And a sound like the descending hordes of Genghis Khan snapped my eyes back open again. Five grubby figures stormed into the room, wiping grease from chins with even greasier sleeves. Flapping and guffawing, they arrayed themselves on the chairs around me, sending up clouds of horsehair and dust.
Startled, I sank down and simply watched them come.
The Wrong Boys had left their hats and mufflers somewhere, and the first thing I noticed was that not all of them were Wrong Boys at all. The smallest one, wielder of the formidable slingshot, had set free a pair of fluffy, ginger-coloured plaits that fell over her ears and to her shoulders. Her state of privation made it difficult to guess her age – no older than twelve, though not younger than eight. She gave me a gap-toothed grin.
An enormous heap of a boy with close-cropped black hair and wide-set eyes grabbed the poker from where it had fallen beside my chair and shoved the tip of it down into the fire. He sucked his thick, red lips with a pensive air.
One with freckles and a pointed chin scratched at a lump of scarring where his left hear had once been, watching me narrowly.
A fourth, delicate and pale, almost effeminate, seated himself primly on the edge of a cushion beside the girl. His long, elegant fingers plucked nervously at the spoiled, once-lovely cravat he wore about his throat. He did not look at me at all.
And I did not look at him for long, either, because the fifth had caught my eye and demanded all of my attention. He of the china-blue eyes and yellow lashes. I had never seen such a person, and if I'd had a little better sense at that age, I should not have stared as I did, shamelessly, gaping like a fish. And, God help me, I should not have said what I did.
'I'm sorry, I...' I stuttered, realising that I must look a complete ass. 'I'm sorry, I...' And then I sabotaged my own attempt with the stupidest, least necessary statement possible. 'I've never met a Negro before.'
He lifted his eyebrows and shook his head with a bemused smile, but with no surprise. 'Is this what you call black?' he intoned, as one who has recited the same words countless times before. 'Don't be daft. The word you want is "albino".'
Perhaps his grasp of the etymology was, indeed, better than my own. Beneath his London patina, he was whiter than I. I began to mumble some reply that doubtless would have placed even greater strain upon his charity, but he cut me off.
'I'm Magpie,' he said. 'On account of, I has something of a fondness for things what shine. Our big 'un's Billy. He don't talk much, and most like in French, when he do.' He pointed to the mountain before the fireplace, who nodded. 'An' this 'ere's Weasel,' he said, indicating the boy with the missing ear. 'An' Dart.' This was the slender boy in the cravat. 'An' our girl 'ere is Snail. What are we to call you?'
As he pointed out each of his compatriots in turn, I noticed that his hands, though by no means black, were much darker than his face, or than me. Not exactly albino, then, though I could not recall the name for the condition that resulted in patchwork skin. Black and white. Perhaps Magpie, then did not refer only to his fondness for sparkle.
I opened my mouth to decline—I had not gotten a real name for any of them and saw no reason why I should give them mine, especially since it would doubtless be appearing soon in the papers—but the girl interrupted me.
'I think she looks like a crow,' she said with a grin and a giggle. 'She's got the beak for it.'
Well, it was objectively true, at least. Not even my own mother—I shied away from the thought of her—had ever suggested to me that I could be thought beautiful, but it was still something of a shock to hear the fact of my prodigious nose announced so bluntly. But perhaps it was well-deserved. The observation was just as true and probably just as unwelcome as my own comment to the boy called Magpie.
I ducked my head, on the chance my sudden flush of embarrassment was visible.
Magpie leaned forward with a twinkle in his eye. ''Ow about it? You're sure smart like a crow. We 'eard you tryin' to talk down the Hellhounds. Smart is good. Bet you'd learn real quick, if you was to run with us... Well, soon as you can run again.'
It took a moment for his meaning to sink in, at least apart from the fact that I was apparently to be known as Crow. 'You would let me join you?'
He shrugged. 'You got anywhere else to go?'
