Wild Intentions (The Legend of the Thief Taker)

by Chris Hales

  His father was the reason he had fled his home of Wolverhampton. He had been running ever since.

  Eventually his thoughts ran dry. Fading into the dark as easily as the rats who joined them in the silence. Sleep finally descended and the snores of his fellows blended with his fleeing thoughts. Jonathan needed something else to occupy his mind. For, when he was bored rigid, that was when he invariably found himself in deep trouble.

  6

  He had been called by the warden. Two guards had arrived at his cell after dinner and pulled him from his beloved journals. Games of chance were amusing, but he spent the vast majority of his day writing his conflicted thoughts in a blank ledger he had won in an accidental card game with those who were charged with watching over the inmates.

  They roughly dragged him to the kitchens, throwing him against the large fire burning oven. It was not unheard of for inmates to be beaten and tormented by the guards. They would choose their targets at random. Jonathan steeled himself and prepared for attack.

  None came. They left him alone, telling him only one thing as they departed.

  “Stay there!”

  He waited. The kitchens were abandoned and that fact gave him little hope. It was the perfect opportunity for someone to do him great injury. The severe chill in the room was startling, a stark contrast to the heat of the day during the kitchen staff's hours. The ovens had grown cold, but the aroma of meat and bread still hung in the air. All warmth had long since evaporated and he stood shivering by the ovens.

  Finally the large wooden door which provided entry swung open to impact with the bruised stone wall behind. A large man, overweight and stodgy, entered the kitchen. He was not young, his hair receding badly and he had tried to comb it over to hide the quickly developing bald patch. His knuckles were scratched and worn, the skin bruised and purple.

  The man walked before Jonathan and gave his first order.

  “Stand up.”

  He removed himself from his slouched position against the ovens and stood as if he were a London statue. He walked before him and studied closely. Assessing the young man who stood in front. Slowly he nodded, rubbing his chin thoughtfully with one hand.

  “So, you're Jonathan Wild,” he observed with interest. He crawled closer, standing mere inches from the debtor. “Not much to look at,” he thrust a hand out, resting it on the lad’s shoulder lightly. “My name is Charles Hitchin.”

  Jonathan returned the stare of intrigue. “That's nice,” he said sarcastically.

  Hitchin smiled, quickly punching him in the stomach. He groaned with pain, falling back against the oven and fighting for air.

  “I am a city marshal,” explained Hitchin to the doubled over lad before him.

  He coughed, struggling for the air to breath. “That's funny,” he rasped, “you don't look like one.”

  Hitchin struck him again without hesitation. He fell to his knees, clutching his stomach in pain. Through blurred vision he observed Hitchin. He appeared as anything but a marshal of the legislature. Mucky trousers and a tired old jacket had the air of a scoundrel more than anything else.

  “It would be rather pointless for me to dress as a marshal during the night, when I'm out catching criminals, would it not?” he asked. Jonathan shuddered at his harsh London accent as it attacked him from every angle. He stood slowly, resting a hand on the kitchen surface for support.

  “So, it's you who will give me this beating,” he stated coldly.

  “This is no beating,” he reassured. “This is merely an introduction.”

  He struggled for air and it mixed with a rough snigger. Hitchin slapped him on the back and began to pace the kitchen in thought.

  “They tell me you're a tricky bugger,” he detailed. “Not too well liked around here. People find you austere and unapproachable.” he laughed hard, from deep within his belly. “That's something I can easily relate to.” He continued to study him, watching as he assumed a more stable posture.

  “I don't make friends easily,” Jonathan explained.

  “I've heard all about you,” he continued. “The warden dislikes you, the guards despise you, and the inmates are confused by you.” It was a troubling matter indeed. For a man to conceive such an awful, instant impression was the rarest of things. “It seems you're something of a gambler.” This was from where most of the hatred stemmed.

  “Never play a game you can't be sure to win,” he stated flatly.

  Again he laughed. “My sentiment exactly!” he roared. “And tell me, Jonathan, how do you find it so easy to win?”

