Chapter Seven – On The Job

As the sun rose over the city of London, it soon found itself masked by a sheet of grey cloud, threatening rain. But the dismal weather had no effect on the excited mood hovering about Fagin's humble abode since the previous night. He and Bill had both slept with smiles on their faces, and now the first day of Bill's going on the job had dawned.

Bill had been awake since the hours of early light, anxiously pacing the flat waiting for Fagin. At about seven o' clock the man emerged from his alcove, yawning but still managing a smile. He truly was a genius; he had to congratulate himself on that.

"You seem raring to go this morning, my dear!" he said with a laugh as he set about making breakfast.

Bill nodded with childish eagerness. He was going to be the best pickpocket London had ever seen; he would steal all sorts of treasures and get hugely rewarded and be able to buy all the gin he wanted…

"Breakfast, my dear!" Fagin called a few minutes later, breaking Bill from his daydream. He hurried to the table and began wolfing down his food, seemingly without pause for breath. It felt so good to eat well again, even if, as before, the sausages tasted a bit strange. Maybe it was how Fagin cooked them?

He would have asked, but now wasn't the time. It was time to go out on the job!

"I'll accompany you to the Cripples this morning, my dear…" Fagin said, pulling on his coat. "There's an acquaintance of mine I need to meet."

Bill had no objections and he and Fagin had soon set off in that direction. The pub was not far indeed from Fagin's house, only a minute or so's walk. It was a rather squat and rickety looking place near the waterside, accessible from most directions by bridges. Even at this early hour the doors were flung open to admit the clientele; Bill could see all sorts of people and, even from where he and Fagin stood on one of the bridges overlooking the tavern, hear their shouts and screams, laughter and cries for more ale.

Fagin, noticing Bill's awed expression, grinned slyly down at him.

"You like the look of this place, my dear?"

Bill nodded, hurrying ahead of Fagin down the steps and across one of the wooden platforms to the pub, his benefactor having to walk briskly to catch up.

On closer inspection, from the outside at least, The Three Cripples was dirty, smoky and positively reeking of alcohol, with the strong undertone of some sort of cheap perfume. Bill wrinkled his nose a little at this, causing Fagin's grin to widen. He'd get used to the place soon enough…

"That you Fagin, you sneakin' old villain? I've been waitin' 'ere for 'alf an hour an' no mistake! Where you been, eh?"

Both Fagin and Bill looked to face the speaker; a tall, broad-shouldered brute with a sweaty red complexion and a balding head, an expression on his face that could frighten even the strongest and bravest of men. No wonder Fagin quailed a little at the sight of him.

"Oh…h-hello Tim, my dear…sorry to have kept you waiting…"

Tim… Tim Evans? Could it be? Bill squinted up at him; he certainly looked strong enough (and drunk enough) to have been his assailant on the night Fagin found him.

"Who's the brat Fagin?"

"T-This is Bill, my dear, a new friend of mine…" He wasn't about to let on Bill's true status to Tim Evans yet, or anyone else for that matter, not until after his first job at any rate. "Bill, this is-"

"Tim Evans? Yeah…I know."

Bill didn't want to remind Fagin of his and Tim's previous meeting but it was at that point that Fagin seemed to recall the incident, with a wince.

"Well, this is a chance meeting and no mistake, eh, my dears?" he said with a weak attempt at a relaxed laugh, sensing hostility between his two companions. "But I'm afraid it must be curtailed…Bill, you have a job to do-"

"Wot sorta job Fagin? Wot you doin'?"

"None of your business, Tim, my dear…"

"None of my business?"

Bill was reminded eerily of his and Fagin's argument, where he'd found the box and demanded Fagin tell him what he was hiding. This scenario was getting scarily familiar…Evans took a step towards Fagin and Fagin took a step back…

What happened next was a blur. Evans made a move as if to strike Fagin for his impertinence, Fagin shrank back to avoid the blow and Bill leapt at his attacker, knocking him to the ground. Evans let out a roar of shock and fury and attempted to throw Bill off, but the boy clung on grimly, throwing punch after punch. A few of the customers from the tavern wandered out to see what was going on; a few of the drunker ones cheering and placing bets on who they thought would win; the majority going, surprisingly, to Bill…and for good reason.

"For…gawd's…sake!" Fagin snarled, struggling to pull Bill off of Evans, who was sporting a black eye by this point in the proceedings. "No…violence!"