I thought of Bordeaux, and the decreasing likelihood, given my adventure of that morning, that I would ever be able to get there on my own. Possible, still, but no longer probable. No longer easy.
I sighed. 'I really don't think so. Thank you.'
He shrugged again. 'You talk nice. Would make a goodish haul begging, maybe. But I doubt you have any practice breaking the law. Goin' to need to learn that if you're goin' to stay alive.'
I must have blanched.
The freckled boy, Weasel, snorted loudly.
'I'm not certain I can do that,' I told them. 'It's not that I'm not grateful, but I'm afraid I'd just be a liability. I'd be slow, or I'd trip up. And I don't think I can break the law.'
Sylvia reappeared with a chipped wooden tray bearing an equally chipped bowl and a mug, both steaming beautifully. I took it with more gratitude than I could express, and she seemed to sense my appreciation, for some of the sergeant-major melted from her features, and she nodded briskly.
Magpie waited until she had departed again before turning back to me. 'You can learn,' he said. 'We all learn. And,' he added, not unkindly, 'pilfering's easy when you're hungry enough. Even for you, I promise.'
He had a point. I looked down at the bowl in front of me. A soggy crust of bread swam bleakly in oily brown broth atop a mush of bloated barley and unidentifiable vegetables. It was one of the most appealing things I had ever seen in my life, and it had not yet been a day since the last time I had eaten. Another day or two, maybe, and I could almost see myself stealing for a chance at even that fare. Or going home... No. I would brave the workhouse before I went home.
I sucked in a breath and blew it out. 'I am smart,' I agreed, pushing aside thoughts of all the recent evidence to the contrary. 'Most of the time. I'll learn anything you need me to, anything you can teach me. Anyway, I'd have to be an idiot to refuse if someone offers to teach me to survive.'
I was an idiot, of course, but not a suicidal one.
A huge grin split the boy's face from ear to ear. 'Right!' he exclaimed. 'Eat up, then. Doc says we can all stay till your things are dry. 'Ope it takes a while. Don't know 'bout you, but I don't fancy goin' back out there till I 'ave to.'
The business concluded, the Wrong Boys broke once again into their chatter, centring mostly, it seemed, on who had done the most damage to the Hellhounds. They seemed to agree that the day's winner had been Billy, the mountain, and I thought it possible that he had been the one whose knife had found its mark. For a moment, I tried to hope that the injured Hellhound had found help and would be all right, but it was no use. I hoped he bled out and froze to death in a heap of dung, somewhere. It wasn't charitable or ladylike, and perhaps that attitude had contributed to the horrible chain of events leading up to my escape out the window, but I could not bring myself to be sorry for it.
I turned to my soup and the cup of weak, bitter tea as they recounted the adventures again and again, embellishing until even I was entertained.
But the stories died away as, encouraged by the heat of the fire, they dropped one by one to sleep, until I set the tray aside and began to nod, too. Only Magpie remained alert, like a sentry, leaned back in the chair he had claimed, but regarding me steadily through his yellow lashes. There was no trust, there, less even than I had for him. That would take time and effort from both of us.
'Sorry,' I told him quietly.
His eyebrows twitched, and he shrugged, raising one hand to tear at the nails with his teeth.
It was acknowledgement, but was I forgiven?
*****
All of the boys were still asleep when I woke, and most of the lamps and candles had been put out, but I could see by the light of the fire that the girl called Snail was awake. A wooden crutch had appeared beside my chair, a little short for me, but still infinitely better than trying to hop around on that ankle. I spent a few moments staring at it, then looked up to see Snail's eyes on me.
I opened my mouth to address her, then glanced at the sleeping boys, then back again.
She chuckled. 'Couldn't wake 'em 'less you was actually tryin',' she told me, barely bothering to lower her voice. As predicted, none of the boys even stirred.
I smiled. 'All right. Can I ask why they call you Snail?'
