by Chris Hannon
‘New clothes?’ Ma had a wily expression on her face, like a bad card player with a good hand.
‘Well,’ Perry took off his cap and scratched his head, ‘I got me a job.’
‘A job?’ Joel shot Eva a look, ‘For who?’
‘What they paying you?’ asked Ma.
‘Working for a fruit importer down the docks, for a Mr Greaves as it happens. What’s more, it pays enough so as I can pay for us,’ he paused, wrong-footed by Ma’s amused expression, ‘pay for us all, the three of us I mean, to stay, regular like. I had to help out and work through the night to get it,’ he gave an exaggerated yawn. ‘I’m knackered.’
‘Well ain’t you a clever little currant?’ Ma was actually smiling at him. He didn’t like it one bit. ‘First you bring me this little gift and then go get a job!’ Ma tousled his hair.
‘Gift?’
She pointed to Eva. ‘Her. Pretty thing like that’ll soon have ‘em flocking back over to Ole Ma’s just you wait and see.’
Perry felt sick and turned to Joel, how had he let this happen? But Joel’s head was bowed. Eva looked uncomfortable and mouthed sorry.
‘Joel can bring back two at a time starting tonight.’
‘Tonight?’ Perry said, horror creeping into his voice, ‘Now wait a second Ma that’s not a good idea.’
‘What you talking about? It’s a great idea!’
‘Well it’s like you say,’ he looked at the ceiling buying some seconds, ‘it’s about reputation. You want it to be perfect so they keep coming back here.’
‘What’s your point?’ Ma folded her arms.
‘Yeah, what is your point?’ Eva said.
‘Ma. Look at her. Look at them nearly healed bruises. So close to perfect. You wait a day or two and she’ll be ready. The grocers don’t sell bruised apples on their first day of business. Trust me, wait a couple of days and Ma’s place’ll be the talk of the town, they’ll be queuing up!’
Ma stared at Eva and nodded. ‘You’re not half as daft as you look boy.’
Perry’s knees nearly buckled with the relief.
‘Joel, just the one punter tonight. I can talk Eva through a few tricks this afternoon. Then she can start in the next couple of days.’
Perry looked to Joel, to Eva and back to Joel again. They all knew what this meant. They would have to skip town sooner than they thought.
15
Exhausted, Perry slept for an hour and shook off the remainder of last night’s drink. After his nap he felt fresher, splashed some water on his face and had a mug of tea to ready himself. He could hear Eva and Ma talking upstairs. He dreaded to think what Ma was “teaching” her. Joel was nowhere to be seen, in town perhaps earning some more for their jar.
Money. Mr Greaves’ counsel rang in his head. The question is how to keep more of it in your possession, more of the time. Would the four pound be enough for them all? He wasn’t so sure. His instinct told him he needed more. There was no question though, that he absolutely had to get Eva out from Ma’s clutches. Time was running out. Fairbanks and Cecil were after him, and as desperation started to flicker within him, so too did the guilt for having wasted an hour sleeping. He knew it was time for something radical.
In town, he borrowed The Southampton Times off one of the paperboys he knew. He skimmed the article on The Sick, the name in the by-line was all he needed. Gilbert Catsnip.
A few minutes later, he was outside Fairbank’s surgery. He took a deep breath and skipped up the stone steps. As he entered, Cecil sprung out of his chair.
‘You!’
‘Relax,’ Perry said, taking a seat. ‘I’m not going to run anywhere.’
‘Ooooh!’ Cecil rubbed his hands together, ‘We’ve got you now you little toerag, it was only a matter of time! The gallows are too good for -’
‘-is Fairbanks about?’
Cecil looked miffed. ‘Not presently.’
‘I’ll just wait here then.’
‘Why are you so pleased with yourself? I’ll have the police here in a jiffy. You do know that, don’t you?’
Perry forced a smile and kept his bubbling nerves in check the only way he knew how - through bravado.
‘I’d wait to speak to the doctor if I were you.’ He unfurled a penny dreadful from his pocket, opened it and started reading. It was a story of Claude Duval, a French highwayman, thieving first the purse of an aristocrat and then his lady. He laughed heartily and smacked his knee, mostly to annoy Cecil.
