Chapter Five – A Proposition

If there was one thing Fagin knew it was that, in this life, you had to be tough to survive. And young Mister Sykes wasn't tough, he couldn't survive. Not yet. He'd see how he did and, if everything went as Fagin expected it to go, there would be hope for the lad yet. He'd leave him alone, for a week or two…long enough for him to learn a lesson but not long enough (he hoped) that he would find the boy murdered in an alleyway.

That wouldn't be at all convenient.

--

Bill muttered furious curses as he limped down the alley, wiping blood hurriedly from a cut on his lip. What had possessed him that he should try and take a half empty gin bottle from a slumbering drunk?

His pace slowed as his legs trembled beneath him. He'd barely been able to steal enough food these past few days and his throat was parched and dry from lack of drink. Not that alcohol would do him any good in this state; he was weak, shivering and delirious from hunger. But by this stage he didn't care…anything to rid him of this pain in his empty stomach, the cruel throbbing of his heat, the frantic pounding of his heart…

--

Fagin sighed and shook his head, sadly, watching as Bill slumped to the cobblestones in a dead faint. Dear dear… Things weren't going well, and not just for the boy in the alleyway. Fagin himself wasn't able to pick as much as he used to, what with winter drawing on, the cold air keeping the toffs inside and driving the poor to find shelter… And yet, he still held out hope. Bill Sykes showed potential, he showed promise…

--

How long had it been since Fagin let him go? A week? Two? Bill didn't know. He no longer cared; he no longer missed the place. He'd never thought he would miss it, but in those first few days, alone and vulnerable, he'd wished he'd never left. But not now. He'd managed to make quite a name for himself, even at his tender age.

He'd learnt.

--

Fagin watched, amused, as Bill downed yet another bottle of gin. His fourth that day. It didn't affect him the way he used to if he had too much; he no longer stumbled about, bumping into people and getting into fights. He still got into fights, certainly. He seemed to enjoy them; those he won, at least. It wasn't a particularly pleasant sight to watch, with all the blood and cursing, but watch them Fagin did. Quite the violent character was young Bill Sykes. Quite the violent character.

--

Bill looked furtively about, left and right. No-one had noticed him; why should they? Just another street urchin. Quick as a flash he slipped his hand into the man's back pocket, emerging triumphant once again with a good heavy wallet. The man hadn't even noticed! He tucked it inside his waistcoat, hurriedly running off before the man could turn.

He wound his way back through the now familiar alleyways, managing to nick himself some scraps of bread along the way. He'd managed sleeping on the streets; careful to avoid doorsteps. If anyone tried to disturb him, vulnerable little boy that he first appeared, they were in for an unwelcome surprise.

For the past night or two, however, Bill had begun to feel…watched, somehow. At first he'd shrugged the feeling off, assuming it was the natural awareness of the traps at every street corner. But the feeling still persisted, even when he found himself in alleyways he was fairly certain no policeman would dare to venture.

Fagin had noticed this, for of course it was he for whom Bill was on the alert, not that the lad knew it. The time had come, Fagin decided. There was no doubt in his mind that the plan would work; Bill was perfect. He'd been dubious at first, seeing the lad taking such beatings, but he'd toughened up, certainly. Oh, he was a clever dog, very clever indeed.

--

Bill had just found himself what he believed to be a good sleeping spot and was, therefore, about to settle down for the night, when a figure caught his eye, on the opposite side of the narrow street. It was hard to make anything out what with the fog that deigned itself necessary in the city at this time of year, but this man was unmistakable.

Fagin.

Should he approach him? Or should he just ignore him and go to sleep? Bill would have ordinarily chosen the latter, but he sensed the man's ferret eyes following him and decided to make it clear that he wanted nothing to do with him, give him what for. That mingled expression of shiftiness and triumph was un-nerving.

"Wot're you doin' 'ere?"

Fagin raised an eyebrow.

"Is idling in alleyways a crime now, my dear?"

"Why're you watchin' me, Fagin?"

The man chuckled, showing his crooked teeth. Of course Bill might've guessed it was him. There were no traps to be seen, not down this alley.

"As a matter of fact, my dear, I've come with a proposition."

It was Bill's turn to raise an eyebrow.

"Oh really? An' wot might tha' be?"

It must be a trick of Fagin's; no matter what he said, Bill found himself intrigued. He had an aura of cleverness about him, quickness and wit, and made the sort of conversation that sounded important and worth his while. He was happy with the life he was leading now, but he might be prepared to consider what Fagin said…might.

"It's simple. I would like you to come and work for me."

Bill frowned.

"Wot d'you mean?"

Fagin rolled his eyes, than mentally smacked himself. Rolling your eyes at the customer wasn't likely to help matters.

"I've seen you picking pockets, my dear…" he said excitedly. "You're brilliant, my dear; a natural. In case you haven't noticed I'm getting on a bit, and I'm not as good a hand as I once was. The long and short of it is, my dear, if we're both to survive, we're going to need some sort of income. And what better source of income than rich toffs pockets?"

Bill nodded, that much was true.

"So wot you're sayin' is, you want me to come an' pick pockets for you."

"Basically."

"Wot's in it fer me?"

"I'm coming to that, my dear. If you pick pockets for me I'll give you a roof over your head, food in your stomach, all the gin you could want, finances allowing. No more sleeping on the streets, worrying about where your next meal will come from, no more huddling under your coat to keep warm, no more thinking you'll be murdered in your sleep…"

Alright, so not all of this was strictly true. But he was making a business proposal; surely he was allowed some artistic and creative license? Yes, that he was.

Bill stared up at Fagin, not sure how to think of this. A tempting offer…but after what Fagin had done? He was bound to be furious after Bill had stolen the key to his box…He'd still hit him, hadn't he?

But now he could fight back.

"At the risk of sounding cl…cli…at the risk of sounding just like everyone else…do we have a deal?" Fagin held out a gloved hand for Bill to shake, a small smile on his face. Come on, he thought, willing Bill to take the bait. It isn't that hard…just-

Bill shook Fagin's hand, his grip strong and firm, alarmingly so.

Fagin chuckled.

"You've made a good choice, my dear, a good choice. An excellent choice in fact. If you go on the way you've started you'll be the greatest man of all time. I'm sure of it, my dear."

Bill grinned.

The greatest man of all time.

It had a ring to it.

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A/N: The word Fagin's looking for is clichéd. XD

Please R here's hoping you enjoyed this chapter and it lived up to your expectations. Crafty, Mister Fagin is.