Chapter Six – Question & Answer
As Fagin and Bill proceeded back to the flat, Fagin asked (although he knew) what Bill had been doing with himself these past two weeks. The boy answered truthfully for the most part, with some major embellishments with regards to the fights he'd engaged in, which amused Fagin greatly. He didn't let on that he'd seen everything firsthand of course; what purpose would that serve?
As he and Bill arrived back at the den, the moon was just beginning to peer through the clouds. Fagin glanced at his pocket watch; a quarter past ten. Fagin detested winter; it got dark so early now, meaning less people about, meaning less pockets to be picked…oh, it was a cruel world, so it was.
"Did I say that out loud?" Fagin asked, noticing Bill's quizzical look.
"Yeah, you did."
"Oh."
The door was unlocked, and Fagin ushered Bill inside. The loft was especially cozy tonight, with a fire in the grate casting a warm red glow across the floorboards, and a pot of coffee whistling on the stove. Fagin hurried off to attend to it, while Bill sat himself down at the table, amazed as ever with the loft's staggering amount of silk handkerchiefs.
Fifty three.
He had to ask Fagin why he pinched handkerchiefs when there were plenty good wallets. That was in fact one of many questions burning in the mind of young Bill Sykes; some he felt could wait and some he felt couldn't. For now he was perfectly content to just to sit there and soak up the warmth of the fire; surely he must have been mad to want to escape from this place? It was only now he realized just how cold the streets had been and, frighteningly, how used he'd become to them.
"Here you are, my dear!" said Fagin triumphantly, placing a chipped mug of coffee before the boy. Normally he'd just drink it out of the pot but this was not one of those times. He and Bill had to talk business and therefore it followed that the coffee should be in the best mugs. Best meaning somewhat chipped.
Bill smiled gratefully; the mug was hot to the touch, pleasing after the cold streets. To tell the truth, Bill had only had coffee once and that had been a mistake, so he wasn't at all used to the scalding beverage, nor it's after effects. Having taken a larger gulp than necessary he was obliged to indulge in a fit of watery eyed coughing for a moment or two, a performance which caused Fagin to bite back a grin. He waited until it had subsided, then attempted to start the conversation he deemed necessary.
"Now then Bill, my dear, there's a few things we need to hammer out-"
"I thought-"
"Let me finish, please."
Bill fell silent, taking another, smaller sip of his coffee. He couldn't say that he liked it; it was very gritty and far too hot, but he wasn't about to let this on to Fagin, not after he'd taken him in again. The state of the coffee was trivial compared to the job he was about to undertake at any rate.
"Let's see now…you're to go out every morning my dear, to the centre of town, and pick some prime pockets until about three, all right? Just go from here to The Three Cripples; there's always a hackney cab or two you can hitch a ride from…Of course, in return for your services, you'll have a warm bed, food, clothes and everything else, free of charge. And don't think you won't actually get wages, my dear…I've got a neat little sum set aside for anything of particular value that you bring back. Here's a shilling for you to start us off." He fished a small silver coin from his purse and handed it to Bill with a small smile. "I don't charge interest."
Bill plucked the coin from Fagin's fingers with a grin of his own, tossing it into the air and catching it in his hand again. He was pleased, very much so. This offer of Fagin's sounded too good to be true! There was just one problem…
"Wot's The Three Cripples, Fagin? Do you want me to nick handkerchiefs? Why them; are they valuable or summit? Are we gonna go on the job together? If we're startin' off wiv a shillin', 'ow much are we talkin' later on? Wot d'you mean by 'anythin' of particular value'?"
All right, so maybe more than one.
Fagin cackled with laughter at Bill's tirade of questions, narrowly avoiding spraying the boy with the coffee he'd had in his mouth when the boy began. Hurriedly wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he managed to stop himself from laughing and compose himself to speak.
"One at a time, my dear, one at a time!" he spluttered, risking another sip of coffee. Bill's mug seemed nearly untouched; curious…
Bill shot Fagin an apologetic glance before posing his first inquiry again.
