Wild Intentions (The Legend of the Thief Taker)

by Chris Hales

  As she stepped away Isabel blew him a kiss and calmly walked through the door. He watched her go with longing eyes. As he buttoned his shirt instinct took its hold. He passed his hands over every pocket, his eyes brimming with the inevitable discovery.

  Darting through the door he screamed after her. “Hey, stop there!”

  She paid him no regard. Rushing through the front door, her giggles echoing throughout the house.

  Her gentleman friend stumbled down the stairs, landing at the bottom in a heap. “Bloody whores,” he swore. Rushing to the door he flung it open, screaming to the pedestrians who glared at him with distaste. “Stop that girl,” he shouted. “Thief, thief!”

  As he suddenly realised people were glaring at him, his trousers fell about his ankles. Embarrassed and angry he tried desperately to recover his dignity.

  Two city constables had paid witness to the commotion. They immediately made chase after Isabel.

  She was quick on her feet. Running through the narrow streets of London she vanished, but the constables were always hot on her heels. They were experienced at this. They knew how to apprehend her.

  Isabel was faster than they ever imagined. She knew the streets well and used them to her advantage. She needed to escape. She had to hold onto her freedom. She couldn't afford for life to be cut short so easily.

  Escape was essential. Everything depended on it.

  3

  He walked the streets as he did every morning. Embracing the stale air of London and relishing in the sounds and smells of the abundant market stalls he continued on his early stroll. He enjoyed the observation of his fellow man. Watching them, savouring in their habits and nuances, attempting to understand his brotherly equivalents. Too often in his past had disappointment and resentment clawed at his being. Those he found himself close to had hurt and angered him far too often. This was why he had come here, to London.

  Some may have called it escaping his painful life, but he simply saw it as a rebirth. A grown man embracing his childlike need to impress and succeed. Not for his family, loved ones and close associates, but only for himself. His existence had been a bitter disappointment and London was the first step on his path to personal redemption, but the first motions of a new being were often the most troubling. The most awkward and uncooperative. This was why he had found himself needing these early marches through the narrow streets of the city. They cleared his mind and enhanced his soul. Forcing him to attack his rapidly declining life with a different vigour.

  To the people of London he appeared as a regular man. No different to any other, but he had his secrets. Some more powerful and destructive than others.

  In his opinion every person he passed appeared as if they were in distress. Terrified by the men around them. Fear of the riverside killer haunted every person’s dreams and nightmares. Young women had been fished from the Thames regularly each week for the last number of months. Each appeared to be a prostitute and the only question was when the killer would turn on the honest respectable people of London. It was the next logical step.

  The matters of criminal minds and murderous villains didn't concern him. He had his own worries. He knew time here was almost up and he would be forced to move on to another part of London. There he would create a new life for himself and start again. It was a predictable existence, but the only way he knew how to live. The only way to avoid those who now wished to do him harm. As his feet trod the cobbles he turned a corner and the most unexpected of things happened.

  A pretty young girl collided with him. She toppled backwards to crumple onto the ground. A leather pocketbook flew into the air and landed at his feet. He smiled. She was extremely attractive, wearing an outrageous purple dress, her forehead lined with sweat.

  He knelt to collect the pocket book and held out a hand to lift her from the earth. She took it, trembling with fear. He knew what she was. He knew why she was running, but she had wronged him in no way. He passed her the pocket book and she nervously took it. He could see the constables running to catch up and he had no intention of putting her in any danger.

  He leant towards her and whispered in her ear. “Run.”

  She gazed at him with adoring eyes. He was handsome. Neat hair which brushed his shoulders and fine features which served him well. A large scar ran down his face, from the right eye to his chin. It simply added to his distinguished, yet rugged appearance. She admired his token of war.

  He swept his hand out to the street beyond. She nodded and continued on her run. He stood purposefully in the way of the approaching constables, moving from side to side in an attempt to feign stupidity. Finally they pushed past, but the girl was long gone. Happy with his Good Samaritan act of kindness he continued on his way.

  Soon he reached a large house and climbed the steps which led to the door. Standing outside, underneath the porch, were three extremely large men. He ignored them and pushed through to reach for the door handle.

  “You Jonathan Wild?” asked the largest of these men.

  He turned with shock on his face and shook his head. “That bastard? No, but if you see him tell him he owes me money...”

  The men relaxed and allowed him to open the door, but before he had even taken hold of the handle it swung back forcefully.

  Before him stood a fat, old, pregnant woman. A large wart hung delicately from her nose and wobbled impressively with each sound she uttered. “There you are, you little shit!” She tensed angrily. He prepared for attack. “What have you done to my servant girl?” Her voice broke and crackled, reminding him of an old frog. “She can hardly walk this morning.” The men behind started to laugh. He tried to push past her, but she wasn't moving. “I tell you, Mr Wild, if you upset my household again I'll be very put out.”

  The men ceased to laugh and stood with a threatening purpose. He grimaced at the old woman. Why did she have to use his name? “You stupid old hag!” He screamed. He turned to the men and smiled. “Come on guys, I'm sure we can discuss this.”

