Kent's Orphans: The Prisoner Part 23

THE DAY HAD WITHERED INTO MURKY COLD SHADOWS by the time Genevieve and her band were making their way through the putrid maze of Devil's Den. A tattered quilt of clouds was sifting icy snow upon them, fine as salt, which beat against their faces like a thousand sharp pins. It was not thick enough to suffuse the filth and muck that lay in a great, oozing mantle over the haphazard streets, a stinking swill of human waste and sour ale. Shattered gla.s.s lay everywhere, a testament to the scores of men and women who crawled home each night with a bottle of whiskey mashed against their mouths, and after licking up the last fiery drop hurled the vessel against the nearest wall, briefly filling the dark with the sound of their impotent rage. The streets were a combination of cesspool, refuse heap, and thoroughfare, and Genevieve had to resist the impulse to instruct the children to make their way carefully as they trudged after Jack. She had sworn upon her beloved father's soul that she would not speak, and therefore she remained silent and concentrated on being as inconspicuous as possible.

In truth, she thought that the transformation in her appearance had been nothing short of extraordinary. Draped in Doreen's stained, shapeless dress, with her hair dulled beneath a generous application of ashes and her face and hands smudged with grime, she looked every inch the miserable young mother she was emulating, right down to the ragged bundle she carried in her arms. Oliver had insisted on her upper front teeth being masked in yellow wax, even though Genevieve had argued that as she wasn't going to speak, it wasn't necessary. The result was a lumpy, uncomfortable mold that pressed between her teeth and her inner lip, giving her mouth a misshapen appearance, almost as if she had been recently struck in the face. Doreen a.s.sured her that most of the women in Devil's Den were cuffed with brutal regularity, and that her swollen lip would help her blend better into the surrounding wretchedness.

Smoke spewed in greasy streams from the chimneys, adding the redolence of sputtering fires, wilted cabbage, and charred meat to the fetid air below. Genevieve's throat convulsed as the stench a.s.sailed her nostrils, and for a dizzying moment she thought she might vomit. She adjusted her scarf against her nose and forced herself to take tiny sips of air, fighting the quick lurch of her stomach. She had thought herself accustomed to the reek of misery, for she had spent enough time within the walls of the jail to know it intimately. But somehow, the closed stink of the prison was not nearly so overpowering as the noisome odors that a.s.saulted her now. In prison, chamber pots were occasionally emptied and rinsed, and prisoners were required to tidy their cells each day and take a bath once a fortnight. The wretched stew that lined the streets and filled the overcrowded buildings of Devil's Den had been steeping for decades, until the very ground was rotten. As for bathing, Genevieve doubted whether any of the inhabitants here had ever enjoyed that luxury, save for the bairns that were still small enough to be hastily dunked in a battered dishpan of gray water.

"It's that one." Jack inclined his head toward a crumbling building at the end of the street.

"Ye're sure?" asked Oliver.

He nodded. "They took him through that door. I waited a bit, then slipped in after them. I think they went to the second or third floor, but before I could be certain they had disappeared into one of the apartments. It was too noisy for me to try to make out which one. Lots of screamin' and bawling goes on in these places." He gave Genevieve a hard look, trying to prepare her.

"Look!" gasped Jamie, pointing at a shifting pile of rotting sc.r.a.ps.

"Stay back," Doreen warned, protectively grabbing him by his shoulders. "It's a rat. The streets here are full of them."

"Really?" Jamie stared in fascination at the moving refuse. Suddenly a little orange-and-vanilla-striped head emerged from the slimy mound.

"It's a cat!" He watched with delight as the mangy creature shook off an errant bit of onionskin. Its fur was matted with grease and filth, and one ear had been torn into two pink flaps.

"Poor thing-she looks half-starved." Charlotte leaned upon her crutch and held her hand out to it. "Here, kitty."

The cat lifted her nose into the air and studied Charlotte, trying to ascertain if there was something of interest in her palm.

"Here now, dinna go touchin' that vermin-infested creature," scolded Eunice. "Lord knows what kind of nasty things are crawlin' in its fur."