"Wot's The Three Cripples?"
Fagin chuckled inwardly. Bill would see soon enough.
"The Three Cripples is an establishment not too far from here, my dear-"
"Wot sort of an 'establishment', Fagin? An ale 'ouse or what?" Fagin must have forgotten that Bill had spent the last few weeks flitting about such places.
"That's right, my dear, an ale house. Lovely place, lovely people, lots of gin…you know."
Bill grinned. Lots of gin sounded right up his alley.
"Why 'andkerchiefs? You've got fifty three of 'em!"
"Fifty six, actually!" Fagin said, whipping three more brightly coloured silk squares from his coat pockets like a magician and dropping them on the table. "The reason I like to pick up handkerchiefs, my dear, is quite simple, yet many people don't realize the beauty of it."
Fagin spoke as if he were a philosopher, imparting wise words into the minds of the foolhardy. "You see, Bill, the toffs have these here handkerchiefs as a symbol of their status, the fancier the better. Of course, that means they sell pretty well, don't it?"
He grinned, picking up one of the handkerchiefs and showing it to Bill. Two letters, JM, were stitched into the corner of the fabric. "Course, we have to pick out these here marks before we sell 'em off…otherwise people'd figure out where they came from. That would be…bad."
Bill nodded. There did seem to be a point in nicking them then.
"So why d'you still 'ave fifty…six, Fagin? Why 'aven't you sold 'em?"
"I've told you before my dear, they make the place look nice. Do they not?"
Bill nodded again. They did give the loft a little something; not that he was by any means an expert in décor. But yes, they were nice.
"Any more questions before I continue, my dear?"
Bill nodded, wondering what Fagin meant by continue. What more was there to say? They'd sorted out what had to be sorted out, hadn't they?
"One last one. Wot d'you mean, things of particular value?"
"Anything you bring back that's particularly special, my dear. A snuffbox, a pocketwatch, that sort of thing. Is that all you wanted to know?"
Bill replied in the affirmative.
"One last thing that I need to say, my dear, is this. Something very important before you goes out on any jobs for me. Listen carefully now."
Bill sat up straighter in his chair, his face set, a sense of pride and importance welling up in his chest. He loved how that sounded; he would be going out on jobs; he would be doing what he did best, and getting paid for it too! That was more than William Sykes Senior could boast of.
Fagin coughed importantly, as if he were about to start a speech.
"There's one thing you must be very clear of, my dear. You are now no longer a mere street urchin, you are now in my employ. As such, you must never, for any reason, breathe one word about me, or this place or anything of that sort to anyone, you understand? Even if, as I highly doubt, you end up caught with the hangman's noose around your neck, you must never, ever speak a word! Not even if you face the drop! Do you understand?"
The man said these words with such fierceness and violence of temper that Bill, for all his newfound courage, was taken about, almost toppling off his chair. He managed to somehow keep his composure and stared rigidly at Fagin as the latter wrung his hands agitatedly in his lap.
"Y-yes Fagin…I understand…" he said, reaching out a somewhat tentative hand for his benefactor to shake.
Fagin smiled toothily and shook the hand of his young charge.
"I knew you would, my dear, I knew you would, fine fellow that you are." He ruffled Bill's hair affectionately, as a beloved father would his son, before leading the boy off to bed. As he turned to retire to his own quarters, he was verbally waylaid once again by Bill.
"'Ey Fagin? Will you teach me tha' song you wos singin' before; the pickpocketin' one?"
Fagin chuckled.
"Certainly, my boy. No fee."
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A/N: Sorry it's taken me so long to update, but this was a nice long chapter so I hope we're all even. XD
I'm really enjoying writing this story, a major thank you to my dear Nancy Buddy Katarina Sparrow 19 for all the inspiration and the faith you have in me. Many thanks and muffins of brilliance also to my dear Coralyne, who has faithfully reviewed all my Oliver Twist tales thus far. I love you guys! :3
R&R one and all!
