The sun beat mercilessly down on the chained convict's dirty necks, burning the pale skin underneath that hadn't seen the light of day in several months. They shambled forwards in a dreary line, until they arrived at one of two doctor's stations where they were examined. It was here where they were handed their fate, usually going one of two ways: grueling work as a chained prisoner for the rest of their short, pitiful lives, or a second chance as a convict servant.
Dawkins was seated at one of these stations outside the Port Victory Royal Hospital, doctor's tools spread across the desk and a roll of parchment laid out for him to write names down of those requiring medical attention. Unlike Sneed, who sat across from him at the other station, Dawkins had the head nurse Hetty writing down the names for him.
"Name?" Dawkins asked the next convict in line, a small, gentle woman hiding behind matted red hair and dirt smudged on her face.
"Milly Wince," she stammered in trepidation. Dawkins sighed. Definitely not another one for the chain gang. He'd have to bend over backwards to allow her to be a servant somewhere. Exhaustion nipped at his bones; this wasn't something he wanted to be wasting his time over with the debt weighing heavily in his empty pockets.
"And your crime?"
"I..." She swallowed, looking down at her bound hands that she wrung nervously. "I stole clothes for me baby. But–but he died on the way over."
Piqued with sorrow for the poor woman, Dawkins hesitated a moment before blinking up into her pale blue eyes. "What was his name?"
"Benjy," she said in a small voice. As the doctor waited in silence once more, the ghost of a smile crossed the woman's face. "Bright little 'un, he was."
Dawkins gave a nod to one of the soldiers standing behind her. "She can help the schoolma'am."
The soldier saluted and began to tug on her chains. "But–but I can't read," she protested, sounding fearful, and Dawkins nodded sympathetically, able to understand where her frustration came from.
"She'll teach you." As the woman was dragged away, Dawkins rubbed his eyes and called for the next prisoner.
When he blinked open his eyes and stared into the next eager, grubby face, half-blinded by the sun, his blood froze to a chilling, icy slush. He was met with the smug face of his past. The old man was a ghost before him that hadn't aged a day.
He did a double-take, overwhelmed with shock and terror as the bald old man's gnarled beard twitched into a grin and gave one of his dirt-crusted hands a wave. Dawkins' breath started dragging laboriously in his chest.
"Hello, Dodge," the old man greeted in a raspy voice. He gave Dawkins that knowing wink, as if they hadn't been apart for a day. "Been a time?"
Dawkins' brain accelerated into fifth gear as anger wrapped its fist around his chest. He jumped to his feet and grabbed the old man by the arm, roughly dragging him through a wrought-iron gate and into an alleyway. A guard saluted him as they passed, and as soon as they were out of sight, Dawkins shoved the old man forwards, viciously slamming him into the wall. Their quick, panicked breaths hit each other square in the face, but Dawkins didn't quease in the slightest at the putrid smell.
They stood like this for a few moments, sizing each other up. The old man gleefully soaking in Dawkins' tense confusion, Dawkins struggling to understand where the old man's mysterious joy came from. He found himself taking several steps backward, the fright of his childhood years creeping up his spine again.
"You're...you're dead," the doctor finally managed, as if simply speaking it would make it happen. "They hanged you fifteen years ago in Newgate."
"Surprise!" The old man chuckled like Dawkins should be happy about his apparent resurrection.
"What the hell are you doing here, Fagin?" Dawkins hissed.
"Well, Her Majesty and I thought I could benefit from a little quiet time in the colony," he said, voice getting faster and faster as he spun the web of one of his lies. "And I—"
"Listen to me," Dawkins interrupted with a growl, pressing Fagin into the wall, "I can decide your fate with a stroke of my pen, so if one word gets out about our past, then—"
"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it, Dodge," Fagin said nonchalantly, as if the very idea insulted him. "No, I would never do that. To even think it hurts." His hand lashed out and took hold of Dawkins' coat. "Look, I'm here for you, boy, just as I hope you're here for me. Because sometimes, a covey gets pushed into a corner like a rat and the only way out is to bite, so don't make me bite you, Dodge." He yanked on his coat for impact, making Dawkins swallow uneasily.
They stared at each other, power stripped from each other yet offenses ready for the firing, poised to strike. Knives of information held at each other's throats, they were at an impasse.
Dawkins took a deep breath and wisely took a step back, Fagin dropping his coat.
