Printer's Devil (9780316167826) (3 page)

The Public is ADVISED that this Man IS VERY

DANGEROUS!

The exclamation marks got bigger and blacker. I wiped my brow. The mechanical grind and squeak of my press, and the rustling
of the paper I was slipping in and out, were making my head ache. My arm ached too, from pulling the heavy platen down so
many times. The air was heavy with ink, and my head was light with beer. I glanced at the window and saw it had grown almost
dark outside.

Mr. Cramplock emerged from the back room where’d he’d been busy with something else. I saw he was reaching for his hat. Some
of the printers we knew around here lived in the rooms above their shops, but Cramplock’s was so small there wasn’t room for
anyone to live here comfortably, apart from me and Lash in our simple little room above the presses. So Cramplock rented lodgings
a few minutes’ walk away. I think he used to have arguments with the landlord quite often, because at around the same time
each month he used to get terribly grumpy and babble on about how much profit we had or hadn’t taken.

“I’m off, Mog,” he said, peering over at the posters
I was piling up. “Looks like you’re doing a good job. Just leave them on the bench and I’ll sort them out in the morning.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Make sure you ink up again before long,” he said, peering some more at my handiwork as he opened the door. “In fact — do
it now.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Don’t forget Flethick’s bill.”

“No,” I said, between gritted teeth.

“And don’t go out without locking the doors properly.”

“Are you going, or not?,” I asked him. He opened his mouth, plainly intending to tell me not to be so impertinent; but he
was probably so bored of telling me not to be impertinent that on this occasion he decided it wasn’t worth the effort. The
door rattled shut behind him.

I carried on, nearing the hundred. The Cockburns grew higher and higher on their pile, and I was glad to cover up the awful
face with a new sheet of paper — except that each new sheet also featured his awful face. Repeat after repeat!

I was so impatient for the job to be over, so sick of seeing endless Cockburns, that I was no longer taking care to keep the
paper straight. Some of the Cockburns were coming out crooked, though I was so tired I could barely tell the difference any
more. On some of the sheets the word “DANGEROUS!” was slipping off the edge of the paper as I shoved them in in my haste.
The posters were nearly as big as I was, and in carrying the big heavy sheets of paper over to the bench I was getting my
clothes and my face covered in the fresh ink. Cockburns spun around my head, their eyes boring into my brain like woodworm
eating through the cover of a book to begin devouring its contents. I started laying the newly printed posters face down so
I wouldn’t have to look at them.

But I’d lost count, and I had to go back to the pile and count how many I’d done, which irritated me. Cramplock would never
have made that mistake; he’d always have stacked them in a rack in piles of ten so he could see at a glance how many more
were still needed. Instead I had to flip through all the Cockburns, counting how many times that hideous face glared up at
me.

A hundred and six. I’d done too many; but at least it meant some of the most crooked ones could be thrown out. I was so relieved
as I began to dismantle the type that I completely forgot about the errand I’d been asked to run until, when I was washing
my hands,
I noticed the little envelope sitting by the door, marked “Mr. Flethick” in Cramplock’s appalling handwriting. It was a good
job Cramplock was a printer, otherwise no one would be able to read a word he wrote. Maybe that was why he’d become one in
the first place.

There was a tiny drop of ale left in the bottom of one of the bottles, and I drained it thankfully before picking up the bill,
whistling for Lash, and venturing out into the darkness.

For some reason I couldn’t resist another glance up at the blackened windows of the big house next door; with my head full
of the eyes of convicts, there was something particularly chilling about them tonight. I clutched Lash’s lead and rushed on.
The streets were poorly lit, and I wasn’t looking forward to walking past the prison gate, which was very close to where Flethick
lived. I kept hearing low whistles in the darkness, and the sound of running feet echoing in the alleyways, and I shivered,
thankful that I looked like a boy in baggy clothes and not a rich gentleman in a top hat with a watch on a chain and money
to be knifed out of him.

Flethick lived in a dark court, accessible only through a narrow brick archway which looked from the street like a doorway
into oblivion. Tugging at Lash’s lead, I tried to drag him through, but he wouldn’t come. He sat whimpering quietly, looking
first at the dark archway and then up at me, refusing to budge. I had no choice: I couldn’t
neglect Mr. Cramplock’s errand. So I tied him to a lamppost and, taking a deep breath, I squared up to the forbidding darkness
of the archway and plunged through.