Charlotte smiled as the cat came close enough for her to kneel down and stroke its sticky head. "Poor thing-she must be hungry."

"Well if she is, 'tis no concern of ours," Eunice informed her, shepherding Charlotte forward. "We've enough to worry about today without having some skinny, louse-ridden beast traipsin' after us."

Charlotte regarded her unhappily. "But if we leave her here she's going to die."

"Nonsense," scoffed Doreen. "Between the mice and the rubbish there's enough here to feed her for a year."

"Does everyone remember what our plan is?" demanded Oliver in a low voice.

The little group nodded solemnly.

"All right, then. Stay tight, and none of ye speak unless ye have to. Doreen and I will do any talkin' that's to be done. Let's go."

They trudged across the street, which was now covered with a fine, sandy snow, and bitterly cold against their roughly shod feet. Each of them had been garbed in the dullest of rags, with crushed hats and frayed coats, and they all carried a satchel of some sort. The exception to this was Genevieve, who was feigning carrying a bairn in her arms, and Charlotte, who was hobbling along with the crutch she typically tried not to use. They gave the appearance of a dest.i.tute family limping through the cold, desperately searching for a place to stay. It was far from an uncommon plight in Devil's Den. No one troubled them or asked them any questions. If anything, the people they encountered on the street made a point of quickening their pace and looking away as they tramped by. It occurred to Genevieve that they probably feared being asked for a crust of bread or a place where the bedraggled family might be able to rest and get warm.

A sickening brew of odors a.s.sailed them as they opened the door to the building. The stink of guttering fires and overly full chamber pots melded with the immediate stench of burned meats and vegetables, but there was a thicker underlying smell that permeated the very walls and floors around them. It was the reek of decades of bodies existing without benefit of bathing, a near-choking aroma of sweat and skin and scalp, and all the accompanying bodily fluids that had seeped into the clothes and mattresses and furniture around them. It was the smell of poverty and misery, but it was also the smell of defeat. Jamie wrinkled his nose in disgust. None of the others seemed to react to it. Perhaps, Genevieve reflected, they had each known that stench too well at some point in their lives to be easily offended by it.

"Yer pardon, sir," Oliver began, addressing a pinch-faced young man who was swiftly descending the stairs. "I'm lookin' for my son-"

"Go to h.e.l.l." He shoved past the group and heaved open the door. "b.l.o.o.d.y Christ!" he swore as the scrawny striped cat darted in between his legs. He drew his foot back to kick it, causing Charlotte to cry out in dismay.

"Leave it be!" snarled Jack, leaping forward to scoop the scabby creature up.

The man's eyes narrowed into dark slits. "Are ye thinkin' t' order me about?"

"Here now, we dinna want trouble," Oliver said, deftly inserting his spindly frame between Jack and the glowering tenant. "That's the lad's cat, is all. Nasty wee thing, to be sure, but good for the mice, all the same. Ye'd nae want to be rid of a good mouser, now, would ye?"

The man scowled. "Just keep the skinny b.a.s.t.a.r.d the h.e.l.l away from me."

"I will for sure," Oliver said, not certain whether the man was referring to Jack or the cat.

The tenant stomped out the door and banged it shut behind him.

"Here," said Jack, depositing the writhing cat in Annabelle's arms. "Hold that for Charlotte."

Annabelle's eyes widened in horror as she struggled to restrain the twisting little beast. "But it's so dirty!"

"Please, Annabelle," implored Charlotte. "I'd hold her myself, but I don't think I could manage with my crutch."

"I've an idea." Simon removed his scarf and wrapped it tightly around the cat until the filthy creature resembled a small mummy. "That should keep it from moving about."

"If we're quite finished playin' with cats, could we get on with it?" demanded Doreen, growing agitated.

Oliver quickly scanned the hallway and selected an apartment that was situated close to the stairs. The sounds of children wailing and fighting could be heard behind the door, and, somewhere deeper within, a woman was screeching at them to clapper their b.l.o.o.d.y traps.

"Over here," Oliver said, directing his ragged family around him. He raised his fist and rapped upon the door.

