The Convicts (7 page)

“No, not at all,” he said quickly. “I believe you found
something,
but not a diamond, boy. It will turn out to be a broken bottle, a bit of shiny glass “ He shrugged, and smiled. “But it doesn't matter what it is. If you
believed
it was a diamond, then that's enough to save you. That's the law, Tom Tin.”

The law was as foreign to me as ancient Greek. I had no way of knowing if Mr. Meel was telling the truth. If I told him where the diamond was, he might steal it and leave me in prison. But if I kept the secret, he would go away and leave me anyway. So Mr. Meel had me in an awful fix. He had me “by the bitter end,” as Father would have said.

“All right,” I said. “There's a boot A big wooden boot, and if you find that it guides you there.”

“How?”

Mr. Meel suddenly burst into action. He threw open his briefcase and pulled out his papers. A pencil appeared in his hand as though from thin air, so quickly did he pluck it from a pocket. He touched the lead to his tongue.

“Yes. The boot; where is it?” he said. “Tell me, Tom. Where's the wooden boot?”

He was too eager, his face too flushed with hot blood. “Wait,” I said. “Please tell me. If it's enough that I
believe
the diamond's real, why do you need to see it?”

“You doubt me?” he asked. “I come here to help, and this is what I get?” He glared aerossihe table. “I am running out of patience, Tom. For the last time, will you tell me where the diamond is?”

Mr. Meel rose to His feet. He stuffed his papers into his briefcase so angrily that they tore and bent, crumpling into yellow wads. He turned his shoulders and rapped on the window to call for the warder.

Isaw hii face reflected in the glass, and I didn't think I had ever seen skin quite so purple. It was the color of plums.

“You'll change your tune,” he said. Despite his anger he spoke In a quiet Voice, as though he knew it would scare me less if he shouted. “You'll spend your last days in the condemned cells, where the bell rings at midnight and someone prays for your soul. %u’11 hear the workers teit your scaffold. And then, my boy; you'll change your tune. You'll shout from your cell; you'll scream through the windows for someone to help you. Downxm the street they'll listen to your cries and say, ‘Look at the mad boy there.’“

The warder's key turned in the lock. Mr. Meel stepped toward the door. “You've brought this on yourself, Tom Tin.”

I sat at the table, shocked into silence. As I watched the warder lead him out I very nearly called him back. But then the door slammed shut, and he was gone.

Through that day and the night, every minute of every hour, I cursed Mr. Goodfellow. Everything had begun with him, and all for a debt that to him was a trifle. I imagined doing terrible things to him, things with my fists, with cudgels or knives. I imagined them so vividly that I saw his face and heard his cries.

But was I right to blame him? A whisper came from my own mind, from my soul, that I was getting just what I deserved. I had killed the blind man. I had bashed him with the diamond and let the river drown him. I had taken his life, and now mine was to be taken too.
It's only fair,
said my whispering voice.
It's only right.

With all my mutterings and agonies, the boys in the ward pulled even farther away. I had nearly a quarter of the room to myself, but I huddled in the tiniest space, and under my breath I prayed for one more chance.

As though from Providence, it came in the morning. Mr. Meel returned to Newgate, and I met him in the same room. This time he didn't stand up. He wasted no time, but went straight to his business.

“I've just come from Camden Town,” he said. “I went to the address you gave me. There was a woman there, in mourning clothes,”

“My mother,” I said, my hopes beginning to rise. “Was shewell?”

“Well enough,” said he. “I told her I had seen her son, and do you know what she said?”

“What, sir?” But then I knew, and I pressed my hands to my temples, wishing I had thought to warn the lawyer of my mother's madness. “She told you,
I have no son!
“

“Not quite,” said Mr. Meel. “Much the same, though, I suppose. She told me that her son was dead.” He set his fist on the table. “Now you've played me for a fool and—”

“Wait!” I cried. “She's angry at me. She's half mad, you know. If you find my father, he'll tell you the truth.”

“Ah, yes. Your famous father in his debtor's prison,” said Mr. Meel. “I don't suppose you know which prison?”

I shook my head. “No, sir. But it must be near the Fleet.”

“So I'll wander from one to the other, shall I, until I find a fellow who says. ‘I have no son.’ And that will be your father, half mad as well?”

“He isn't mad,” I said. “He's a captain.”

