by H. B. Lyle
A speaker ascended the stage. The babble of English, Russian, Yiddish quietened. Wiggins couldn’t see Bela in the crush. He loosened his collar. It occurred to him she might expect a level of political understanding and call upon him to have an opinion – it was he, after all, who had asked her to the lecture.
‘Comrades,’ the speaker bellowed. ‘I have here a few words from our good friend Lenin.’ He held up a thick wad of pages. The audience remained quiet, rapt, as his loud, urgent tones washed over them.
‘My name is Kent, Richard Kent. I have lately been travelling on behalf of the Trade Union Congress throughout the Continent, communing with fellow workers, unionists, members of our movement – miners, dockers, railwaymen, factory workers, mill workers even. In Germany I was lucky enough to meet and talk with Comrade Lenin.’ The crowd whooped and cheered. ‘He is a very impressive man and while I don’t agree with all he’s got to say …’ Kent looked down for a moment. ‘Anyway, Mr Lenin spoke very highly of this country and even, yes, even of this very club. He pressed upon me a number of his newly translated pamphlets and asked if I would read one to you on my way back to Manchester. Of course, you already know this – I doubt there’d be quite such a crowd for a humble Oldham-born trade unionist such as myself, although I have been known to address more than five thousand people at a time. Right, anyway. The talk I’m going to deliver to you tonight is one that is close to the heart of myself, the union movement and, of course, since he wrote it, Mr Lenin. Forgive me – or him, yes, ha ha – if this is a bit of a mouthful, but detail is important. Here we go: “Notes on the Draft of the Main Grounds for the Bill on the Eight-Hour Working Day”.’
A rather dry and technical discussion followed about a bill that had been presented to the Russian parliament, with general remarks pertaining to the hours of all working peoples. Wiggins’s mind turned to Woolwich and that dark, satanic workshop 4; he thought of Milton – the runners did a fourteen-hour day – and those titans of the forge, their sweat-bathed brows wrinkled with exertion. They entered those gates before Monday’s sun rose and hardly saw natural light again until Sunday.
The audience clapped and stamped their feet. ‘Thank you, thank you so much.’ A younger man popped up onto the stage. ‘Please, for our friend Comrade Kent and, of course, for Lenin!’ The young man then launched into a speech. It was passionate, naïve, but oddly moving too, this dream of a better world, of a socialist utopia. The talker tailed off, however, and many in the audience either got up or broke into discussions of their own. Wiggins stood and looked around for Bela.
She hovered by the entrance, beside two huge men in matching kaftans. Wiggins raised his hand and she inclined her head, neither happy nor sad as far as he could tell. He held his cap before him and shuffled down the ranks of chairs.
‘Wait.’ A hand clamped his arm.
Wiggins turned. The hand belonged to a man in his late twenties, with a close beard and revolutionary’s hair split by a stunning grey streak. His nose had been broken at least twice, Wiggins thought, and the skin above his left eyebrow bore a pale scar. But above all this, and the fact that he stood two inches taller than Wiggins, the man exuded power. His eyes were a bottomless brown so deep as to be almost black. They swallowed the light. Wiggins glanced down at the hand on his arm but the man did not let go.
‘We speak, yes?’ the man insisted in a heavily accented voice.
Wiggins glanced at the exit.
The man went on: ‘I have many friends here. You have none, I think. Only a big bear hunts alone. Sit, please.’ He let go at last. ‘My name is Petr, or Peter you can call me.’
Wiggins took a seat and waited. Peter sat down next to him and eyed the room as he spoke. ‘Do you like it here? No, no, please don’t try to deceive. You have been here before, I think. More than two times.’
‘You keep score?’ Wiggins said. ‘I’m new to politics.’
‘Is this your country?’
‘London, yes.’
Peter revealed a set of wolfish teeth. ‘We have other clubs, other meetings. Here it is a little bit, how you say, for the old ones, for the women? Sometimes the wolves like to run, no? Some of us are more used to action. Maybe you should join us at these clubs and see if this too is interesting?’
‘Action?’ Wiggins moved forward in his chair.
