No Honour Among Thieves (Mature)

No Honour Among Thieves Part Nine

“You know the city can be a big bad place for a little girl like you? Chew you up and spit you out before you’d even notice.” The bargeman counselled Meg.

She had unwittingly drawn his attention by shifting into a more comfortable position, the hours spent on this vessel going up the Thames had stiffened her bones, a biting coil of wind toyed snakingly with the bobbing boat.

Meg eyed the man emotionlessly. There was no distrust in his gaze, just cynical speculation. All he saw was a young country girl who had bartered her way to London on his grain barge.

“I know the value of hard work sir, I’ll manage.” She answered with polite confidence, allowing the pretence to stand. It was better that she was considered deserving poor, unsuspected of her true nature. Shivering, she drew her damp shawl tighter around her, turning her attention back to the river. The snow that encrusted her skirt to the knees had melted into an icy pool by her feet, letting a fresh seepage of freezing water into her battered boots.

Meg’s sluggish brain struggled to formulate a plan. Her last tuppence had been spent on the passage here. Without a brass farthing to her name she was about to enter the city, and didn’t even have the theatre to fall back on. Even without Aunt Florrie desperate to sell her off to the highest bidder, the butcher knew her address. She’d given it to him in case they had ever had to contact her about Sally. If the law came after her, the theatre would be the first place they would try, ergo it was out.

What she truly wanted to do was find somewhere safe to curl up and sleep. It was an extravagance Meg couldn’t have. It was all she could do to shroud herself in bravado and calculation, she would need it when she hit town.

“Fuck.”

The expletive shocked Meg out of her cogitations, she looked to the boatman. It was from him the curse had arisen. He was watching the hand signals from a lighterman passing in the opposite direction.

“Is there a problem?” She asked calmly.

Swiftly, he turned back to her, speculation once more in his gaze, this time tinged with apprehension.

“You said you were looking for work? Well I can help you out there.” He suggested cordially.

Ah, he really did think Meg was born yesterday. Her circumstances were desperate enough that she would hear him out, but that didn’t mean she had to agree to anything.

“Explain.” She said in a casual tone. “I want details first.”

The man narrowed his eyes as he considered her. The reaction wasn’t quite what he had expected, neither was the tranquil poise emanating from her, imbuing an accent that was now as common as his. He wasn’t sure how much he wanted to tell her, unfortunately his position at this moment demanded action.

“In ten minutes we’ll reach Irongate wharf, and I have just been informed the filth is gonna stop and search my boat. If he finds something on my person, I’m gonna get hung.”

It didn’t seem so complicated to her. “Why don’t you dump it then? Slip it into the water, nobody would ever know.”

The man grimaced. “Because if I don’t deliver it, the men who’ll come after me will make hanging seem like a blessing.” He answered candidly, too candid for her liking.

Meg laughed, a hard mocking sound that disconcerted him. “Oh, I get it, you want me to hide your package on me. What makes you think I’m gonna risk stretching my neck?”

The man sucked air between his teeth. The girl was a savvy piece alright, but she hadn’t said no. “Money.” He answered bluntly. He watched as green eyes were shaded with long, ginger lashes. At odds with her age, a voice smooth with velvety humour asked.

“And what makes you think I’m desperate for money?”

“Ain’t we all?” He suggested glibly, assurance returning when he saw her shoulders droop and she nodded glumly.

“I’ll need you to take it to Dicky the Jew on Turville Street, tell him Bert sent you, and your payment’s my stake in it.”

“Hold up.” Meg interrupted. “You want me to do a job for you on a promise of restitution. Do I look like I came down in the last shower?”

“Fifteen shilling’s, that’s what my stake is, you can’t sniff at that for an hours work.” Bert urged, then loading on guarantees continued. “Who’s going to suspect a green girl from Essex? I’ll grant you’ll sail through examination without so much as a flicker of interest.”

Meg was seriously considering the task, fifteen shillings was a fair weeks wage. She could rent a room, gain breathing space till she worked out her next move.

“I’ll do it for a guinea.” It was a risk, but then wasn’t every moment a risk? She didn’t fancy her chances on the street without a few pennies in her pocket.

“A guinea?” Bert asked incredulously. “My stake ain’t that high, I can’t give you a guinea.”

“Well, you’ll just have to square it with Dicky the Jew then. I’d have thought your life was worth a guinea, but far be it from me to value your hide.” Meg returned, composed.

Upon being reminded of his own personal safety, Bert folded, grudgingly countering. “I’ll give you a pound, final offer, I got a family to feed.” His waving hand included his apprentice sitting sullenly quiet at the far end of the boat. “Can’t give you no more, my wife will skin me as it is.”

“Done, I’ll take a quid then.” She agreed equably. “And you can buy your missus a pretty new trifle to keep her sweet. Meg held her hand out for the package, the boatman spat into his own palm and clasped hers. Reaching into his coat Bert gave her a letter with a jovial. “You’re a hard face bitch you are.”

Meg rightly took that as a compliment, but couldn’t keep the surprise from her tone when she said. “Is this it?” He would have been better off just reading it and passing the message on. Then again, maybe he didn’t read. Then again, maybe it probably better not to know what was in the missive. Rolling it into a tube she pushed it into the pile of hair at her crown, before retying her bonnet.

Before they even pulled up to the grain landing, Meg could see constables waiting to search the cargoes of incoming barge and lightermen. She placed her hands sedately in her lap, smoothing her face into mild curiosity. Shabbily respectable was the image she portrayed, with corseted posture, and a reputable straw bonnet.

Taller, broader, and more sure of himself than the rest, one man’s forceful presence drew her notice. His hawkish profile as he scanned the river gave the impression he missed nothing.  She couldn’t see the colour of his hair beneath his hat, but his brows were slashes of midnight black over cold, piercing blue eyes. He was the danger, Meg decided, it was his notice she wanted to slip beneath.