‘Muck,’ Cecil muttered.
A little while later, Fairbanks saw a gentleman out of his office. It was Charles Brumpton.
‘Brumpton.’ Perry mouthed, but Cecil, attuned to his every twitch and breath picked up on it and looked down his nose at Perry.
‘Yes, he owns a number of pharmacies. Prestigious man, like most of our patients. We don’t let your sort in as a matter of course.’
Brumpton left and Fairbanks shuffled over to Cecil’s desk, squinting at some papers in his hand as he walked. When he lifted his head and saw Perry, his mouth opened in disbelief.
‘How long’s he been in our waiting room? Are the police on their way?’
Perry stood. ‘You won’t be wanting the police, trust me. We’ll go through to your room shall we?’
The office was as he remembered, a little brighter perhaps. They sat on either side of the desk. Perry fingered the switchblade in his pocket. Just in case.
‘I know about you,’ Perry said.
Fairbanks poured whisky out of a decanter into a crystal glass. He swilled it round the glass and took a sniff, ‘I know about me too.’
‘Do you know who Gilbert Catsnip is?’
‘Yes, some journalist from the Southampton Times.’
‘The reporter on The Sick, to be precise. Nice bloke. And dead keen to know how it all started.’
Fairbanks cocked an eyebrow. ‘As are we all. What’s this all about? My patience is threadbare.’
‘Three quid.’
Fairbanks knocked the amber liquid back in one. ‘Child. I’m not following you.’
‘That’s what Catsnip is offering for the story. Experiments on prisoners. A negligent doctor. A trail of bodies that lead back to the prison…and you.’
Fairbanks hid his emotions well enough, but Perry saw him stiffen.
‘You’ve no proof. You’re nothing more than a street urchin. Nobody in their right mind would believe you.’
‘He will when I bring him the proof. I got that list of names off your desk didn’t I? Nice headed paper with your signature at the bottom,’ Perry watched with satisfaction as the colour faded from Fairbanks’ face, ‘I’ve got witnesses at the prison who are willing to be interviewed, my Pa for one.’
Fairbank’s features darkened. ‘Sounds like you’ve got it all planned. If it’s all so perfect, why are you even here? Why bother?’
‘I was hoping you’d ask me that. I’m leaving Southampton tomorrow, probably for a long time, maybe forever, who knows... and we need money, I need money. You beat three quid and the story can disappear off with me.’
‘We need money? That bruised peach? Is she in league with you in this disgusting blackmail?’ Fairbanks topped up his glass.
‘Think about it, I’m more likely to disappear if you give me the money.’
‘Or if you were dead.’ Fairbank’s took a sip and winced. ‘What’s to stop you taking my money then selling the story anyway?’
‘Nothing but my word,’ Perry admitted.
Fairbanks slammed the glass down, whisky slopped over the glass walls, ‘Actually not nothing you smug little shit. I can KILL your father. Have you thought about that eh? If this story ever makes the paper I will stick the syringe in him myself,’ his expression darkened further, ‘and I’d make it hurt too.’
Perry steadied his breath, kept his face still, unemotional; don’t give anything away.
‘It’s all he deserves. Haven’t seen him since I was seven.’
Fairbanks leant back on his chair. ‘You’
re a good liar, I’ll give you that.’ He got out his wallet. ‘Like this?’ he waved it in front of him. ‘It’s new. Some deplorable scum stole my last one.’
‘That’s Southampton for you.’
Fairbanks took out a note and placed it under a paperweight on his desk.
‘There’s a pound note. It’s all I have.’
‘The paper is offering three. One will barely get me to France. You really want me that close to home?
The doctor narrowed his eyes. They held each other’s gaze. The doctor broke first, stooping to open a cabinet, revealing a small safe within. ‘I will give you your money. But I swear to you. If the story gets out – I will kill Samuel Scrimshaw as painfully as I know how. Your little lies don’t convince me.’
Perry shivered, he hadn’t counted on being threatened back. ‘There’ll be no need. You won’t ever see me again.’
The doctor turned, the money in his hand. Perry had never seen so much in his life; freedom in paper form.