"What do you want?" he finally asked the old man.
"Well, a little bird told me you'd escaped from prison in London," Fagin said simply. "Do they hang escaped convicts here?"
Dawkins snapped. He had had enough of Fagin's lies. Seizing handfuls of the twisted man's shirt, he pressed him hard against the wall, insults and warnings, demands and threats about to fly like spit from his lips.
"I'll take that as a yes," Fagin wheezed, somehow still remaining calm and impassive. He knew the doctor couldn't find it within himself to hurt him, even after all these years. "Don't fret, Dodge, I wouldn't give you up, as long as you keep me off that chain gang."
And with that, the creaking of the iron gate reached their ears. Their heads turned in unison as Captain Gaines strutted through, brandishing his brass cane with gruff authority and shining power.
"Dr. Dawkins," he called curiously. Dawkins immediately released his hold on Fagin and stepped back. "Is everything all right?"
"Yes," Dawkins said. He cleared his throat and brushed his vest off, sending Fagin a withering glare. "I thought he might have had something contagious, but it was just his stench."
"Where's he going?" Gaines twirled his cane. "I need another one for the chain gang."
"No..." Dawkins said carefully, knowing his next words could mean life and death for both himself and Fagin. The old man watched him just as carefully as Gaines, if not more, if that were possible. "I was thinking of making him my convict servant."
As Fagin gave him a slight wink to show his approval, Gaines snortled. "Really? That's...unconventional."
"Yes, well I have a nose for this sort of thing," Dawkins lied smoothly. Already he could feel the broken pieces of his old life sewing themselves back together with the slick thread of a single lie.
Gaines shrugged and began backing away, ready to escape to the next bout of convicts.
"You'd best plug it. Smells worse than a Yorkshire pig house."
- - - - - -
"Something's hurtin' me lungs here, I can't put my finger on it!"
Fagin nicked a watch from a passing gentleman as Dawkins led him back to his examination table, where Sneed had started on the last group. Dawkins lifted his hat into the air for a moment to run his fingers through it in an attempt to alleviate a fraction of the pressure. They were quite sweaty after his encounter with Fagin and, he noticed as he looked down as he lowered his hand, shaking.
He glanced over to make sure the miserable old man was following him before ascending the steps of the hospital.
"It's called fresh air," Dawkins said flatly. "Now pick up my bag."
"S'cuse me?" Fagin sounded surprised, and Dawkins turned around to find his bare feet hadn't moved from the bottom of the stairs.
"Pick up," Dawkins repeated slowly, "my bag. You are my servant now, and if you do not do as I say, I will have you flogged. Publicly. Now pick it up."
Fagin complained, but he picked up the bag anyway and followed the doctor inside.
Dawkins hung his coat and hat on hooks by the door and headed for the polished wooden stairs that led to the second floor. Fagin scrambled to catch up, bag bouncing against his legs.
"You'll need to look less syphilitic scarecrow if you want to be my servant," the doctor said grumpily as he hopped up the steps.
"Why are you so scratchy?" Fagin demanded, panting from exhaustion.
"'Why'm I so scratchy?' Because you left me in a cell alone and cold, as a boy," Dawkins seethed as they entered an empty hallway. "You abandoned me. The minute Oliver had me pinched, you walked away and never came back."
"I did try to help you as soon as the coast was clear," Fagin protested. They rounded a corner and entered the theater, where the empty slab sat. The doctor picked through his tools and took a select few up to his room to wash. "They said you'd escaped in the middle of winter, no shoes, in the middle of winter. No one survives that. I thought you was dead."
"And you went on your merry way, didn't you?"
Dawkins turned round and went back the way they had come. They started down another hallway, this one darker and damper than the one before.
Fagin groaned. "Oi, look! Don't you think I suffered? I fell apart when you left, Dodge!" Fagin's voice quieted as he could feel Jack softening up to him, however slightly. "I cried meself to sleep every night, I'd wake up with me mouth all dry 'cause there was no more tears left. I wanted them to hang me just to get it over because the worst thing I'd done, worse than all me bad deeds, is that I left me beautiful boy. And I could never forgive meself."
As Fagin rambled on, Dawkins felt a small, miniscule part of him at least wanting to melt at each passing word. He knew they weren't genuine, but that part of him wished them to be with all his heart.
