1890
"'Hey, hey Paddy boy. Come out come out wherever youse is," the husky voice slurred.
Paddy flinched and curled even further into the corner where he was huddled. His bony arms were wrapped around his legs and his face was buried in his scrawny chest. The thud of his heart was prominent beneath his protruding ribs and grew faster with every second that passed.
"I'm not gonna hurt ya kid, y'know me!"
The child could hear him rattling around the room, crashing into chairs, the table and sofa as he did so. His 'uncle' Joe was stinking drunk, like every night. Paddy could smell the whiskey on his breath from the other side of the bedroom and general living area of the tiny worker's flat. He cowered away in fear dreading the moment when-
A huge, red face and a bulbous nose loomed out of the gloomy darkness, right in front of him.
"Ready or not. Here I come!"
Joe grabbed the child by his arm and dragged him out of the corner. The six year old moaned as he was pulled roughly across the threadbare rug dressed only in a greying vest and pants. He could feel his skin burning underneath the grime that coated it. His hair was matted with dirt and grease and the older man's heavy grasp hurt his arm. Joe flung the frail boy against the sludge coloured, sagging sofa where he landed heavily with a thud and whimpered pitifully.
"Whaddya do today Paddy boy? Eh? C'mon boy, whaddya do?"
"I... I read some," the little boy said in scarcely more than a whisper.
"Did I ASK you for an answer?!" Joe bellowed ferociously, back-handing him across the face. Paddy screamed and fell back, slamming his face on the filthy floor, where he lay breathing hard. But Joe wasn't done there.
1899
"Spot! Oi, Spot, youse comin' in? S'nice 'n warm today!"
I jumped out of my skin, disturbed from my thoughts and looked down to see who dared interrupt me. One of my boys; my right-hand man, Mop, so named for his wiry brown hair that was currently stuck to his skull, splashed in the water below me like a fish . It was fine July weather, boiling hot and I was sat on the dock, legs dangling. As the only one there fully clothed, I stuck out like a sore thumb, but I didn't care. I never had any wish to go in, It was...complicated. Most of the boys were half naked or shirtless, leaping in or diving, with the most cautious ones creeping down the ladder. But I sat there, observing my kingdom and watching the others. I gave a cursory shake of the head in regard to Mop's question and kicked my feet back against the dock, thinking.
If I'd been any other boy there, I'd have already been pushed in for sure well over an hour ago, no worries over whether I was dressed for it or not. But I was Spot Conlon; leader of the Brooklyn newsies. They did as I said or else. I sounded menacing; but it was true enough. We - well, I was renowned throughout NYC for being the most fearsome leader of all, not to mention the youngest. You're normally around seventeen or eighteen when you inherit a patch; and this only ever happens to a privileged few. I was fourteen when Brooklyn became my domain; nearly eighteen months ago now. And today of all days, I was not in the mood to be messed with.
1890
A catty laugh broke through Paddy's whimper. Joe wasn't alone. His mama was there, as sober as you could be after being thrown out of the pub at last call. She hitched up her skirt and murmured,
"Joey, don't be too hard on the boy," letting out a shrill giggle in excitement. And now there were more men, coming up the stairs , with their boots stomping against the floor, every thud shaking the entire tenement. Drunk men with deep, rowdy voices and shiny red noses, smelling of sweat, smoke and alcohol. Their huge frames took up every part of the apartment, filling it with their noise and foul odours. Paddy retreated back into his corner in fear and huddled there again, wanting nothing more than to be alone. Then, an acrid smell filled the corner. Joe staggered over and Paddy pressed his bruised face right against the wall, trying to make himself as small as possible; even trying to disappear. It didn't work.
"You fifthly little bashterd," Joe slurred even more than before, if that was possible. "What've youse gone 'n done you disgustin' boy. You've pissed yashelf."
Paddy flinched, and a tear dripped down his cheek, cutting a clean path through the grime and revealing surprisingly fair skin, made paler still from the lack of daylight.
"I'm sorry," he snivelled quietly, wracking his tiny frame with sobs. "I - I didn't mean-"
"You're a wicked boy, Paddy." Joe said louder and louder, unbuckling his gleaming belt buckle. "And wicked boys must be-"
1899
"Spot! Spot, c'mon, get the lead outta ya pants, c'mon Spot! Get up!"
A familiar, freckled face hazed into shape and was peering into mine as I wearily opened his eyes.
"What, what's you talkin' bout?" I said dazedly.