He’d started tentative conversations with a few of the regulars but no one seemed like gang material. None of them could hold up a banner, let alone a payroll. This man in front of him was different. Peter looked like he could collect on an armed robbery, could even plan the Tottenham job. For all his easy manner and fine-toothed smile, Wiggins had noticed the bulky, lopsided hang of his left jacket pocket. A Mauser, he guessed.
Peter traced fingers across his scarred forehead. ‘We believe actions create more noise than words alone. Thinking is nothing without action.’
‘Are you criminals?’
Peter laughed. ‘This is a word used by capitalists to talk about people without capital, to disguise their own historical crimes. No, we are anarchists – this is an anarchist club, no? I think maybe you can help us – you look strong, clever. You look like a soldier.’
‘Ex-soldier.’
‘You see, strong,’ Peter confirmed. ‘So many here are too weak.’ He made an odd sucking sound with his mouth and licked his lips.
‘I might be a policeman.’
Peter shook his head. ‘Ha. You are not police.’ He pointed to a man in the front row, whose face was hidden by the peak of an enormous cap. ‘He is police. Special Branch. Klaus. His Russian is terrible. We took him drinking, for fun, because he spoke so bad. He is from Germany, but he pretends Poland. No, you are not police. But you can help, I think.’ He sucked again then suddenly thrust a hand into his right pocket.
Wiggins flinched.
‘Mint Imperial?’ Peter said, offering a rumpled paper bag. ‘English sweets, they are best.’
Wiggins took a mint. He sucked it for a moment and said nothing.
‘Sweets in Russia is like licking turd.’ Peter revelled in the word. He grinned. Then he pulled out a piece of rough card. He wrote down an address and handed it to Wiggins. ‘Come, Tuesday or Thursday nights. I am there. We can talk again. If you don’t want to help, you don’t have to. There are no masters here.’
‘No masters?’
‘No gods, no masters: that is who we are.’
Wiggins stared after him as he left, shocked to hear such a thought put so bold. No gods, no masters. Peter gave a low whistle and two young men by the stage hastened to follow him. As he reached the door he leant down and handed sweets to a brace of small children. Wiggins pocketed the address. There had been no indication that Peter recognised him from the drinking den, or that he had any connection to the men who’d killed Bill – but he was connected to something.
It was not every day you met an armed man in London; for all Sherlock Holmes advised carrying a firearm east of Aldgate, Wiggins knew few that did.
‘You didn’t like it?’
Wiggins twitched out of his reverie. Bela stood in front of him, arms folded across her chest. ‘It was new, at least.’
‘Mr Kent has never spoken before. Maybe this is why so many people came?’
Wiggins blinked and then smiled. ‘Right, I get it. If they’d seen him before, no one would have come.’
Bela looked at him like he was an idiot. She wore a loose scarf around her head. He could see her hair. Thick strands of brown-black, like a delicate veneer of worn and polished rosewood. She inclined her head to the door and he followed her.
A knot of men stood outside smoking. One of them called out in Russian to Bela and sniggered. Bela didn’t break stride, but said something over her shoulder. The men burst into laughter, all except the first speaker, who looked shamefaced.
‘What was that?’ Wiggins asked.
‘Men. Always the same. They think big words make them look big. This man, he ask me once to go walking with him. I say
no. Now I tell his friends why.’
‘He looked like he could handle himself.’
‘I can handle myself too.’
‘Will you get stick, walking out with an Englishman?’
‘Oh, I do not care what they say. I walk where I want to.’ She glanced at him. ‘And with who I want to.’
Wiggins smiled. He noticed she wore gloves, despite the mild night. ‘Where are we going?’ he said.
‘Walking safer than drinking.’
They rounded a corner and continued on into the near darkness of the ill-lit East End. ‘This Lenin geezer, seems like a popular sort,’ Wiggins said after a moment.
She shrugged. ‘Many people like him. My country has many problems, he has many answers.’
‘You said before you was from Latvia. That’s part of Russia, right?’
‘The Tsar thinks it is part of Russia, but we do not.’
‘One of the many problems, eh? Is that why you’re in London?’
She nodded in a strange, half-hearted way – as if she couldn’t quite decide what to think. ‘Why did you save me? You are Anglish. I am Latvian. You could have been killed.’
