Dodger

Dodger

First published in Great Britain in 2013 by

Quercus
55 Baker Street
7th Floor, South Block
London W1U 8EW

Copyright © 2013 James Benmore

The moral right of James Benmore to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

HB ISBN 978 1 78087 465 4
TPB ISBN 978 1 78206 194 6
EBOOK ISBN 978 1 78087 466 1

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the authors' imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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For my parents, Henry and Eithne.

‘It's all up, Fagin,' said Charley … ‘the Artful's booked for a passage out … To think of Jack Dawkins … the Artful Dodger – going abroad for a common twopenny-halfpenny sneeze-box … without no honour nor glory!' …

‘Never mind, Charley,' said Fagin soothingly; ‘it'll come out, it'll be sure to come out. They'll all know what a clever fellow he was; he'll show it himself, and not disgrace his old pals and teachers … What a distinction, Charley, to be lagged at his time of life!'

From
Oliver Twist
, Chapter XLIII

We was a gang of six and we was swooping through the London crowds like low-flying jackdaws, fast, thieving and beautiful to behold. It was the first day of May and the people of the city was all dressed in their Sunday finery, not least us, the happy students of the Saffron Hill School of Finders Keepers. We was scudding through the dusty lanes towards Covent Garden, where we hoped to find the choicest trinkets that London could offer, and we was all very much feeling that spring buzz. I was leading the thing, as was natural, and close behind me was my best pal, Charley Bates. After him came Jem White, Georgie Bluchers and Mouse Flynn and that, I now reflect, should have been all. Five has always been more than enough to work a spring crowd; in truth the ideal number of boys to go finding with was three. One to distract, the other to dip and pass, and the last to make the dash. But what with the day being so merry and fresh we was all feeling companionable and so was stuck together like toffees in sun. All of these boys was gifted in the art and had it just been us then it would have remained a very pleasant and productive morning. But we also had Horrie Belltower dragging along behind us and this stupid oaf proved to be my undoing.

Horrie was not one of us. I had never taken him to Saffron Hill because I knew the Jew would not be interested. He was too old and too lumbering. He looked and smelt as if he'd been dredging through the riverbank all night, so shabby was his clothes. We was all dressed up flashy and colourful in proper gentleman's attire, with studs, rings, gold chains and such, so we didn't much care for the look of him in his dirty coat and faded neckerchief. On top of this he was too feeble-minded and fat-fingered to make a living in our chosen profession. As a thief, all he was good for was the kinchin lay – jumping out in front of young children what are running errands for their mothers in the genteel districts and taking their sixpences by force. No one respected the kinchin lay, an idiot could do it. What Horrie couldn't do was turn himself invisible like we could, he couldn't put himself just outside a cove's sight and stay there no matter which way their heads may turn. But worse than all this, he was slow. And we all hated slow.

We slid by the corner of Jarrett Street, where a big crowd was distracted by the puppet show. Mr Punch was busy battering his wife with a stick and he squawked a friendly
That's the way to do it!
as we brushed past tailcoats and gowns, finding ourselves all the richer for it. We was well pleased with our earnings and was itching for more when Mouse asked me where the Belltower boy was. We looked back towards the puppet booth and saw Horrie still stood among the crowd and watching the story.

‘Good riddance,' said Jem. He had been vexed with me all day for letting Horrie tag along but until now had not shown the steel to say it. ‘I thought we'd never shake him.'

Charley was most amused at the thought that, any minute now, the gentlemen either side of Horrie would feel that their pockets was lighter and grab him as the culprit. The younger boys laughed
too and only Jem was sharp enough to see there was nothing droll about that. He turned to me.

‘We ain't going back for him, Dodger. Least I ain't.'

The other boys stopped laughing and looked at me in wonder at the very idea.

‘He's got nothing on him,' said one.

‘He won't say nothing,' said another.

‘And even if he does, so what?' asked a third, ‘he ain't even met the Jew.'

‘I know Horrie ain't much,' I said. ‘But friends is friends. And if any of you lads was in a tight spot, then I would just as soon come to your aid.' This remark made an impression upon Charley and the two younger boys and they nodded at me with due admiration. Jem, though, was having none of it.

‘Tell that to the workhouse boy,' he said, referring to a recent incident what had led to all sorts of trouble for the Jew. ‘If this Horrie wasn't a relation of yourn, then you would just as happily stroll off.'

I ignored this slur against my good character and spoke to the others. ‘You lot go to the courtyard off Crick Lane to compare findings. I'm going back for Horrie and, while I'm there, I may feel like collecting some more valuables for my trouble. We'll meet at the broken pump in ten minutes.' I emptied my pockets of my morning's work and handed them to Charley for safekeeping. These was some handkerchiefs of the finest silk, two ladies' purses containing eighteen sovereigns between them and, what was most impressive, a gold watch and chain what I had liberated from an old gentleman's vest pocket. The boys
ooh
ed and
aah
ed, as well they might, as these findings was worth more than all theirs put together. I dangled the ticker from its chain so they could see its value and I tossed it to Charley. I was the only one among us what dared to do vest pockets.

With that I shot Jem a hard look to remind him who was topsawyer around here. Then I put my hands in my pockets, so as to strike an idle pose, and went sauntering back to the scene of my freshest crime whistling a carefree tune. Those boys may well have wondered, as they watched me stroll away, as to why a clever thief of distinction, such as myself, would be risking the grab for one such as Horrie, a boy that we had long since nicknamed the Fartful Podger. The answer to this lay in my regrettable dealings with a woman I was once unfortunate enough to live with. A wicked, conniving old hag called Kat, who I often had cause to wish that I had never even met. But it is a sorry truth that you cannot pick your own mother.