"You jus' blacked out, like starkers. One minute you was sittin' up on the dock. The next you was flat out!" Mop said earnestly, gazing into my eyes. "'N woid's out Kelly 'n da 'hattan are comin', wanna talk to youse about summin'."
I sat up slowly, holding onto the rails of the dock for support. It was like all at once I'd been hit by an earthquake. My mouth was dry as dust and my head throbbing like it had ten thousand feet stamping inside it.
"I need a drink," I said finally, head still spinning. The dock was shaking beneath my trembling frame and I clang onto Mop's arm for support as we made our slow way to a nearby group of boys with a mug of water. As we walked, the entirety of the Brooklyn newsies stopped whatever it was they were doing and collectively stared at me, their leader, receiving help after fainting. I cursed inwardly. They'd seen me weak, a chink in my seemingly impenetrable armour, a panic breaking my outwardly cool surface. That was never good. I knew there were boys who wanted my position; older boys who felt it was their right, and younger, hot headed kids who'd leap at the chance of being in control. But none of them had fought for this, fought to keep in control. I wouldn't let them take it off me.
I still remembered the day I was given the stick that symbolised the power and sovereignty of the Brooklyn leader. It was a cold day, a grey and murky January, where the silver fog lay thick on the ground and the air was heavy with the smell of change. All around, the atmosphere between the newsies was quiet and subdued, a faint undercurrent of excitement amongst the elders buzzing almost indistinguishable from the sadness. Brooklyn's king was stepping down. He had reached twenty-one and was leaving us to work onboard a ship sailing the Atlantic - he couldn't bear to be away from the water, I supposed. But none of us knew who was going to replace him. Not that it had much concerned me; I was fourteen and although I had done my fair share for the newsies, I'd assumed that it would go to someone older.
We gathered around Sketch, our leader, so named for his artistic abilities. There were near thirty five of us now - a far cry from the fifteen or so older lads that had made up Brooklyn when I had joined the newsies. Now, there were boys of all ages from tots of around five to young men such as Sketch - eighteen or so, though these were few and far between, and tended to stick together,. And me? I was slap bang in the middle, contented. Old enough to have the respect of the entire group, but not yet old enough to be given much responsibility - at least so I thought.
"Well youse all knows I'm leavin' I guess." He said bluntly, though his face showed his true feelings. "I ain't good wiv words n all dat, so. I just thought I needed to tell ya who yer next leader is." Sketch wiped a shining tear away from his eye roughly and continued. "I know youse all think dat bein' a leader's about who's oldest- who can soak ya or sit on ya if youse don't obey 'em. But it's not, see. It's about lovin' your patch, 'n your newsies, 'n helpin' em. 'N dat's why, yer new leader, it's Spot. Cause 'e's the bravest kid I know, 'n he'll fight to da death before 'd let's youse all get 'urt, 'n youse know it."
I couldn't believe my ears. What was he saying? Me, a leader? But no matter what my inner turmoil over the situation, I had to keep in control. I had to look like I knew what I was doing, even if I had no idea. I could blag it for this, surely? Slowly, I got up from where I was lounging against a post, and stepped over to where Sketch stood, waiting. I spat in my hand and held it out to him. Sketch grinned and shook it.
"Thanks, Sketch," I murmured.
1890
It was cold that morning, and the sky was a dusky red as Paddy crept out of the apartment. Joe was sprawled out across the sofa, comatose and snoring, and Paddy flinched as he caught sight of the belt lying across his lap. The boy had spent another night cowering in the corner of the room as the rowdy men played cards, being an ashtray, a punchbag and worse. The six year old couldn't take it anymore. Covered in bruises, cuts and burns, as well as dirt and grime, he slipped out of the door and down the stairs of the tenement building. It was early; not a single person was up in this shady area of Brooklyn except the newsies, on their way to collect papers. Paddy had seen them, many a time, hawking headlines and shouting their wares. He longed to be like the newsies; free to do what they wished; wandering the streets of New York proudly.
As quietly and as invisible as a shadow, Paddy walked through the streets after them. When they ran through the gates to collect their papes, he huddled in a little ball outside, trying to keep some warmth in his small bones. Paddy didn't know how long he had hunched there for, but a quiet voice next to his ear made him look up.
"'N who're you?" Enquired a tall redhead, squatting beside him. Behind this boy, the fifteen or so other Brooklyn newsies came to a halt, examining Paddy with a sort of curiosity and interest. Young children alone weren't an unusual sight in this area, but ones that camped outside the gates were unusual; as was their leader stopping to talk to them.n Paddy was younger than them by far; most were around fifteen or sixteen.