"Dinna open it!" the woman inside shouted, but it was already too late. The door swung open and six dirty little faces stared up at them.

"I told ye nae to open it, ye bleedin' wee b.u.g.g.e.rs!"

A heavily pregnant woman waddled forward, lugging over one hip a delicately boned child of about a year of age. She swatted the children away, then glared at Oliver and the others with naked hostility. Her eyes were small and set close together, and the skin around one of them bore the faded blue-and-purple mottling of an ugly bruise.

"What do ye want?" she demanded sharply.

"Forgive me for troublin' ye, missus," said Oliver, politely removing his cap. "My wife and me are lookin' for my son, ye see-"

The door slammed shut.

Unperturbed, Oliver herded the group to the next door. This time a gaunt woman of about twenty answered. Her narrow body had been squeezed into a tight corset so that her small b.r.e.a.s.t.s were plumped up like two lumps of boiled dough, and her ashen face was heavily smeared with rouge. She had arranged her oily hair into a drab coiffure, and the sickly sweet odor of cheap perfume wafted from her, intermingled with the smell of old perspiration. Surprise registered upon her face as she opened the door. It was clear to Genevieve that she had been expecting someone else.

"Yer pardon for troublin' ye, miss," Oliver began again, "but my wife and myself are tryin' to find our lad, and last we heard he was livin' in this building. Perhaps ye've seen him," he rushed on, sensing that she was about to close the door. "Built like an ale barrel, Harry is, with a nose laid flat from his taste for brawlin'. Or mayhap ye've seen his mates-George is a big brute with a belly like a swine's, while Ewan is skinny as a weed, with hair the color of smashed turnip."

A flash of insight lit the girl's wary gaze. Clearly she knew something about the men Oliver was describing.

"This is Harry's wife and bairns," Oliver pressed on, pointing to Genevieve and the children. "This poor wee b.u.g.g.e.r has never seen his da," he added, gesturing at the ragged bundle in her arms. "Harry dinna ken that he's gone and made another," he added, slipping into a broader Scots than he normally used. His bony shoulders were hunched with defeat as he finished, "I'm old, and canna go on carin' for her and her brood. 'Tis time Harry come home and did right by them."

The children stared at her mournfully, except for Jack, whose sullen indifference seemed entirely appropriate for an abandoned lad of fourteen. Even the motley cat let out a pitiful meow as it tried to extract itself from Annabelle's tight hold.

The girl hesitated, debating whether or not to speak. Suddenly a door banged open on a floor above them, causing her to jump.

"I dinna know nothin'," she blurted out, her eyes flitting nervously toward the staircase. She hurled the door closed.

"She knows where they are," Jack said, infuriated. He raised his fist to pound upon the door.

"Aye, o' course she does," hissed a crackling voice.

A decrepit old woman with a spa.r.s.e scraggle of white hair peered at them speculatively from a doorway across the corridor. "The scurvy hoor knows every pair o' trousers that rubs together in all o' Devil's Den!" She laughed, revealing a dark cave of slippery gray gums, like snails, intermittently spiked with the occasional yellow tooth.

"A shame." Oliver shook his head as he shuffled over to her. "That's what happens to a la.s.s when she's got nae family to help. I dinna know what'll become of these wee cubs if I canna find their da. End up on the street, most like."

"Filled yer belly and left ye to rot, did he, dearie?" The woman's watery eyes were nearly swallowed beneath the limp folds of her eyelids as she studied Genevieve. "Poor la.s.sie. Lads today have nae honor. A quick toss of the skirts and they're off again, never mind the mess they've left behind. 'Tis a disgrace, to my way of thinkin'. If 'twere my son, I'd nae spare the whip!" She glared at Doreen, as if she bore responsibility for the transgressions of her supposed son.

"And so I shall, if I ever find him," Doreen a.s.sured her fiercely. "I dinna know where he gets it from-his da is as fine a man as ye'll ever know. He'd sooner starve himself than see one of these wee chicks go hungry." She cast a fond look at Oliver.

