Jack Lark: Rogue (2 page)

‘It ain’t her concern. You want my money or not?’ The boy spoke fast, his blood high. He recognised the servant from his visits to the gin palace. He worked for some toff out west but he was a sound fellow and the boy reckoned he could be trusted to pay out if he lost.

‘I’ll match your shillings, Mud. Then you can go home.’ The servant held out an open palm.

The boy’s nostrils flared. The smell of piss was strong as Tom Pullen’s bitch squatted at the edge of the pit. The boy took it as a good omen and he slapped down his coins then turned, ducking low as he caught sight of his master again.

The two dogs snapped at one another, sensing the excitement in the crowd. Their owners took places at either end of the ring, setting the animals down on the sand spread on the ground. The bitch clawed at the floor the moment it smelt the other dog. Both animals had fought before and bore the scars of their battles. Harlequin Billy knew what he was about and was opening with two of his best fighters, making sure that his entertainment started well. There would be time enough for the other dogs, and the rigged matches where he would make most of his money. He would hide them in between the real contests when his punters’ blood was fired up, their own animal instincts released as the dogs tore each other apart.

‘Let ’em go!’ Harlequin Billy roared the command and the two owners slipped the muzzle guards from the dogs, their fingers moving quickly lest theirs be the first blood spilt that night.

The crowd erupted, the noise deafening. The dogs charged forward, each enraged by the sight of the other. Their snorts and growls were lost in the cheers and shouts as the crowd bellowed for their chosen animal. In the cramped confines of the cellar, the sound was thunderous, the primeval roar of men sensing blood.

The two terriers were fast. With teeth bared, they snapped and snarled, their heads ducking low as they danced in front of one another. The bitch dived in first, its back legs powering into a charge. It was met with teeth, the brawler moving quicker and attacking as the bitch twisted away.

The men bayed as the first blood was torn from the bitch’s side, the spray of claret bright on the sand even in the murky light of the oil lamps. More cheers followed as the dogs tore at one another again. Wagers were offered and taken, the crowd pressing forward, every face contorted.

The boy bent low, cheering with the rest, his groan at the sight of the bitch’s blood matched by the roar of approval from the servant pressing hard against his side.

The bitch pulled away. Its fur was matted, its muzzle painted red. The brawler staggered as the two animals parted, shaking its head, blood and drool flung far.

The crowd howled at the animals, commanding them to fight.

The bitch was willing and it jumped forward, jaws snapping and teeth bared. The brawler stumbled, its forelegs weakened by its opponent’s bites. Its head dropped and the bitch took its chance.

Half the crowd groaned, the sound like some great wounded animal, at the sight of the gush of blood surging around the jaws of the bitch as it tore out the brawler’s throat. The rest jeered, their winnings safe, the first of the night’s victories taken.

The owners were back in the ring. The bitch was pulled away, hands pressing hard around its head as the muzzle was forced back over its jaws. The owner beamed with pride as he raised the blood-smeared animal above his head, punching it into the air in victory.

The boy cheered with the winners, then turned and pounded his hands at the servant, delight surging through him. The exchange of coins was swift, the servant cursing as he parted with his shillings.

The owner of the losing dog dragged his animal to the side. The boy turned back in time to see a heavy club punched against the animal’s head, its misery bludgeoned away with the single brutal blow. The boy felt sick, the sudden sight of the cruel end to the dog’s life sticking in his craw. His face burned with shame, the price of the entertainment now soaking into the sand on the floor of the ring.

He ducked away, refusing to look at the small body tossed without thought into a hemp sack kept ready for the purpose. It was time to leave.

A hand clamped hard around his collar. He felt his heels leave the floor as his captor lifted him effortlessly and twisted him around, bringing him face to face with his master.

He could see little of the man’s features. His pork-pie hat was pulled low and a thick scarf covered most of the lower part of his face. But there was no escaping the gleam of rage in his eyes.

The boy was held helpless. He could do nothing as he was frogmarched through the crowd, his feet barely grazing the floor. The first pain came, his shins banging hard on the steps as he was hauled up and out of the cellar, his ears ringing to the jeers and catcalls of the men who witnessed his fate.

