Lost Boy

by Wendy Spinale

  Sylvia juts out a pouty lip. “See you tomorrow, then? I’ve got a great lineup of challengers for you.”

  “Tomorrow,” I say, putting on my coat and goggles. Gripping a few hands in congratulatory handshakes, I make my way toward the stairs.

  “Hey, Pete! How ’bout I ink up those chicken legs of yours? There isn’t a stitch of bare skin left on your torso or arms to work with and you’re my best paying customer,” Sketch teases from across the room.

  Peering down at my ragged pants, I notice the slit in the seam, exposing the silver scars on my calf. One too many illegal uses of broken bottles when I wasn’t looking has left much of my body a map of sparring stories. I throw a shilling Sketch’s way. He snatches it as it flies in the air, nearly hitting him in the skull.

  “Next time! Got to get back before the mistress finds out I’m missing. She’ll have me scrubbing the latrines with my own toothbrush,” I say, wrinkling my nose. As I push through the heavy wooden door and head out into the streets, the rumble of laughter fades.

  Rain stings my face, washing away any trace of blood from the evening’s scuffle, as I turn my gaze toward the night sky. The cool air is a welcome change from the stuffy underground saloon. Aside from a homeless man digging through a rubbish bin, the alleyway is quiet. Heading west, I travel the empty cobblestone streets, sticking to the shadows and steering clear of the light of the gas lamps. Constables roam the street corners, occasionally harassing the vagrants seeking shelter.

  Several blocks away, I stumble into the emergency hospital that is really nothing more than a ground floor filled with rusty cots, shelves, and medical supplies. It is hardly a traditional health facility of any kind, but it suits the poverty-stricken locals just fine. Although it is run by an elderly man and his wife of fifty-two years, the majority of the staff members are internship students from the local university. A few aren’t much older than I am.

  Patients sit on the floor at the entryway, surrounded by nurses jotting down notes on scraps of paper. Others wearily wait outside the hospital for their turn to be seen.

  A blond boy in the white lab coat looks up from a notepad and grins.

  “I wondered when you were going to arrive. Let me guess, you got into a sword fight with a pirate?” he says, rinsing his hands in a washbasin.

  “Nope, a feisty mermaid with a vicious bite,” I retort.

  Doc shakes his head and waves for me to follow him to the back of the hospital. A few patients waiting for their turn grumble as I pass them by. I settle onto my usual cot, fluff the lumpy pillow, and reach for the limestone I keep in a crevice within the wall. I make another mark on the brick wall, one of dozens I have accumulated over time.

  “You know, if I had a crown for every time you walked into this clinic, I could own my own flat,” Doc says, laying out his medical tools on a steel cart.

  “It’s a good thing you’re only an intern or else I would owe you that amount and then some,” I say. “Besides, what do you need crowns for anyway? Don’t they take good care of you here?”

  Doc nods, dabbing at the cuts on my face with a cloth. “Sometimes a fellow could use a few coins for … well, for other necessities.”

  “Other necessities? Like what?” I ask, cringing as he threads a needle.

  He blushes, and his lips turn up into a crooked smile.

  Just as he’s about to stitch the gash in my forehead, I sit up. “You dirty dog; this is about Gabrielle, isn’t it?” I ask, giving him a playful slug.

  His smile grows into a wide grin. He shoves me back down onto the cot, and I wince when he pokes the needle into my flesh.

  “It is, isn’t it?” I say.

  Doc laughs. “Okay, okay, I’ll tell you, but you have to swear to keep it a secret.”

  “I’m the best secret keeper ever!” I say.

  Rolling his eyes, he guffaws. “Yeah, like you kept the fact that I was sweet on her. You opened your big trap within hours of me telling you how I felt.”

  “Was that a secret?” I tease. “I was sure it was a confession. Or maybe like a love note you wanted me to pass along in class.”

  Clearly not amused, Doc stares at me and tugs on the thread a little harder than I think necessary.

  “Fine. I won’t tell her. So what’s the big news?” I ask.

  Doc ties off the stitch and cuts the thread. He slips his hand into his lab coat’s pocket and pulls out a small box, placing it into the palm of my hand. My thoughts jumble as I lift the lid. Inside is a simple necklace made up of braided copper wire and a polished black stone. My eyes dart toward his.

