‘You stupid, ungrateful little bastard. John has fed and watered you since your bloody fool of a father fucked off and left us. And this is how you repay him? I’m ashamed of you. It ain’t your place to fight a man like him.’
Jack saw the fear in her eyes. Yet he could not walk away. This time he would not submit like a child. He would fight like a man. He pushed his mother’s hands away and walked out to face his fate.
It was dark outside. A blanket of smog pressed down on the narrow streets, smothering them in a cloying embrace, the sounds of life in the rookery muffled. But the gas lamps that lit the facade of the palace burned bright, cutting through the particular so that the area in front of the great plate-glass window was clear.
Lampkin shrugged the worsted jacket from his shoulders before dropping it casually to the ground. Jack had seen the action more times than he could count, the preparation the same for a beating as it was for a fight. He tried not to look at the thick body of the shorter man. Lampkin was stout and broad-chested, with powerful shoulders and solid arms. He faced Jack with not a trace of concern in his eyes.
‘Come on, boy. I reckoned this day was coming,’ he sneered. ‘And it’s about time too. Boy of your age shouldn’t still be hiding behind his mother’s skirts.’
‘I don’t hide.’ Jack felt the first stirrings of anger mixing with his hatred for the man in front of him. Together with the fear in his gut, it was an explosive and combustible concoction.
Lampkin cackled at the defiant words. ‘Whole world knows what you are, boy. Ain’t no one that thinks you’re worth shit. A fucking mewling turd, that’s what you are.’
Jack didn’t think; he just reacted, charging forward, his fists raised and his face contorted with rage.
Lampkin punched hard, moving quicker than Jack had ever seen. The first blow came in low. It drove deep into Jack’s gut, the air exploding out of his lungs in a single great whoosh. He doubled over, his foolish charge stopped in its tracks.
Lampkin grunted as he landed the second punch. The swing was controlled, all its power directed at Jack’s chin. Jack was thrown to one side, his balance failing as his vision greyed. He hit the ground hard, the landing jarring his jaws together. The pain came then, sudden and all-consuming. Jack could do nothing, his strength lost. He lay in the dirt, every thought battered from his mind, every part of him trembling as he tried to fight against the pain that racked his body.
He heard the laughter. The sound mocked him.
It started to rain, coming down in a cloud, the fine mist whispering against Jack’s face. It was cold, the touch soft across his cheeks. Jack focused on the sensation, holding it close. It gave him the strength he needed, and he pushed his hands into the ground, levering himself to his feet. His guts churned and he wanted to vomit, to void his fear on to the ground. Yet he forced himself painfully upright, shaking his head until his vision cleared, forcing away the dreadful ache.
The rain came down harder. The raindrops landed heavily on his bare head as the heavens opened. He felt the water running down his face, the icy rivers sending a shiver charging down his spine.
He stood his ground, facing the man he hated. And still Lampkin laughed.
‘You should have stayed down,’ he mocked. ‘I’d have left you, you know that? I’d have left you lying in the gutter with the rest of the shite. Now I’m going to have to knock you down again.’
Lampkin paid the rain no heed. He walked forward, his steps slow and measured. The rain fell in sheets, soaking his shirt to his chest, the outline of his body revealed.
Jack raised his fists. He no longer knew why. There was no one there to see his courage, not one soul foolish enough to stand in the downpour and watch the fight that had been inevitable from the moment Jack’s mother had taken Lampkin into her bed.
Lampkin stopped. He stared at Jack, his eyes glimmering in the rain, a thinly veiled hatred now revealed. ‘Your father was a useless fuck. Turns out you ain’t no better. It ends here. Tonight. You get me, boy? There ain’t no place under my roof for a shit like you.’
Jack fought back the tears and hefted his fists, balling his fingers as he had done in the fights he had won against boys his own age. He stepped forward, his battered, bruised pride lifting his head high.
Lampkin laughed and swung hard.
Jack sensed the blow. He moved fast, his weight shifting as he swayed back, the punch whispering past in front of his face. He lashed out then, his right fist driven forward by a decade of fear and loathing. He felt the blow land. He roared as it smashed into the centre of Lampkin’s face, the thrill resonating deep in his soul.