  He considered his answer. He was sure this brute would not accept anything but the truth. “Some games are easy enough, others...,” he sighed a strained laugh, “well..., I cheat.”

  He laughed again, manoeuvring back to stand before him. “You cheat?” he asked.

  “On occasion.”

  Hitchin punched him again, forcing him to fall to the floor. “That's for swindling your fellow inmates,” he then ruffled his hair, “and that's for admitting it to me.”

  He was starting to dislike Charles Hitchin. A man with such an awful tendency to strike was a harsh reminder of his distant father. Jonathan knew how to deal with men such as this.

  “I hear you spend your days writing in a journal,” enquired the city marshal.

  “I like to keep a record of my thoughts,” he straightened his clothes, preparing to defend against another assault. “Reflect on past mistakes.”

  “So you're an educated man?” he asked.

  “My father believed in the virtues of English and arithmetic,” he replied nervously.

  “A wise man,” commented Hitchin.

  “A harsh man,” he retorted with hatred.

  He lifted himself to sit on a large wooden table. He cocked his eyebrow with interest. “Tell me about yourself,” he ordered.

  “Nothing much to tell,” he admitted. “I abandoned a worthless life and came to London. Everything ended up on top of me and I found myself in here. End of story,” he finished.

  Hitchin nodded thoughtfully. “And from where did you run?” he asked.

  “Wolverhampton.”

  The city marshal pondered this. “Where's that? Somewhere up north?” he didn't answer. “Near Birmingham?”

  “Close enough,” he answered wearily.

  He jumped from the table and slapped Jonathan's shoulder. He winced audibly. “Don't worry, I'm not going to attack you again,” he said. “I think the point's been made.” He nodded, not certain he believed him. “I was told of this intelligent, smart, wicked young man in Woodgate. I was informed as to how he was happily fleecing all of the inmates and most of the guards. They thought I might be interested in him.” He smiled at Jonathan, the first indication of kindness he had seen. “Tell me, boy, what do you know of the liberty of the gate?”

  Jonathan pondered the question. “Nothing,” he admitted.

  Hitchin stood, hands clasped behind his back and explained. “This is a liberty whereby a city marshal, such as myself, is free to offer a debtor the chance to be free of these walls. He then assists me in the capture of thieves and criminals of an evening.” He smiled again, pressing the point. “Tell me, would such a thing interest you?”

  He thought quickly. He was sure Hitchin would not appreciate any delay in answering. “The opportunity to be free of these walls would interest any man,” he said, “and I'm no different.” Hitchin seemed pleased. “As for thieves and criminals, that's not something with which I'm familiar.”

  “You'll learn,” was the inevitable response. “Before you agree to this, I should explain my rules.” He stood threateningly over Jonathan, bearing down on him. With every word this awful man reminded him of his father. That was not a good place to start a relationship. “You will call me Mr Hitchin or Sir,” Jonathan nodded his understanding. “You will do precisely as I instruct, or you shall receive a beating. You will never question me, or my methods, or you shall receive a beating. The more beatings I give
you, the closer you will be to death.” He took a hold of him by the collar and shook him hard. “And do not think I am fucking joking.” He released Jonathan and made for the door. “Be ready by ten, tomorrow evening.” He winked a sickening expression. “If you are not ready I shall assume you do not want to enter into this agreement.” He opened the door, preparing to walk through. “And you shall receive a beating.”

  When Jonathan was alone he sighed in great relief. He had little choice. It seemed he was being forced into service with an entirely dislikeable man. In the hope he would do what he couldn't imagine.

  7

  His introduction to the methods of Charles Hitchin was quick and surprisingly painful. Meeting the city marshal that first night he was instructed to accompany him on a walk across London. It didn't take long for the debtor to realise his way of working was a little curious.

  Along the dark alleys and dimly lit streets Hitchin would keep a close eye out for any thief who tried to hide. Jonathan's duties mainly involved chasing after these criminals, occasionally giving them a beating if they struggled or refused to converse with the marshal. None of this appeared odd, or contrary to a his mandate and it was only after the capture of the first unfortunate few he realised what game Hitchin was truly playing.

