Dodger: Chapters 1–2

The rain poured down on London so hard that it seemed that it was dancing spray, every raindrop contending with its fellows for supremacy in the air and waiting to splash down. It was a deluge.

But those in the know always said about the London rain that, try as it might, it would never, ever clean that noisome city, because all it did was show you another layer of dirt.

A fancy two-horse coach wallowed its way along the street, some piece of metal stuck near an axle causing it to be heralded by a scream.

The youth was no heavyweight but somehow he was everywhere, throwing blows—blows that were augmented by a pair of brass knuckles, always a helpmeet for the outnumbered.

But it was London and it was raining and it was dark, and they were dodging into alleys and side streets, frantically trying to catch up with their coach, so that he lost them, and the apparition from the depths of the sewers turned around and headed back to the stricken girl at greyhound speed.

On this stormy night of stormy nights, it was opportune then that two men who themselves knew something about the dirt of London were walking, or rather, wading, along this street, hurrying home with hats pulled down—which was a nice try but simply didn’t work, because in this torrent it seemed that the bouncing water was coming as much from below as it was from above.

We are respectable gentlemen who, I might add, work quite hard to better the fortunes of such poor wretched girls and, indeed, by the look of it, those such as yourself!

“So that’s what you call it, is it, you smarmy old gits!”

“I ain’t no dog, you nobby sticks, nor ain’t she! We have our pride, you know. I make my own way, I does, all kosher, straight up!”

“Now we have met you and joined that august company, we must see if we can come to an understanding during this little odyssey, man to man.”

Mrs. Quickly the cook was watching him like a hawk and had already locked away the cutlery, but apart from that it seemed to be a pretty decent crib, although there had been a certain amount of what you might call words from the missus of Mister Henry to her husband on the subject of bringing home waifs and strays at this time of night.

“I am sure you will be very happy to know that the young lady you helped us with is safe and sleeping in a warm bed after some stitches and some physic from the doctor. Alas, I wish I could say the same for her unborn child, which did not survive this dreadful escapade.”

“In the dark it was just one more dreadful crime, which without doubt was just one among many this night; you know that, Dodger, and so do I. But this one had the temerity to take place in front of me, and so I feel I would like to do a little police work, without, as it were, involving the police, who I suspect in this case would not have very much success.”

You might not be aware of it, but on her finger there is one of the biggest and most ornate gold rings I have ever seen—the sort of ring that means something—and if you were intending to do her any harm, you would have stolen it in a wink, just like you stole my pocketbook a short while ago.

Myself and Mister Mayhew are cognizant of the generally unacceptable state of affairs throughout most of this city, and by the way, that means we know about such things and endeavor in our various ways to bring matters to the notice of the public, or at least to those members of the public who care to take notice.

Now there are some people, not you of course, who would say we should go to the authorities, and this is because they have no grasp at all of the realities of London for the lower classes; no grasp at all of the rookeries and the detritus of decay and squalor that is their lot.

I’ll wager that you have never attended church or chapel in your life, young man!

The man gave Dodger a cursory glance that had quite a lot of curse in it and then looked up at Charlie, who got the kind of smile that you get when people know you have money.

Just as Charlie had surmised, Dodger hadn’t had a day’s proper schooling.

I’ve done the best I can; they’re pretty decent stitches if I say so myself. She is, in fact, a rather robust young woman underneath it all and, as it turned out, has needed to be. What she needs now is care and attention and, best of all, time—the greatest of physicians.

With the man’s ample bulk out of the way, Dodger got a better look at the girl.

He had never stuck his hand into somebody else’s pocket. Well, apart from one or two occasions when it was so blatantly open that something was bound to fall out, in which case Dodger would nimbly grab it before it hit the ground.

The housekeeper’s eyes gleamed with a cheerful malignance as she regarded Dodger.

If this young clamp gets up to any tricks, I shall have him out of here and in front of the magistrates in very short order, indeed I will.

Her eyes filled with venom when they alighted on Dodger and subsequently scoured the room for indications of malfeasance.

He had mangled her name offensively without a thought, and was rather pleased, even though she appeared not to have noticed.

Dodger had never read a book, but if he had ever done so, he would have read the cook just like it—and it was amazing how much you could glean from a look, or a snort, or even a fart if it was dropped into the conversation at just the right place.

There was language, and there was the language of inflections, glances, tiny movements in the face—little bits of habit that the owner was not aware of.

People who thought that their faces were entirely blank did not realize how they were broadcasting their innermost thoughts to anyone with the gumption to pick up the signs, and the sign right now, floating in the air as if held by an angel, said that the cook did not like the housekeeper, and the dislike was sufficient enough that she would make fun of her even though Dodger was standing there.

He had written her down as an ally, at least against the housekeeper, who was still glaring at him balefully, but then she grabbed him sharply by the hand and shouted, much louder than necessary, “Just you come down here into the scullery and we’ll see how much you have stolen, my lad, shall we?”

That old baggage of a housekeeper will swear blind that you must have picked up a lot of trinkets when you were here last night, and you may be sure that the picker-up of said trifles will be that lady herself.

A bit of sunshine was okay, he would agree, because it helped your clothes dry, but Dodger liked the shadows and, if possible, the sewers, and right now something in him wanted the solace of darkness.

Dodger didn’t know much about the Romans, but the sewers they had built were old and in a general state of falling to bits. Oh, gangs came down here to patch things up occasionally, but it was always a case of a bit of work here and a bit of work there, seldom anything very substantial.

Best of all were the places where the water would swirl around in a little whirlpool, causing pennies, sixpences, farthings, half farthings, and—if you were very, very blessed—sometimes even sovereigns, half sovereigns, and crowns to collect; maybe even brooches, silver hatpins, eyeglasses, watches, and golden rings.

But, Dodger mused, as he almost absentmindedly but very methodically felt his way along the sewer, taking care to cover his favorite traps while at the same time keeping an eye out for any new ones, whatever would a tosher do if he got hold of such a thing as a real tosheroon?

Dodger edged his way round the rat and into the smaller sewer, which was half choked with debris—much of it pieces of wood, some of them sharp as knives—and all the other detritus that had last night been dislodged.

Good to see you in such fine fettle, in a manner of speaking; you’re a good lad, I always said so, smarter than I ever was, see.

Then Dodger was aware of something in the air, or perhaps the subtle sound of something that had been there and then gently ceased to be so.

Grandad was smiling at him, and went on smiling until the light in his eyes faded, when Dodger then leaned down and respectfully opened the man’s hand to take the legacy that was duly his. He counted out two coins, which he solemnly placed on the dead man’s eyes because, well, it was something you had to do because it had always been done.

He came out of the sewer as if Hell and all its demons were following behind him. Suspecting that it might well be so, he ran the short distance to Seven Dials and the comparative civilization that was in the little tenement attic where Solomon Cohen lived and worked and did business in a small room above a flight of stairs, which being high up gave him a view of things that he probably did not want to see.