"Well, pleasure comes from doin' good, and that's G.o.d's truth," the woman said approvingly. "As for yer son, a wolf may lose his teeth but ne'er his nature, so even if ye drag him home by his boots, ye canna expect him to change." She studied Oliver a moment, considering. "Ye say ye think he's livin' here?"

"With friends," Oliver elaborated. "Maybe ye've seen them? Harry's short but strong as an ox, with a nose that's been walloped one time too many. Then there's George, with gray hair and a bloated belly, and tall, skinny Ewan-"

"With orange hair and red spots." The old woman nodded. "Aye, I've seen them. Not many rooms here are kept by three lads with nae la.s.ses tae warm their beds. But they dinna get cold-not with all their visits tae that hoor across the hall." She cast a sympathetic look at Genevieve. "Yer husband's nae better nae worse than most, la.s.sie," she a.s.sured her. "All they do is sleep and drink and fight. Today they brought yet another one home-so guttered he could nae walk, an' 'twas still practically mornin'!"

Genevieve's face grew pale.

"Where are they?" demanded Jack tersely. His hands tightened into fists.

"Angry at yer da, are ye, lad? An' so ye should be." Her scant white brows puckered together in a frown as she studied him. "Ye must have started birthin' when ye were barely weaned," she decided, turning her gaze to Genevieve.

"If ye dinna mind, missus, I'd like to find my lad an' make him come home," said Oliver, interrupting any attempt to draw Genevieve into conversation.

"'Course ye would," the old woman agreed. "He's up the stairs and to yer left, the last door at the end. Should be in there now, for I've nae heard any of them leave. Sleepin' off their whiskey, most like."

Oliver clamped a restraining hand on Jack's shoulder to keep him from tearing up the staircase and breaking down the door. "Thank ye kindly, missus. I'm sure Harry will be most pleased to see his family again. Most pleased."

The old woman looked doubtful. "I dinna know about that-what wi' all these bairns tae feed. But I expect he'll be fair surprised!" She cackled, her collapsed mouth opening to expose her slick gray gums once more.

"Right," began Oliver in a low voice, struggling to stay abreast of Jack as he led the little mismatched band up the creaking staircase. "Like any job, the most important thing is, we've got to work quick. Get in, get his lordship an' get out. Me and Jack will do any bashin', if necessary. The rest of ye just keep 'em scurryin' about while we free his lordship. Use yer weapons if ye must, an' be sure to work together. There's but three of them and ten of us. If we keep a quick hand and a sharp eye, they'll be on the floor and beggin' for mercy afore they know what they're about."

Doreen nodded in agreement. "Remember, 'tis nae the size of the dog in the fight, but the fight in the dog!"

"Sweet saints," gasped Eunice breathlessly, clutching the rickety banister, "how many more steps are there?"

Genevieve's heart began to beat wildly against the cage of her ribs as the group made their way along the dimly lit corridor. The din of men and women shouting at each other and children squealing and crying was much the same as it had been on the floor below. Jack had been right, she realized. The families trapped behind each of those decrepit doors were too immersed in their own miserable lives to take any notice if someone was being beaten or murdered in the next apartment. She unconsciously clutched the bundle she was carrying tighter to her chest. Whatever happened, they could expect no help from the other inhabitants of the dilapidated building.

Oliver motioned for them to be quiet. He pressed his ear against the door and listened for a long minute. Apparently satisfied with whatever he did or did not hear, he raised his gnarled fist and rapped upon the battered wood.

A hush of tense antic.i.p.ation fell over the group. Even the wretched cat in Annabelle's arms quit struggling. There was the sound of a chair sc.r.a.ping against the floor and booted feet moving toward them.

Then nothing.

Oliver knocked again. There was a moment of strained silence.

Finally a heavy bolt grated across the wood and the door creaked open. Smoky light spilled from the hearth and lamps in the room beyond, illuminating the emaciated form and pimpled face of Ewan in ghostly shadows. He regarded the bedraggled a.s.semblage in bleary confusion, showing no sign of recognition. m.u.f.fled within their ragged hats, scarves and heavy coats, their faces streaked with grime, the tatty gang bore little resemblance to the pristinely attired family whose home he and his accomplices had raided that morning.