  It was rare for him to arrest a thief, preferring to simply strike them repeatedly with great force. Helping himself to their stash of loot he would have Jonathan carry a large sack which contained the results of the evening. He would only pass it to his master when he was required to chase another thief. The conclusion he came to was concerning, yet thrilling.

  Hitchin was a man walking the fine line between the law and criminality. The sack of loot would be taken by Hitchin at the end of each evenings’ work. He would then sell the items at unofficial pawnbrokers during the day. He was making a huge amount of illegal money. This did not disgust Jonathan, it only intrigued him more. How could an officer of the legislature be running his own racket of stolen goods?

  Rather than argue, or express his disgust, he happily followed Hitchin's lead. Catching thieves and taking their loot as his own seemed to be his foremost priority. These criminals offered him their respect and often their apology and Jonathan could only assume he had a role in their unlawful activities.

  The lad from Wolverhampton knew he was a dangerous man. He had experienced this personally. As each day passed he clearly saw how sickening Hitchin could be. In the first three weeks alone he had assisted him in depositing a number of beaten corpses into the Thames. This seemed to be a common exercise among those involved in the wicked underbelly of London.

  Yet he was only ever reminded of the dangerous riverside killer. Hitchin's depositing of bodies in the Thames appeared to be frequent and this only suggested the killer was a criminal himself. So was Hitchin. He was equally as dangerous. Fear of this terrible man was overcome by his lust for knowledge and experience. He wanted to know how this unlawful operation worked. He desperately wanted to become a part of it.

  8

  Magistrate Lawson was a well-respected, liked and thoughtful man of the law. He sat behind his large oak desk, reading the list of prosecuting lawyers due to be before him that day. He was a small man with slender features. Atop his head was the magistrate’s wig which he invariably wore. Small framed glasses perched on the tip of his nose delicately.

  In a sudden rush the door flung open, Hitchin entering and strolling across the polished wooden floor. He approached the desk and threw three papers in front of Lawson.

  He glanced at the crumpled sheets and looked to Hitchin with questioning eyes. “What's this?” he asked.

  Hitchin leaned on the desk with purpose. “Three men who are appearing before you today,” the magistrate nodded with interest. “A housebreaker, a thief and a highway robber.”

  He reclined in his large chair. “And what do you want done with them?”

  “I want them hanging,” he stated bluntly.

  He nodded thoughtfully. “I'll see what I can do,” he pondered. Standing and walking around the length of the desk he stared him in the eye. “I'm glad you came to see me, Charles,” he offered in a friendly tone. “I wanted to talk to you about a rather sensitive matter.”

  He growled and cocked his head, offering no response.

  “The riverside killer is garnering more and more attention,” he hoped Charles would understand “People are starting to pay serious attention to him.”

  “What kind of people?” he questioned with little concern.

  “The magistrates here at the Bailey, members of parliament, and even the Lord Mayor has shown an interest,” he uttered a low giggle of concern. “I heard rumours the king himself has discussed the matter.”

  Hitchin slid his hands into pockets and stood casually. “And what do you want me to do about it?”

  “His attacks are becoming more frequent. In the last five months alone we've been finding the corpses of dead girls in the river once, sometimes even twice a week.”

  Hitchin did not appear bothered. He slammed a hand on the desk with a resonating thud. “These girls are filth!” he exclaimed. “This killer is ridding the city of a terrible curse. You know, equally as well as I do, they are thieves. Involved in every element of crime which we only try to combat. And you're asking me to be concerned?” His anger was obviously stemming from a very personal hatred.

  “I'm simply offering my unease,” he leaned against his desk and offered him a reassuring look of sympathy. “I hear you have a new boy?” He hoped he could divert the topic.

  “Hmm,” he grumbled. “Jonathan.” His mouth curled into a smile. “He's a good lad. Proving himself well. He follows instruction and rarely questions me.” He was proud of the young man he had chosen.

