Dodger (17 page)

‘Warrigal, you're acting like a mad person,' I said. ‘She'll be up in a minute with a proper carving knife and then I'll do it. You ain't well.' He ignored me and walked the doll over to the window what overlooked the Thames, the knife still clutched in his other hand. He unlocked the catch and lifted it half up and a wicked chill blew in causing him more misery. He's about to throw himself out into the river, I thought for one horrible moment. But then he placed the doll on the windowsill and tried dropping the window down on to it. The window was too stiff however and again he nearly dropped it. ‘You've got a fever,' I said. ‘The best thing for you to do is get under them covers until supper comes up.'

He turned to me, his eyes watery from the sneezing, and looked as though he wanted to argue. But instead he just sucked in his teeth, walked over to where he'd hung his coat, pulled another hankie from out of the pocket and blew his nose loud. ‘Stupid country,' he said when finished.

Soon after he was lying underneath the pink goose-feathered blanket and I was sat on the fainting chair watching him sleep. The doll was propped up on the bedside chest next to him and beside that was that deadly knife. The more I contemplated the nasty thing the more fearful I became. I had always feared that Warrigal would carry out Evershed's orders to kill me if he had to, but it was most disturbing to see the implement what he was most likely to use. He and I had been travelling companions for many months now and I had been stupid enough to hope that
perhaps he had grown fond of me in that time. That perhaps, when our business with Evershed was done, he may even look upon me as a pal.

But he was an assassin, nothing more, and I was a fool to think he would even pause to run me through should he need to. I knew that in his weakened state it would be well within my interest to snatch that knife from him as well as to reclaim the doll. I reached down to my bluchers, unlaced them and slipped my feet out, as soundless and as slow as I could. There was some sort of celebration going on in the room below ours; a fiddle was playing and there was clapping, laughter and stamping about, and I hoped that this would cover any creaking floorboards I might step on as I began to move towards the foot of the bed, cautious as a cat. Once there I whispered his name to be certain he was asleep.

He did not stir.

I moved to the chest, quicker now in case he was just feigning sleep to trap me, and I laid my two hands on both knife and doll. Then, in less than an eye-blink, I was back on the other side of the room.

Just then there was a knock and someone called to say that supper was ready. I looked to Warrigal, but he did not seem to wake even for this. I walked over and let in two servants what was carrying hot plates of beef on a chafing dish, a bottle of red wine and, on a little silver tray with some other cutlery, a knife so perfect for cutting through a wooden doll I could have imagined a blacksmith fashioning it especially for that purpose. They began setting it all down upon the table and I asked them to be as quiet as they could on account of my ailing valet. If they thought there was anything peculiar about a servant asleep in the master's bed they did not show it and instead began apologising about the noise from downstairs.

‘A wedding party, sir,' said one of the servants before he left. ‘They could carry on for hours like that, I'm sorry to say. I'm amazed your valet can sleep through it.'

‘Well, he comes from a very noisy place,' I said, and shut the door behind them. Once alone I tiptoed back over to Warrigal, saw that he was still snoring all gentle and then crept back to the table. The plates of beef, boiled potatoes and greens looked delicious, as did the little jug of gravy what sat between them, but I had business to attend to before I could tuck in. I cleared some room on the table, placed the doll back over the edge and began sawing through it, slow and steady. Behind me I could hear Warrigal give a little cough and I turned to see him roll over on to his side facing the window. Once I was sure he was still not awake I turned back to the doll and continued to work upon it. The prince's face was smiling up at me as I cut just above his chest, and I made sure that the stone what rattled inside was safe down by his belly. It took some effort to saw even halfway through and I thought that this was why Fagin had chosen it to contain something so valuable. I could feel my blood getting warmer with excitement as the knife continued its journey through my childhood toy. Even though I could have had no clue as to how priceless it was when I had been given it that Christmas I still valued it enough to hide it under that floorboard and keep it safe. My eyes began to prick as I sawed on and thought about kind old Mr Fagin and how much he loved me. If only he was alive today, I thought as I was almost far enough through to just crack the rest with my hands, so that he could see what freedom his gift had bought me.
He had left it to me
, I thought as I put the knife down,
his favourite
, I took the helpless prince's head in my hands,
in the hope that it would one day make me a gentleman
, I cracked the head back in one strong movement,
but could he ever have guessed that one day it would buy me
my liberty?
The head came clean away and I lifted the bottom part of the doll up over the table as if raising a toast to the wonderful gent. ‘Here's to you, Fagin,' I said aloud. ‘I don't care what others may say, you was always a diamond to me.' And with that I tipped the contents of the doll on to the white-sheeted table below.