After a few moments more frantic struggling in which Fagin was jeered at by the onlookers, he managed to pull Bill off. His fierce reprimands were lost on the boy; he was still glowering at Evans who was now struggling back on his feet.

"No need for that…I appreciate it of course but…I'm askin' yer, is it necessary?"

Bill wriggled free of Fagin's grip, wiping a smear of blood from his cheek.

"I 'ave a job to do, Fagin!" he said, his voice low and cold.

Shooting Evans one last contemptuous glance, Bill turned and hurried in the direction of where the morning hackney coaches waited; luckily they'd hung around for a latecomer long enough for Bill to hitch his ride to the town centre.

He tried to shake the incident off; what had possessed him to fight Evans like that? Was he protecting Fagin? Or was he just salivating for blood? The thought scared him a little but try as he might he couldn't rid himself of that feeling; regret, was it? He wasn't sure. He was supposed to be concentrating on the job; he wanted to impress Fagin, didn't he?

The job; picking pockets. That was what mattered. Not some stupid fight with a local drunkard.

Thinking in this vein, Bill soon had three pockets handkerchiefs hidden in various pockets. Fagin was right, they were nice, although two of them had rather heavy 'marks', with lots of elaborate patterns which would have to be painstakingly picked out. Hoping that the fancier the marks the more cash for him, Bill managed to procure another one before nicking himself some grub.

The city clock soon struck half past one; time had flown by. Pocket handkerchiefs were nice…but Bill wanted to find something more impressive, something of better value…

Soon he had five wallets secreted about his person, three of which, he could tell from their weight, were well lined indeed. But even these weren't enough…what was it Fagin had told him the night before?

A snuffbox, a pocketwatch, that sort of thing…

A snuffbox Fagin wanted and a snuffbox he'd get. Bill fingered the small trinket in his pocket as he made his way back towards the coach station, marveling at his success, the fight with Evans all but forgotten. This would impress Fagin, surely, a nice engraved little box like this! It'd probably fetch the man a hefty sum, and he would reward Bill greatly in return!

"Fagin?" Bill called, rapping smartly on the locked door of the loft. "Lemmee in, will ya?"

"What's the password, hmm? Can't let you in without it!"

Fagin sounded happier than the last time Bill had seen him, but who could tell how he truly felt?

"Fagin, you never told me anyfink about a password!"

"I didn't? Blast it!"

"Fagin will ya just-"

"Plummy an' Slam!"

"Wot?"

"For future reference!" snapped Fagin, opening the door to let Bill in and closing it behind him with a bang. "Plummy an' Slam. Password. From now on. Remember it."

Bill nodded.

"What've you got then, my dear?"

Fagin sat himself down at the table, and motioned for Bill to do the same, which he did, with apprehension curling in his stomach. He'd been exhilarated about the day's work but now he wasn't so sure; from the look on Fagin's face he clearly hadn't forgotten the morning's little incident. He was sporting a black eye just has Evans had.

Tearing his eyes away from Fagin's face, Bill rifled about in his pockets to retrieve the goods. As each item was placed on the table, Fagin would cackle with laughter and pick it up to examine it. He was especially fond, as Bill had predicted, of the weighty wallets (the cash of which he hastily pocketed).

When Bill produced the snuffbox from his waistcoat pocket, he swore he saw tears of joy in his companion's eyes.

"You're a clever boy, my dear, a very clever boy! I never saw a sharper lad!"

Bill beamed with pride.

"Here's another shilling for you my dear…that's a lovely bit of stuff, my dear, a lovely bit of stuff!"

Fagin flicked the coin to Bill before picking up the snuffbox to examine. "Hmm…George III, mahogany of some sort with gold inlay...I'd say about five shillings…"

The rest of the afternoon and evening was spent picking out the marks from the latest handkerchiefs; it took Bill quite a while to get the hang of the needle and thread (and even when he did he kept pricking himself), but Fagin was unexpectedly patient with him.

When they both retired to bed that night, everything seemed as it should be. Fagin had his goods, Bill had his precious two shillings, the tavern brawl was all but a memory…and, even better than all this, both men felt comfortable, safe, happy.

At home.

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A/N: Bill has his first pub brawl! Yay! ^^

I'm such a freak.

Hoping you all enjoyed this chapter and don't think I'm being clichéd (I always worry about that for some reason). =P

R&R…I have mini-Bill at my disposal…you've been warned. XD