‘You take this and get out of my life.’
Perry grabbed the notes and stuffed them in his pocket and headed for the door.
‘And Perry?’
He stopped.
‘If I do see you again, I swear I’ll kill you too.’
16
On Friday morning, Perry woke in a sweat. The prospect of four more pounds today on top of what he’d got yesterday had molested his sleep. Joel slept soundly at his side in the bundle of blankets on the kitchen floor. Silently as he could, Perry went into Eva’s room, woke her and told her the plan. She took his hand, pressed it to her lips.
‘Be careful,’ she said.
He leant in, Eva tilted her head towards him and their lips met. They kissed long and deep and Perry felt a primal tug within, one he’d never felt before yet it was almost familiar. It told him that he would do anything for her.
Five minutes later, he was in the cold morning air. It was still dark though he reckoned the greys of dawn weren’t far off. He trundled downhill with the maids and port workers, breathed the same Southampton air as them; salt, soot and shit. He followed a tall fellow down the hill. He swung a cricket bat in time with his stride and whistled an old sailor’s tune that Perry knew.
It was nearly light by the time he reached the cobbles of Saddlers Mews and Mr Greaves’ dark-green door.
‘Good, you’re early.’
‘I was wondering when you might be able to pay me today Mr Greaves? My sister see, she needs some medicine and-’
‘- Really boy. You’ve a lot to learn. Your shilling will be paid at the end of each week.’
‘And the four pound?’
‘Depends on what happens this morning doesn’t it?’
Greaves explained Perry’s work. It sounded straight forward enough. The temp dock-workers were arriving from Portsmouth on the seven-thirty. It was his job to fetch them and lead them to the warehouse by the docks.
Perry hurried from the mews and went to the train station. He approached from the north, squeezing through the gap in the fence and crossed the tracks. He passed a line of empty freight cars and clambered up some wooden steps onto the platform. A clock ticked. It was a smidge before half-past seven. The ticket booth was abandoned; a wooden board covered the hatch. It was oddly quiet, the only other person was a thuggish man at the far end of the platform, straining his neck to look down the track. The man had a cricket bat in his hand.
Perry flattened himself against the wall, his pulse racing. Two cricket bats he had seen that morning and he would bet his life they weren’t out to knock a century. When he checked again, the thug was gone.
Outside the station, chimney smoke joined the sky’s grey. The thug with the bat stalked down a street by the post office. Perry followed and peered round to see a group of forty or more, all clutching pipes, bats and sticks. Maxwell was there, easy to spot with his crooked hat. Perry’s breath caught in his throat. They looked mean enough to kill.
Perry was so terrified he thought his knees might buckle. Every hair and goosebump on his body was telling him to run but somehow he couldn’t. He’d involved himself, was making money from it and now it was shaping up to be a bloodbath. He had to try and avert near-certain disaster.
The group of men stopped whispering as he neared.
‘Why are you waiting here?’ he addressed the question to Maxwell in a shaky voice, but another leaned round to reply.
‘We’re on strike young ‘un, you clear off before it gets ugly round here.’
‘Strike, yes of course,’ Perry said as calmly as he could, ‘but why here? I know if I was waiting for…strike-breakers for instance, I know I’d want to be in the right place.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Maxwell.
‘I wander around the docks from time to time, hear a few things.’
‘Things?’
‘Like how Greaves planned to bring in strike-breakers from Portsmouth for instance.’
‘Well we know that don’t we?’ he smiled and patted the rolling pin in his hand.
‘I bet you heard they were arriving on the seven-thirty from Portsmouth, right?’
Maxwell’s smile vanished.
‘Greaves actually paid a few people a handsome sum to spread that rumour. Clever really.’
The group behind Maxwell began murmuring to one another. Maxwell grabbed Perry by the collar and lifted him up against the wall. His shirt cut in and he gasped for air.
‘Tell me what you know!’
Perry shook his head defiantly and felt his face burning. He wheezed and closed his eyes. Then his feet thudded to the ground, the surprise sent him to his knees.
‘Tuppence and I’ll tell you,’ he stared at the pavement. He heard Maxwell take a few steps back.