She pointed to the floor beneath her dangling feet, where I could see a lump of something grey, with frayed edges. A scrap of tarpaulin, maybe.
'I 'ave belts,' she said. 'So I can carry it on me back. Better'n getting' wet. Wet'll kill ye.' She squinted at me critically. 'You ain't lookin' so good, Crow. 'Ope we got ye dried out in time.'
'I feel fine,' I assured her, wondering how I could possibly look worse than her own poor, hungry little reflection. 'Much better than earlier, anyway, thanks to you and your friends.'
She beamed. 'Are you gonna be my friend, too?' she asked, and my estimation of her age dropped by several years.
'Well, of course. I have a lot to learn, though. Will you teach me to use a sling like yours?'
It was almost more than she could bear. She bounced in her seat, flushed with pride and pleasure, and nodded until I was sure her head had come loose.
'And you can teach me girl things!' she replied, freezing me where I sat. 'I don' know any other girls.'
The boys had woken. I could tell by the half-terrified titter of laughter from one of the other chairs, followed by choked silence.
'Yes,' I mumbled. 'I suppose that would be a good thing.'
They gradually came around more fully, garments were retrieved and shuffled from one body to another before being reclaimed by the rightful owners, and Sylvia reappeared to begin the process of shepherding Wrong Boys toward the door. I pulled on my almost-dry socks over Doctor Peach's bindings, wincing as I did, and was helped with the boot by Snail. I probably shouldn't have attempted the boot, but if I had to carry it, I probably would have lost it, and I thought it might provide some extra support for the ankle. A tattered wool jersey appeared to go under my coat, and I was able to hobble out into the evening after the boys, leaning heavily on the crutch. Sylvia slammed the door behind us.
I tottered forward to catch up with Magpie as he was adjusting his muffler to hide his face.
'Who is this Doctor Peach, exactly?' I asked, glancing over my shoulder at the door we were leaving behind. The strange, cadaverous man had struck me wrong, very wrong, though I could not put my finger on exactly why, and it seemed bizarre that the boys should trust him as they seemed to. Still, it seemed rude to say as much. My leg was braced, if painful; and my stomach was full, if queasy; and my coat was dry. And, I realised suddenly, the money was still in the pocket. Whatever nefarious ends my unconscious mind suspected of Peach and company, neither he nor Sylvia was apparently the sort to go exploring other people's pockets.
Magpie shot a glance in my direction, and I saw his sharp eyes rove down and up again, assessing my ease of movement. 'Do-gooder, I guess,' he said. 'Don' know much about 'im, but 'e 'elps us out when we're 'urt, feeds us if we bring a new patient for 'im. Won't take pay. 'Elps out some of the ladies, too...' He trailed off with another calculating glance at me, and I nodded to let him know I understood.
A doctor who fed the poor and took no pay for his care sounded promising. But a doctor so inexplicably eager for new patients that he was willing to bribe urchins to bring them in... Well, it was all a matter of phrasing.
'How long have you known him?'
He shrugged. 'Five years, maybe? 'E stopped the bleeding when Weasel got his ear took off. Put my arm back when it got pulled out. Plugged up loads of 'oles for all of us.'
'And who is Sylvia?'
'Christ. 'Is sister, maybe? Who knows?'
I laughed at the tone of his voice, letting me know clearly that I wasn't the only one who had noticed the peculiarity of that relationship.
'I trust 'em,' he continued, and beneath the reassurance, his voice had an edge. My suspicions were obvious to him, and they were not allowed. I could see why he was the leader; there was no possibility of an argument.
'All right,' I allowed. 'And why are you the Wrong Boys?'
He relaxed a little and chuckled. 'Oh. That. Well, that's because if you think you're gonna pick a fight with us...'
'You picked the wrong boys!' the rest of them chorused.
We had passed from the dark, narrow alley into a proper street, and a respectably-dressed man jumped in startlement at the declaration and promptly crossed to the other side to avoid us. The Wrong Boys pointed and cackled and hooted, and he quickened his pace and disappeared around a corner.