Sam the door-keep saw him coming. He had the sense to get out of the way as the boy was thrown to the ground at the top of the cellar steps. The first boot came hard and it came fast. It connected with the boy’s midriff, driving the air from his body. He curled around the sudden pain, yet there was no respite. Another kick caught him on the arm, the blow strong enough to drive all feeling from the limb. He cried out then, the pain coming on strong. He was helpless and unable to resist when his master bent low and hauled him upright.

The big man’s face pressed close. The boy felt the wash of his breath, the smell catching in his throat. He tried to meet his master’s eyes, but the stare was too hard and he looked away, fear bubbling deep in his gut.

‘You shouldn’t be here.’ The words came out as little more than a grunt. The boy was dropped. He barely had time to find his balance before the fist connected with his face and he fell like a sack of horseshit, his body thumping heavily to the ground. Pain surged through him in a single great wave, the rush of blood hot and sticky on his face.

The cudgel came out swiftly. The boy had barely noticed its arrival in his master’s hands before it came for him. He could do nothing as the big man bent low and swung it in half a dozen short, sharp blows that hammered into his chest and arms. Mercifully, his assailant pulled away after the last swing of the weapon, the beating quick and brutally effective.

The boy lay still, sobbing against the pain.

‘Go home.’ The command was curt, his master’s breath rasping with the effort of the beating.

The boy scrabbled to his feet, his clothes filthy from the muck on the ground, mixed with the blood that poured from his face. He staggered upright, forcing himself to stand, to show that he could take the beating.

His master was gone, returning to the dog fight in the cellar. The boy stumbled, struggling to stay on his feet. He heard laughter and turned his head, wincing at the pain.

Sam the door-keep emerged from his hiding place in the shadows. ‘You bloody fool. You had that coming.’

The boy turned away, showing his back to the baying youth.

‘That’s it. Run home to your ma. That’s all you are, Jack Lark. A fucking mummy’s boy.’

Jack ignored the insults. He concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other, forcing his battered flesh to obey. His hand slipped into his pocket, checking the precious coins were still there. His fingers touched the metal and he smiled. He had paid a hefty price, but he had his rhino. He reckoned it had just about been worth it.

‘You look pleased with yourself considering you’ve got one hell of a shiner.’

Jack grinned as he sauntered into the empty gin palace. It was past closing, and even the slowest of the drinkers who frequented the place had been thrown out into the darkness.

‘It’s nothing, Ma.’ He could not wipe away the smile that was plastered across his face. Some of the pain had faded on the walk home, and he felt the need to show his ma that he was still the same old Jack. It would hurt him more to let her know that her old man had snuffed out his spirit.

‘Did
he
give it you?’ Jack’s mother did not miss a trick. ‘Did he catch you?’

‘Ain’t no man alive that can catch me, Ma.’

She whooped at the bravado. ‘Aye, aye. Well, as sure as eggs is eggs you don’t want him to find out you ain’t been here all evening. I sent you out on a bleeding errand and you disappear. I had to get Mary to help me.’

‘She don’t mind. Saves her spending the night on her back.’ Jack strutted past, his thumbs looped into the top of his trousers.

‘Listen to you.’ His mother was wiping glasses, the cloth moving quickly in practised motion. Her face was flushed, her wide cheeks crimson from the hard work. She bustled over to Jack, her cloth dropping to wipe at the great slab of mahogany that was her bar. ‘You won’t be so cocky when he finds out.’

‘Are you going to blab on me then, Ma?’ Jack came and leant on the bar near where his mother was working. He loomed over her, but there was no doubt who was in charge.

She leant forward and grabbed his cheek between her thumb and forefinger. ‘If he asks me, then I ain’t going to lie to him.’

Jack pulled his head back, scowling at her lack of support. ‘He knows. He saw me. He did this.’ He inclined his head to show her his eye. ‘But it don’t hurt. He hits like a girl.’

‘You damn fool.’ Jack’s mother shook her head at her son’s foolishness. There was no sympathy.

‘More fool
you
for having the brute in your bed.’ Jack’s pleasure at his success was waning. The pain of the beating was starting to take hold and his mother’s words had added to his store of hurt.

‘And where would we be without him? Do you ever stop to think about that, Jack?’

‘We’d be a damn sight happier, I reckon.’