‘I was drunk.’ He grinned. ‘Why did you save me?’
She motioned her head from side to side but didn’t answer. They turned onto Whitechapel. Despite the late hour, the street was alive with hawkers, loafers, hookers and restaurant-goers. ‘You couldn’t walk around here twenty years ago, not at this time of night,’ Wiggins gabbled. ‘It was cut-throat dangerous. But since the Jews moved in, it’s safer.’
‘You were almost killed.’
He smiled. ‘But I weren’t, thanks to you. Asking for it any road. Drunk. Round here has always been for new folk. Before the Rooskies it was the Huguenots and God knows who else. Always here, out east. The whole world comes to London – I’ve met Chinese, Yanks, Frenchies, blackamoors from the Caribbean, Indians, Dutchmen, Spaniards, Siamese. There ain’t no colour or size or shape on the planet that ain’t been here one time or another. I’ve even seen an Andaman Island Pygmy when I was young. This, right here,’ he slammed his foot on the ground, ‘this is the centre of the universe, so it is.’
Bela laughed.
‘Sorry,’ Wiggins blushed. ‘I gets carried away.’
They looped back south, skirting a large goods depot. Wiggins ushered Bela away from the horseshit stench. Carts waited all day and all night to pick up cargo and the horses stood for hours at a time. ‘It smells that way, I know,’ Bela said. ‘It is not a secret.’
Wiggins glanced behind him. He strained to hear. Was there a step echoing theirs? Did the shadows move?
‘And your work, you told me but I forgot,’ she said.
‘Out Woolwich way, it’s nothing. But it keeps the wolf on a leash.’
‘An important factory you said before?’
‘Very important.’ He pushed his chest out and they both laughed. The road ahead, tapering east, darkened further. They skated past unlit goods entrances. Wiggins checked behind him once more, unsettled and uncertain. Bela slipped on one of the cobbles and Wiggins caught her. She placed her hands on his chest but didn’t push back, as he expected. Instead, she brought her lips up to his and pressed against him. They kissed. Wiggins leant back against the wall, surprised, delighted.
It was not the kiss of a beginner. She kissed like she meant it. Finally, Bela broke away. ‘Funny man,’ she said, her hand lingering on his chest. ‘I go now, don’t follow me.’
‘Can I see you again?’
She looked at him, dark eyes barely visible in the quarter-light of the far-off street lamp. ‘Find somewhere for us to go. The street no good.’
* * *
‘The streets ain’t no good.’ Sal plucked at her curls listlessly. ‘I need grub.’
‘It’s better than Blackheath,’ Wiggins said.
They sheltered in a doorway on Praed Street, along from Paddington Station. Wiggins hopped from foot to foot, hoping to catch the eye of a benefactor. Sal slumped beside him, disconsolate. ‘I thought you said you had work.’
‘It’s on-off, I told you.’
‘I’ll say. No work, no pay, nothing.’
Wiggins hesitated. ‘But I told Mr Holmes I’d get a gang. Look out for stuff, eyes all over.’
‘Well?’
‘I only know you.’
Sal stood up. ‘Then let’s get over there.’
‘But …’ Wiggins faltered.
‘Alls you do is tell him you’ve got a gang. Then we can do the job.’
‘Ain’t that a porky?’
Sal scoffed. ‘We’ll get a gang, stupid. You can be the leader.’
Thirty minutes later, Wiggins presented himself at 221B Baker Street, ready for work.
‘Found yourself a team, have you, young Wiggins? Please, don’t steal that paperknife – it came from the Emperor of Japan. The silver lighter, too, should remain, I think. It is the Doctor’s favourite.’ Sherlock Holmes chuckled as the small boy routinely tried to filch his possessions. ‘Look at me. A shilling-a-day retainer when you’re on a job, plus a bonus. Fair?’
‘Some of them are mighty hungry,’ Wiggins said (Sal, who waited outside, had coached him in what to say). ‘There’s a pair of twins and all.’
Mr Holmes peered at him and raised an eyebrow. ‘A shilling a day it is. Now, there is a small matter down at the docks that needs the attention of your … gang?’
‘Like a nail gang?’
