Mister Creecher (10 page)

‘I’m sorry, mon ami,’ said Creecher quietly, after a few moments.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Billy.

‘It is Frankenstein I am angry with,’ said the giant. ‘Not you.’

‘Didn’t feel like that,’ said Billy.

‘No,’ said Creecher. ‘I apologise.’

Billy continued to avoid eye contact and glowered sulkily at the dusty attic floorboards.

‘What if we robbed someone?’ said Creecher. ‘Would that cheer you up?’

Billy looked up with a half-smile. Creecher was grinning back at him.

‘It might,’ said Billy. ‘It just might.’

CHAPTER XIII.

February came and went. Billy’s life had now settled into a new and more profitable pattern: every day he would follow Frankenstein and Clerval on their excursions around the capital, and every evening he would tell Creecher what had occurred.

Creecher had taken to reading to Billy and Billy was surprised by how much he enjoyed it and looked forward to it. And every now and then, he and the giant would relieve some gentlemen of their purses.

Thievery had, until then, been a means of survival for Billy and no more. It was not that he had been a bad thief – bad thieves did not survive long; it was just that pickpocketry was never going to make a boy like Billy rich.

And rich was what Billy was now – at least in comparison to anything he had previously known. Only months before he had looked on what he stole simply in terms of what food it might buy once he had exchanged it for a few coppers from Gratz. But now Billy found he had money to spare – a lot of money.

He did not have to risk stealing food any more. He could eat whenever he was hungry and eat well. He had gradually replaced the clothes that Gratz’s nephew had given him all those weeks ago, and for the first time in his life he had brand new clothes. However terrified Billy had been of Creecher when they first met, his life was immeasurably better than it had been before.

The change that had come over him was remarkable to see, and none but the sharpest-eyed of his old acquaintances would ever have associated this respectable-looking lad with the rat-eyed thief he had been.

He was a long way from being a dandy, but he had begun to take an interest in his appearance. His clothes were clean and pressed and his shirt was now white. His neckerchief was knotted with a fashionably complex triple knot. He carried a cane.

This change was taken a step further when, one day, he asked Creecher if there was any reason that he could not rent a room, rather than live in the attic.

‘Why?’ growled Creecher.

‘Why not?’ said Billy. ‘You’ll still know where I am.’

‘This is all we need,’ said Creecher.

‘It’s all you need!’ said Billy.

‘It was good enough for you when we first met.’

‘Yeah – well, things are different now. I never chose to live like this. I’ve got money now. I don’t need to live like an animal.’

Creecher glowered at him.

‘You think I am an animal, then?’

‘What?’ said Billy nervously. ‘No, no. I didn’t mean that. I just meant –’

‘Look at you,’ said Creecher angrily. ‘Who are you to sneer at me? You think you are better than me, is that it?’

Billy bit his tongue. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly before speaking again, quietly and calmly.

‘I never said nothing of the sort. I ain’t better than anyone. I just want a proper bed to sleep in. Is that so hard to understand? What’s the point in having money if you ain’t any better off?’

Creecher sighed and looked away sulkily.

‘Very well,’ he said finally. ‘Rent your rooms if you must.’

Billy grinned.

‘Really?’ he said. ‘You don’t mind?’

‘I have said you can do it, haven’t I?’ said Creecher grumpily, with a shrug of his great shoulders.

Billy thought it wise to leave the conversation to die there and then. He did not care whether Creecher liked the idea or not; Billy was determined to enjoy his new-found wealth.

He looked at several rooms before he chose one. To begin with he was nervous, assuming the owners would see through the mask of respectability to the grimy thief beneath. But this was London. You could be Satan himself, but if you had clean clothes on your back and money in your purse, any door would open.

The first few places he looked at were dingy and flea-ridden, though he would have regarded them as impossibly grand only weeks before. In the end he spent more money than he had intended to rent a couple of small but clean rooms in Soho.

The owner spent a ridiculously long time showing him round the few square yards that would now be his to live in, and when Billy was finally left alone he felt a little faint with the excitement of it all.

He looked out of his window across Soho Square, grinning so hard his face was beginning to ache. Turning towards the door, he saw a key in the lock.

Billy strolled over and turned the key, hearing the mechanism clink into place. He pulled the key out and weighed it in his hand, tears coming unbidden to his eyes. He had never had a space he could call his own and now here he was, a lock on the door and his own clothes in a trunk on the carpet.

He went to the washstand and poured water into the bowl and washed his face. He felt as though he were washing the old Billy away with every splash. He dried his face and looked in the pockmarked mirror.

This is a new beginning
, he thought and he made a pledge to himself that he would never ever sink back into his old life, living on the streets. It had seemed that Fate had laid out a set of cards for him, but he was going to sweep them aside.

CHAPTER XIV.

The following morning, Frankenstein and Clerval went their separate ways, and again, rather reluctantly, Billy followed the morose Frankenstein and let the good-natured Clerval go about his day.

Frankenstein once again adopted his familiar wary gait, constantly stopping to turn round as if expecting to be followed – as indeed he was, though Billy took pains never to be seen, pulling down the brim of his hat and studying a newspaper, or reaching for an apple on a market stall.

He followed Frankenstein to a very rough public house in Shoreditch, the kind of place that even a thief like Billy would think twice about entering. The windows were stained to the point of opacity by tobacco smoke and a century of filth. The weatherboards were rotten and riddled with worm.

What was Frankenstein doing there? Slumming it, maybe? Tourists did do that, Billy knew – they liked to get some of the authentic London experience. Some got more than they bargained for.