  “A gift?”

  He shrugs. “I know it’s not much, but I can’t afford anything fancy. She deserves so much more, but …”

  Shaking my head, I hand the box back to him.

  “What?” he asks, his brow furrowing. “It isn’t good enough, is it?”

  I chuckle. “Why don’t you just ask her out? She’d rather have your time than some silly bauble you made for her.”

  Doc stares at his shoes as he slips the box back into his pocket.

  Sensing the hurt in his downcast face, I clear my throat. “Not that she wouldn’t like that, too. I mean, it is really nice.”

  “Let’s talk about your injuries,” he says, dismissing my inadequate attempt to cover up my blunder. “Only six stitches tonight. Do yourself a favor and avoid those mermaids until you’re all healed up. Although I suppose I’ll see you again tomorrow with a whole different story.”

  Hopping off the cot, I brush the wrinkles from my trousers. “You can’t trust those mermaids. Once they meet someone as charming as me, they won’t leave. Although tomorrow I believe I have a date with a fey. I hear they’ve got a mean bite, too, but their punch is far worse.”

  “Try to stay out of trouble, Pete,” Doc says, giving me a friendly slap on the back. “And remember, this is a secret. Don’t you go telling Gabrielle.”

  I turn and tip my head when I reach the front door, pushing it open with my shoulder. “Don’t you worry, Doc. Your secret is completely safe with me!”

  “Pete, I mean it,” Doc shouts as I leave his protests behind.

  The smells of sweat, rotten food, and sewage fill the stale air as I make my way to the East End. Rubbish litters the streets. Smashed gas lanterns that haven’t been lit in years cast the town in dark shadows. Bodies lie sprawled across the sidewalks, most of them asleep … or maybe dead. It’s hard to tell on this side of town.

  Dodging down a road, I find the window with the broken latch. I grip the iron bars covering it and jiggle them loose. Lifting the glass pane, I slip inside the building before replacing the bars and shutting the window.

  Moonlight illuminates the vast room. Not unlike those that are outside, bodies cover the ground with thin, holey blankets tossed over them. Only these are children with no place to call home.

  Orphans.

  They cry out at night for families they once had. Their stories are not unlike mine, also having lost their parents at such a young age. At least I know they’ve eaten more tonight than just the usual gruel. Thanks to the goods I nicked from Mademoiselle Payne and Annabella’s gift, the Littles went to bed with somewhat full stomachs.

  The wooden boards creak beneath my boots as I creep through the room, careful not to step on any of the children who sleep between the rows of filled bunks. Finally, I find my blankets spread out in a nook under the stairwell. Gabrielle’s wheelchair sits in the dark corner. I move it to the side and with the tip of my knife, I lift the floorboard.

  “It’s late,” my sister whispers from her cot.

  “And you’re supposed to be asleep,” I say, reaching inside the hollow to retrieve the rusty coffee tin hidden beneath the floor.

  She sits up. “Where have you been?”

  Retrieving the stash of money from my pocket, I add it to the wad of bills I’ve been saving up for months. When I’m done, I snap a rubber band around the roll and put the tin back. “Visiting your doctor frien
d, who may or may not have a small token of his affection he plans to give you. But don’t tell him I told you; it’s a secret.”

  I replace the wooden board and move Gabrielle’s wheelchair so it sits on top, appearing undisturbed.

  Gabrielle throws a pillow at me. “You ruined the surprise,” she says, and in the darkness I can hear the smile on her face.

  “It’s a wonder why that bloke is gushing over you with those kind of manners,” I say, tucking the pillow behind my head.

  “Give me my pillow back,” she says.

  “Finders keepers,” I tease.

  Gabrielle leans over the side of her cot and snatches the pillow back. “Losers weepers,” she says smugly.

  From somewhere in the room, we are shushed. Gabrielle snickers into her pillow.

  “You know that everyone knows about your stash,” my sister whispers from her cot.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, rolling up my coat and placing it under my head. I pull the threadbare blanket over me as I settle onto the hard floor.

  “The Williams brothers have each been pilfering a shilling every week in order to pay the ice cream vendor,” she says, amusement lacing her voice.