"I'm Paddy 'n I'm near seven," Paddy stammered by means of reply.
"Got any parents Paddy?"
"Me dad's dead-" he began to say when the boy cut him off, nodding approvingly.
"'N 'ow d'youse get those bruises, hm?" He said kindly, his face softening as he looked at the feeble seven year old.
"Uncle Joe - well, he's not really my uncle see, he's my mama's husband see," he said hastily. The idea of being related to Joe sickened him.
"Well 'ow's about youse comes wiv me and me newsies, yeah? I'm in need of a new sellin' partner, 'n I reckon you'd be jus' the ticket."
1899
Four Manhattan newsies walked along the dock towards me and Mop.
"C'mon Spot, get it together now. You've been funny all mornin'." Mop muttered in my ear and I nodded. I could see Jack Kelly leading the boys, with Race by his side, cigar in mouth, a lanky boy I definitely didn't know, and Buttons following, scratching his head vigorously. We waited for them to reach us before walking with them to a more secluded place, where we could talk in private.
"So Kelly, woid from me little boidies is youse plannin' a strike," I drawled nonchalantly, aiming above the lanky one's head with my slingshot.
"Yes - a strike against the papes going up in price, with all the newsboys of-" the lanky kid said eagerly. I fired the slingshot. The rusty can I'd aimed at hit the water with a splash. He shut up.
"Who's dis Jacky boy, some sorta walkin' mouth?" I asked disbelievingly.
"Yeah, dis a walkin' mouth - Davey, 'n if youse got any sense you'll listen t'im!" Jack shot back angrily. We tossed a few arguments back and forth over Brooklyn joining the strike then I pulled out my final argument.
"How'd I know youse won't run, the first time a thug with a chain comes for ya?" I spat, stepping forward on the thug."
Their eyes were set in steely determination but I still wasn't convinced.
"Youse know we've been soaked before, all of us. We've all 'ad our fights and we've all got our battle scars..." Jack replied tightly.
1890
A rough wooden tub, no more than a giant bucket stood in front of Paddy and the taller boy. Paddy eyed it apprehensively. "What is it?" He asked.
"Youse gotta get washed in dere, I'll help ya pump the water in but youse gotta clean yaself, okay?"
"What's your name?"
"I'm Red, on accounts of me 'air, 'n I'm in charge round 'ere." The little boy nodded his approval. "Red's me newsie name though; we'll get ya one of those. Can't be called Paddy now!"
Paddy liked that. He wasn't Paddy anymore; he was a newsie. He didn't want that name.
"Now get in the bath, yeah?"
The little boy nodded and clambered in. Red barely contained his gasp.
"What is it?"
"You just looks a bit sore, that's all, Paddy boy. Youse get knocked around?"
Upon seeing Paddy close to tears, he hastened to add, "but don't you worry, dey'll be better in no time, y'see."
Paddy washed all the dirt and grime away from his scrawny chest and arms whilst Red waited for him to finish in the water. He dunked his head under the water and scrubbed it with the puny bar of soap, not caring how much it stung his eyes or how badly it hurt. He needed to get rid of Uncle Joe, get rid of all the memories.
Finally, he was done. Red handed him a thin towel, a bundle of clothes that the lodging house had kept from when they'd been younger, and finally, a newsboys hat. The older boy winced watched those arms barely bigger than twigs pull clothes on over the chest so scrawny it resembled a xylophone, all covered in burns, bruises and cuts. When Paddy turned around to dry his hair, Red shouted, "holy -" before realising there was a six year old standing in front of him.
The newsie bent down to the little boy and gave him a gentle hug, careful of the welts all over his body. "I dunno where you was before, but we're not gonna hurt you here, alright? You'll stick wiv me 'n youse'll be safe, alrigh'? We're a team now!" He tousled Paddy's hair, now a dark brown and smiled at him. "'N how's about a new name, eh? For a new start. How's about... Spot? Will Spot do ya? You'se gotta birthmark on ya arm, see, strawberry like."
Paddy beamed at him.
"Spot it is then!"
Red took the younger boy - Spot's hand in his and walked him out towards where the others were sitting. Spot had a beam on his face a mile wide, for it didn't matter that his clothes were worn and faded, or that his shirt hem reached his knees. It didn't matter that his hair was hanging in his eyes or that the brim of his new hat kept falling down over them. He belonged. For once in his life, someone cared, and that was all he'd ever wanted.