Something fell out and then bounced into the gravy boat. I stuck my hand straight in after it and felt around. It was smaller than I had imagined. I pulled it out and wiped it clean with a serviette and looked at it resting in the palm of my hand.

It was not black. It was not a jewel. It was just a common pebble what you might find in any street in the world.

‘That dirty old Jew!' I cursed aloud. ‘That rotten, double-crossing, stinking old bastard!' I hurled the pebble across the room and it bounced off the walls and landed inside the bathtub. ‘I'm glad they killed him!'

I sunk on to the chair and dropped my head into my hands. I was angry, betrayed, heartbroken to discover that the gift was worthless after all. I had been so sure when I had heard that Fagin had left the jewel to a young child that this could mean nobody other than myself. Who else could it be? And where had he hidden the jewel if not inside this doll? I had no one to ask, now that he was no longer alive.

But the thing what troubled me most of all was my terror at the thought of what I was going to do now. Evershed would want me dead. I could hardly go to this Timothy Pin and tell him that I was very sorry but I had been mistaken. There would be consequences. I should run for it now while I still could.

I started to slow my breathing and wondered if this was wise. There was a chance, I reasoned, that Evershed would be more understanding than I was giving him credit for. Perhaps all his talk of severe consequences was just bluff. He might even thank
me for my efforts and tell Warrigal to just bring me back to Australia where we would hear no more about it. Perhaps I was worrying over nothing.

I was interrupted in my wonderings by the sudden awareness of something being placed over my head from behind me. Some hands passed my ears and it was as though a bag had covered me although no bag was there.

‘Warrigal?' I said, and went to turn around to the bed. But my throat suddenly caught on fire and I was yanked out of my seat and pulled back in a strong, violent motion. I could feel him behind me, pulling me close, and the pain in my throat got tighter than ever and I grasped up to it and tried to call out but no sound came. Then I realised that I could not breathe. My fingers reached my neck and there I felt the metal wire being pulled tighter and tighter. I kicked out but my legs gave way under me as he forced me to the ground, his knee hard in my back, pushing in as the wire pulled out.

So it's a garrotting, is it?
I thought as the wire cut into my skin and my whole body began to shake from lack of air.
God help me. I think I would have preferred the knife after all
.

I think, on reflection, that it was not being able to talk what made being garrotted seem such a horror. My typical response in any situation where a cove tries to attack me was always to try to reason with the mad fool, to make them see sense. Leave it out, Warrigal, I wanted to say, as I felt his two arms behind my neck tighten into a vice and pull the wire tight. This is all a bit unnecessary, don't you think? But, as I tried to give it voice, my mouth just made a low wheeze.

So terror took grip and my whole body shuddered throughout. My heart began hammering, I could feel my eyes ready to pop and my limbs started this wild thrashing. I tried to kick the small dining table over, in the hope that the clatter would distract him enough for me to throw him off, but it was just out of reach. My hands had been pulling at the wire to try to get some air but, as I tugged it away from my neck, I felt the crushing worsen. He had double-looped it, the vicious sod, and I was making one wire the tighter by trying to free the other.

My arms made a grab for his ears. But his knee was pushing into my back so hard I could not reach. One thing was clear: he
had done this many times before. I was overcome with fear and could see no way of besting him. I was done for.

