Fire on Dark Water (3 page)
Read Fire on Dark Water Online
Authors: Wendy Perriman
Now, I ain’t never understood to this day why a respectable gentleman would want to do what he did to me that night. Was it the sex that excited him? Being my first when I was young and tight and convinced that I might want it? Perhaps a virgin meant less chance of catching the pox? Or maybe he thought that common girls had no right to resist? I’ve since learned, of course, that men like that can’t relate to grown-up women. And I’ve even heard them blame the lass herself for her own seduction! But I have to say, he showed no conscience or kindness, so I think it was all about power—the thrill—the infliction of will. . . .
T
he chattering of my teeth brought the harsh awareness I wasn’t no longer in that house. I was soaked through so knew it was raining and when I opened a crusted eyelid, I discovered my hair had set in ice beneath the slushy cinders. I’d been dumped in some dank, stinking alleyway. Panic shot through me as I focused on raising my head. The first thing I saw was the half-melted corpse of a dog, his last snarl caught in a ghostly grimace a few inches from my left shoulder. My whole body shuddered. The flimsy costume they’d dumped me in was torn and mushy with dirty snow, and my legs felt cold and broken and achy. I realized my kin would have missed me by now but they’d never know where to find me. I wasn’t sure myself—excepting the smell of fish wafted over the sewage so I gauged I must be somewhere near the docks. I had to find shelter. The crowds were about their business best as the weather would permit, a constant thrum of noise throbbing from either end of the jagged alley. But this smoggy passage was dirty and stagnant from the Great Fire of long ago, and was not a good place to be trapped. So I started to crawl away from the steaming horses, through the melting soot toward a decaying door. I rolled my weight against the wood and suddenly tumbled into someone’s parlor.
he chattering of my teeth brought the harsh awareness I wasn’t no longer in that house. I was soaked through so knew it was raining and when I opened a crusted eyelid, I discovered my hair had set in ice beneath the slushy cinders. I’d been dumped in some dank, stinking alleyway. Panic shot through me as I focused on raising my head. The first thing I saw was the half-melted corpse of a dog, his last snarl caught in a ghostly grimace a few inches from my left shoulder. My whole body shuddered. The flimsy costume they’d dumped me in was torn and mushy with dirty snow, and my legs felt cold and broken and achy. I realized my kin would have missed me by now but they’d never know where to find me. I wasn’t sure myself—excepting the smell of fish wafted over the sewage so I gauged I must be somewhere near the docks. I had to find shelter. The crowds were about their business best as the weather would permit, a constant thrum of noise throbbing from either end of the jagged alley. But this smoggy passage was dirty and stagnant from the Great Fire of long ago, and was not a good place to be trapped. So I started to crawl away from the steaming horses, through the melting soot toward a decaying door. I rolled my weight against the wood and suddenly tumbled into someone’s parlor.
“Well, well, well. And what have we here?” a deep voice crackled through the swelling glow of firelight. Somebody shuffled and coughed. The shape came toward me carrying a hefty club and I slowly absorbed the vision from the slippers up. I was staring up at the widest woman I’d ever ever seen. Her legs were like two oak trunks and she waddled on buoyant hips swaying in swathes of blubber. I noted gold hoops set in a nest of grizzled curls and chestnut cheeks topping the rungs of brown flesh that stepped up in layers from her giant bosom. “And who might you be, dearie?” she asked.
When she realized I was no threat, her voice became more sympathetic and the menacing club transformed into a walking stick. I looked into her bird-dark eyes and whispered, “Help me. I’m lost. . . .”
The woman intuitively took in my plight. She lifted me to my feet and steered me onto a chair by the fire. “You sit here, love. I’ll warm some ale.”
I gratefully accepted her offer and the bitterness began spilling. As I shared my ordeal she listened wisely, her plump lips betraying very little. When my last hiccup faded she said softly, “You can rest safe with me until you’re feeling better. Then we’ll sort out what to do with you.”
“But I must get back to my folks . . . before they start traveling.”
She shook her head and said sadly, “There ain’t no going back for you, darling. You do know that, don’t you. . . ?”
“No! I . . . I . . .”
The woman took my deathly hand in her warm soft paw and added, “Little chey, the gypsies will treat you like a gorgio now.” She stared into my sadness and explained, “Because you are no longer pure.”
Ma’s life flashed into my mind and I instantly understood. But how did she know our ways? I faltered, “Are . . . Are you . . . ?”
“Romany? Ain’t no more, love.” She looked away and revealed, “Something like what happened to you once happened to me.” She stood up and stoked the fire, then concluded, “But that ain’t the only good life, if you know what I mean.” She winked and smiled a toothless grin. “There’s much to be said for staying in one spot. It gives you a chance to make something of yourself.” She looked proudly around the room and my own eyes followed. They took in a comfortable level of wealth that the decrepit exterior concealed well. This was obviously no vagrant’s dwelling. My pupils expanded in wide appreciation and my hostess seemed gratified by such response.
“Your room’s lovely,” I told her.
“Room?” she cackled. “I own the whole street, duckie!”