1899
I woke, late in the night and jumped silently off my bunk. Mop was still sleeping soundly below me, and I had perfected making as little noise as possible. Right now, I didn't want anyone to see me. The bathroom I shared with thirty other teenage and young boys essay the other end of the dorm and I quietly made my way down the rows of bunks. As I got nearer to the row of stalls and sinks, my footsteps got quieter and quieter as the age of my newsies decreased; they were light sleepers young, when they hadn't had the years of practice we'd had at sleeping through anything. I crossed to the single sink with a mirror and pulled off my shirt.
It was late at night but the moon lit up the bathroom as I gazed across my translucent skin. There was an abrupt stop of the creamy white as it met the tan of my arms; the skin that saw all weathers. My body didn't scare me anymore, it didn't shock me like it had shocked Red that night. The bruises that had flowered my torso red, black and purple were long gone now. Only the scars remained. A large, puckered one stretching across my belly from the time with the broken bottle, the smaller yet still scarlet cigarette burns that had never healed properly, and the raised lumps from the whippings with the belt buckle. My entire chest was a mess; a battlefield of scars and lumps displayed over a bony rib cage. I'd never in my life been big, never had a full stomach. But here I received many times the amounts of food I'd ever been given as Paddy.
"I just wanted you to love me, mama," I whispered, meeting my eyes for the first time. "That's all I ever wanted."
"Jesus, Lord above," came a low whisper from the doorway. I whirled around, clutching my shirt to my chest in an attempt to cover myself. Mop was folded into the doorway, all sleepy arms and legs and bed hair, but his eyes were awake alright. He looked horrified.
"What d'ya want?" I asked flatly, keeping the panic out of my voice.
"What - what happened to you?" He replied finally, crossing to where I was andy tying a warm hand on my shoulder. I tried not to flinch away from the sudden contact.
"Whaddya think?" I shrugged, "c'mon Mop, take a a guess."
He said nothing in answer to this and instead, ever so gently, span me around. His outstretched finger traced the scars on my back.
Icy pink letters across my shoulder blade, running along my spine. Always there, forever burnt in; a painful reminder of what had happened in the past. VERMIN.
"Who did this to you?" He asked angrily, running a hand through his hair.
"Me ma's boyfriend. Uncle Joe," I quietly said. But then I came to my senses. "Get out of here Mop, right now. I don't want to talk about it, not to you, not to anyone. Get out!"
I spat. How could I have been so stupid? Letting my guard down, that was the one thing I never did. He'd tell the others for sure - he'd make me a laughing stock, I'd be kicked out of my own Brooklyn, I'd, I'd!
"I'm not going anywhere, Spot," he told me gently, meeting my ashamed gaze. And then Mop hugged me; a brotherly sign of affection that sent me reeling back to all those years ago. Myself, a timid six year old, wrapped in the arms of a boy I'd met that day, who would soon become my family. It was a hug of comfort, of loyalty and support. Yet, to my deepest shame and embarrassment, I found myself crying. Fat tears ran out of my eyes and dripped down my face onto Mop's shoulder.
"Hey - hold up." He held me at arm's length, looking concerned. "It's okay Spot - it's over now, remember. Youse safe, you're a newsie - man you're da king of Brooklyn! You've got everythin' you could want and look how far youse come! Uncle Joe can stick it! But I'm guessin' that's why you don't go swimmin', huh?"
That was exactly it. It wasn't that I couldn't swim, or I didn't like it. In truth, I loved the water. But if they saw my scars, what was written on me, they'd try to kick me out for sure. They'd see it as a sign of weakness; abuse, a lack of guts and courage. I was still barely sixteen and not exactly big for my age; I was aware of older boys wanting my power and my kingdom. I hung onto Brookyln with everything I had; it WAS everything I had. I relied on cunning and people in my favour rather than the brawn of stronger boys. And Mop knew this. I didn't have to say; he wasn't stupid. He could see them out there, watching me for any sign of weakness.
"I'll never tell, Spot. I swear it."
"Thanks, Mop." I knew it to be true. He wouldn't want the responsibility that came with being king of Brooklyn; he was happy with the role of second in command. Mop wouldn't risk it. Besides, small and scrawny as I was, I could still beat him in a fight. Sure he was strong, but his brawn meant nothing in a battle of wits, and I relied on all my cunning in fights.
"D'youse wanna go back to bed now, Spot?"
"Yeah, le's go back," I replied, yawning heavily.
Whatever had happened in my past, it was over now. It was different. I was different.