  “Which is precisely why I left two shillings on top,” I say, pretending I’ve known all along. Turning my head, I scowl at the sleeping kids just a few cots over. Even in their deep slumber, the red-haired boys, barely nine years of age, sleep peacefully, grinning as if even in their dreams, mischief continues.

  “Likely story,” Gabrielle says, rolling over and pulling the wool blanket to her chin. “Good night, Lost Boy.”

  “I really wish you wouldn’t call me that,” I grumble.

  “Tough. It suits you. You disappear nightly, and when the mistress asks for you, I can’t give her an honest answer. I cover for you, saying that you must have gotten lost on the way home. Even she is calling you a lost boy now,” she says.

  I roll over, annoyed by the conversation. “Yeah, not for much longer. You just wait. Soon we’ll be out of this rubbish hole. We’ll have a place of our own where we can make the rules.”

  We are both quiet for a few moments, and I’m starting to drift off to sleep when Gabrielle’s voice draws me back.

  “Hey, Pete,” she says.

  “Yeah?”

  “I just want … well … I want you to know that I appreciate all you do for me,” she says. “And I love you.”

  I’m moved by her words, but they are unfamiliar. We’ve been through so much together that the only way to fight the despair, the hopelessness that we often feel is through sarcasm. It’s always been our own unusual way of showing affection for each other. So this confession of love, this is unlike her. It’s just understood that we care about each other. The words don’t need to be said, do they? I’m uncomfortable with the affection and chuckle insincerely.

  “First of all, you are being awfully gushy. Second, everything I do for you I do because I know that if the roles were switched, you’d do it for me,” I say.

  Gabrielle reaches over and gives my arm a squeeze. “Good night.”

  “Good night, Gabby,” I say, still feeling awkward after our discussion.

  For hours I toss and turn, before I am finally seduced into a vivid dream that quickly reveals itself to be a nightmare of my past.

  Wisps of steam sizzle in the wet, cold night from the cast-iron pistons on the hood of our motorcar. The sweet sound of my mother’s voice fills the air down the dark gravel road along the Thames. Gabrielle listens to her sing “Away in a Manger” with sleepy eyes and a wide smile. Although cloud cover hides the moon and stars, the dreary weather cannot dampen our moods this eve before Christmas. With our bellies filled with honey-cured ham and plum pudding, her song would lull us to sleep if it weren’t for the distant roll of thunder.

  “Are we almost there?” I ask, leaning forward peering at the road ahead of us. I’m not sure how my father can see through the dark of the night, but he doesn’t seem concerned.

  “Not much farther,” he says.

  My mother resumes her carol as she watches the river pass by. Gabrielle hums along. As I sit back in my seat, lightning illuminates the sky. Squinting, I watch the fiery arc strike a tree meters ahead of us, snapping a large branch from the tree. Mum’s song is cut off by her shrill scream as the limb comes crashing down.

  My father jerks the steering wheel and the motorcar skids, just missing the entrance to Richmond Bridge. We slip down the muddy embankment, and the car rolls onto its side. When we hit the river’s edge, our motorcar overturns, plunging us into the Thames.

  The water rapidly overtakes the vehicle, the frigid water stealing my breath. My coat catches on the metal frame as I try to swim to the surface. With a powerful kick, I rip the fabric, freeing myself from the motorcar. I suck in a breath of air, treading against the river’s current. A bolt of lightning streaks across the sky, shedding a moment of light on my predicament.

  “Mum! Papa!” I shout.

  As the current sweeps me up, I grab on to the remains of our motorcar, which is mostly submerged beneath the swollen river. Something large drifts from the wreckage. The voluminous brandy-colored skirts are all too familiar. The fabric parachutes around my still mother.

  “Mum!” I shout, grabbing for her as I hold tight. But the water is too swift, and I can’t reach her. Her limp body is carried away into the darkness. Deep sobs erupt from my throat as I helplessly watch her disappear.

  With chattering teeth, I search for a way out of the river. The bank is only a few meters from me, and I consider swimming to safety but quickly change my mind when I don’t see the rest of my family. I turn back to our flooded motorcar, searching for Gabrielle and our father. Kicking as hard as my seven-year-old body is capable, I plunge my head beneath the water. It is murky and I can’t see more than a meter in front of me. I’m unable to determine if anyone is left in the hunk of metal. Resurfacing, I howl against the physical pain in my chest just as an explosion of thunder roars through the night. I shout for my family, but fear chokes my words.

