The Newgate Jig (20 page)

I had not
realized! I had no idea that the railway had come this far, and was taking its
destructive course behind the yards of Fish-lane, thirty feet below. Already
the rails were laid and the tunnel, a little way distant, was being cut and
covered. It was no wonder that nearby houses were leaning over and falling
down, that the floor of the gaff was unsafe, and the thunder of the workings
and the stink of old earth hung in the air.

I caught my
breath and looked about me for Nero, but he was nowhere to be seen. For an
awful moment, I thought he had disappeared over the edge of the precipice, but
the sound of his snuffling told me that he had gone in quite another direction.
Over the dividing fence. Into the yard next door. It was his wagging tail I saw
first, and I thought he had sighted a rat and was excited by the anticipation
of the hunt.

But then I saw
that he had squeezed himself between the panels of the fence and those of one
of the buildings. The gap was probably no more than a couple of feet wide and
full of leaves and dead brambles and I balked at the tightness of it, but Nero
was ahead of me, and was now pressing his black nose against a gap in the wall
of the building and snorting hard. If he attracted attention, if the Nasty Man
were in earshot, we would have trouble on our hands, so I followed, to grab
him by his scruff and pull him back. It was then that I heard voices inside the
building. And realized that we were behind George Kevill's Photographic Studio
and Emporium.

I listened,
trying to make out who was speaking. I recognised the child and the Nasty Man.
And the voice of another man. Perhaps two men. I held my breath, signalled to
Nero to be quiet, and listened to the scuffling and sounds of movement within.
A mild, musical voice was speaking, unfamiliar, and I could only hear snatches
of what he was saying.

. . . won't you
sit here, my dear . . . yes, by me . . . much better . .. like to drink this? ...
(A laugh.)... yes, it does burn your lips . . . such pretty lips . . . ah, now
then . . . take off that pretty mantle . .. yes, and your dress ... let me help
.. . don't struggle, my dear . . . come, sit here, on my knee . . .'

Nero lay
awkwardly at my feet. He would stay there until I told him to move. But if we
moved, we would be heard. There was no possibility of shifting silently in that
cramped place.

So
I waited.

And
listened.

There were thuds
inside the stable. Everyday noises. Furniture being shifted, perhaps. Someone
walking about.

Tut the machine
there.' It was the Nasty Man, his voice was unmistakeable. 'Yes, it will do
well there.'

Somebody
mumbled, and the voices were suddenly clearer.

'Good.
Is everything ready?'

A
pause.

'Is
she drowsy, sir?'

Mumbled
reply.

Another
pause.

A
child's moan.

And
then broken words.

'.
. . exquisite . . . like a
bird ...
a mouse . .
.'

'Good,
good.' The Nasty Man. 'But . . . don't linger, my lord . . . the show will
finish soon . . . people in the yard.'

A
muttered exchange, laughter, the sound of glasses.

There
were gaps in the wall where the wood was rotted through. I pushed my finger in
to make it wider, and pressed my eye against it. I could see the edge of a red
chaise and its twisty feet. And the legs and booted feet of a man. The naked
legs and tiny, slippered feet of a child. I saw a man's hand upon the pale leg.
I guessed she was sitting on his knee. The skirts of the Nasty Man's coat
passed back and forth, the hand stroked the child's leg, and then, suddenly,
darkness. I strained left and right to find another gap in the wall, but
someone or something was in front of it.

'Ow!
Oh! Sir, please. You're hurting me . . .'

I
held my breath, and tried again to see.

A
pause, and then more of the child's pitiful cries. 'You stop that!' and 'Oh, I
don't like that!' and cries of terrible distress.

'Shall
I bind her mouth up?' It was the Nasty Man.

'No,
no! Let it be. I like to hear her.' The other was breathing heavily, excited.

'But,
if she makes too much noise . . .'

The
child cried out. 'That hurts!'

More
movements, hurried this time.

'Do
as you're told and it won't. Now, lie still. . .'

'No!
No!'

More
sounds of struggle.

'You'll have to
hold the bitch still, sir. Otherwise the picture won't be a good one.'

There was
silence, then a small voice crying, 'Sir, please. Oh, sir, it hurts! It hurts!
I want my mother.'

A surge of
laughter broke in, the Nasty Man's high and shrill. 'Mama! Mama! She wants her
mama!'

'Please,
sir. Oh no, sir! Please don't do that!'

'Keep
still, damn you!'

'Oh! Oh!!! Sir,
sir, please, no! You hurt me! You hurt me! Let me go!'

I clapped my
hands over my ears to shut out the horror, but it came anyway with a voice
roaring, 'Damn her! The bitch has scratched me!' and the sound of a slap -
once, twice, three times and the child's terrified scream - 'Hold her down,
can't you! Hold her legs!' and then, 'Now I have you! Ah, yes!'

And on it went
until I thought I would go mad - the child screaming, begging to be allowed to
go, promising to be a good girl, and the Nasty Man's laughter, rising like a
wicked song above it all.

Suddenly, there
was a pause. A breath. A cough. Someone shifting about.

I put my eye to
the gap again, but it was still dark. There was the sound of footsteps upon the
floorboards.

A child's voice
crying: 'Oh, it hurts, it hurts,' and 'I want my mother.'