"Then why are you here?" Dawkins asked, hating how his voice cracked with emotion. He stopped his hurried pace and buried himself in a bin that rested atop one of the many cubbies that lined the hallway, digging through it until he pulled out a stack of clothes.
"Well, I prayed God would snap me neck, I really did. And I certainly didn't protest on my way to the gallows." Fagin swiped a finger across the bottom of his nose as Dawkis stood to face him. "I yearned for them because I deserved the rope. But that shitting do-gooder Oliver Twist saved me with a reprieve."
Dawkins rolled his eyes, shoving any pity he'd felt for Fagin back where it belonged. Nothing about the man had changed at all. He was lying, he always had been, ever since he'd learned to talk several hundred years ago. Fagin wanted his freedom back, Dawkins realized, and winning the doctor's trust was the fastest way to do it.
"All's forgiven, then," Dawkins spat harshly, clutching the bundle of clothes close and leading Fagin up yet another set of stairs. He felt a small surge of satisfaction in the fact that he could at least cause Fagin a small bit of physical pain with all these steps and hallways as payback for all the sorrows of his childhood.
"Look, I know you don't believe me," Fagin blubbered on, "but ever since I rescued you from outside that pub as a baby, I have loved you in me own odd way with me own odd heart."
Ignoring him, Dawkis kicked open the old door at the top that resembled an entrance to an attic, revealing a cramped living space. Every inch was taken up with something or another, from a rickety bed lying in the corner to a dresser laden with small bits of food to a table spread with freshly cleaned doctor's tools.
"I will give you a roof and a job," Dawkins said. "And only because I am a doctor and you look like you've been spat out of a bilge hole. Once you're healthy, you're out."
"Jiminy, look at this!" Fagin exclaimed, dropping the doctor's bag to the creaking floor. "You've done well for yourself, me boy!"
"Do not touch anything," Dawkins instructed sternly, slapping Fagin's twitchy fingers away from his old pocketwatch hanging on the wall. "You shall sleep there on the floor, and you can wear these, I'm sure Mr. Grundy won't mind."
"Why not?" Fagin grabbed at the bundle of clothes as Dawkins slapped them against his chest, looking them over suspiciously.
"'Cause he's dead."
A period of silence followed, in which Dawkins sat heavily on his bed, reaching a hand into his empty pocket and staring out the small window into the bright blue sky above. Of all the times for a troublemaker like Fagin to return, this was quite possibly the worst. He couldn't think of any way the old man wouldn't eventually get him into trouble, with them both ending up in chains only for Fagin to escape at the last moment. Leaving Dawkins again, shivering and hungry.
He heaved a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to ward off his headache. Fagin would have to be put off; he had bigger problems right now.
Fagin grunted as he pulled on the faded black coat, examining the sleeves. If he pulled it tight enough, the holes and rattiness of his original clothes were almost hidden.
"What happened to you?" Fagin crept closer, peering at Dawkins through the dead man's glasses that he had found inside the coat pocket. "How'd you get here, eh?"
"A good man gave me a future," Dawkins said eventually, drumming his fingers together. "Not you, of course. Captain Grimm, the man I nicked the watch from. Navy officer, liked my quick fingers. He saw the mess you'd left me in and decided to help me escape."
"There you go, see! Your good fortune's all down to me. How'd you think you got those quick fingers? Pickpocketing!"
"Thank you," Dawkins said sarcastically.
Fagin picked at a biscuit that sat on the dresser, taking a chunk out of it and shoving it greedily into his mouth. "No need, it's what a father does." He studied him for a moment longer, with a frown that was almost as big as the doctor's. "What's up your cranny? You're not the happy Dodge I knew."
"I have a twenty-six pound debt on my head," the doctor conceded. It was harder to force out of his mouth than any diagnosis or death message. "If I don't pay it by Tuesday, I get my hand chopped off."
He felt his frown go deeper as Fagin turned around and pointed the scalpel at him, that old gleam back in his eye. Because he knew what Fagin was going to suggest before it came out of his filthy, rotting mouth.
"Then I come at a fortuitous time," he said as he dug into his pants pocket and pulled out a watch, "don't I?"
Dawkins jumped to his feet, protests bursting at the seams. "If you mean by pilfering, those days are long gone. I am an officer now, and a surgeon!"
Fagin tsked, smugly offering him the watch. "Not without both your hands."