'Having seen you in action,' I said when they had quieted down, 'I have to say your name is well-chosen. Thank you all, by the way. I think I might not be alive right now, if not for you.'
There was some mildly embarrassed muttering of acknowledgement, but in moments, they had resumed the circular retelling in which the fight gradually grew to legendary proportions.
The foot of my crutch slid on a damp cobble. Magpie caught me before I could land on my face.
'Sorry,' I muttered. 'I don't know how long it'll take before I can actually start learning to be useful.'
He set me upright and held on until I was steady again. 'Begging ain't hard on the legs. Set you up on a corner somewhere, and that'll be good enough for a while.'
The thought of putting myself somewhere highly visible made me nervous, but my pride did not object to begging quite as strenuously as my conscience objected to theft. 'That sounds like something I could do.'
He nodded matter-of-factly.
And a baritone cry rang out behind us.
Beside me, Magpie spun around, uttered a muffled roar, and sprang away from me. My ankle and the crutch prevented me from being quick. I wobbled around to see what was happening, being excessively careful not to fall. The crutch slid, anyway, and I lost another moment in keeping myself upright.
The scene had progressed without me. Without my noticing—I thought I could remember the grumble of its wheels approaching, but had not realised that it had failed to pass by—a canvas-sided delivery wagon had drawn up behind us and stopped, disgorging three masked men. Real masks of black felt with slits for eyes, not just mufflers, as the Wrong Boys wore. One had seized Billy, the mountain, by the arms, but had apparently underestimated the advantages granted by Billy's sheer size. The man's mask was slick with moisture. It dripped red onto his filthy shirt. I hoped the aggressor was the source of the cry.
Weasel and Dart had fallen upon the man and were trying to wrestle him away from Billy, but the other two masked men joined the fray. One seized Dart and threw him to the ground. Snail aimed a kick at the man's knee, and I heard a pop and then a howl.
I was useless. I was unsteady, and I was unarmed.
Well, no, that was not entirely correct.
On his knees, the man drew a long, wicked knife from his belt and lunged toward Snail. The rough, solid length of my crutch met his elbow, and this time, it was a crack rather than a pop. He gurgled and coughed, curled around his limp arm. The momentum of my strike had carried me forward, though, into the heart of the fracas. A gloved hand came out of nowhere and jerked the crutch out from under me. With no chance to steady myself, I expected to hit the pavement, but something caught me in the stomach, driving the air out of me, and I was roughly thrown over the brute's shoulder.
The moment lengthened.
My reason was not in top form at that moment, but I certainly knew that masked men didn't pick you up just to set you back down again. If he had picked me up, it was because I was going in the back of the wagon.
I was not going in the back of the wagon.
He had me by the legs, so I could not kick him. But he had me by the legs, and that made the shoulder under me a fulcrum. I straightened as much as I could and abandoned my ineffectual efforts to beat him down with my fists. Instead, I reached back and groped blindly at his head, hoping to pull the mask over his eyes. I could still hear the Wrong Boys around me. They had not abandoned me. If I could blind my attacker for a moment, they would have time to knock him down and get me free.
My fingers scraped across scratchy wool felt. Then across something wet and soft. Something that gave.
I thought I heard a police whistle, but it wasn't. It was the man's high, reedy scream. I struck the pavement and rolled away from him without looking back. I did not care to see what I had done.
The wagon creaked, and I vaguely sensed a fourth man descending.
'Scatter!' Magpie bellowed.
The boys scattered, pelting away into the darkness.
I regained my feet and ran, too. Never mind my ankle. Never mind that I had no idea how I would ever find the Wrong Boys again if I separated from them now.
'There!' cried one of the men. 'That one! There she goes!'
And heavy boots came pounding after me.