“Then what's the name of his ship?”

I sighed. “He has no ship.”

“A mother without a son, a captain without a ship. And a boy without a hope.” Mr. Meel laughed. “What a sorry state of affairs”

It seemed he had come back only to torment me. In his chair he smiled. “You
are
the little monster, aren't you?” he said. “Tell me, boy. Did you feel the slightest twinge when you cut the blind man's throat?”

“I didn't,” I said.

There was a look of smugness on his face.

“I mean I didn't cut his
throat”
I put my hands on the table and leaned forward as he leaned back. “Listen, sir. I hit him, it's true. I hit him very hard; I know I did. But I didn't cut his throat, and he was still alive when I left him.”

His expression heVfer changed. “Yoii took his boots. You wear them still.”

“I was given them,” I said. “I've told you that. A boy found them in the river. He must have killed the blind man.”

Mr. Meel nodded. I smiled, thinking that at last I had convinced him. But instead, he sneered. “What an ingenious fellow you are.”

He stood up, ready to leave. “Your trial is tomorrow. Watch the judge, boy. The judge has a black cap; it sits before him on the bench. If he puts on that cap when he delivers his sentence, it's death for you, boy.” His smug smile returned. “But you'll see for yourself, and the world will be rid of you soon after. It will be the better without you, I say. Even the sewers of Fleet will be cleaner. Yes, I know your lot, the Darkey's gang.”

“That's not my
lot
,” I said. “It was never my lot.” Mr. Meel backed away as my voice rose, “I go to school in Cam-den Town. Ask my teacher. Ask Mr. Goodfellow, he—”

“Alex Goodfellow?”

“Yes. He—”

“How could you know
him,
a fine man like that?”

“Because he sent my father to prison,” I said.

A change came over Mr. Meel. I couldn't tell if he was amused or surprised, but he was different now. “Alex is in the court this very minute,” he said. “I saw him not an hour ago.”

“Ask him, then,” I said.

“What will he say?” asked Mr. Meel, “That he knows no boy called Tom? Or that the Tom he knows is dead?”

I gasped. That was exactly what Mr. Goodfellow would say. He had seen my dead twin. He had gone into the doctor's surgery as Worms had come out. I realized then what I should have known before. It must have been Mr. Goodfellow who had told my mother I was dead.

“Bring him here,” I said. It was terrible that my very last hope lay with Mr. Goodfellow, but there was no getting around it. “I'll tell you everything” I said. “If you bring him here, I'll tell you where the diamond is.”

He must have sprinted all the way to the court, his briefcase flying behind him like a kite. It was not an hour later when I was brought again to the place of columns and arches. In the glass-walled room at the center, Mr. Meel was sitting in the chair behind the table. And standing in the corner was Mr. Goodfellow, as fine as ever, with the light glittering on his watch fob and chain, on the silver handle of his walking stick. His fingers were tapping on that bright, shining knob.

He looked up at the sound of footsteps. Peering through the glass—from light into darkness—he had to squint to see what lay beyond it. When I was very close he saw me, and a look of amazement came over him. There was no hiding it; he was shocked to see me. But he gathered himself quickly, and by the time the warder opened the door, Mr. Goodfellow looked more puzzled than anything.

Mr. Meel held up a hand, the palm toward me. “Don't talk,” he ordered, then turned to Mr. Goodfellow. “Alex, do you know this boy?”

Mr. Goodfellow tapped his fingers on his lips. It was a nervous habit of his, I supposed, to tap them on something. He shook his head slowly. “I don't believe I do,” he said.

“What?” 1 cried. “It's me. It's Tom Tin.”

“Tin?” said Mr Goodfellow. “Tin?” he said again, with wrinkles in his brow. “Why, the name means nothing to me.”

“You're lying,” I snarled. “You destroyed my father. You'll destroy us all.”

Mf. Meel sprang from his chair. “Damn you, boy,” he said, with bubbles of spit at his mouth. “I'll see you hang before tihe week is out. Jailer, take him away!”

The warder tugged at my antt. But Mr. Goodfellow said, “Please wait. Perhaps the boy has something to say that he doesn't wish for a jailer or a lawyer to hear. Perhaps I should have a word with him in privacy.”

“You're too kind,” said Mr. Meel. “Bless you, Alex, but you're wasting your time.”

