Chapter Two – A Humble Abode
Bill cracked open his eyes, wincing as he was near blinded by sunlight. Shielding his eyes he struggled into a sitting position. The light which had awoken him was streaming through a cracked window opposite; in fact, all the windows in the place were cracked.
Where was he?
As his eyes gradually adjusted to the light, Bill discovered a little more about his present situation. He was in what looked like an enormous attic or loft, with wooden floorboards, stone walls and a sloping ceiling. Here and there across the beams of the roof ropes were strung up; these ropes were coated in silk handkerchiefs, a riot of shape, size and colour.
In the middle of the room was a large wooden table, about which were dotted several chairs. There was an alcove to the far end of the room, separated from the rest of the loft by a tattered curtain. Next to this cordoned off area was another small space; this contained, from what Bill could see, a fireplace and an old writing desk, littered with paper.
Looking in the other direction Bill could see a set of steps beneath a precariously low beam (this one hung with a ragged Union Jack) leading to the door. Beside the door he could just made out a barrel, stuffed with a collection of old walking sticks and umbrellas. On the opposite side of the door stood a coat rack on which hung a number of coats and hats, including those he was sure he'd seen Fagin wearing the previous day.
Bill was perplexed; Fagin had walked off, hadn't he? I'll see you around, my dear?
"Awake, I see…"
Bill started. He'd been so absorbed in his strange surroundings that he hadn't noticed Fagin seated at the table. He was eating a steaming plateful of sausages with great aplomb, his grin back in place as he looked at the startled boy.
"W-wot…why am I 'ere? Wot is this place?"
Fagin laughed; a rasping, scraping, wheezing sound that made him sound as if he'd been chewing sandpaper rather than sausages.
"This is nothing more than my humble abode, my dear, my humble abode."
"Tha' don't explain why I'm 'ere! You walked off!"
"That I did, my dear. But I came back. You were takin' a right beatin' from old Tim Evans, let me tell you that!"
Bill ground his teeth; hating the way Fagin made him sound weak. He then recalled the shrill voice and the accusatory tone; it had been Fagin who had forced the drunken man to let him go! Bill stared at him wide-eyed; he looked so thin and frail, surely it couldn't have been him!
Fagin noticed his incredulous expression and laughed all the more, pounding his fist on the table. Eventually his laughter subsided and, wiping a tear of mirth from his eyes, he invited Bill to join him at the table, where he'd set down another plate of food and a mug of gin and water.
Bill soon devoured the food; despite the fact that the sausages tasted a bit off he ate them all just the same. He'd had gin and water many times before; the Sykes' residence choice of beverage, and he clearly amazed Fagin by draining the mug in one go.
"You seem to like the gin, my dear…" Fagin said with a chuckle as he cleared away the plates and mugs.
Bill nodded, his eyes wandering back to the strange room and its collection of silk handkerchiefs. Fagin noticed this and chuckled again; a very merry gentleman indeed.
"I see you're a-strain' at the pocket handkerchiefs, eh, my dear?"
Bill nodded again. "You stole 'em then?" he asked matter of factly, referring to Fagin's stealing of the food.
Surprisingly, Fagin didn't seem scared of the question. Indeed, he seemed to relish it. "That's right, my dear. Each and every one. After a few years they're bound to add up, and they do make the place look a little nicer."
It was Bill's turn to laugh now, although in a somewhat guarded manner. Who was this lunatic? He pinched handkerchiefs for a living!
"You live 'ere on your own then?" he asked, gesturing to the loft. It was, he now realized, a very large space, especially for such a slight man as Fagin.
Fagin nodded, tugging his pipe from his pocket and lighting it. "Indeed I do, my dear…that is, unless you intend to stay?"
Bill wasn't sure what to say to that. The man had rescued him and taken him in, certainly, but there was something about him that Bill didn't like.
Maybe it was the crafty gleam in his eye or the way his fingers kept twitching of their own accord, as if he was practicing pickpocketing thin air.
Maybe it was the fact that during the course of their first meeting Fagin had woken him up and slammed him against a wall.
Maybe it was the fact he'd tried to blame Bill for something Bill hadn't done (at least, not until he was out of sight).
Maybe it was the fact that he'd called him by his father's name.
Bill may have been born and raised in a bad part of town with all sorts of shady characters and he may have only been ten years of age…but this man, Fagin…Bill could tell he wasn't to be trusted. He wouldn't stay here a minute longer than necessary.
At length, Fagin extinguished his pipe and got to his feet, donning his hat and making to leave the flat. Bill frowned after him as he made his way to the door, without offering even a word of explanation. He picked up Fagin's abandoned pipe and wondered momentarily if he'd be able to nick one of his own…
"Where you goin'?" he asked Fagin as the man proceeded towards the door.
"Out, Bill, my dear. To work."
With that, Fagin shut the door behind him and scuttled down the worn old steps of the canal bridge, intending to hitch a hackney cab to the centre of town. He wasn't sure what to do about Bill…did he want him to hang around? Or should he let him go his own way?
Bill frowned after Fagin as he scurried off, leaving him alone in the flat. Now, he realized, would be the perfect time to get out of here. He hurried to the door and pulled…but it was locked. Fagin had locked him in! Had he guessed he might want to escape? Was he still paranoid that Bill would run off and tell the police about him? He had half a mind to now, after this!
He returned to the table and poured himself another mugful of gin, 'forgetting' to add the water. He downed it in one gulp and then, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, decided to take the opportunity to explore the flat further (what else was there to do?).
In the two hours that Fagin was gone, Bill discovered that Fagin had two cupboards full of bottles (some full, some half empty, some broken), a vast collection of mugs, tankards and glasses, several packs of playing cards, two pairs of shoes, a stuffed owl, an array of cooking utensils and a grand total of fifty three handkerchiefs. Yes, he'd been bored enough to count them.
He was just about to look for hidden trapdoors (who knew with this bloke?) when the door creaked open and Fagin came in again, humming merrily to himself. Noticing Bill creeping about on all fours, Fagin raised an eyebrow.
"Lost something, my dear?" he asked, beginning to empty his pockets onto the table; three handkerchiefs, five wallets and a bag of what smelt like currant buns.
"No…" Bill said awkwardly, getting to his feet, not sure what else to say.
Fagin frowned and began stringing up the new handkerchiefs.
Bill swiped a bun from Fagin's paper bag while the man was distracted, quickly stuffing it in his pocket. He grinned inwardly at what the odd man had unknowingly taught him.
"Why'd you lock me in, Fagin?" he asked, after a pause. "Why didn't you let me come out to work wiv ya?"
"I did?" Fagin asked, looking confused. "I locked you in, did I? I don't recall doing that, my dear, not in the slightest!" His tone was innocent and friendly, a bemused smile on his face, but these emotions didn't meet his eyes. He was suspicious, and Bill knew it.
Bill nodded again, with a slight shrug of his shoulders. It didn't matter now.
He would escape tonight.
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A/N: Hope you all liked this chapter. ^^ Yes, Fagin has a stuffed owl. Why? Because he can.
Please R&R! :3
