Chapter One
So, as anyone who knows me will tell you, I LOVE The Artful Dodger, and am very confused as to why he has not made much of an appearance in any of my other fanfictions. BUT I mean to make this all better by writing this story about the life of everyone's favourite pickpocket – The Artful Dodger. I own nothing. *sobs*
The houses rose barely discernable through the night fog. Yellow and slimy it had settled around London from the River. Faint pinpricks of starlight shone feebly from behind a veil of straggling clouds, which persisted in sliding across the sliver of moon visible.
It was bitingly cold – the sort of weather that would kill an infant with one puff. Only the most foolish of mothers would bring their child into the world at that moment.
One such mother lay pale, on a thin mattress in a dark room, with a tiny morsel of a boy wailing in her arms. Abruptly – upon realising he wasn't getting any attention – he stopped, opening his eyes and blinking up at his mother as if to check she was still there.
The woman opened her eyes too, and smiled faintly at her son. She was a pretty woman, in a timid, pale sort of way. The baby had inherited her stormy eyes, but not the long fairy hair that hung over her shoulders. She had a bruise across one cheek and a graze over one eye.
Hugging the child close to her frail form, the woman placed a gentle kiss on his forehead, and hummed him a lullaby.
He drifted off to sleep, and she cradled him in her arms, nothing but love in her gaze.
There was a bang, and the door flew open, smacking the wall.
"Nora! You in 'ere?" A man hulked in the doorway. Only his eyes shone in the gloom – like cats eyes.
"Yeah John. I'm 'ere," Nora called. Her voice was slightly hoarse. "Come an' meet yer son."
John Dawkins seemed to scratch his head.
"Nah," he growled, after a slight pause.
"But John -"
"What's 'is name?" he said, cutting across her.
"Jack – after you, yeah?"
"Good."
John Dawkins senior seemed to be on the verge of speaking again, but he left instead, the door shutting loudly behind him. The sound of clinking bottles could be heard from the other side of the bedroom door.
Nora kissed her sleeping son's forehead, softly.
"You sleep well now, baby," she whispered. "An' I'll wake you in the morning."
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