“Oh, it's only a moment, sir.” There was the kindliness of a saint in his voice. “I should never forgive myself if I didn't allow that.”

We were left alone in the little room as the warder and the lawyer stood beyond the glass. Mr. Goodfellow lowered his voice to a whisper. “How can this be?” he asked. “I saw you lying dead, yet here you are. It is
you,
isn't it? You are Tom Tin?”

“You know I am,” I said. “Why do you deny me?”

“You left me no choice,” he said. “Your father believes you're dead and gone.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because he saw you, boy,” said Mr. Goodfellow. “Or your double, or whoever it was. I took him round to Dr. Kingsley's, and it fairly knocked the stuffing from him to see you lying there on the slab. But he's a strong man, and he'll pull himself together. He'll go back to the sea. It's what he wants, at any rate, to be rid of the albatross of his family.”

“That's not true,” I said.

“Oh, yes, it is. You've been a great disappointment to him, Tom. Selfish and spoiled as you are. He wasn't surprised that you ran away.”

“I didn't,” I said, blushing.

“But that's how he saw it.” Mr. Goodfellow glanced toward the glass. “I need him, Tom. For this new venture of mine.”

“But what about me?” I said. “They're going to hang me.”

“Nonsense, Tom!” He reached out and gave my arm a little shake. “Why, they don't hang
boys.
Not anymore. Granted, you might spend some time in prison, but it will do you a world of good. Breaking stones … I don't know … whatever it is you do. It will put muscles on your arms.” He pinched me there, on one thin arm. “You'll come out a man, all the better for it. Why, I shouldn't be surprised if you thank me one day.”

“I'll
ruin
you,” I said. “I swear to God, I will. I'll do to you what you did to my father, and ten times more.”

He laughed. His cheeks bounced; his eyes teared. “That's the spirit, Tom.” Then he clapped me on the shoulder and motioned for the jailer. “It will all turn out for the best, you'll see. Look for me in the court, Tom.”

I did, the next day. I was taken through a tunnel and straight up to the Old Bailey, into the dock. Emerging that way, into an enormous room of chandeliers and shining wood, I felt as tiny as a cockroach. Far on the other side, the judges, in wigs and gowns, sat in a row along their curved bench. The men of the jury filled the box on my right, and down below—-between the judges and me—the gentlemen of the court bustled at their work. Nearly every man held a handkerchief to his nose, or fanned himself with his hat, for the fog was thick that morning, the smell overpowering.

I was frightened, standing there. I looked down into a pit full of white wigs and black gowns, a den of lawyers. I looked up at the gallery, at the high seats half hidden by great columns, where people paid to watch the court. There, in the shadows, white in the gray, sat Mr. Goodfellow. He stared right at me, his top hat balanced like a drum on his lap, his fingers rapping on its top.

1 My name was called out. Men bustled around, ledgers were opened, and the lawyers’ den was like a pit full of squirming snakes. The judge coughed and cleared his throat. “Who's acting for the prosecution?” he asked.

“I, my lord,” answered a voice from the pit. Up to his feet rose the skinny Mr. Meel.

My jaw dropped. The one man I'd thought might help me was an agent of the other side. It was his business to send me to prison, or worse, and he set about it with a fever.

He called witnesses. One by one they mounted to the little wooden box, where a slanted mirror flashed sunlight in their faces. The gentleman who had feared being hit by my cudgel, the old woman who had shouted about Arnold's boots, the tough little constable, they all climbed up and told their parts in the story of how I had killed the blind man. Then came a fellow I had never met. He pointed at me, and told the court what a rogue and a wretch I was. He rattled off a list of deeds I had done, none of it true.

Mr. Meel bowed to the judge and took his seat. The jury was sent out, and I was marched down the steps to the holding cells. But hardly had I settled there when I was marched back up again. It had taken the jury only seven minutes to decide my fate.

“The prisoner will stand,” said the judge.

I was already standing. My knees were shaking.

The judge watched me from his bench. In front of him, on a little pad, was set the black cap that Mr. Meel had told me about.
‘If the judge puts on that cap
…
, its death
… /’ he'd said.

The judge's fingers crept toward it now. “What does the jury say?” he asked.

High in his shadowed seat, Mr. Goodfellow drummed with his fingers.