Lampkin staggered, the blow hitting him hard. Jack punched again, slamming his left hand forward, driving it into Lampkin’s gut, feeling the flesh yield to his knuckles. Lampkin gasped, the wash of his sour breath exploding over Jack’s face.
Jack bellowed as Lampkin took a step backward. His right hand shot out again, the blow aimed squarely at Lampkin’s jaw. It was a heavy punch, the kind that would end any sort of fight.
And it missed.
Lampkin came at Jack then. His face was bloodied, the rain spreading it across his features so that it was as if he wore a crimson mask. There was no laughter now, no cruel mockery of the boy who had dared to stand against him.
The punches came fast, one after another. Not one of them missed.
Jack fell. He could do nothing to ward off the onslaught that crashed into his body. He hit the ground for a second time, his head bouncing off the mud-streaked stones. The boots came for him the moment he landed, the pain of each blow merging into one single surge of agony that cut through his very soul.
Then everything went black.
Edmund walked fast. It was past noon and it had taken him hours to escape his father. It was only when luncheon was done and the dead hours of the early afternoon arrived that he managed to slip away on the pretence of visiting the shops of Cecil Court for books needed for his return to school.
The hackney carriage had taken an age to make its way to Bishopsgate, the crowded thoroughfares blocked first by an omnibus that had shed a wheel, and then Cornhill had been obstructed by a crowd of onlookers who were staring rapt at the body of a young woman trampled to death beneath the hooves of a draper’s cart.
He moved through the river of souls, his head bowed, his gaze averted lest he catch the eye of any of the costermongers working the throng, until he reached the turn into the side street where the palace waited.
There he took a moment to straighten his jacket, and lift his pot hat to smooth down his hair. He wanted to look presentable. His fingers crept instinctively to the breast of his jacket, where he had hidden his pocket book, its reassuring bulk heavy under his probing fingers.
‘No one picked your pocket, then?’
Edmund started as a figure lurched out of the shadows of a dank alley. He felt the prick of fear as the man stepped closer.
‘You are a foolish damn sod, Ed, old chum. Last time you was here you nearly got done over. Yet here you are again, as bold as fucking brass, back for more.’
‘Jack?’ Edmund peered at the figure. ‘Jack, is that you?’
‘Aye, it’s me. At least, what’s left of me.’
‘Goodness me! What on earth happened to you?’ Edmund took a step backwards, shocked by the sight of the battered face.
‘I fell over.’ Jack turned his head and spat. The pain was no better for a night spent in the rain. Every part of him hurt like the devil, and it was all he could do stay on his feet. He had doubted his eyes when he saw the fresh-faced boy in the fine clothes march past his hidey-hole, but the flare of recognition had sent a pathetic spurt of hope through him. It had been enough to get him to his feet, even though the act nearly sent him tumbling back to the ground.
‘What the devil?’ Edmund reached out and took Jack’s arm, suddenly fearful that he would fall. ‘You are in a dreadful state. Was it that man? The one who wanted to rob me?’
Jack h
eard the guilt in his voice. ‘Yes.’ He gave the lie quickly and easily. ‘He took me unawares, from behind. I didn’t stand a chance.’
‘And thus the fault is mine. Oh Lord, this has only happened because of me,’ Edmund wailed, as he understood what Jack was saying. ‘What sort of hound am I?’
‘Ain’t your fault, chum. I had to do it. I gave you my word. Had to live up to it.’ Jack saw the reaction on the young toff’s face. He gave a stagger, forcing Edmund to brace himself as he fought to keep Jack on his feet. If his face had not been in such agony, he could almost have smiled.
‘Of course, old fellow. And praise be to God that you did.’ Edmund stared at Jack’s face, plainly contemplating what it would be like to be the owner of such a bruised and battered visage. ‘I am doubly in your debt.’
‘It’s nothing.’ Jack willed Edmund to get on with it. He gave a groan, one not entirely feigned.
