Dodger (8 page)

CHAPTER 4

Dodger discovers a new use for a Fleet Street spike, and gains a pocketful of sugar

FLEET STREET WAS
always busy, day and night, because of all the newspapers, and today the Fleet was not so much running as oozing along the open drain in the centre of the street. Dodger had heard stories about the Fleet sewers, especially the one about the pig that escaped from a butcher’s shop one time and got down there and then into everywhere else, and since there is so much to eat in a sewer if you are a pig, it became enormously fat and nasty. Perhaps it would have been fun then to go and find it; on the other hand perhaps it wouldn’t have been – those things had tusks! But right now, the only monsters in Fleet Street, he had been told, were the printing presses whose thumping made the pavement shake, and which demanded to be fed every day with a diet of politics, ’orrible murders and death.

Of course, there are other events, but everybody liked an ’orrible murder, didn’t they? And everywhere along the street men were pushing trolleys and piles of paper, or running fast holding tight to smaller bits of paper in a terrible urgency to explain to the world what had happened, why it had happened, what should have happened and sometimes why it hadn’t happened at all, when in fact it did happen after all – and, of course, to tell everyone about all the people who had been ’orribly murdered. It looked a bustling place to be, and now he had to find the
Chronicle
in all of this, hampered by the fact that he wasn’t very good at reading, especially big words like that.

In the end, a printer in a square hat pointed the way, while giving him a look that said, ‘Don’t you dare steal anything here.’ A bit of a slander to Dodger’s way of thinking, since toshing wasn’t stealing – surely everybody knew that? Well, they did if they were a tosher.

He tied Onan to a rail, confident that nobody would steal him because of the peculiar smell, and walked up the steps to the
Morning Chronicle
, where he was understandably stopped by one of those men whose job it is to stop the kind of people who need stopping. He looked as though he enjoyed his job, and he had a hat to prove it, and the face under the hat said, ‘Nothing here for the likes of you, boy, you have no business here and you can go and do your thieving somewhere else, you and your dreadful suit. Hah, looks like you’ve got it off a dead man!’

Dodger carefully did not change his expression, but stood up straight and said, ‘My business is with Mister Dickens! He gave me a mission!’ While the man stared at him, he pulled out of his pocket Charlie’s visiting card, and said, ‘And he gave me his card, and told me to meet him here; can you get that into your head, mister?’

The doorman looked daggers at him, but the name Dickens apparently had an effect here for some reason, because another man with a busy look came and stared at Dodger, stared again at the card, looked back at Dodger for one last stare, and said, ‘You might as well come in then, don’t steal anything.’

Dodger said, ‘Thank you, sir, I will try my very best not to.’

He was ushered into a crowded little room filled with desks and clerks, all looking busy with that same sense of frightful importance he had seen out in the street. The clerk at the nearest desk – who looked like the cove in charge of all the rest – watched him like a frog watches a snake, his hand very close to a bell.

Dodger sat down on a bench by the door and waited. Already the fog was rising – it always was by this time of day – and it was creeping in now through the open door. It was like an airborne river Thames, coiling and shimmering as if someone had emptied a bucket of snakes over the street. Mostly it was yellow; often it was black, especially if the brick yards were working. The nearest clerk got up, gave Dodger another scowl and very pointedly closed the door. Dodger gave him a happy smile, which obviously annoyed him; this was, after all, the point.

But there was nothing very much here to ‘find’, anyway. Just paper, just lots of paper and cabinets and mugs and the smell of tobacco and books with pieces of paper stuck inside them, where somebody wanted to keep his place. But what Dodger noticed were the spikes on every clerk’s desk. What was that all about? Each one was sticking right up in the air; there was a piece of wood at the bottom, but why put a spike twelve inches long sticking up where it could do somebody a terrible mischief?

Pointing at the nearest, he said to one of the clerks, in the tones
of
a simple lad who was only asking a question in the innocent pursuit of knowledge, ‘’Scuse me, mister, what’s this all about, then?’

The young man sneered at him. ‘Don’t you know anything? It just keeps the desk more tidy, that’s all. In newspapers, the spike is where you put something that you have finished with or don’t need any more.’

Dodger gave this information his attention and said, ‘Why don’t you just throw the stuff away, instead of cluttering up the place?’

The clerk gave him a withering look. ‘Are you stupid? Supposing it turns out later that it was important? Then all we’d have to do is find it on the spike.’

The other clerks looked up briefly while this was going on, and then they got back to doing whatever it was they did, but not before glaring at Dodger to make certain he knew that he was not very important here and that they were. He noticed, though, that their clothes weren’t much better than his shonky stuff, although there was no point in saying so.

And so Dodger resigned himself to waiting. Right up until the moment a man with a mask over half of his face barged past the doorman – who had apparently just gone for a piss in the alley as he was stumbling back, fumbling with the buttons on his trousers – and pushed into the room. The villain pointed a large knife at the head clerk and said, ‘Give me your money or I’ll gut yer like a clam. And nobody move!’

It was a large knife – a bread knife, with a serrated edge, perfectly OK in a house where someone wanted to carve up a loaf and probably, Dodger thought, not too bad either for carving up a person. But in the horrified silence he realized that the most
frightened
person in the room was the man with the knife, who was glaring at the clerks and taking no notice at all of Dodger.

