Chapter One – Welcome to Spitalfields
Bill awoke to a cacophony of sound; workmen calling to one another, tradesmen barking orders, the creak of pulleys and levers from the Thames, the sound of water lapping against the various boats and barges that populated its waters.
He struggled to his feet; no-one noticed him, just another unfamiliar face amongst the crowd. He jammed his cap firmly back on his head, brushing himself down before descending the steps where he'd spent the night.
The morning was cool and crisp, a slight breeze soon picked up. Bill had no idea where to go or what to do; this had seemed like such a brilliant plan…but now he was in an unfamiliar part of London, with not the slightest idea where he was, the bridge being his only landmark. He didn't like the feeling of being lost.
Trying to look as though he knew what he was doing, the boy made his way towards what he hoped was the centre of town, his hands jammed in his pockets, his worn boots scuffing the pavements. The streets of the city were crowded at this time of day, people everywhere you turned, jostling, pushing, shoving, running hither and thither, plying their trade, chatting, laughing, looking at the market stalls…
At one such stall, a man caught Bill's eye. It was hard to identify anyone in this throng, but this man stood out a little more than the rest. He was dressed for winter weather in a long green overcoat, a broad-brimmed black hat atop his head. His hair was nothing more than a tangle of ginger and he had a three-day beard about his chin in the same hue. As Bill drew nearer, he saw that the man was quite short for his age (he looked to be about nine and thirty) with sharp, darting eyes and tattered fingerless gloves on his thin hands. He continued to watch, enthralled, as the man reached for a loaf of bread from the stall, deftly swiped it and tucked it inside his overcoat.
Before Bill could notice anything more, the man bolted, scurrying down the street like a frightened mouse being pursued by a cat. It was only then, as the man ran off with the loaf, that Bill realized he was hungry. Painfully so.
He decided to follow him.
This was no easy task, the streets appeared to become more crowded by the minute. After a few minutes frantic searching, Bill had lost all sight of the man. Cursing under his breath he turned back around, intending to go and find food somewhere else.
An hour or so had elapsed. Bill had seen neither hide nor hair of the strange man, nor had he been able to pluck up the courage to attempt what the man had done to get the bread. He'd tried appealing to those who passed him for food, but they simply sneered at him and walked on, muttering angrily to themselves about the beggars and urchins of today.
Grumbling now, feeling faint from hunger, Bill sank down onto the pavement, not longer caring for the people that bumped into him or nearly tripped over him, chin in his hands as he tried to come up with a plan. He just needed food…should he try doing as that man had done? Could he do that?
The sound of whistling, somewhat off key, started the boy from his thoughts. Looking up, who should he see but that man again, whistling through his teeth in a rather irritating fashion, hands deep in his pockets. He was walking casually towards yet another stall, this one selling ripe red apples. This time Bill tailed him, watching wide-eyed as he picked up an apple and shoved it in his pocket without a second thought.
"Oi! Thief!"
The stall owner had spotted them, but it wasn't the strange man he was after. He thought Bill had stolen the fruit! Said man, noticing this, grinned wickedly before starting to scurry away again. But before he could go more than a few paces Bill managed to stop him in his tracks.
"It wosn't me, for gawd's sake! It wos him!" He pointed frantically to the man and, while the stall owner looked away, Bill made his escape. The true thief meanwhile had taken off at a run, his coat flying behind him, the stall owner in hot pursuit.
Chuckling to himself as he watched the pair run off, Bill swiped himself an apple of his own before darting off down a nearby alleyway, safe at last, and with food in his hand.
He continued in this vein for the rest of the day, swiping food from stalls and carts of all denominations. He was surprised to find he could achieve his aims without being spotted; he was small and scrawny enough not to be noticed, it would seem.
Night soon drew on and Bill soon found himself lost amongst a labyrinth of alleyways, the cold moon casting its eerie light across the murky streets. He trudged on for what felt like hours, but made no progress. Every alley looked exactly the same.
Muttering furiously, Bill settled down to sleep on the doorstep of what looked to be an abandoned house, pulling his ragged coat about him in a vain attempt to stave off the cold. By some miracle he managed to sleep, not sparing the strange man from earlier another thought.
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Bill was awoken by someone tripping over him. He hadn't expected this and awoke with a jolt, prepared to yell at whoever had disturbed what little sleep he was likely to get.