I was speechless. A burble of spit came out before I could formulate actual words. Then I muttered, “How . . . How did. . . ?”
She chuckled and said slyly, “You might just find out, darling, if you decide to stick around.”
“I can stay?” I asked in genuine astonishment. “Here?”
“In one of the other houses you can. . . .”
Over the next few days my hostess ministered my physical wounds with poultice and herbs until I was able to walk again. She made up a trundle bed by the hearth and had her girls feed me delicacies and keep lively company. The girls—an attractive assortment of vibrant young slatterns—worked in the Big House. From scraps of gossip, I discovered that my patron had progressed from whore to madam, building a powerful empire with her pirate lover, Dandy Dick Brennar. Richard Brennar had sailed with the famous Captain Morgan right up to the Sack of Panama. Now he was
officially
lost at sea—but it was rumored that, being so canny, he was most likely resting quietly and enjoying the fruits of some Carribee island.
officially
lost at sea—but it was rumored that, being so canny, he was most likely resting quietly and enjoying the fruits of some Carribee island.
Within a week I was up and about. And before I knew what was happening I’d become the newest recruit of Mother Lovel’s bridge gang—known to insiders as “Dya’s Odji”—and to outsiders as the “Black Guard.” Now, I ain’t too happy at this point, as you can imagine, but I quickly adapted to circumstance and soon as I’d properly healed I intended making my way back to Battersea before the spring thaw. I couldn’t accept being banished from my tribe—it seemed so unfair. But in the meantime, I was learning lots of new tricks so there wasn’t no time being wasted. The gang consisted of eleven of us ranging from four to fourteen. We were split into two crews and my lot worked the West Side. Our con went something like this: I was dressed as a street urchin and Dya usually rented some baby or other for me to lug round. Our adult minder picked a suitable mark, then I stared through big bleary eyes and begged for money, claiming I was orphaned and sold matches (pegs, flowers, pins) and owed money for lodgings and didn’t know how I was going to afford breakfast. The toff would take in the ratty clothes and dirt, stare guilty from his own silks and lace, and then would fish out some paltry appeasement of conscience. Once we knew where he kept the wonga, the others would come charging round and little Sal would lift his purse and slide it in her bloomers. Poor nobs never knew what had hit them. After a few weeks’ training on a coat sewn with bells I could lift a pocketwatch or handkerchief as slick as the rest, and Janky (a pimpled, sandy-haired youth of fourteen who hadn’t enough brawn to join the men yet) was unsuccessfully trying to teach me how to pick locks. Whatever valuables we poached were given straight to the minder for Dya to fence, alongside those she’d acquired from her regular source of jack-tars and highwaymen. Mother Lovel was known wide and far, but her patch actually stretched below Cheapside from London Bridge to the Tower. She had been in business some thirty or forty years and had a finger in almost every pie the underworld cooked. And there was never any trouble from the locals because they were all too aware of the muscle at her command.
One day Dya gave me a child that was wan and silent. The bundle felt cold and the thin lips were turning blue. I gasped and said, “This baby’s dead.”
She nodded and confided, “Make sure the punters can see its face. They always pay more.”
I was horrified at the thought of carrying a corpse around and I panicked. I thrust the burden back at her and stood stammering, “I . . . I . . .”
“Listen,” she hissed. “Take the child and do as you’re told.” Then she added, “I’ve a mind you should try around Battersea today. What do you think?”
Battersea! She meant I could look for my folks. I took the baby back and awaited further instructions. Dya yelled, “Janky!” The leader of our crew appeared in the doorway. “Do you know your way to Battersea?” The youth nodded confidently. “Right then. Your lot are going there with Dobby. If Lola finds her kin all’s well and good. But if they want to buy her back it’ll cost two guineas.” She turned to me and said, “To pay me back for your keep.”
I felt my first jag of concern. Did my folks even have two guineas? And would they want me back since I was ruined? But I knew I must seem grateful so I whispered, “Ta,” and hurried after Janky as he left to find Dobby and round up the others.
Now, over the years Dya had given birth to four sons (a motley band of cutthroats and wide-boys), and Dobby was the youngest. He was built like a bulldog, with the speed of a lurcher and the cunning of a wolf, and I ain’t kidding when I say he put fear of the devil into most folks. He was to be our minder, which meant he’d dress as a sailor carrying a large ditty bag and would stroll on ahead to choose our mark. Then we’d make our play, quickly passing him the stolen loot in case we got caught. And we always got away with it—because even those who saw the switch thought better of challenging Dobby.
Those of us from London know it’s two or three leagues from the tower to Battersea, so we stopped a couple of times to filch a likely score before we crossed over the bridge. I was feeling quite weary by the time we arrived and the baby was starting to stink of sour death, but as we approached the common where I’d left my folks my body drained entirely. Our bender tent was gone. I ran to the patch of worn grass in desperation but all that remained was a pile of muck and a cold campfire long deserted.
No.
