Chapter Twenty-Five – Wonder & Whispers
When Bill opened the door to the flat, it was to see all the boys sound asleep; Fagin dozing quietly, his head on the table, his arms as a pillow. The housebreaker gave Dawkins a moment to observe the scene before he broke the tranquility.
"Fagin!"
Fagin woke with a start, nearly toppling off his chair. A quick glance at his pocketwatch informed him it was a quarter to one, hardly a time for Bill to be making such a row. He glowered at the pair of them, Jack Dawkins and Bill, as they approached, the younger boy looking wary.
"I don't recall ordering a wake-up call Bill," Fagin snapped, rubbing his head and continuing to glare. As he noticed the boy, however, his expression softened a little. "Who's this then?"
"This is Jack Dawkins," Bill explained. "Prime pickpocket. Thought you might appreciate an extra 'and."
Fagin smiled widely, his interrupted sleep forgotten entirely at the prospect of a new pickpocket. Dawkins smiled hesitantly back; he was thrilled at the praise he'd received from Bill, although the man hadn't directly been talking to him.
"I hope," said Fagin, grasping the boy's hand and shaking it firmly. "I'll have the honour of your intimate acquaintance. I'm very glad to see you, my dear, very glad indeed!"
Dawkins' smile grew a little broader.
"You know what I think…" Fagin mused, indicating a couple of spare chairs so his companions could sit down.
"You think?" Bill muttered under his breath, just because he could.
Dawkins giggled, but Fagin didn't notice.
"I think we'll need to establish just how prime a pickpocket you are, my dear," Fagin said, steepling his fingers. "See my handkerchief? See if you can take it out without my feelin' it."
Even before Fagin had finished his sentence, the handkerchief was clutched in Jack's grubby hand, the boy's grin wider then ever.
Fagin was startled.
"You…you didn't even move!" he spluttered. "How on earth did you do that?"
"'E picked it before, Fagin," Bill said in his usual monotone, unable to help a grin of his own at Fagin's flabbergasted expression. "When ya shook 'is 'and. 'E took it off ya then."
Dawkins nodded.
"I…I see…" said Fagin weakly, standing up and pulling another handkerchief from one of the ropes strung about the beams. "Let's see how you do when I'm moving about, my dear…"
And so, for the next half an hour, Bill watched, enraptured, as Jack Dawkins stole handkerchief after handkerchief from Fagin's pockets, all with the practiced ease and air of a true professional. He was only close to being caught once, and even then he was able to make up a brilliantly believable lie as to why he'd been about to relieve Fagin of his wallet.
Finally, having had the twentysecond handkerchief stolen from his pocket, Fagin had had enough.
"Well, well, well, my dear…" he said, as he busied himself re-stringing the handkerchiefs. "I don't think I've seen a hand like that since when Bill here was your size, and that's saying something. You're a natural my dear, truly talented!"
His task complete, Fagin hobbled over to the gin cupboard and poured himself and his companions some rather large measures.
Dawkins, looking very pleased with himself, sat back down at the table, grinning from ear to ear. He knew he could pick pockets well, but it wasn't the norm that thieving urchins got praised so highly. He accepted a glass of gin from Fagin and took a big gulp; Bill and Fagin watching him intently all the while.
"Well now…" Fagin said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, sly grin returning to his face a after the initial shock of Dawkins' brilliance. "You can't go around with a name like Jack Dawkins with such talent as that, my dear! It's far too plain; wouldn't you agree Bill?"
Bill nodded absentmindedly, lost in thought. The boy was brilliant, he had to admit it. But even so…he reminded Bill too much of his old comrade for the housebreaker to appreciate him as he should, or even to like him as much as Fagin did. That infectious grin, those bright eyes, even his voice…
Bill simply couldn't bring himself to like the boy.
Why had he brought him back? To help Fagin? Since when had he cared about helping Fagin? Fagin could look after himself, surely!
"Bill?"
Fagin's voice invaded his thoughts.
"Wot?" Bill said, snapping back abruptly to the real world.
"I said, how does the nickname Dodger sound to you? He ducks and weaves and dodges like anything, eh?"
"It needs summit," Bill said in a bored voice, taking another gulp of gin.
"Such as?"
"I dunno," Bill said, with a shrug. "I'm just sayin'."
There was a few moments silence.
Then…
"I have it! The very thing!" Fagin cried, clapping his hands together with glee. "Artful! The Artful Dodger! How does that sound to you, my dear?"
Jack Dawkins, henceforth known as the Artful Dodger, jumped up from his seat and bowed low to Fagin, his enormous grin growing, if possible, even wider.
"Tha' sounds very cunnin', Mister Fagin, very clever indeed! The Artful Dodger it is!"
Fagin cackled with mirth, clapping Dodger on the back.
"Excellent, my dear!" he cried. "Absolutely excellent! What do you say, Bill, my dear? Excellent?"
"Wotever you say Fagin…" Bill said, with a roll of his eyes.
Fagin chuckled.
Dodger looked across the table at Bill, a small frown appearing on his features. He didn't particularly want to face the wrath of the great Bill Sykes, and yet it appeared to him that the great Bill Sykes wasn't entirely pleased with the idea of nicknames.
"Mister Sykes?"
Bill was surprised at being addressed by Dodger. "Wot?" he said, a little irritated with how he and Fagin kept pestering him. Was it any wonder he liked going to the Cripples for his gin nowadays?
"Do you 'ave a nickname then?"
Bill shook his head and took another sip of gin. What a foolish idea; him, have a nickname? Nicknames were for people with no sense of identity. Either that or an identity crisis.
A minute passed in silence; Dodger contemplating his new name, Bill sipping his gin, and Fagin staring at the pair of them. They didn't seem to be getting on…
He clapped his hands to get their attention.
"Hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, my dears, but it's almost three in the morning! We should all go and get some sleep…Dodger, my dear, you'll meet the other lads in the morning, and Nancy of course."
"Nancy?" asked the Artful, curious as ever. He glanced over at Bill. "Is she the one tha'-"
"Yes," said Bill stiffly, getting to his feet. "G'night."
With that he stalked over to his bed, trying to ignore the Dodger and Fagin as they whispered together.
"Why's 'e so…angry, Mister Fagin?"
"He's going through a rough patch, my dear…his best friend got shot during a housebreaking expedition and he hasn't been the same since…"
"'E didn't tell my about that!" The Artful Dodger sounded intrigued.
"He wouldn't tell you now, would he? Not after how it's affected him…"
"Oh. Yeah."
A moment's pause, in which Fagin could be heard taking a noisy slurp of gin.
"I'll tell you something, my dear…" he resumed.
This was the part that strung the most.
"If you go on, the way you've started, you will be the greatest man of all time."
Bill scowled as he huddled under his blanket, now much too small for him, trying to fall asleep. But he could still hear their voices; still hear the false sincerity with which Fagin said those last words.
The greatest man of all time…that was him, wasn't it?
Or was it The Artful Dodger?
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A/N: Oh dear…Dodger and Bill don't seem to like each other, eh?
-shakes head sadly-
I'm so cruel. D:
Please R&R, my dears! ^^