I was surrounded by darkness on all sides. Somewhere close by, a baby cried, and a long way off a church clock struck the
half-hour. I was suddenly gripped by panic, by the sensation of being hemmed in by walls. I was on the point of abandoning
my mission completely, turning instead to flee back out through the archway; but, as my eyes grew accustomed to the murk of
the courtyard, I noticed that in the far corner there was a second-story window which was glowing dully, like the moon sometimes
does when it’s covered by a fine cloud. It was the only sign of light and life in any of the buildings which surrounded me;
and, mustering up my courage, I headed for the little doorway.

It was far too dark to read any name on the doorpost; but I pushed the door and it swung open with a dry scrape, to reveal
a dim staircase rising immediately in front of me. I thought I could hear low voices from above; and as I got to the top of
the stairs I could see the orangey outline of a door with a light shining behind it. Now that I stood at the stairhead, I
heard the voices more clearly: deep and sporadic, a broken series of mumbles rather than a conversation.

I had approached the door, and lifted my hand to knock, when suddenly my nostrils caught an extraordinary
smell. For a moment it quite disoriented me. I looked up at the ceiling, down at the stairs, and felt dizzy, as though I
were in danger of falling back down the way I had come. I clutched at the banister, or at least where I thought the banister
would be. It wasn’t there, and I fell forward against the door, pushing it open and entering the room more suddenly and rudely
than I’d intended.

I tried not to sprawl on the carpet for any longer than necessary, seeing as I’d dimly noticed several men in the room who
might want an explanation for my bursting in on them. But as I got to my feet I realized I’d caused only a minor stir.

I blinked through an orange mist at a room so smoky and ill-lit I could barely see the other side. There were six men. Four
of them were half-sitting, half-lying in large chairs, making almost no movement and seeming to see nothing, as though they
were stuffed. The other two men were seated on the floor close to where I now stood, and were looking up at me in incomprehension.

“I’ve, ah — a bill for Mr. Flethick,” I said, trying to sound as businesslike as possible. I coughed. The air was revolting
in here.

“Er — Mr. Flethick?” I said again. There was a silence.

Then, “I’m Mr. Flethick,” one of the men on the floor said, speaking curiously slowly as though his words
had to fight through the murky air to reach me.

I held out the bill, and as I did so I noticed the long pipe in his hand. He didn’t make any attempt to take the envelope
from me. Perhaps he was crippled.

“Don’t get up,” I said, and crouched down beside him.

His eyes were glassy and unseeing. Was he blind?

“Who’s this?” one of the other men in the room murmured — I couldn’t be sure which.

“Cramplock’s boy, sir,” I said nervously. Mr. Flethick twisted his body around on the floor to look at me better.

“Cramplock’s boy?” he queried. An expression of amusement crossed his face slowly. “The printer’s devil, eh? Come to drag
us down to Hell, I’ll wager.” His hand waved at me, uncoordinated, trying to make contact with my arm. “Siddown, Cramplock’s
boy,” he continued in his slurred voice. “Wha’they call you, mmm?”

“Winter, sir. Mog Winter.”

“Well, Mog Winter,” he said, and as he turned to me I caught his breath full in my face, “you tell Cramplock …” He seemed
to struggle for the words. He paused for a long time, and put the long pipe to his lips. The candles around the room sent
the men’s huge shadows shaking up to the ceiling. As I waited for him to speak, I felt dizzy again.

“You tell Cramplock,” Flethick slurred at length, “I don’t want his bill. Will you tell him that?”

“But Mr. Cramplock asked me to give you the bill, sir,” I said.

“So he did, boy, so he did.” Flethick nodded.

“If I know him aright, sir,” I continued, “I don’t believe he’ll be best pleased if I come back with the bill undelivered.”

“Well now,” said Flethick, “since you put it that way. Cramplock not best pleased. That would never do.” The smile that still
played over his face was no longer a smile of amusement but had taken on a sinister aspect. I suddenly felt frightened of
him. “Give me the bill then,” he said. And, with a deliberate motion of his entire upper body, he took the unopened bill out
of my outstretched hand and swung it directly into the nearest candle flame, where it took light and was eaten by fire in
seconds. The thin black flakes of what had been the bill fell around the candle, as slowly as the plume of smoke rose into
the air.