  “Not likely, mate,” said the largest man as they began to encroach upon him. He steadied himself. Two of the brutes took a hold of an arm each.

  Jonathan Wild tensed, he knew what would happen. These bailiffs would carry him back to the courthouse, where he would await trial. This trial would be swift and merciless. He owed a great deal to a variety of people. He knew the government’s approach to criminals and he was sure the essential theft of money was no different to any other crime.

  He raised a knee to impact with a man's testicles, swinging his arm as the brute fell to his knees. He impacted with the second man's head, dazing him and allowing him to break free. Before him stood the largest of the men. Obviously the man in charge. He held his hands up in surrender, allowing the man to approach. With a deep breath he spat. A globule of saliva entered the man's eyes, blinding him momentarily. Jonathan ran.

  The men recovered quickly. As bailiffs they had been in their fair share of violent encounters and he was nothing special. He had simply caught them by surprise.

  He fled as quickly as he was able. Despite their size the men soon gained on him, forcing him into a small alley. With no escape Jonathan turned to face them. Soon the realisation hit him hard. This is a fight I cannot win.

  “Come on now,” said the largest man, cracking the knuckles on each hand. “Owe a lot of money, don't ya?”

  Jonathan laughed anxiously. “I'm not going to prison,” he stated bluntly.

  The man shook his head. “Debtors don't go to prison, son,” he chuckled. “Either way, you're coming with us.”

  “In pieces if necessary,” added one of the others.

  He knew his options were non-existent. He had little choice but to succumb. It wouldn't be the first time he had faced harsh punishment.

  4

  Tom Edwards was a brave man. He was about to enter the most dangerous place a man such as himself could go. The Nag's Head Tavern was the meeting place for all the criminals in London. A haunt of the most d
espicable nature.

  The stench of tobacco assaulted his senses as he stepped through the door, causing his eyes to burn and his mouth to water. He paused as his feet hit the worn wooden floor. All eyes turned to him, glaring and accusing. He immediately considered his decision. Maybe it wasn't entirely sensible to have come here dressed as he was. His crisp uniform stood out and almost acted as a bull’s-eye. Even Tom was starting to question the odds of him leaving this place alive.

  Inhaling deeply he summoned the courage and stepped fully inside. He was alert, aware of every man who surrounded him. He was in danger and needed to act quickly. His eyes scanned the entire tavern, searching for the only man who had the power to save his life.

  Finally he found him at a table in the middle of the smoke filled room. He strode quickly to him, fully aware of the men who followed. Most held sharpened blades, or other random implements of torture. He was still in grave danger.

  At the table sat a large man. He was well over six feet, muscles brimming under his loose shirt. Quietly counting money he didn't notice the city marshal approach.

  Tom cleared his throat loudly. The man didn't flinch, simply continued with his work.

  “Hello, Matthew?” he said nervously.

  He raised his head, staring at him and smiling. With a short chuckle he leaned back and crossed his arms with amusement. “Mr Edwards. What are you doing 'ere?” he asked in his rough, yet light tone. He ran his hands through his thick hair, still smiling, highly amused at the city marshal who stood before him. Tom only had moments to live, unless he could deliver a very good reason for his being there. “You come to arrest me?”

  Tom shook his head. “Should I?” he asked.

  “Definitely,” he replied.

  “I need your help,” he stated bravely.

  Matthew laughed loudly, causing the approaching men to pause. He cocked his eyebrow, peering at Tom with intrigue. “My help?” he continued to laugh, the men surrounding them unwilling to move without his instruction. “You do know who I am?”

  Tom did know, all too well. He was indeed a dangerous man. A gang leader of great notoriety. Their paths had crossed many times in the past, Matthew often intimidating his collection of nervous constables. Despite his reputation he had always managed to avert arrest and lawful incrimination. It angered all of the city marshals, but Tom knew a man such as he may be in possession of vital information.

  “I do,” he said as strongly as he could, “but I was hoping you'd offer me a seat.”

  He laughed again, although Tom had difficulty seeing the humour in the situation. “I won't, but you can buy me a drink if you like.” He truly did find his presence hilarious, and a little impressive. In all of his years he had never known a marshal to have the arrogance to enter the Nags Head. At least not one like Tom.

  He was despairing. The neighbouring men still stood about him threateningly. All he needed was one act of kindness. “Please, Matthew…,” he begged in an attempt to sound less desperate than he truly was.

  He may have been a criminal, and a leader of one of the largest gangs in London, but he was not an unreasonable man. Sympathy struck him hard and he held a hand out to the seat in front of him, offering it to Tom. He gratefully sat as he waved the men away. This was all he needed. His command was law in this seedy tavern. They would leave Tom alone, at least until he was outside.

  “I'm sure you're aware,” he said, assuming his normal professional manner, “there is a killer on the loose. A man who is preying on the scandalous women of this city.” He nodded, everyone knew about this murderer. “I've been charged with his capture, arrest and delivery to trial.”

  He chuckled yet again. He knew it was anything but so easy. “Good luck,” he said. “Some guys were never meant to be caught, Tom. Just look at me.”

  He wouldn't accept such a statement. “I need help in finding him. He needs to be dealt with.”