  “Does he know who and what you are?”

  “Probably,” he assured. “He's a clever boy.”

  Lawson returned to his seated position and glanced at the papers he had been given. “I'll deal with these,” he offered him a worried glance. “Think about what I've told you.” He was certainly a worried man. “It's not only you who will face harsh punishment.”

  Hitchin was aware of this, but he had never encountered a situation which he could not master. There was little in this town which worried him.

  9

  The thief ran. His tired feet barely touched the ground. He had heard of this young man who accompanied Hitchin on his nightly walks and had no desire to be collared by a useless thug who followed all of the city marshal’s despicable instructions.

  Jonathan was on him quickly, refusing to give in so easily. Together they darted through the narrow, winding streets of the city. Fatigue soon descended and the run became more akin to a slow jog. Nevertheless the thief still endeavoured to escape.

  Collapsing at the end of an alley, with no means of fleeing the scene, he chose to resort to fists and violence. As Jonathan entered, wiping sweat from his brow, his breath feeling heavy and harsh, the thief drew a short knife from his belt. They stood, mere feet apart, preparing for the inevitable dance of death.

  Blade outstretched he intended to move about Jonathan, fleeing from whence they had come. He was not prepared to let the thief free with such a mistake. He countered every move, foiling every attempt. Making a desperate final rush they both fell into a squabbling heap, fists punching, the blade dodging.

  With a final push both stood and collided with a wall, each committing every last ounce of strength to the fight. Ultimately Jonathan slumped against his catch. With no more fight left in either he stepped away. The thief slid down the wall to slump on the ground in the filth and the mud. His face offered nothing but a blank expression. No pain, no fear. No struggle was left in him.

  He knelt by the body, his eyes fixed to the blade which stuck from the thief's chest. This was not what he had intended.

  His head turned as footsteps entered the alley. Turning, he opened his hands in a pleading fashion. “It was an accident,” he said, fear warming each wo
rd.

  Hitchin approached the body and placed a hand to his head. “Yep,” he muttered. “He's dead.” He turned and looked to Jonathan.

  “It was an accident,” he said again.

  “No matter,” he laughed. “He was a crappy thief anyhow.” He approached the devastated Jonathan. “Your first kill?” he enquired.

  Jonathan nodded. Hitchin didn't seem at all concerned. Together they hauled the carcass to the riverside, pushing him into the water with no regret. Afterwards he turned to him and raised his eyebrows. He still seemed scared and torn.

  “Don't worry, Jonathan,” he comforted. “The first kill's always the hardest.” He slung a hand around his back and walked him back into the city. “You broke your cherry and I'm proud of you.” He laughed for the first time in days. Murder and death came too easily to Charles Hitchin.

  “That's good,” he groaned with shame.

  “I'm going to do something I've never done before,” he explained. “I'm taking you for a drink.” It was true he had never taken one of his boys to the Nags Head in the past. He didn't like or trust them nearly enough, but Jonathan was different. “I have come to trust you, my boy,” never had he told anyone of the things which he knew. “And now, with this death, I hope you'll trust in me.”

  He marched Jonathan into town, the latter trembling slightly with fear. He had learned, on the first walk, Charles Hitchin should not be easily trusted. This knowledge made him fear for his life.

  10

  The Nag's Head was bustling with criminals and their associates. Smoke and laughter drifted effortlessly between the patrons. Jonathan didn't feel comfortable in such a place. All eyes turned to them as he and Hitchin entered the tavern. The looks were a mixture of hatred and loathing, but none made any move against them. Again this was proof how feared Hitchin was among the thieves of London.

  Sitting at a table in an abandoned corner Jonathan thanked Hitchin for his mug of ale. The city marshal sat, studying the young man before him as he drank. “Jonathan,” he started, “by now you should have seen enough. I've never had a lad under my charge who absorbs information so easily. Tell me what you think?” he reclined in his wooden chair, smiling at his charge.