And then he sneezed again. His face was so close behind my head that it felt, to my trembling self, as though there had been an explosion in my earhole. But for a second his grip was loosened, his knee removed, and that second was all what was needed. I had the fingers of one hand under both loops and I tugged them from my neck as with the other arm I reached behind and grabbed him by the ear. Then, with arms strong from the afternoon's rowing, I hauled his sickly body over my shoulders and he landed, with an almighty bang, on the floorboards in front of me.

I staggered away from him, freed my neck from the looping wire, and in I breathed. My throat was in agony and I cried out for water. All the sound what came out however was a long, terrible rasp. But there was no time to recover as, cat-like, Warrigal was back on his feet and glaring at me in rage. Then his eyes darted to the fainting couch, my eyes followed and all four rested upon what lay there. That evil knife of his, what stretched out along the upholstery like an idle duchess just waiting to be taken.

We both sprang for it and clashed into each other as we did so, landing on the curved end of the chaise longue. Warrigal had hold of the knife handle but I had my arms over his and we struggled there on the raised side of the furniture until the lower end left the ground and the whole thing toppled back, sending both of us tumbling down hard on to the floor. The thump of the wooden boards was good and loud but, on account of the revelry going on in the room beneath, it went unheard as Warrigal and I rolled around on the big rug, locked in battle. Finally he managed to free himself and kick me away but I was on my knees faster and over to the dining table, where I grabbed the carving knife what had cut open the doll. Then, with him one side of the round table
and me on the other, we stood there eyeing each other, both armed with blades and ready to move quick if the other did. His knife was longer and more deadly but mine could be vicious if he let me close enough. It was, as your chess players might say, stalemate, and at last I could try to talk to him.

‘Behave yerself, Warrigal,' I said in a thin voice what was drowned out by the din below. ‘I can find …'
cough
‘… find stone. Kill me …'
cough, cough, cough
. On the table in front of me was a small glass of water. I raised my finger in the air. ‘'Ang on a bit.' With one hand still pointing my knife at him, I used the other to pick up the glass. Warrigal just watched me drink it back as if waiting to hear what I had to say. I hoped his blood was starting to cool, but his face was still hate-filled. Once I had drained the water I put the glass back on the table and felt a good deal better.

‘Right,' I said, my breaths coming in and out much stronger. ‘Where was I? Yeah. I told Evershed I would find the stone before Christmas. That still gives me four weeks. What we'll do now, you and me, is—'

‘What we do now,' he hissed, his nostrils flaring, ‘is I kill you.'

He moved around the table to get at me and I moved the other way. Then I changed direction as he did and we danced like this for a few seconds.

‘Whoa, yourself,' I shouted, brandishing my own weapon at him. ‘If you catch me we'll go down together. Mine ain't as sharp as yours but it'll do some proper damage. Think like an Englishman, Warrigal, and just let me go. You can tell Pin I gave you the slip.'

‘You die,' he spat, ‘or my people die. Like that.'

‘Your people?' I asked, unsure of what he meant. ‘What have they got to do wi—'

‘My people on Honey Ant Hill!' he shouted then as though I had not been paying attention. ‘Evershed says, if no jewel then
consequences
!' This last word sounded unnatural in his mouth. I then recalled what Evershed had said about Warrigal's people being within his reach and I knew that Warrigal thought that Evershed would carry out his threat against them should the jewel not be delivered. He must have felt that murdering me was his only way of stopping this and so it was either my life or that of his family. In his heated state I could see his eyes getting watery and I started to understand that this was not anger I was looking at. It was fear.

‘Warrigal.' I spoke as if he was making a fool of himself. ‘They'll be all right. I know coves like Evershed of old. They're all talk. He ain't gonna—'

‘Massacres!' he shouted at me. ‘Done it before.'

I knew from the natives on Abel's Farm that massacres against the aboriginals was not unheard of, but I could not believe that Lord Evershed would organise such an attack. However it was clear that Warrigal did and I could think of nothing else to calm him with than an apology. I held out one hand in a gesture of peace but kept the other one gripped fast around the knife.