But Frankenstein would have taken Clerval if he’d been on an exploration of that kind. No – he was up to something, and Billy had a bad feeling about it.

He waited outside. He couldn’t risk going in for fear that Frankenstein would notice him. He could hear the sound of rough voices coming from inside, the sound of a glass being broken and a great merry cheer going up at the sound.

The door opened and two men stepped out, collars turned up, hat brims pulled down. One of them looked threateningly at Billy until the other tapped his arm and urged him away.

Frankenstein left about ten minutes later and Billy set off in pursuit. After a few streets Billy guessed where Frankenstein was going and following him became much simpler. He was headed for the small warehouse he had rented.

A grey morning had darkened into a dismal afternoon, the sky like filthy pewter above, the streets dusk dark. Billy stood across the narrow street as Frankenstein disappeared into the gloom of the courtyard. He could hear the keys grate in the lock and the rusty hinges groan their complaint.

Billy couldn’t help but be intrigued by the nature of what it was Frankenstein was engaged in. It was clear that whatever he was doing, he did not want any witnesses. Billy waited nearly an hour before curiosity got the better of him.

He crossed the road with his easy, assured tread and slipped silently into the shadows of the covered alleyway.

He edged towards the door and, taking care not to apply any pressure to it and risk a creak, put his face to the keyhole and peered nervously in to see . . . to see . . . nothing!

Frankenstein had not only locked the door, but had been guarded enough to leave the key in the lock and keep the view obscured.

Billy had to stop himself from cursing. He looked again at the wall and tried to think of any possible way that he might be able to glimpse inside, but it was futile.

Then he heard a noise behind him and realised straight away that something was approaching from the direction of the street. Billy quickly moved to the other side of the courtyard.

He moved just in time. Three men, one pulling a handcart, suddenly entered the courtyard. They were as wary as polecats, twitching and sniffing the air. Billy knew criminals when he saw them and he knew when they were dangerous ones, too. He had a strong suspicion that at least one of them had stepped out of the inn Frankenstein had visited.

He held his breath. He could see the men but they couldn’t see him. A bat would have struggled to notice his dark form in the black of that courtyard.

One of the men rapped at the door. It was a soft, musical little rap and clearly a signal that Frankenstein knew, because Billy heard the jangle of the keys almost immediately and the door swung open.

Billy could just make Frankenstein out through the group of men and was surprised to see that he had no coat on and appeared to be wearing an apron of the sort a fishmonger or a butcher might use.

He talked to the men, but Billy could not hear what was said. He did see Frankenstein hand over a small bag that he was sure must contain coins.

After more conversation, two of the men moved to the handcart and busied themselves with something on the back. Whatever it was, it was heavy, because Billy could hear the effort in the men’s breathing as they heaved it off and carried it towards the door of the warehouse.

Billy could now see that the bundle was large, too, and covered in some kind of sacking, it seemed. Before he could see more, the men and the bundle they carried disappeared inside and out of view. The third man remained by the handcart, waiting for his colleagues.

Billy heard a noise at his feet and, peering into the gloom, saw a rat inspecting the toe of his boot. He clenched his teeth. He hated rats.

He dearly wanted to kick the beast into the neighbouring courtyard but knew that any movement from him would alert the man by the handcart, and so he had to keep still and allow the rat to go unhindered about its business.

The rat, for its part, seemed to sense Billy’s predicament and took full advantage, climbing over his feet, sniffing at his boots and nibbling at the laces.

All of this Billy endured with grim resolve until the rat decided that the leather of Billy’s boots might be a tasty snack and set about gnawing one with a real sense of purpose.

That was too much. Billy lashed out and sent the rat skittering, head over tail, across the courtyard. The movement was swift and over in an instant, but the man by the handcart was as vigilant as a spider in its web. He lurched forward, opening a clasp knife as he did so, its huge blade a magnet for any light there was.

Billy saw its steely glint and silently cursed his own stupidity. He was trapped now and there was something about the stance of the man that made Billy sure this was not the first time he’d used that knife.

What was best? To brazen it out and hope the darkness would still conceal him, or to bolt now while there was still some chance of making it to the entrance ahead of the man and his knife?

The closer the man got, the bigger the knife became and the more Billy knew that it would only be a matter of time before he was spotted. His only chance was to run.

He had just tensed his muscles for the race when the man’s colleagues reappeared from Frankenstein’s warehouse. The man turned at the sound and it was just as well, for the feeble light from the open doorway raked across the courtyard like a searchlight and he would have seen Billy for sure.

‘Matt!’ called one of the men. ‘What you doing?’

‘Looking for something,’ he said. ‘I heard a noise.’

‘There’s nothing here,’ said the other man.

‘And I thought we said no names,’ said the one called Matt.

‘Yeah – sorry,’ said the other.

‘Don’t do it again. Or I’ll cut you so as you can’t.’

‘No need for that,’ said the third man. ‘Come on. No sense in hanging around. The Frenchman’s got his goods and we’ve got the cash. I’ll buy you a drink.’

The man called Matt took one last look into the shadows and, putting his clasp knife away, joined the others in rolling the handcart out of the courtyard and into the street. The sound of its wheels retreated into the night.

For the first time in what seemed like minutes, Billy let out a long sighing breath. But it was even longer before he could move his feet, and then only tentatively, edging his way out of the courtyard as silently as he could, fearful that the men might still be waiting. But happily they had gone and, in seconds, so had Billy.