"Yer pardon, lad, we're here to show Harry his new bairn." Oliver stepped aside to gesture at the bundle Genevieve carried, deftly inserting himself into the doorway as he did so.

Ewan gazed stupidly at the parcel of blankets. "Harry's bairn?"

"Looks just like Harry, he does," Eunice a.s.sured him cheerily. "Right down to his wee mashed nose. See for yerself."

Genevieve raised her "baby" slightly, offering Ewan a better view. Unable to restrain his curiosity, Ewan leaned forward to peer at Harry's progeny.

Quick as a whip, Doreen withdrew a heavy flatiron from her bag and brought it crashing down upon poor Ewan's head. The gangly lad stood for an instant, apparently frozen, staring blankly at Genevieve's arms.

Then his eyes rolled up into his skull and he crashed to the floor, forcing the children to scatter to make room for his crumpled body.

"That was a b.l.o.o.d.y fine blow," said Oliver, nodding at Doreen with approval.

A charming flush rose to Doreen's wrinkled cheeks. "Why, thank ye, Ollie." She girlishly adjusted a gray strand of hair that had tumbled down from her hat.

"Ewan!" growled a drunken voice from within, "what the devil's goin' on out there?"

"Here, kitty," whispered Annabelle, unraveling the cat in her arms, "go find a nice, fat mouse!" She tossed the squirming creature just beyond the door, then raced in after it, shrieking at the top of her lungs, "Come back, kitty!"

The other children charged through the door after her in a clamorous mob, screeching and shouting as they chased after the thoroughly agitated cat.

"What the h.e.l.l is goin' on here?" demanded Harry, startled by the unexpected invasion. He shoved his chair out from the table at which he and broken-nosed George were eating their supper, and stared at them in drunken confusion.

"My kitty," wailed Annabelle, leading the children in a frenzied dance around the squalid little apartment.

"Come back, come back!" they all screeched, causing the terrified cat to race about wildly.

"Here now, ye canna be in here!" George's battered face contorted with fury as Grace and Jamie scampered beneath the table. "Come out o' there, I say!"

Feigning compliance they obediently rose, causing the table to overturn and sending a greasy mess of fish stew and warm ale sloshing to the floor.

"What are ye thinkin', ye wee scoundrels?" demanded Eunice, storming angrily into the room, with Oliver, Doreen, and Genevieve chasing behind. "Come away from here at once, ye rotten little-"

"It's under your skirts!" Simon cried. "I think it's gone mad!"

Eunice screamed and began to whirl about, creating a tornado of petticoats as she pretended to try to evacuate the cat. "Help! Help!" She wrapped her bulky arms around George's neck and held tight, using him for support as she clambered heavily onto a chair. "Save me!"

"I...canna...breathe," George rasped, fighting to extricate himself from her strangling grip.

"Nae, he's over there!" shouted Oliver, pointing behind Harry.

Harry's eyes widened in panic as the children surged toward him in a tumultuous wave, smashing him to the floor. "Get off me, ye b.l.o.o.d.y monkeys!" he swore, trying to protect himself from their flailing arms and legs.

With the two men utterly distracted by the roiling commotion, Jack, Genevieve, and Oliver raced toward the door of the small bedroom at the back of the miserable apartment. Jack pushed it open to find Haydon lying upon the floor, bound hand and foot to an overturned chair, a length of bloodstained rag cinched tightly over his mouth. It was obvious he was trying to get closer to some fragments of shattered gla.s.s that were scattered in a pool of kerosene, the remnants of a lamp that he had managed to knock from a table. Shocked disbelief flared in his eyes as the bedraggled trio rushed toward him.

"So this is where ye be hidin'." Oliver produced two thin lengths of metal from his pocket and bent down so he could pick the lock of the manacles securing Haydon's wrists behind his back.

"You've looked worse," Jack a.s.sured Haydon tautly. He slipped a sharp dirk from his boot and sawed at the bonds lashing Haydon's ankles.