  In a final attempt I plunge down, this time toward the driver’s side of the car, hoping Gabrielle and my father are stuck and just need my help. I pull myself along the metal frame only to startle back in horror. With a blank stare, my father greets me, clearly having taken his last breath long ago. His pale cheek lies on the top of the steering wheel, which appears to have crushed his chest.

  I gasp with a sob, almost taking in the icy water.

  A series of lightning flashes illuminates the murky underwater, reflecting off the weapons at my father’s hips. I snatch up each dagger, the engravings of his initials burning into my palms. Biting my lip, my eyes stinging with tears that I can’t shed, I tuck the blades into the waist of my trousers and bid my father an emotional farewell.

  Surfacing, I search for the riverbank.

  “Gabby!” I yell in every direction.

  Again and again I call her name out, but hear nothing other than the sound of the river lapping at my face.

  Finally, my eyes fall on her broken form lying on the muddy shore. Even the crash of thunder doesn’t drown out her wails. I swim as hard as I can, calling out her name.

  My boots and clothes are heavy as I slog to the beach and fall to my sister’s side. Gabrielle trembles beneath a tree, her body contorted in unnatural directions. The rumble of thunder continues and lightning rends the sky.

  Wrapping my arms around Gabrielle, I hold her close. “It’s okay, Gabby. You’re going to be fine,” I say, fear lacing the tone of my voice. The rumble grows louder … so loud that it feels like a drill in my skull. I throw my hands over my ears and yell Gabrielle’s name again.

  “Pete! Wake up!” Gabrielle shouts.

  Opening my eyes, I bolt upright, gasping. I am back in the orphanage, not on the beach where I lost my parents and Gabrielle lost her ability to walk. The thunder still cracks, each boom shaking the ground beneath me. It occurs to me that it isn’t thunder I hear but
the sounds of explosions. Zeppelins buzz overhead. Frightened kids cry beneath their blankets, many of them huddling together. A few of the youngest bolt to Gabrielle’s cot and climb in next to her. She soothes them with quiet assurances.

  The headmistress bursts through the door, barefooted and in a wrinkled nightdress. “Quickly, children, to the shelter,” she says. They don’t have to be asked a second time. Within moments the door is teeming with frightened kids. She ushers the crying orphans into the hallway toward the basement.

  Blasts rock the ground, shaking dust loose from the rafters. Through the shattered windows, bright lights illuminate the city beyond.

  My pulse races, and I half wonder if I’m still stuck in a nightmare, because my eyes must be lying.

  “We have to go. Now!” Gabrielle says, gripping my shirt and shaking me from my shock.

  She snatches up her bamboo flute and tucks it into the pocket of her nightgown. I slip one arm around her back and the other beneath her knees, carrying her out into the hallway. Another blast nearly knocks me off my feet just as the shelter door slams closed. I stumble to the entrance of the basement. Stomping on the thick sheet of metal, I shout, “Let us in!”

  My efforts are lost in the howl of the alarms and in the barrage of destruction outside.

  The earth rumbles as the sky continues to light up. Explosions chase away the darkness, turning night into day. Debris showers us with each percussive discharge. I set Gabrielle down and tug at the handle of the shelter door. It doesn’t budge.

  “Let us in,” I yell again, pounding on the steel doors with my fists.

  “They can’t hear you, Pete. We have to take shelter somewhere else,” Gabrielle says.

  The whistle of a falling mortar rings in the air overhead, growing louder by the second. My face turns cold and I can’t stop the panic. I throw myself toward Gabrielle, the seconds seem to drag out. Before I reach her, an explosion erupts within the old brick building. My body slams hard against the far wall and crumples onto the wood floor.

  Smoke stings my eyes and lungs. The world spins as a sharp ringing in my ears drowns out the background noise of the blasts. Squinting, I hold a hand up, shielding my eyes from the blaze erupting within the rafters. Piles of wood, brick, and cement litter the floor, which only minutes ago was filled with sleeping children. I become disoriented in the chaos of noise and flashes of light.