Looking up, he realized with a sinking feeling that the man who had tripped over him was none other than the ginger haired, food-stealing man with the funny hat. He would have groaned dispiritedly and tried to get back to sleep, not wanting to talk to a man who'd tried to get him caught, but no sooner had he thought this then the man had grabbed him, pinning him against the wall.
"What was that for, eh?" he growled, his face inches away from Bill's. The man's breath reeked of cheap gin, and Bill shrank back as much as he could, fearing for his life though his eyes were still half closed. The man was a maniac; that much was obvious.
"Wot?" Bill mumbled, still half asleep.
"You know very well what!" snarled the man, shaking Bill by the collar. "Tryin' to get me nabbed by the traps, were you, eh?"
"Wot're you talkin' about?" snapped Bill, wide awake now at the man's accusation. He knew who the traps were; his father had mentioned them often, in very colourful and unpleasant language. "There wos no traps about!"
The man rolled his bloodshot eyes, still glowering at Bill. "There could have been!" he replied with what little nonchalance he had, loosening his grip on Bill's throat a fraction. "Who are you anyway?"
"Shouldn't I be askin' you tha'?" Bill quipped back, trying to wriggle free of the man's grip. But even though it wasn't as tight as it had been before, it was still strong enough to prevent hiss escape.
"Perhaps…" answered the man, with the faintest hint of a smile. "As long as you promise not to rat me out."
Bill rolled his eyes. This man was paranoid!
"I promise," he said solemnly, curious despite himself. What sort of person steals food, blames it on a passing stranger and then comes to interrogate said stranger in a deserted alleyway in the middle of the night?
"Good," the man hissed, smiling toothily. "Good, my dear." He let go of Bill, helping the boy up as he crumpled on the pavement. Bill accepted the man's assistance, rubbing his head and he was helped to his feet.
"Allow me to introduce myself," said the man theatrically, giving Bill an extravagant bow. "My name is Fagin. Just Fagin; although I won't say no to Mister Fagin Esquire, if you're so inclined." He grinned again, holding out a hand for Bill to shake. "And yourself?"
Bill didn't shake the man's hand…not yet. Could he trust him?
"Bill Sykes," he replied, with no theatrics whatsoever.
"I like it," Fagin replied, with a little chuckle. "Nice strong name that. Short for William, I'd imagine, eh, my dear?"
"Don't call me that or I'll rip yer limbs off." Bill's hands were clenched, his voice uncharacteristically low and menacing, his eyes narrowed. William was his father's name, a name he never wanted to hear again.
Fagin blanched. "Whatever you say, my dear. Whatever you say." In truth, even with those ten words, the scrawny boy had chilled the old man to the core. It frightened him how the boy could look so normal one moment and furious the next.
Bill folded his arms across his chest, now silently fuming at the memories the name had forced to resurface. He took a step away from Fagin, his eyes trained on the cobblestones.
There was an awkward pause. Fagin fiddled nervously with his gloves, wondering what to say next.
"Well…"
Bill looked up at the sound of Fagin's voice, his glare still firmly in place.
"I'll see you around my dear…"
Fagin began to scuttle off again, his shoes making an odd scuffling noise on the pavement as he walked. He was soon out of sight, disappearing down another alleyway. Bill shrugged off the odd meeting and was about to go back to sleep, when he felt himself being grabbed roughly from behind. He let out a yell of surprise and tried to squirm free, but whoever had a grip on him was too strong.
"Wot're you doin' outside my house?" hollered the man who'd grabbed him, his voice thick and slurred. Even as Bill struggled he felt blows raining down on him; the man was drunk, but clearly not without strength. "I don't want no beggars 'ere! Get out of it!"
Bill found himself face down on the cobblestones, tasting blood. A new, shriller voice joined the yelling of the man, a sharp reprimand was dealt and a door slammed.
Those were the last sounds Bill heard before he slipped into unconsciousness.
"Poor dear," muttered Fagin, sparing a last withering glance at the drunkard's front door. "Out of 'is mind…" He approached the fallen boy, a small smile twisting his features. "Welcome to Spitalfields, Mister Sykes. Looks like you're coming home with me."
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A/N: Sorry this took me so long to get up; hope you liked it! I certainly did. ^^ Little Bill is fun to write, as is younger Fagin. An interesting meeting, yes?
Please R&R! =)