Dodger thought: He is not sure what to do, but he is sure that he might have to stab one of these noodles who are staring at him and wetting their pants – and he pretty well knows that if he does that he will end up in Newgate prison, swinging from the gallows. These thoughts arrived in Dodger’s head like a railway train, and were followed in the guard’s van, as it were, with the recollection that he knew that voice and its accompanying smell of bad gin. And he knew that the man wasn’t a bad sort, not really, and he knew what had turned him to this kind of deed.

He did the only thing possible. In one movement he grabbed the spike from the desk and let the pointy bit just prick the man’s sweaty neck. Keeping his voice low and cheerful, he whispered to the wretched would-be thief, so quietly that the clerks wouldn’t hear, ‘Drop the knife right now and run for it; either that or you will be breathing through three nostrils. Look, it’s me, Dodger – you know Dodger.’ Then out loud he said, ‘We will have none of this around here, you bastard!’

He almost breathed the man’s relief, and certainly breathed an awful lot of gin fumes as he dragged him out of the place and into the fog. The clerks began to yell blue murder while Dodger shouted out loudly, ‘I’ll hold him, don’t you worry about that!’ He carried on walking the man out at speed, past the red-faced doorman and into the nearest alleyway, where he dragged the would-be thief – who, it could be said, was somewhat handicapped by his wooden leg which had a little metal piece on the end of it – along a few yards and pushed him into a dark corner.

The alley smelled like alleys everywhere: largely of desperation and impatience – and now also of Onan, who had vented his
spleen
and other things in protest, adding to the aromas of the alley a medal-winning stench. Blessedly, the fog made a kind of blanket over them. It stank, of course, but so did the man whose trousers were so lively that quite probably they could have gone for a walk all by themselves.

Dodger heard with relief the sound of the knife being dropped to the ground. He kicked it into the shadows, then heaved the man by his collar and hustled him to the other end of the alley, crossed the street and pulled him into a corner.

‘Stumpy Higgins!’ he said. ‘Blow me down if you aren’t the dumbest thief I’ve ever met. You know, next time you come up before the beak you will end up with the screws swinging on your ankles, you bloody idiot!’ He sniffed, and groaned. ‘Cor blimey, Stumpy, what a mess you are, ain’t you? Do you ever take a wash? Or ever stand out in the rain or even change those trousers?’ He looked into two eyes full of cataracts and sighed. ‘When did you last eat?’

Then Stumpy muttered something about not wanting to be a beggar, and Dodger nearly gave up on him, but the vision of Grandad was still in his mind.

‘Look, here’s sixpence,’ he said. ‘That should get you a decent bite and a space in the flophouse, if you don’t drink it all up. OK, you poor old bugger, now off you go – no one else is chasing you, so just keep on moving and get out of the neighbourhood. I’ve never seen you before in my life, I don’t know who you are, and by the look of you, Stumpy, neither do you, you poor old devil.’ Dodger sighed. ‘Look, if you’re going to hold up something, the time to get grogged up is after the business, not before, right?’

And that was it. Dodger went back to the
Chronicle
offices and there was a copper there already when he arrived, and the clerks
were
giving the man the particulars of the aforesaid Stumpy, which at the moment did not include the wooden leg. By the sound of their babbling, Stumpy was a lot more fearsome than Dodger knew him to be, and apparently his bread knife had become a real honest-to-God sword too. The policeman was trying to take down details, being hampered by the chattering of the clerks and the fact that he wrote things down very slowly, all the while keeping an eye on Dodger, because although the policeman might not have been that good at spelling he was very good at recognizing the likes of Dodger.

Dodger knew what was coming, and here it came as the policeman poked a thumb in his direction and said, ‘This gentleman was an accomplice, yes?’

The clerks looked at Dodger, and somewhat reluctantly their chief said, ‘Well, no, in fact to tell the truth he threatened the miscreant with a spike and chased him away.’

Dodger was beginning to really dislike the policeman, because the man said brightly, ‘Oh, so this man here had a weapon as well?’

The chief clerk said, ‘Well, no, I mean it’s a spike, we have one on every desk.’

There was a creak on the stair by the door and a voice said, ‘This young man is working for me, Constable, and may I say that Mister Dodger has my full confidence. It would appear that he is a hero of epic proportions, having saved the
Chronicle
from the depredations of such a terrible creature as the one that I’ve just heard spoken about – possibly he should have a medal of some kind; I will speak to the editor. In the meantime, gentlemen, Mister Dodger has confidential information for me, and I would like to take him over to the coffee house to hear what he has to
say
. So if you will, in fact, excuse the both of us, we will depart.’

With that, Charlie nodded to the policeman and walked down the steps, an amazed Dodger following him. Onan padded behind, ever-optimistic that Dodger might be taking a route through the foggy streets that could involve a bone. Life for Onan often didn’t produce the rewards he wanted; and as Dodger tied him to a lamppost it became clear that this was going to be one of those times. Again. Dodger resolved to get him a decent bone at the earliest opportunity.

He hadn’t tasted coffee before, but Solomon said it was nothing but mud, and in any case he couldn’t afford it. The coffee house was full of the stuff, full of people and full of chatter and, above all, full of noise.

Charlie pushed Dodger onto a chair, sat down beside him and said, ‘Nobody is going to hear what you say here, because in here everybody is always talking at once, and the ones who aren’t actually talking are thinking about what they are going to say next and waiting for their turn. Is there any point in my asking you for the truth about that delicious little episode, or should we perhaps just let a veil of mystery fall over it? Have you ever heard of a cove called Napoleon, by any chance? Do take more sugar, and when you have finished the bowl they will bring another one; these new sugar lumps are all the go, aren’t they?’