‘Fine, I’ll kick it out of you,’ Maxwell took a run up. Perry squeezed his eyes shut and tensed his stomach and waited for the pain - but the kick didn’t come. He opened his eyes and saw Maxwell’s leg hanging in the air an inch from his stomach. A coin flung through the air and landed Queen Vic up.
‘There’s no time for this. Let him talk,’ it was Bigtoe.
‘Bigtoe! The train was just a trick, I heard Greaves laughing about it.’
‘You know him?’ Maxwell said.
Bigtoe nodded. ‘But if they ain’t coming on the train, how are they getting here?’
‘By boat.’
Murmurs chorused around the band of striking dockers.
‘Of course,’ said one docker.
‘Everyone! Quick! To the docks!’
Perry felt hope balloon within; he had averted disaster with a simple lie!
‘No,’ Maxwell’s voice was low, puncturing Perry’s hope. ‘What if this is the trick? What if they really are coming on the train? No, Bigtoe you stay here with half the men, the rest of you with me! To the water! Let’s give these Blacklegs a beating they won’t forget.’
As half the men stampeded away, Perry made a dash for the platform. He was now more worried than ever, at least beforehand he knew where they were and all in the same place to boot. He’d only succeeded in getting the strikers to spread themselves about town.
A steam cloud wormed above the station building. On the platform there were families, businessmen and maids already stepping out from the carriages. At the back a group of burly men gathered on the platform.
‘Mr Jespers?’ Perry asked and a couple of the men pointed to a stocky bald man.
‘I come on behalf of Mr Greaves,’ he gathered his breath.
‘Good, he said he’d send an escort,’ Jespers pulled a bag over his shoulder.
Perry shook his head, breathing heavily. ‘You’re all in great danger.’ He hurriedly explained about the strikers waiting outside the station. ‘We have to move now, follow me, I know another way round.’
Jespers nodded his assent and his men followed. Perry crept low and rounded the train and broke into a sprint past the freight cars
‘Come on, quick!’ he whispered. The Portsmouth doc
kers followed him in a line and ran over the train tracks. The smaller ones squeezed through the gap in the fence while others hoisted themselves over. They slowed to a jog when they reached the alleyways.
‘Half of them will be waiting for you by the docks.’
‘How do we get around them?’ said Jespers. They rounded a corner and a washerwoman shrieked at the sight of them.
‘We can’t,’ Perry rubbed his chin in thought, ‘not twenty-five of you anyway.’
They turned down another alleyway. A man spread himself flat against the wall to let them pass.
‘I think I have an idea.’
At the bottom of the alleyway Perry made them wait and stepped between the shoemakers and the tavern and scouted the area. In the middle of the harbour there were a half dozen horse and carts of the open topped variety setting up their stalls for market. Perry sprinted over and arranged a price with three of the drivers and beckoned Jespers’ men.
‘Be ready to fight,’ Jespers said as they split into three and leapt onto the carts. Perry hopped on the last.
The carts were normally used for heaped vegetables and the Portsmouth dockers sat uneasily, their legs swaying with the movement of the carriage. One played with some straw he’d found on the floor. Perry stood, balancing awkwardly, eyes fixed over the mares to the two carts ahead of them and the docks beyond.
‘I can see strikers,’ he said. The men all exchanged glances, some caressing their knuckles. ‘Twenty maybe.’
‘Twenty? We could have ‘em.’
The first cart rolled past the Southampton dockers before they realised what was going on.
‘Fucking Blacklegs!’ one of them yelled and ran towards the second cart, followed by a couple of his fellow strikers. Perry watched them swing their makeshift weapons wildly in the air. The Portsmouth dockers dodged them easily, pushing them into one another, sending the chasing strikers into a tangle on the floor. The men aboard the second cart laughed and jeered the fallen. Perry’s men quickly joined in.
The cheers of the Portsmouth men curdled with the furious shouts of the Southampton dockers. Perry’s spine tingled with fear. His cart rolled by and he looked at the agitated faces, at each man hopping up and down, spitting insults in his own vitriolic rage. All except Maxwell, his stare fixed on Perry, slowly slicing his finger across his throat.