Everything about this room was slow My brain felt as if it, too, was gripped in a sinking stillness, like a fly struggling
in a beaker of molasses. My eyes were watering and, every time I blinked, the men seemed further away, the four in the chairs
having receded so far they were almost out of sight over the horizon.

I heard an echo and realized I’d been asked a question.

“What?” I said.

“Is there anyone outside?” Flethick was asking.

“I didn’t see no one,” I said, rubbing my eyes.

“He won’t come here tonight,” another of the men said in a low voice. “It’ll be the three friends for him.”

“Not good enough, aren’t we?” another growled from the horizon.

“He’ll bide his time. The three friends ain’t suspicious.”

“So long as nothing’s amiss.” The man on the far side of the room seemed very concerned that nothing should be amiss. Flethick
was sucking on his pipe and watching me, intently — rather too intently, with eyes which seemed to gaze way beyond my physical
being and into some other realm. Looking at my ghost, I thought, with a sudden awful shiver.

“The Sun of Calcutta,” one of the men was chanting softly. “The Sun of Calcutta! What riches!” He began to laugh, but not
because of anything funny. Nobody laughed with him, and he made no noise. His body shook, as if it was in pain.

“Shut up,” said Flethick, distinctly and menacingly. He turned to me. His image swam before my eyes. Without moving his lips
he said, “You can get out of here, Cramplock’s boy, and if you can pick up the ashes of your bill you’d better take ’em with
you.” Despite the slurring of his words I could detect the violence behind them. “You ain’t seen this room, and you ain’t
met these gentlemen. You’ve been dreaming. You understand?”

I felt myself nodding. I half believed him. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see him melt away and find myself lying in bed.

“Cos if you remember too much,” Flethick continued, “there’s men in London can help you forget.”

“Ask the bosun nicely,” giggled the laughing man, “and he’ll cut your gizzard!”

“Shut up,” said Flethick again, “you’ve said too much already.” He looked back at me as though I were his worst enemy. He
had told me to get out, and I was still standing there. “Off!” he hissed. “And FORGET!”

I stumbled down the stairs, almost falling into the night air, my head thick with the acrid smoke of the little room, my ears
buzzing with Flethick’s parting threat. The details of the interview were starting to come to me, as if for the first time.
I hadn’t been able to think properly in there: now my lungs filled with colder, cleaner air, and I began to take in what I’d
seen. In spite of the men’s lethargic manner, there’d been violence in their words, and I realized I was still trembling with
fear of them. Surely they were up to no good? “Such riches!” the indiscreet one had laughed, “the Sun of Calcutta!”

I emerged from the brick archway and blinked at the high, black, damp prison wall in front of me. Still
tethered to the lamppost, and scrabbling at the cobbles, Lash was straining to greet me, and when I untied him he practically
knocked me over in his evident relief that I’d made it back.

“Am I pleased to see you,” I murmured; and I crouched there for a few moments, letting him lick my face, and tugging affectionately
at the little beard under his chin.

A bell somewhere was striking the hour. Eight … nine … ten … eleven. I suddenly felt immensely tired. Glancing up and down
the narrow street I saw it was deserted, the only light in sight glowing faintly from the next corner, quite a long way off.
The laughing man’s words echoed in my head: “Ask the bosun nicely, and he’ll cut your gizzard!” And I remembered with an uncomfortable
crawling sensation just where I was. Despite the painted street sign designating it as Corporation Row, there was another
name for this shadowy, high-walled little alley which hugged the perimeters of the prison. Almost everyone who lived around
here called it Cut-throat Lane.

I stood up, gathered Lash’s lead so he was tight against my legs, and pulled him after me. You didn’t linger here after dark
if you had any sense. As I passed a narrow entrance I heard a cautious whistle like an owl hooting, and knew it for a footpad’s
signal to another, the secret language of the filthy youths and
children who made their living by being alert when others were tired and careless. Lash growled, and my heart began to beat
faster as I thought about the cutthroats who lurked here, about the sinister men in the smoky room, about Cockburn and the
prison he’d broken out of, the wall of which was towering forbiddingly to my left. I was hurrying so blindly by the time I
got to the corner that I ran straight into someone coming in the other direction.