I threw my revolting bundle to the mud and hurried from wagon to wagon shouting the names of my folks, but no voice answered. Eventually a worn face peered from a sailcloth tent and stared in my direction. I screamed, “My kin! Do you know where they are?” I pointed at the vacant spot. The creamy eyes followed my arm, then a gnarled thumb flicked the whiskery chin in a gesture that meant they’d done a flit—left for their own private reasons. The face disappeared.
No.
I threw my revolting bundle to the mud and hurried from wagon to wagon shouting the names of my folks, but no voice answered. Eventually a worn face peered from a sailcloth tent and stared in my direction. I screamed, “My kin! Do you know where they are?” I pointed at the vacant spot. The creamy eyes followed my arm, then a gnarled thumb flicked the whiskery chin in a gesture that meant they’d done a flit—left for their own private reasons. The face disappeared.
Almost gagging in panic I returned to the emptiness and scrabbled through the garbage searching for clues as to where they might be. It was too early to be on the road yet. Why would they leave? Now, perhaps it was the rotting debris, or perhaps the realization of truth, but the next thing I knew I was vomiting and heaving and choking all over the garbage. The others stood silent at the edge of the grounds, letting me find my own knowledge. I wiped my lips on the hem of my dress and tried to regain some clarity.
Think.
Where would they hide a message? The only other structure was the campfire so I cautiously approached the charred ring of stone, knelt down beside, and carefully began blowing the ash away. And there I saw it. Hidden beneath the soot lay a large smooth stone with an arrow made of wood pointing west. I ain’t never felt so much relief as I did just then because they’d not forgotten me after all. The bile dribbled down my chin and suddenly one of my crew (a rough girl called Polly) stood tentatively stroking the back of my wrist. I allowed her to take my hand and lead me over to the rest of the gang, who smirked, or swallowed hard, or looked away into their own choked memory. Janky said, “Right then, let’s be off.” I numbly retrieved the dead infant and wiped off as much mud as possible, while Dobby led us back through the rough pasture toward Southwalk.
Think.
Where would they hide a message? The only other structure was the campfire so I cautiously approached the charred ring of stone, knelt down beside, and carefully began blowing the ash away. And there I saw it. Hidden beneath the soot lay a large smooth stone with an arrow made of wood pointing west. I ain’t never felt so much relief as I did just then because they’d not forgotten me after all. The bile dribbled down my chin and suddenly one of my crew (a rough girl called Polly) stood tentatively stroking the back of my wrist. I allowed her to take my hand and lead me over to the rest of the gang, who smirked, or swallowed hard, or looked away into their own choked memory. Janky said, “Right then, let’s be off.” I numbly retrieved the dead infant and wiped off as much mud as possible, while Dobby led us back through the rough pasture toward Southwalk.
There were always good pickings to be had around the bridge so Janky suggested we make a few more hits on our way home. I was so drained I didn’t care what we did—which I suppose made me look even more pathetic—and perhaps that’s why the ever opportunistic Dobby selected a grander target than usual. He singled out a big, fancy wig, who was chuckling with his pretty thing as she delved among a covered stall of velvet and taffeta. I watched from the shadows of a cheese vendor until they stepped out into the open, and then shuffled forward to make my play, scrunching the stinking bundle to my chest. I pleaded, “Good sir! Spare a coin for a poor wench?”
The young lady reached out to move the blanket for a better look at the baby, then automatically recoiled. “Oh, my Lord. . . .” I slipped into role and looked pitifully down at my charge, my round blue eyes popping with pathos. “Is . . . Is this your sister?” she asked sympathetically. I nodded.
The toff peered anxiously, first at the child and then at his mistress and then at me. He inquired, “Where is the mother?”
“Dead, sir” I replied. Then I launched into my monologue about selling flowers (explaining that there weren’t many this time of year) and how I couldn’t pay my lodging and couldn’t feed the child and I was all alone in the world and could the lovely lady find it in her heart to offer me some charity? The young woman nudged her companion and he dipped in his waistcoat to fish out a silver cob. My now-trained eyes spotted the bulge of a silk handkerchief, the chain of a pocketwatch, and the outline of a snuff box as I waited for the coin. The gang would have rich pickings. And while both heads were focused on his actions I plucked the beautiful gold chain from the lady’s wrist and tucked it inside the blanket. Dobby, who stood way behind in the mingling crowd, was urgently signaling me to move so I thanked the couple and scurried by. But before Janky and the others could act, my elbow was grabbed by a half-drunk man, and as I furiously tried to wiggle free, the grip just tightened and tightened.
Other books
The Cogspeare Conspiracy (The Cogspeare Chronicles Book 1) by Valentina S. Grub
Ricochet Baby by Kidman, Fiona
Triple Dare by Lexxie Couper
Moo by Sharon Creech
Cooking Spirits: An Angie Amalfi Mystery (Angie Amalfi Mysteries) by Pence, Joanne
The Worst Street in London: Foreword by Peter Ackroyd by Rule, Fiona
Darkfall by Dean Koontz
Full of Briars by Seanan McGuire
Clockwork Tangerine by Rhys Ford
Conjugal Love by Alberto Moravia