Jack Lark: Rogue (6 page)

‘Yes, ma’am.’ A child’s hand reached up and passed over the three coins before taking the bottle with its precious liquid.

‘John saw you was missing.’ Jack’s mother spoke quickly, her face stern before she fixed a beaming smile on her next customer. ‘What’ll it be, my darling?’

Jack grunted in acknowledgement of her warning, and kept up the litany of his trade, his hands never still. But he could not hide the shiver that ran down his spine.

‘You’re a fool, Jack. Why can’t you just do what you are told? Tuppence, my love.’

‘He ain’t my guv’nor.’ Jack spoke for the first time. ‘It ain’t his place to tell me nothing.’

‘By Christ, Jack Lark, you are a stubborn fool.’ His mother pushed past and lifted the lid from the wicker basket containing the salted cakes she had baked fresh that morning. ‘Here you go, my darling. Little something from me.’ She dispensed the cake with a smile to a face Jack did not recognise.

He worked on at his mother’s side, filling the glasses with the spirit that he had helped to water down that morning when it had arrived on the cart from the brewer. He never touched the stuff, but he was sorely tempted that day. It would dull the pain of what was to come, the inevitable conclusion already playing out in his head.

‘I want a word with you, boy.’

Jack kept his head down. The bar was empty, the final punters helped on their way. He and his mother had been cleaning up, the last of the day’s jobs nearly finished, when the door opened and Lampkin slipped inside.

‘Go easy on him, John.’ Jack’s mother stepped forward, her hands busy as she wiped the glasses clean. The rag was stained and grotty, its long use evident in every stain. She had already used it to wipe the mahogany bar, but she would not hang it out to air until the last of the day’s glasses had been rubbed dry.

‘Ain’t your concern, woman. Boy, step out back.’

Jack shivered. For a moment, he stayed low, stacking the glasses on to the shelves built beneath the bar. He had heard his mother’s bedmate arrive, his heavy tread as recognisable as the sour smell of spilt gin. At last he eased himself to his feet and came face to face with the man who owned them both.

‘He worked hard today, John. I ain’t never seen him so quick.’ Jack heard the tremble of fear in his mother’s voice. He was not the only one to have felt the power of John Lampkin’s fists. Yet Jack knew she loved the man, although he could never understand why. The man he called master had been installed in the palace not long after Jack’s father had been found dead, his throat slit by the same slut he had run away with. Lampkin had beaten Jack that very first day, their relationship set on to a firm foundation.

‘He fucked off and weren’t here when he should’ve been. Boy knows the rules.’ Lampkin reached forward and cupped Jack’s mother’s face. ‘You know I’m right, love. He needs to know his place or he’ll just mug us off.’

Jack’s mother smiled at the heavy touch. She leant her face into his hand, her smile quick. Then her expression hardened as she lifted her head and turned it back towards her wayward son. ‘John’s right. You know the rules, Jack. You’re a fool to yourself.’

‘I weren’t that late. Besides, I was saving someone. One of our customers.’ Jack bit his lip. Whining would do no good, but he could not hold back the words.

‘Saving someone, is it?’ Lampkin sneered at the boyish words. ‘I don’t give a toss where you was. You should’ve been here. Instead you were pissing around so your ma had to work twice as hard. And that ain’t right, boy. You shouldn’t treat your dear ma like that. I figure you need a little reminder of your place.’ He smiled at his woman before turning back to Jack, his face set. His hands drifted to the cudgel at his waist. ‘Step out back and wait for me there.’

Jack remembered the flash of the knife, the feeling as his blow landed true. ‘I ain’t a boy no longer,’ he said. He held himself tight, sucking up his courage. He was taller than Lampkin by half a head, and he straightened his back, his hands balling into fists. ‘Time you learnt that.’

Lampkin paused. He looked Jack up and down as if seeing him for the first time. Then he laughed. It was a cruel sound, mocking Jack’s courage, and the fine display turned sour as Lampkin reacted with disdain. ‘You going to fight me, boy?’

Jack felt the fear. It was tied deep in his gut, a knot that swelled to fill his very being. Yet he managed to nod.

‘Then we had best do this out front. Like real men.’ Lampkin pulled the cudgel from his waistband. He considered it for a moment before reaching out and placing it carefully on the bar, watching Jack the whole time. He did not wait for a reaction, but pushed Jack’s mother aside as she stepped in front of him, and moved towards the door.

‘He ain’t a man, John. He’s a boy, just a stupid, foolish boy.’

‘A boy who wants to fight.’ Lampkin spoke over his shoulder as he strode across the sawdust-covered wooden floor of the main bar. ‘I ain’t going to refuse him.’

Jack followed the man he had known as his master for almost as long as he could remember. His mother reached out for him, her hands like claws, her face set cruel.

‘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 heard 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?’