There
were murmurs, a hurried conversation. I couldn't hear it, or see beyond the
chaise. But then the Nasty Man said, 'This is a tidy mess. I think you've
cramped it, sir. Look at the blood everywhere.'

'If she hadn't
struggled
so
...
It wasn't my fault,' said the other. There was fear in his
voice.

'All
the same, sir. My lord.'

'What
are we to do?'

The child moaned
in pain. The murmur of conversation. And then the Nasty Man again, 'Well, of
course, I can do it. But it will cost you.'

'Anything.'

'An
extra - ten pounds.'

'Yours,'
said the other, 'when you've done it.'

'What?
Kill it
now,
sir?'

'Here.
In front of me, man. Get it done.'

The Nasty Man
laughed, but there was no humour in it. 'I am at your service, of course. But
there'll be no pictures of
this.
You - put the machine away.'

I put my eye to
the gap. The chaise and its twisty legs. The Nasty Man's light-coloured
britches and another man, standing close by. And the pale legs of the child
and its bare feet and curled toes. I looked away. What did I need to see? Now I
could hear everything that was happening and put pictures to it in my head -
her cry of fear and panic, a thud as she fell to the floor, the sound of a
struggle as she tried to get away, the feeble kicking of her heels. A beat of
four. Or was it the sound of my heart thumping in my chest? Then someone
cleared his throat and spoke in a voice trembling with emotion - or excitement?

'Ah.
Perfect.'

Another
beat. Then people moving about.

'You.
Get rid of it,' said the Nasty Man.

Sounds
again of movement. A cough.

'She
scratched my face. I think there's blood on my face.'

'Hers,
I think, my lord.'

'My
pictures? You did make them, didn't you?'

A third man
spoke, but his voice was so low I could not make out what he said.

'Collect
them at the usual place. From him.'

The door opened
and closed. Once, twice. There was the sound of footsteps receding.

I waited. Nero
shifted and looked at me, ready to go. Inside the shed someone was moving,
breathing heavily. I forced myself to look through the gap, but it was black
again. If I stayed here until the door opened, I could see who was inside. And
then - what would I do? Run to the magistrate? Fetch Tipney and his mummers?
Rouse up Pilgrim? A child had been killed. Someone must want to do something.

Nero, however,
had other plans and, though he didn't move from my side, he was tense and set
up a low growl which would soon be heard within, so, risking all, I touched his
head and we made a mad dash, scrambled frantically out, over the Alpine range
of paper, slipping and sliding and causing great avalanches and disturbing a
nest of rats which ran squealing across the yard, chased by Nero and joined by
Brutus.

I peered over
Pilgrim's fence. The stable was quiet, the door shut. There was no one in the
yard, and stillness settled over everything, as though the world was holding
its breath.

Pilgrim
stood in his doorway, frowning.

'Where
have you been, Bob Chapman?'

('Over
the fence and far away.')

'What
did you see?'

('You
should have told him, you devil!')

'How
should I know he would go poking about over there? We don't go any further than
here!'

Pilgrim
shuffled towards me, then stopped and drew a line with the toe of his boot upon
the brick cobbles.

('Death
to go further! That's what the big man said!')

'Didn't
he just? But didn't
you
sneak down there, along with the rats, to see the amusement?'
('Not I.')

'You
know you did.'

('I'll
bite your tongue out, you.')

'Listen
to him.'

('You
lie as fast as a dog can trot.')

'Listen
to me! Corpus delicti!'

('Baw
baw!')

'Corpus delicti
,
Bob
Chapman
!'

('Beggar
me! You're another!')

I
couldn't bear to hear him a moment longer. With his voices ringing in my ears,
I ran through the shop, scattering books left and right, upturning tables,
tugging at the door and breaking the latch. I ran into the street with Brutus
and Nero at my heels, and down Fish-lane, like a madman, and kept running,
knowing that if I had stayed a moment longer, I would have beaten my brains out
upon the very stones of the yard.

Nowhere
to
Hide —
the Aquarium — Return to

Tipney's
Gaff —
Into
the Darkness

I
have given up Strong's Gardens today.

I
turn my face to the Aquarium. A safe haven. Balm in Gilead, as Titus Strong
would say.

A
cup of tea behind the screen. A moment or two to consider - the magistrate or
the police station?

I
try to picture my workplace, its warm calm, as I walk briskly to it. In my
head, I count down the boxes and their contents - the eggs, the balls, Brutus's
lantern, the kettle, the teapot, cups, the tea box, the tray on which they
stand, my coat, my hat. I hold the image of my stand before me, and put aside
everything else. I put my mind and my thoughts in this quiet, safe place.

I
hurry down street after street, Brutus and Nero trotting at my heels. Walking
helps, the rhythm is a comfort, but I am sweating with exertion and shaking and
must dig my hands into my pockets to keep madness from breaking out. Dodging
through the crowds, I slip on the cobbles and the pain has me hugging my ribs
and gasping for breath. But I don't stop, not for a moment. Through the
afternoon streets, where clerks are hurrying back to their desks and
early-morning carters are propped in a doorway catching ten minutes' sleep. A
baby squalls on its mother's hip, a drunk clutches at a lamp-post. I take it
all in, but I do not see it.