'Pretty boy,' she said. 'Isn't he? Won't sleep for his mother, though. I bring him on the
'buses and the bumping sends him off. We've been from Fulham to Bow; now we're on our way back.'
'He's a peach,' I said. I leaned in and stroked his cheek. 'Look at them lashes! He'll break hearts, he will.' 'Won't he!'
Then I leaned back. When the next stop came, I made Charles get off. The woman said good-bye, and from the window, as the 'bus moved away, she waved. But I didn't wave back. For, under cover of Charles's coat, I had had a feel about her waistband; and had prigged her watch. It was a nice little ladies' watch, and just what I needed. I showed it to Charles. He looked at it as though it were a snake that might bite him.
'Where did you get that?' he said.
'Someone gave it to me.' 'I don't believe you. Give me my jacket.' 'In a minute.' 'Give me my coat!'
We were walking on London Bridge. 'Shut up,' I said, 'or I'll throw it over the side.— That's better. Now, tell me this: can you
write?'
He would not answer until I had gone to the wall of the bridge and dangled his jacket over; then he began to cry again, but said that he could. 'Good boy,' I said. I made him walk a little further, until we found a man hawking papers and inks. I bought a plain white sheet, and a pencil; and I took Charles back to our room and had him sit and write out a letter. I stood with my hand on the back of his neck, and watched.
'Write, Mrs Sucksby,' I said.
He said, 'How do you spell it?'
'Don't you know?'
He frowned, then wrote. It looked all right to me. I said,
'Now you write this. Write: / was put in the madhouse by that villain your friend— so called!— Gentleman— '
'You are going too fast,' he said, as he wrote. He tilted his head. 'By that villain your 308
friend— '
'— so called!— Gentleman; and that bitch Maud Lilly.— You must make those names stand out.'
The pencil moved on, then stopped. He blushed.
'I won't write that word,' he said.
'What word?'
'That B-word.'
'What?'
'Before Miss Lilly.'
I pinched his neck. 'You write it,' I said. 'You hear me? Then you write this, nice and big: PIGEON MY ARSE! She is WORSE THAN HIM!'
He hesitated; then bit his lip and wrote.
'That's good. Now this. Put: Mrs Sucksby, I have escaped and am close at hand. Send me a signal by this boy. He is a friend, he is writing
t h i s , h i s n a m e i s C h a r l e s . T r u s t h i m , a n d b e l i e v e m e — o h ! i f t h i s f a i l s , I ' l l die!— believe me as ever as good and as faithful as your own daughter— There you must leave a space.'
He did. I took the paper from him and wrote, at the bottom, my name.
'Don't look at me!' I said, as I did it; then I kissed where I had written, and folded the paper up.
' H e r e ' s w h a t y o u m u s t d o n e x t , ' I s a i d t h e n . ' T o n i g h t , w h e n G e n t l e m a n — Mr Rivers— leaves the house, you must go over, and knock, and ask to see Mr Ibbs. Say you've got a thing to sell him. You'll know him straight off: he's tall, and trims his whiskers. He'll ask if you've been followed; and you must be sure, when he does, to say you got away clean. Then he'll ask what brought you to him. Say you know Phil.
If he asks how you know him you're to say, "Through a pal named George." If he asks which George you must say, "George Joslin, down Collier's Rents." George who, down where?'
'George Joslin, down— Oh, miss! I should rather anything than this!'
'Should you rather the cruel hard men, the unspeakable things, Jamaica?'
He swallowed. 'George Joslin, down Collier's Rents,' he said.
'Good boy. Next you hand him the watch. He will give you a price; but whatever price he gives you— if it be, a hundred pounds, or a thousand— you must say it ain't enough.
Say the watch is a good one, with Geneva works. Say— I don't know— say your dad done watches, and you know them. Make him look a bit harder. Any luck, he'll take the back off— that will give you the chance to look about. Here's who you're looking for: a lady, rather old, with hair of silver— she'll be sitting in a rocking- chair, perhaps with a baby in her lap. That's Mrs Sucksby, that brought me up. She'll do anything for me. You find a way to reach her side, and pass this letter to her. You do it, Charles, and we're saved. But listen here. If there's a dark- faced, mean- looking boy about, keep clear of him, he's against us. Same goes for a red-headed girl. And if that viper Miss Maud Lilly is anywhere near, you hide your face. Understand
me? If she sees you— more even than the boy— then we are done for.'
309
He swallowed again. He put the note on the bed, and sat and
looked fearfully at it. He practised his piece. I stood at the window, and watched, and waited. First came twilight, then came dark; and with the dark came Gentleman, slipping from Mr Ibbs's door with his hat at an angle and that scarlet cloth at his throat.
I saw him go; gave it another half-an- hour, to be sure; then looked at Charles.
'Put your coat on,' I said. 'It's time.'
He grew pale. I gave him his cap and his scarf, and turned up his collar.
'Have you got the letter? Very good. Be brave, now. No funny
stuff. I'll be watching, don't forget.'
He did not speak. He went, and after a moment I saw him cross the street and stand before Mr Ibbs's. He walked like a man on his way to the rope. He pulled his scarf a little higher about his face, then he looked round, to where he knew I stood behind the shutter.— 'Don't look round, you fool!' I thought, when he did that. Then he plucked at his scarf again; and then he knocked. I wondered if he might run from the step. He looked as though he would like to. But before he could, the door was opened, by Dainty. They spoke, and she left him waiting while she went in to Mr Ibbs; then she came back. She glanced up and down the street. Like a fool, he glanced with her, as if to see what she looked for. Then she nodded, and stepped back. He went in, and the door was closed. I imagined her turning the latch with her neat white hand. Then I waited.
Say five minutes passed. Say ten.
What did I suppose would happen? Perhaps, that the door would open, Mrs Sucksby c o m e f l y i n g o u t , w i t h M r I b b s b e h i n d h e r ; p e r h a p s o n l y t h a t s h e ' d g o t o h e r room— show a light, make a sign— I don't know. But the house stayed quiet, and when at last the door did open, there came only Charles again, with Dainty still behind him; and then again, the door was shut. Charles stood, and quivered. I was used by now to his quivers, and think I knew from the look of this one that things were bad. I saw him look up at our
window and think about running.— 'Don't you run, you fuckster!' I said, and hit the glass; and perhaps he heard it, for he put down his head and came back across the street and up the stairs. By the time he reached the room his face was crimson, and slick with tears and snot.