  He appreciated the sentiment, but he knew the situation was far more complicated than he realised. “And you think I know something?”

  Indeed he did. He was aware every member of the criminal fraternity were close. “Are you telling me otherwise?” he asked plainly.

  He placed two fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly, pointing at a boy across the tavern. When his attention was caught he indicated to the bar. This was how he ordered drinks. This was his power. “Murder,” he explained, “it’s a common thing in this town. Look around you,” he waved his hand across the tavern. “Every man in this place has killed another at some point. Hell, even Maggie has taken a life.” He smiled and winked at the girl behind the bar. “It's nothing strange. We've all gotten used to it.”

  He didn't understand. Murder was one thing. Brutal, sadistic, antisocial homicide was another. “Young girls, Matthew,” he said harshly, “many of them your friends. Don't you want to help?”

  He knew Matthew favoured the ladies of the night more than any other. They were often considered his closest allies. Surely he wished to protect his family.

  “You don't know shit,” he said harshly as a drink was placed before him. “Had you ever considered people don't want to talk, don't want to turn him in 'cos they're fuckin’ petrified of the bastard.” He took a deep swig of his ale and leaned back in his chair, placing his feet upon the table.

  “Are you scared of him too?” he asked.

  He took offence to this accusation. “Me? Scared? Screw that,” he swung his feet from the table and leaned before Tom, “but I know when to keep my mouth shut. Some things are best left alone. I'm not stupid.”

  It was clear he knew more than he was willing to say. It was dangerous to press him further, but he needed to try. Matthew hadn't said anything at all, but Tom knew how to read between the lines. It was clear the criminals of London knew this man and they were afraid of him. He was in an undisputed position of power. Power over them. It wasn't much of a clue, but it was information he didn't own before.

  “I'm not ready to let this go,” he maintained. “I will catch him.”

  He chuckled and drank from his beer. “He's dangerous, more dangerous than either of us.”

  This was the confirmation he needed. It was a place to start. This was material he could work with. He stood slowly, passing his eye over the tavern in search for danger. “Just tell the girls to be careful,” he said. Reaching into his pocket Tom laid a pile of coins on the table. Payment for his drink.

  “They always are,” he replied, “or as careful as their profession allows.”

  With a respectful nod he walked from the tavern. Careful to ensure he wasn't being followed his pace increased and he made for the safety of the Old Bailey. After many months of continued failure in this matter he was finally starting to make progress. The only question was when the killer would strike next.

  5

  Woodgate Debtor’s Compter had become his home. A desolate place of sorrow and remorse for those who found themselves unable to pay the debts which were owed. Jonathan Wild was now one of those unfortunate few.

  Cramped within the walls of the old stone edifice its inmates were oddly silent and thoughtful. No cries of pain or screams of regret bled through those walls to infect the city beyond. For its desolate masses the compter only offered quiet. Peace. A place to reflect and seek retribution for their monetary sins.

  The days passed quickly and the nights felt long and forlorn. Woodgate was no prison. It was free of the stings and anguish a jail normally dealt. Its inhabitants were hardly criminals of London lore. They were those who found themselves unable to pay for their extravagancies in life. Those who lacked the ability to disburse for their homes and families. They were the sorry elements of society who were long forgotten.

  He had now, begrudgingly, joined the ranks of the lost and betrayed. Let down by a city which encouraged wealth and frivolity, never concerned with the results if a person couldn't afford such merriment. London could barely afford to keep its citizens and Jonathan wondered how the people were to
realistically survive.

  Thoughts on a lax society aside, he found himself enjoying the horrors of the debtors’ compter more than he ever imagined. It was an unpleasant existence, but one which was easy enough. They were fed and watered each day and allowed to entertain themselves. Gambling and games of chance occupied most cells and dark corners and Jonathan found he was good at each of the gambling activities which occupied the compter. This endeared some to him and caused others to instantly dislike him.

  Of a night it was often difficult to find sleep in his crowded little cell. Four others joined him, squeezed in the small room as if they were chickens in a damned coup. His fellow roosters were quiet enough, during the day at least. At night their snoring and the constant scrabbling of resident rats kept him firmly awake.

  Twelve years was his sentence. An indication of the sum owed. Mere months in London had caused the amount he had indebted to drastically climb. This was a fate hard to ignore. Yet Jonathan did so, impressively.

  Thoughts ran his mind every moment of the day, and continued to persist at night. Thoughts of the family he had abandoned. They were, however, not feelings of love or affection.

  His mind always led him to his father. He was the reason he had run to London. A childhood of beatings and abuse had never ceased. His dominance had worn him down to the point where he had little choice but to succumb to his fathers will.

  His childhood ended abruptly, at his father’s bidding. There was no choice in the matter. Years of his father's education came to a swift conclusion and an apprenticeship soon began. At the age of fourteen Jonathan's training as a simple buckle maker ruled his life. His father, Jacob, insisted there were no distractions which would detract from what he intended to be Jonathan's career, his retirement and his son’s servitude. He never had any interest in the art of buckle making, longing for excitement and thrill. Both elements of life which Jacob Wild despised.