‘No, you will not be thieves.’
The door swung open and the kindly man with the moustache arrived, exclaiming loudly, ‘Who’s this young fellow?’ The man bent down and examined Wiggins, his breath reeking of strong baccy, his hands of soap. He straightened. ‘Well, Holmes, this is all very irregular.’
‘That’s it,’ Holmes cried. ‘Watson, meet Wiggins. The head of the Irregular Division of the Baker Street Detectives.’
10
Wiggins checked his watch against the huge clock high above the gates of Woolwich Arsenal. Two minutes late, again. He waited for the end of the working day. The klaxon was due any moment, and Wiggins settled himself to observe the workers as they left.
A hand clamped his shoulder. ‘Oi!’
Wiggins twisted round in surprise.
‘The old bastard ain’t worth it.’
Wiggins released a breath. ‘Milton. Shouldn’t you be inside?’
‘Errands, boss has me running errands,’ the runner replied. He let go of Wiggins and started to massage his right leg. Milton never commented on the pain his club foot must cause him. ‘Knocking off now, all done,’ he said cheerfully.
Wiggins eyed the runner, listened to Milton’s calloused hand rubbing against his trousers. The great klaxon sounded over Wiggins’s left shoulder. He started, unsure. Milton smiled, wide and innocent. ‘Don’t do it,’ he said at last.
Did Milton know?
‘You and Rayner. He got you put on two days a week. You’re here to give him a beating, right?’
Wiggins shrugged. He fingered the cosh in his pocket. Best to let Milton think that. The great factory gates swung open. Wiggins turned away from Milton and scanned the throng hurrying away from their daytime prison. He caught sight of Royston Basil. The under-clerk twizzled a large umbrella, his dark glasses tinted purple. His clothes were too rich, his gait too furtive, his shoes a—
‘Jonny,’ Milton cracked his knuckles. ‘Fancy the Hulk?’
Wiggins looked back at the young runner and grinned. ‘Now you’re talking.’ Basil would have to wait.
They drank at the Old Sheer Hulk, standing outside on the pavement. It was a warm night and it seemed as if half of the Arsenal stood around them quaffing pints. ‘You all right for brass, Jonny?’ Milton passed him a pint of half and half.
‘I’ve got another billet – up Rotherhithe way – nightwatchman.’
Wiggins didn’t tell him about the room he’d rented off Essex Road. Kell was paying him more than he had ever earned in his life, plus th
e Woolwich wages. Enough to let something half decent above a pawnshop, with its own door down a side alley. Bela had wanted him to find a place off the street, and so he had – though whether she’d really want to visit or not, he didn’t know. He hoped. The half and half slipped down easy, and he wondered about a rum chaser.
Milton drew on a Woodbine and coughed. ‘Rayner’s a pillock but he ain’t worth a fist. Army sends ’em funny sometimes, don’t it?’
‘Funny am I?’
‘Nah.’ Milton grinned. ‘But the army. Sends them doolally. My old man gave everything to the British Army, so he did. Never the same again. Broken, he was, broken. Left us wiv nothing.’
They got very drunk. Or at least, Milton did. His lazy right eye grew lazier and his slack jaw slacker as the night wore on. In the end, Wiggins slung the feather-light runner over his shoulder and carried him home.
‘Number five,’ Milton slurred as his chin bounced on Wiggins’s back. ‘It’s number five, down on the right.’
‘Is that your right, or my right?’ Wiggins chuckled.
They were in one of the dingy streets in Charlton that ran between the railway line and the river. A lone gaslight cast a faint glow from the end of the road and the street stank of blocked drains, or no drains at all more like. Wiggins eased open the door of number five with his boot.
‘I’ve got a knife, mister,’ a high-pitched voice echoed out of the darkness. ‘I’ll stick ya.’
Wiggins froze, unable to bolt or see an attacker. Milton burped. ‘Mavis, it’s me,’ he said.
An oil lamp flickered and the room came into view. ‘Mavis, my little sister,’ Milton said as Wiggins shrugged him to his feet.
Mavis, thirteen or so, had the same open face as her older brother but her eyes were sharp and lively. She placed the knife on a side table.
