Page 50 of Don't Let Me Go
“Nah,” Myrtle says with a shrug. “Business’ll pick up once the all-clear sounds. Don’t want to miss my Prince Charming now, do I?”
“You’re a credit to your profession.”
“I do what I can.”
Myrtle takes another drag and casts a glance over at the eastern sky, where ribbons of smoke curl up into the air like fat snakes from the flames below. Poor bastards. Hope whoever’s getting it tonight are keeping their heads down.
Charlie pulls on my sleeve, impatient for us to be on our way. He still gets nervous on nights like this, and I can see his green eyes grow wider every time another bomb shakes the air.
“Ready to shove off?” I ask, shooting him a smile as I put my arm ’round his shoulder. He likes when I do that. And I don’t mind it so much myself.
Charlie nods, and we wave farewell to Myrtle as I lead us north onto Regent Street.
“You got your sack?” I ask. Though I ain’t really asking. I watched him tuck it under his coat before we left our digs. But I try to keep Charlie’s mind occupied whenever we’re about to do a job. Otherwise, his nerves get the better of him and he’s a bit useless.
“I’ve got it,” he says.
“Good lad. I think we’re in for quite a haul tonight.”
“Where are we going?”
“Someplace special.”
“Can’t you tell?”
“It’s a surprise,” I tease him. “For your birthday.”
Charlie’s eyes narrow like a cat’s. When you grow up on the streets, surprises are rarely a good thing.
“Don’t make that face. When have I ever steered us wrong?” I ask.
Charlie considers, then flashes me that shy little smile of his. “All right, Jack.”
I suppose you could say, like the bombs, that smile’s something else I’ve gotten used to. Lord knows, when Charlie first came along, I wasn’t looking for no “partner in crime” (as Myrtle calls him). In fact, I’d been doing all right on my own if I do say so myself. But that’s the thing about Charlie, innit? He’s got a way of growing on you.
We were twelve when we met. I’d been on the streets ’bout two years then, scrounging for food and nicking things by day; dossing where I could at night. I don’t mind admitting those were some dodgy days. Even so, the streets weren’t half as rough as home.
My old man was a boxer. Used to fight at Vauxhall under the name Bruisin’ Bill. Made a decent bit of money at it too, I’m told. Only trouble was, he liked to practice his punches on my mum and me. Mum didn’t seem to mind taking it. Like I said, people can get used to anything. But it struck me at the time that a black eye and a broken arm weren’t things a body should get used too.
So I left.
For a while I ran around with some of the neighborhood gangs in Bermondsey. The boys were older, sixteen, seventeen, but they didn’t mind having me around. Thanks to my dad, I knew how to throw (and take) a punch. Plus, I was useful.
My special skill was squeezing myself through tight spaces (irongates, open windows, et cetera), then unlatching the door so the other boys could turn a place over. I also made a pretty good lookout. With my blue eyes and my curly bronze hair that turned kind of golden-like in the summer, people said I looked like a right little cherub. Coppers would pass me on the street and not give me a second glance.
The other boys weren’t so lucky, though. Most of them got pinched and went off to the workhouses. But by then, I could look after myself.
To be honest, I preferred being on my own. Other people had their uses, but in the end, you couldn’t count on anyone but yourself. Best not to get attached, I said.
But one day in the early fall, I was nicking apples from the Borough Market when I got this funny-like sensation on the back of my neck. Like I was being watched. I thought it might be a cop, but when I turned around, all I saw was this skinny dark-haired boy staring at me from across the stalls. He was about my age, with big green eyes that had this way of burrowing into you. Like they could see into your soul.
If his clothes had been shabbier, I’d have taken him for another street kid. But he had on a proper cap and jacket, and his shoes didn’t have no holes that I could see, so I reckoned he must be the son of the grocer and was about ten seconds from screaming his head off.
But he didn’t say a word.
He just stared at me. Like he was waiting to see what I’d do next.
If I’m honest, it spooked me. I shoved a few more apples in my pockets, then did a runner before he could give me away.
