THE DEPRIVED... Chapter 4...Part 2.

A continuation of my book.

The man moved away from the shutter, his eyes now open, wet and dark with a fluid fire of hurt and hate. Walking away from the burned shell there was no hurry to the man’s walk as he turned and made his way back towards the Whitechapel Road. It was as the man had reached the small alleyway opposite the large London Hospital that there came a voice through the fog.
“It’s a dark night and a cold ‘un, Governor. But I has a fire in me heart to warm you if you has a few pennies for a tot of gin.”
The man held his step before turning into the alleyway.
“You’re a gent, Gov’nor and a comfort on this bad night.”
The man did not look at the woman who now put her arm through his. He did not talk but allowed the woman to lead him deeper into the alleyway and out into one of the many side streets which veined the slums of the East-End.
“Come with me, Gov’nor. I knows of a place which aint far. It’s a little stable yard as aint in use no more but is private for the business we has in mind.”
The woman cackled in laughter as she continued to urge the man along.
“Here it is, Gov’nor. Down here and up them stairs. There’s a room up there as is fully private.”
The man released his arm from the woman’s grip, his hand opening his coat and to steal down to the hilt of the knife. The hand gripped the knife and withdrew it.
The woman was now silent.

“Did you hear about that Night-Girl as been cut to pieces?” asked Joe Ingram of his wife. “I aint heard nothing like it since that Old Ma Kettle got herself burned alive when a madman threw some lit papers through her window!”
His wife, a small woman with a dependency on snuff now took out the small tin and put a pinch to her nose.
“It aint safe round here.” she obliged after sneezing loudly. “Not for the likes of us and not for them as sell themselves out there at night.” she added before taking another pinch of snuff and inhaling loudly.
Joe Ingram waited till his wife heaved her body upright and covered her face with a hand before exploding, the sneeze blowing the candle out. Joe Ingram relit the candle which sat at the centre of the table.
“It aint safe at all.” he agreed with his wife. “And it’s all over them newspapers saying as is a madman loose hereabouts. It just aint right for us law abiding persons. There’s a reckoning that those top Bobbies from Scotland Yard is on the case and expecting more disturbance.”

The man in the attic room rose from the bunk and refreshed himself with cold water from the jug, filling the bowl and immersing his face in the water till he withdrew to gasp breath into his lungs. Drying himself he took the long blade from beneath the mattress and tucked the knife into his belt before donning his coat and buttoning it up. Descending the stairs, he pulled the collar of the coat up to muffle his ears and left the house, going out into the night.
The man traced his steps back up towards Aldgate. Walking swiftly now as he made his way to Macklin Street and stopped at its entrance, seeing the lights of the Brown Bear tavern alight halfway down on the left hand side, its doors opening and closing as customers and Night-Girls came and went, the laughter sounding hollow from where the man stood. He stood for quite a while, his eyes on the tavern lights and then he moved quietly, moving across the street until he came abreast of the tavern, shifting into the shadows of the alleyway. Turning his back on the tavern he stared almost absentmindedly down into the darkness of the alleyway and once again heard the voice of a young boy calling out in desperation.

“Run Beth!”

The man remembered how he, as a small boy, had fought the large scarred-faced man, being pinned down under the man’s weight and then came others, customers who had heard the noise of shouting and had rushed out from the Brown Bear tavern to help hold the struggling boy to the pavement.
“He tried to rob me!” cried the large man. “Him and other footpads who has done a runner and scarpered off down the alley. Look at what this ‘un has done to me bonce with that club.” added the man as he still straddled the boy.
“Well, hold the blighter down till I fetches a Bobby.” said one man before racing off and shouting for a policeman.
“Well don’t stand around watching! Help me hold the rascal, he’s as slippery as an eel!”
More hands reached down to hold Sam till he could struggle no more and lay still.
“Turn him over while I gives his hands a tie with me belt.”
“Here’s me belt for his feet in case he has a mind to kick.” shouted another.
Sam put up no resistance as he was rolled over, to have his hands and feet shackled with the belts.
“I reckons we ought to carry the urchin back to the tavern and have a look at him under the lights.” cried a voice.
“And I needs someone as to take a look at me bonce and a good tot of rum in me to help with the shakes!” cried the scar-faced man, rising and jerking Sam to his feet before heaving the boy over his shoulder like a sack of straw.
“He aint no more than the weight of a chicken.” laughed the man as he led the way back to the tavern.
The lights caused Sam to close his eyes and he felt himself being thrown to the floor where he lay as the eyes of the customers stared down at him.
“He’s just a little stripling, aint no more to him than a bit of string.” said a woman.
“That nipper has put a hole in me bonce if you cares to look, Missus!” shouted the scar-faced man, now lifting a glass of rum to his lips and downing it in one swift gulp. “And whose for buying me another if you wants to hear how this ‘un tried to murder me.” he offered, holding the glass in the air.
The glass was taken by two of the women, who led the man away to the bar and not wanting others to gain a hearing of the murderous attack without buying a glass of rum.
“There I was in minding me own business…” began the scar-faced man as he received a glass of rum and downing it in one go and wanting more. He began to embroider the story, forgetting to mention the way he had been drawn in by the young girl.
“He weren’t on his own was that nipper ‘cause I reckon there was four of them and all as big as houses. I had a devil’s own job in fighting them off, all except that little ‘un there on the floor. He was ruthless and fought as if the devil was inside him.” concocted the scar-faced man.
And this was the more drunken story he told the police who had entered the tavern.
“Hoi! Give us our belts back before you take the rascal off to the Watchtower!” cried a man as the police began to carry Sam out to the waiting horse-pulled police cart.
“Hold onto him, he’s as slippery and savage as an old river pike!” advised another man as the policeman removed the belts and Sam stood still as they exchanged the belts for heavy cast manacles to his wrists and then pushed him out through the doors of the tavern.

The Watchtower was just a holding bay for those taken by the police and who waited to appear before the local Magistrate the next morning. Sam had the manacles removed and was thrown into a cell, to share it with seven men and two boys, who were the continual butt of cuffs to the ears and spiteful comments from the men who acted in this way owing to the boys loud-pitch wails that they wanted to go home. Sam squeezed himself in and sat against the far wall and remained silent. With the shouting of the men, the crying of the boys and the stink of waste deposited where the men stood, all were causes which made sleep impossible. In this way Sam simply sat and waited till the next morning when the cell door was opened and all were led out to a waiting police cart, a closed cart painted black and bearing a gold Magistrate’s coat of arms on either side and larger than the normal cart, drawn by two horses. The inside of the cart had a long wooden bench down each side of its innards, to where the men were sat and chained, with two unsmiling policemen fore and aft on guard.
The police cart was driven at a fast clip up towards the city and drew up outside the Magistrate’s Court where the chains were released from the hands and all the prisoners ordered out then herded into the Court.