease upon her. The girl had been standing on the corner for a prolonged time, yes, and that had been the basis for the man’s clear misunderstanding. And now she was in deep because the man had taken a
fancy
to her, and he didn’t seem inclined to consider “no” an
acceptable
response.

Mr. Jack Dawkins knew the type of brute all too well, and there was something about the girl’s attitude that appealed to him. He was not able to articulate for himself what it was, although we are not so limited: Clearly, it was the fact that the girl affected great airs to act as if she were above her station, and because Dodger customarily did the same thing, he felt that connection to her. At least, that is our surmise, and it seems a reasonable one given the circumstances, although it is certainly not intended to supplant whatever conclusions the reader might draw on his or her own.

Whatever the reason, the Artful was moved to cross the street as quickly as possible. He briefly considered challenging the man directly, perhaps battering him with his walking stick, calling him a bounder or cad, doing whatever was required to let the chap know just how little Dodger thought of him and his ilk. Still, as much pleasure as that might give him, it wouldn’t really serve to accomplish the most important and pressing matter, which was to make certain that his interests in the girl were distracted and diverted as expeditiously as possible. Besides, the man also had a walking stick, and it was entirely possible he was quite proficient in its use.

So it was that Dodger settled on another stratagem: He drew within range and reached into the man’s pocket for his
handkerchief
.

Under ordinary circumstances, the man would have felt and noticed nothing at all. The inestimable Fagin had trained his pupils quite thoroughly in the art of relieving gentlemen of their handkerchiefs, and in that particular schooling, the Artful
Dodger
had been a valedictorian.

This time, though, Dodger made no effort to mask his presence.
He kept his hand in and fumbled about for what seemed an age to the lightning-fingered lad, and then the man turned and his face purpled as he shouted, “Hey, there!”

By that point, the man’s handkerchief was already in Dodger’s possession. It was, Dodger had to admit, quite a beautiful one, silken with lace around the edges. Dodger had already taken several steps back, and he bowed slightly. “Pleasure doin’
business
with ya, saaaar,” he said, dragging out the honorific to such a
degree
that he sounded nearly piratical.

The oaf lunged for the Artful who, living up to his
nom de street,
eluded his grasp quite easily. “Get back here, rapscallion! Guttersnipe! Return that at once, do you hear?”

The oaf’s hand pulled at the top of his cane; there was a sharp sliding noise of metal on wood, and abruptly a blade, two feet long, produced from within hiding in the cane, glittered in the evening light.

Dodger gasped, momentarily startled. The first thought that went through his mind was a twinge of jealousy, for he had
never
seen the like and now desperately wanted one. The second thought was that it behooved him to put himself beyond the blade’s reach as expeditiously as possible.

Moving with far greater speed than the Artful would have credited him, the man swept the blade at Dodger. The extended reach provided him by the blade brought him far closer than the current geography of the situation would have allowed were he unarmed, and Dodger bent himself in half backward, watching the blade as it passed directly overhead and within mere inches of his face. The man swung again, and this time Dodger batted the blade aside with his own cane, but an extended engagement of simple wood versus cold steel did not seem to be in Dodger’s best interests.

For a moment, he entertained the notion of throwing down the handkerchief and leaving the girl to her fate, but the
notion
was repulsive to him, not squaring with his view of how a
gentleman
should behave . . . so he turned and ran. Which was hardly the actions of a gentleman as well, but at least it made some contextual sense in planning the encounter.

The larger man did not hesitate to follow, once again moving a bit faster than the Artful would have thought him capable.

He ran a block, then two, and the man pursued him, continuing to shout a string of imprecations, although, the Artful couldn’t help but notice, he was not howling for the intervention of the police as his sort was wont to do. Dodger considered that curious and wondered if the man had some reason to be opposed to the constabulary sticking its collective nose into his business.