Clever Dogs
A/N: I just returned from watching TNT's spectacular production of Oliver Twist (they're on tour for the third year and, lo and behold, came to China!) I'd advise you, if ever this show comes near you, to watch it. It's an eclectic blend of song, narrative, humor and fear that will stay in your mind long after the curtain falls.
In the play many clever metaphors were used; I chose to use one of them in this short little ficlet. What can I say? I'm inspired. My hat is off to the actors of TNT! :3
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"Bill my dear?"
The boy started out of his reverie and hurried over to Fagin. His elder was perched by the fire, warming his hands by the blaze. In the firelight he looked more like a monster than ever with his wrinkled face and pointed profile, his unkempt hair lank about his shoulders. Bill had only been here a day; the old man still frightened him, though he hated to admit the fact.
However, it seemed his fear had momentarily registered on his face and Fagin must have noticed this, for he turned to face his young charge with as friendly a smile as he could muster.
"What're you looking so afraid for, my dear?" he asked, willing himself to sound gentle and reassuring. "You aren't in any trouble…I just need to tell you something very important before you go out on any jobs for me."
Bill straightened up a little at the mention of going out on the job, although he wasn't sure what Fagin met by something important. He was an accomplished pickpocket already, as Fagin had clearly seen; what did he need to tell him?
"Clever dogs," Fagin began. "Don't bite the hands of their master."
Bill nodded, not sure what to make of this.
"Clever dogs don't raise the alarm. Clever dogs don't bark."
Bill nodded again, a little more vigorously this time as if to assure Fagin he knew what he was talking about, although, in truth, he had no idea.
"Dead dogs don't bark. Dead dogs don't raise the alarm."
A pause, in which only the crackling of the fire and the shallow breathing of the old man could be heard. Bill was still utterly bewilded but he was sure Fagin had a point; he must be one of those people that liked to exaggerate things for all they're worth, as if to display intelligence or profoundness.
"Clever boys don't talk, raise the alarm, turn on their benefactor. Clever boys don't breathe a word, not even with the hangman's noose about their neck."
At last Bill understood. The thought of the gallows made him shudder but he tried not to dwell on it. But it was hard not to; the rope hung as an ever present threat to every pickpocket then and thereafter.
"Dead dogs don't bark. Dead boys don't tell tales. Whatever you do, whatever happens…you must never breathe a word about me to the police. Never!"
The man said these words with such fierceness and violence of temper that Bill, for all his strength and gruffness, was taken about, almost toppling off his chair. He managed to somehow keep his composure and stared rigidly at Fagin as the latter wrung his hands agitatedly in his lap.
"You promise me that, my dear?" Fagin hissed, his voice low and urgent. "You promise never to peach, to be a good boy, a clever dog? Do you promise me that, Bill Sykes?"
"I promise, Fagin," said Bill gruffly, shaking Fagin's hand to further cement his claim.
The old man grinned wickedly.
"Clever dog," he muttered affectionately, ruffling Bill's hair. "We'll be good friends yet."