Author's Notes:
Historical footnotes for chapters XV to XXIV are at
ldhenson. livejournal. com/ 136396. html
(Remove the spaces.) There's a link to the footnotes from earlier chapters on that page as well.
He leaned over to Bumlets. "I'se gonna take a walk down to the end and back."
"Sure, Jack."
He picked up one of the lanterns and moved towards the curving section of the tunnel behind them. There wasn't far to go. They kept the night watch at about the midway point of the tunnel, reasoning that any sort of threat or breach could be easily spotted from here. There was no need to post anyone all the way down at the ventilation shaft, so close to the pitch-blackness that lurked outside.
Carefully, he picked his way among the sleeping boys, keeping as silent as possible. He'd half-closed the shutter on the lamp, and the yellow light picked out details here and there: a shiny silver teacup left on the floor (he nudged it to the side), a blanket so ragged it was more holes than thread, a little pile of sand carelessly dumped from someone's shoe.
Further on, the light gleamed dully, a small warning, off a slender metal case wedged between Specs' shoulder and the wall. Everyone knew to give that gleam wide berth, mindful of the fragile lenses stored within it. Both Specs and Dutchy shared the case, though after the first frantic week of "I thought you had it," "No, I thought you had it," they had apparently mutually agreed that it should stay with Specs. It was true they had two spare pairs each, painstakingly scrounged for and reconstructed from the ruins of several others and stowed away in a wooden breadbox padded with scraps, but they were taking no chances. Sharing the case meant sharing sleeping space: Dutchy was curled at his other side, bright hair spilling across the sleeve of Specs' once-white shirt.
Most of the younger boys were piled in the middle of the passage, taking advantage of the fact that there they could be surrounded on all sides by something other than just the cold iron plating of the walls.
Dime cracked an eye open at Jack's approach and just as quickly shut it again, obviously not wanting to be found awake. Jack stifled a sigh, let it go. It wasn't as though Dime hadn't seen his share of fights, even in his eight short years. Life on the streets, even back then, had never been anything in the way of easy; life in the Lodging House, with its simple but strict rules and its soap and hot water, had often succeeded in making the boys only appear well-scrubbed. And what had happened earlier today had hardly been anything compared to the scrapes they'd gotten up to in the past.
Things were different now, though, when your world was contracted to a couple hundred feet of (so-called) sanctuary, with terror waiting just beyond. Conflict now meant conflict trapped in a narrow tunnel, nerves rubbed raw by close proximity.
There was a space around David, an empty channel of caution, down here where they could ill-afford empty space. He was lying on his back and his eyes were open; they hadn't been an hour ago when Jack had cautiously risen and moved away to begin his shift.
Jack crouched down. "You sleeping?" he whispered.
At first it seemed as if David wasn't even going to acknowledge the question, then something crept into his expression, a flicker of incredulousness.
Good. Jack shifted his weight a little, quietly eased some of the pressure off his aching knee. "Ain't much to look at up there," he went on conversationally. "Take it from me, I know. It's iron plates up top same as it's iron on the walls. Then there's them pieces that go right across—" He gestured upward at the grid of iron ribs that strengthened the walls at this end of the tunnel; bands that ringed the walls intersected with other reinforcements running lengthwise, so that the whole was as though the skeleton of some strange ship had been upended over their heads. The arc of each rib was divided by the intersections into shorter curves of unequal lengths, disconcertingly asymmetrical from the left wall to the right. "They'se the worst. You think to yourself, they look like they oughta all be the same, 'cos why wouldn't you make 'em that way? But no matter how hard you stares, you can't make 'em right, can't make 'em match up. If you stares at 'em too long you starts to forget where the middle of the ceiling really is, and you feel like you'se gonna slide right off the floor."
David's eyes drifted closed again. Jack glanced down the tunnel towards Bumlets and Digger at their post. Supper this evening had been the usual busy affair, but now, in the stillness of the watch, the strain in the atmosphere had resurfaced.
"You don't gotta," Snoddy had told him earlier, when he'd volunteered to spell somebody for the night shift. He'd done it partly to make up for abandoning his post earlier that day, and they both knew it. Not that he'd said so, not that Snoddy had said so, but Jack had stated, "Yeah, I do," and Snoddy had not objected again, only nodded and replied that he could swap with Bumlets, or Digger, or Race.
And, with outward indifference, Jack had watched surreptitiously as Race shrugged when Snoddy passed the news to him, and that was all.
He looked back at David, who was staring at the ceiling again.
"Go on," Jack whispered, "go back t'sleep."
David only shook his head.
"Shut your eyes then." He hesitated, then leaned a little closer and added, "'S already almost four."
And only about an hour 'til my shift's done was the remainder of the sentence, and he didn't say it aloud, but after another moment David gave in.
Jack noiselessly regained his feet, joined the other two guards. Bumlets and Digger, at opposite walls, were idly tossing between them a ball of wadded-up waxed paper wound with rubber bands. They spared him a glance as he took a seat to one side of them. The ball flew lazily back and forth; it made a soft, rhythmic chuk...chuk as the two boys caught and lobbed it back again, and he let his gaze and thoughts spin out into the darkness beyond the lamps.
It was no good; it all led back to one thing. Just because David didn't always react didn't mean he wasn't always listening, and they'd forgotten that today, Jack himself included. Hadn't exactly been their finest hour, standing around and arguing over him this morning as though he weren't even there. Or worse yet—as though he were there, but not in any way that really mattered.
It mattered. Of course it did. Even if David wasn't the David Jack had known; even if he might never be, again.
No. Jack bit down hard on that line of thought.
His gaze dropped to his hands, which, he discovered, had started to pick apart the corner of the Bowie's canvas sheath, worrying the tough stitching loose while his mind and eyes were elsewhere. He let go of it, sternly reminding himself that he'd done enough damage of the sort to the sheath of his regular knife already. And that the main reason he hadn't gotten around to repairing it yet was that he wasn't sure he could successfully wield a needle and thread without fatally skewering himself.
I...don't think that would help, David would have probably stated wryly, had he been around to see it, even if he would have only said it in Jack's head. Whether David would have meant the loose thread-picking, or Jack stabbing himself with the needle, was up for debate.
Something small and brown flew at his head and he instinctively shied to one side, and the ball bounced lightly off his shoulder instead. He glanced up. Digger looked worried, but Bumlets' smile was easy and downright infectious. Jack stared expressionlessly at the ball for a long moment, long enough for Digger to clear his throat in nervousness, then without warning Jack scooped up the missile and threw it back, hard. Bumlets flung his hands up in mock alarm, and the crumpled paper smacked harmlessly into his palms.
"Numbskull," Jack grumbled, just loud enough to be heard. Bumlets only smiled all the wider.
Jack relaxed a little, biting back a grin, scooting over to lean against the wall near the dark-haired boy. The game resumed and he declined to join in, but that was all right.