Two pairs, I counted. I ran harder. It should have hurt. I shouldn't have been able to run at all, but my body was all but numb, and I didn't have time to stop and think that perhaps there was something wrong about that. I was not going to find out what they had planned for me in the back of that wagon.
I left the sky's last feeble glow behind me as I plunged wildly into the warren of streets and alleys. If there were any lamps, here, they had not yet been lit, and the coming night grasped at me with needy fingers. A deeper patch of black opened up beside me, and I darted toward it, hoping to God it would not end at a brick wall.
The drumming of boots behind me began to recede. But only for a moment. It paused and then came thundering after me again.
I cut left. The boots followed. I cut right. The boots followed. I couldn't catch my breath. It had to be the cold of the air burning my throat, or the fatigue, or my over-excited nerves, because running had never had me gasping so desperately for breath. Or maybe Sylvia's broth. My stomach voiced its agreement with my lungs, and I had to stop, entirely against my will, as the need to vomit overcame me. My knees were shaking, I could tell, but at the same time, I could not feel my legs at all.
Big, thick fingers dug into my scalp at the base of my plait, yanking my head back so that I could feel the vertebrae grating against one another in my neck. I had to let myself be pulled over or risk a severed spine. I reached back and grabbed hold of a heavy, woolly wrist with both hands, but he had control of my head, and there was nothing more I could do.
'Got 'er!' a voice called out, with absolutely no regard for who might hear. He jerked me backward and put his muffled mouth by my ear. 'Bitch,' hissed. 'I get the feelin' you're gonna be more trouble than use. But you gotta pay, now. May just kill you, 'stead of takin' you...'
He sucked in a breath with a strange, high little sound, and I was shaken like a doll as he spun around, holding me out in front of himself like a shield. From the corner of my eye, I caught the eerie, almost phosphorescent gleam of a blade. It wasn't coming toward me, though. It thrust out in front of him, beyond me, into the darkness. I twisted frantically in his grip, trying to see what else was out there, but he shoved my head into the alley wall, and that was the end of my struggle.
I heard a shrill yell, more furious than afraid, and more of the man's guttural profanity, and something pinged against the brick above me and bounced off my shoulder. I fought my way to my hands and knees, blinking away stars, and saw a tiny bit of shine beside my hand. It was cool and smooth beneath my fingertips, a little sphere of cold steel.
Steel shot, of the sort launched from a sling.
Snail.
The alley was dark as a tomb, but I could see blurred, inky shapes moving in the gloom. The man's monstrous hulk, gripping its wicked knife, and a small, agile form sliding eel-like through the night, much too quick to be caught. The little girl added her own stream of scatological taunts to the man's roaring oaths.
I staggered up, trembling, leaning heavily on the wall for support, and emptied my guts into the pile of refuse where I stood. I couldn't run anymore. The leg still didn't hurt—and it began to dawn on me now that that wasn't a good thing—but I was aware of a weird, tight feeling that extended to my hip and a similar sensation in my head.
Snail bounded and slithered through the darkness, and the man slashed fruitlessly at her, missing by a foot or more each time. Like a dance. A gorilla and a ballerina twirling around in a glorious farce. It was hilarious.
Good old Snail. Apparently, the benefits of being a Wrong Boy took effect immediately upon induction. It was a bit of a surprise that she had come after me, but was hard to protest. My rescuer was small, but efficient.
I couldn't run, but I could creep, and I took advantage of the distraction she provided. That had to be what she was doing, hadn't it? She was fast enough to vanish into the night in an instant, but she had not disappeared, yet. She had to have been waiting for me to get away. All that darting back and forth had to be tiring; she wouldn't be able to keep it up long. I had to make my escape quickly, so she could make her escape, too.
I shuffled along the wall, through my puddle of sick, with one hand outstretched to guide me. They wouldn't be able to see in the dark any better than I could. If I was quiet and lost myself in the maze of streets and stayed very still in the shadows, they would never be able to find me.