‘That does it. I have to make this right. I have to repay my debt.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I shall take care of you. Come, lean on me. I’ll take you somewhere clean and warm where you can recuperate in safety. I know a lodging, a place where you can stay. It is not the best sort of establishment, but I fancy it will suit you nicely until you are back on your feet.’
‘I ain’t got no rhino. Jesus Christ, but that hurts.’ Jack could not hold back the oath as Edmund’s fingers dug into his upper arm. The flesh was raw with bruises, the skin mottled and black. Jack was egging his saviour on, but the pain was real enough.
‘Do not worry yourself with money. I have plenty. Enough to see you right, I promise. Now don’t say another word, old man. Let’s get ourselves a hackney. Can you bear the walk?’
Jack nodded manfully. He leant on Edmund’s shoulder and limped alongside his new chum, noticing the wistful look of regret on the young toff’s face as he looked back once at the palace and the delights that he had planned. Jack hid his smile. His hook-em-snivy might not have been the best he had ever seen, but then few of the coves that feigned sickness to earn a handout ever troubled themselves to get beaten up first. He had hooked the toff, and that was good enough.
Chapter 6
Jack lay on the bed and stared at the patch of mildew on the ceiling above his head. It was shaped like a face, the swirls of green and yellow making it look like a rotted corpse. He imagined it was Lampkin, conjuring a picture of the man dead and bloated like the bodies that were hauled out of the Thames.
A rap on the door brought him out of his reverie.
‘May I come in?’
Jack pushed himself up on to his elbows. He could not recall a day where he had passed the morning and a large part of the afternoon in his pit. He brushed away the crumbs that had fallen on to the stained sheet when he had stuffed his face with the thick wedge of gala pie that had arrived with a mug of tarry tea for his luncheon.
‘No. Fuck off.’ He winced as the effort of sitting up pulled at his bruises.
The door stayed closed. Jack could almost hear his visitor’s indecision.
‘Of course you can come in, you fool.’
Edmund’s face appeared around the edge of the door. ‘I thought you might be sleeping.’
Jack groaned but kept one eye half open so that he could watch his friend’s face. ‘I can’t sleep. It hurts too much.’
‘You poor fellow.’ Edmund walked hesitantly into the room.
Jack kept watching. He saw Edmund look around in vain for a chair. In the mean garret room there was just the bed, with its mottled counterpane and grubby sheets, and an ancient pine trunk. With nowhere else to sit, Edmund perched on the edge of the bed, his buttocks touching as little of the bed covers as possible.
‘I have paid the landlady for a week’s lodging.’
‘Obliged to you.’ Jack gave a satisfactory groan.
‘No better?’
Jack caught the slight narrowing of his friend’s eyes. ‘Some.’ He offered a tight-lipped smile. He had to be careful of over-egging the pudding. He hurt, that much was true. But he had been beaten before. His current state was no worse than on other occasions. If he had not been thrown out of the palace, he knew he would have been able to find the strength to work. But he did not want Edmund to know that. Not until his pocket book was a little lighter.
‘Do you need anything?’ Edmund looked worried as he asked the question.
‘Some more grub would be nice.’
Edmund swallowed hard. ‘I shall ask for extra. Do you have anything in mind?’
‘Pie and liquor, maybe some jellied eels. And a tart or two. A couple of bottles of ale wouldn’t go amiss neither.’
‘Your wounds do not extend to your stomach, then?’
‘Good for a beating, grub. Builds up your strength.’
‘You will be a damn Trojan if you eat like that.’
Jack opened both eyes fully, wary in the face of the sarcasm. ‘I’ll try to eat. My guts hurt something awful. I reckon Jem did some damage down there when he kicked me. Still, it was worth it, to save your neck.’ He winced and gave a low moan.
‘I shall see what I can do.’ Edmund shook his head ruefully.
‘Obliged to you.’
‘I am sure you are.’ The reply was tart. ‘I have enough money to pay for the week, although if you insist on eating like a horse, then I may need to cut it short. I don’t receive any more allowance for a while.’