‘We’d be out on the bloody street, too.’ Her brow furrowed at her son’s fecklessness. ‘You reckon I could keep this place with no man around? Why, I’d be out on my ear soon as the first cove took a fancy to having the place for hisself.’

‘So you took one into your bed.’ Jack swayed back as his mother’s cloth darted at his face before returning to the surface of the bar.

‘I kept your sorry backside safe. You should be bloody grateful.’

‘He took the place, Ma. He just kept you too.’

His mother scowled. ‘You know nothing about it.’

‘I know he don’t like me.’

‘Then you should do as he bloody says.’

‘I ain’t no lickspittle, Ma.’

‘No, you’re a bloody fool.’ She walked to the far side of the bar. ‘And you’re going to be a busy fool now. There’s a puddle of piss in the salon, and I think old man Kent is still in there; he’s too big for me to turf out. Get him gone, then clean up. Then I need some barrels shifted.’

Jack sighed and moved off towards the scullery to fetch the mop and bucket. He refused to be downcast. He had the coins in his pocket and he had his plan for their use. A few hours’ work meant little compared to the pleasure that was in store for him.

‘Hold still.’

‘It bloody hurts.’

‘Course it hurts.’ The girl’s fingers moved quickly as she removed the bandage. ‘Cor, those bruises don’t look pretty.’

‘That ain’t surprising.’ Jack scowled as he looked down at his ribs. ‘The old bastard kicked me at least a dozen times.’

‘More fool you for getting caught.’

Jack laughed, wincing as it set his ribs on fire. ‘Fair enough, Mary. I know it’s my own fault. But it don’t make it hurt any less.’

‘What were you thinking, Jack? Your guv’nor ain’t never going to take kindly to you tailing him to one of his fights.’

‘He ain’t my guv’nor. And why shouldn’t I? My money is as good as anyone’s.’

‘You’re a fucking fool if you believe that, Jack.’

‘I ain’t no fool.’ Jack’s pride was hurting almost as much as his ribs and his face. But Mary’s hands were warm and gentle, and he leaned back and let her dab on the ointment she had brought with her. Girls like Mary knew all about bruises, about taking a punch.

‘Of course you’re a fool, Jack. You’re a boy, ain’t you?’ Mary smiled and reached forward to squeeze his cheek.

Jack felt the flush as her fingers touched his face. ‘I wish you didn’t think of me as a boy.’

Mary sat back and whooped, her laughter quick and infectious. ‘Aye, there you go, you randy little sod. I ain’t letting you take a turn, no matter how many times you turn those puppy eyes on me. I’ve known you since you was a nipper. It wouldn’t be right.’

‘I can pay.’ Jack whispered the words, trying to hide his hope. It would have been worth taking a beating if it led to an hour in Mary’s bed. He had the money thanks to Tom Pullen’s bitch. Mary was the prize he had been after.

Mary just shook her head. ‘You’ve got it bad. What about Sophia? You were keen enough last time. She’s a good girl. Clean, too.’

Jack looked away, ashamed of the expression that must be on his face. Sophia was younger than him. She looked so fragile that a strong wind could blow her away. She did not compare to Mary.

‘She’s too young.’

‘It didn’t stop you last time.’

‘I don’t want Sophia.’

‘Well you can’t have me.’

‘Why not?’ Jack heard the wheedling tone in his voice and hated himself for it. But he could not help it. Mary was beautiful. Her hair was clean and she had meat on her bones. She was a rare beauty and men were driven mad by their need for her. It allowed her to be choosy, to earn more than the other girls, who would be happy to dispense a tuppenny upright for any man with the coins in their pocket.

‘Because you’re too young.’

‘I’m old enough. Why, you ain’t more than a couple of years older than me.’

‘That’s as maybe, but it’s still a no.’ Mary leaned forward, then snorted in a very unladylike manner. She had spotted Jack’s gaze drop below her face as her dress gaped open, and she shook her head at the lust she had seen in his eyes. ‘I’ll ask Sophia to come to you.’

Jack turned his face away, hiding his shame. He said nothing more as Mary finished applying the last of the ointment, then bound his bandage tight. But he could not help but smile when she turned his head around and planted a kiss smack on the centre of his forehead.

‘Thank you.’ He reached out and took her hand in his own. ‘Thank you for looking after me, Mary.’