Jack was alert. He had supposed his new friend’s funds were inexhaustible. He had never had money. He had assumed that those that did had so much that they would never have to think of running out.
Before he could speak, he saw Edmund smile. ‘I see that got your attention. And this time you managed to sit straighter without quite so much fuss.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that I do not think you are quite as ill-disposed as you are making out.’
Jack had to fight away a smile. Edmund was sharp; he had spotted that when he had first tried to fleece him by overcharging for his drink. He pushed himself more upright and looked his new friend in the eye.
‘It does bloody hurt.’
‘I am sure it does. I do not doubt that your wounds are painful. But perhaps you are recovering at least a little.’
‘Maybe I am.’
Edmund laughed. ‘I am glad. You did save my neck and I will gladly pay for your care. It is just a shame that you are still so incapacitated, as I rather hoped to offer you a little employment. Something that would pay rather well for what would be just a single night’s work.’
Jack was listening carefully now. ‘I thought you didn’t have that much rhino?’
‘There are ways and means, old fellow. Ways and means.’
Jack scowled. ‘When would this employment be?’
‘Tomorrow night.’ Edmund kept his eyes locked on Jack. ‘As I said, it is a shame that you are not recovering fast enough. A guinea for one night’s work.’ He paused, and shook his head ruefully. ‘Why, a man would have to be in a really bad way to miss out on an opportunity like that.’
‘A guinea.’ Jack tasted the unfamiliar word.
‘Yes, I was of a mind to offer such a sum. Still, let’s get you mended. I am sure I can find another soul in need of the work.’
‘Tomorrow night, you say?’ Jack was kicking himself. He had overplayed his hand. ‘That’s a fair ways away. Another good night’s kip might be all I need.’
‘Do you think so?’ Edmund was failing to hide a smile. ‘Why, that would be just the ticket, if you think you could be recovered. I do not want to over-tax your strength. I should never be able to live with myself if I forced you to your feet a moment before you were ready.’ The wry smile was spreading.
Jack caught the less than subtle scent of trickery beneath the flowery words. He knew then that he had been played. ‘What’s the job?’
Edmund nodded, recognising the change in his new friend. He leant forward, his face intent. ‘I want you to take my place.’
‘Do what?’
‘I want you to be me, for one night, at least. I want you to be an impostor.’
‘The ball starts at seven. The carriage leaves my family’s house at half past, but I have arranged to meet them there, so that you do not have to worry about travelling with them.’
Jack scowled. ‘And they will all be dressed up?’
‘Yes, that’s the beauty of it. In the costumes, no one will know who anyone is. I rather think that is the plan. My cousin Augusta says that people get up to all sorts at these things. I was rather looking forward to it.’
‘But you want to give Mary another good seeing-to instead.’
Edmund blushed. ‘You have a coarse tongue on you, Jack.’
‘So do you, least that’s what Mary told me.’
Edmund choked, his face now crimson. Jack laughed. He was sitting upright now; his battered body was protesting, but he no longer bothered with the pretence. With a guinea at stake, there was no need to try to fob off his friend for a week’s board and lodging.
‘So what will I be wearing?’ Jack grinned at Edmund’s discomfort, doing his best to ignore the pangs of jealousy. With a guinea to his name, Mary might well think differently about his offer.
‘You will be a Cavalier.’
‘What’s that when it’s at home?’
‘You don’t know?’
‘No chum, no fucking idea at all.’
‘From the Civil War? You must have heard about the Roundheads against the Cavaliers? The Cavaliers were on the side of Good King Charles.’
‘Who won?’
‘Well, the Roundheads won. But they were only in power for a short while. Then Charles’s son came back and retook the throne.’
‘Why can’t I be a Roundhead, then? If they won?’
‘No one dresses as a Roundhead. It isn’t the done thing!’
‘Why?’
‘It just isn’t.’ Edmund scowled at the idea.
‘I still don’t get it.’ Jack winced. For once, he was not feigning. ‘You’re sitting on my foot.’
Jack Lark: Rogue Page 5
