Chapter Fifty-Two – The Greatest Man of All Time

How long had he been running? He didn't know, he didn't care. As long as he got away.

He stopped once he reached the relative safety of an alleyway, his heart pounding furiously, sweat and tears mingling as they coursed down his face. He squeezed his eyes tight shut to try and stop the tears…he never cried. Never.

No…it was foolish trying to tell himself that now. He did cry, he was crying. He wiped his free hand furiously across his face, the other hand gripping Oliver's arm like a vice. It didn't appear that Oliver had noticed Sykes' weakness; the boy was too preoccupied with trying to break free of the housebreaker's grip. But despite his tears Sykes was still strong as ever, and clung on grimly to the boy's arm.

It was then as Sykes attempted to dry his eyes that he noticed Bulls-Eye; the dog was lumbering on ahead of them without looking back. Bill called for him; the dog stopped in his tracks but didn't return. Bill knew he had to get the dog back; his paws were sticky with blood. He tried calling again but the dog still refused to come back. Seeming momentarily to lose his fragile sense of control, Bill flung himself at Bulls-Eye, intending to grab him. The dog had other ideas, bolting as fast as its stubby legs could carry it, back in the direction of London Bridge.

Bill cursed but he couldn't chase after the dog; Oliver had taken advantage of Sykes' letting go of him to try and make a run for it himself. Bill seized the boy before he could move away any further and proceeding to haul him through the warren like maze of back alleys and streets that led to Fagin's. He needed money…he needed to get away…and if they came for him, if the traps were onto him, he'd have the boy to bargain with…

"Brass. I need some brass. I've gotta get away!"

The gang had looked shocked as Bill enetered the den, Oliver in tow; the manic and wild look in his eyes clearly indicated that something was wrong. And despite this Fagin, to whom Bill was now hurriedly conversing, seemed to not have registered his old protégé's panic.

"What's wrong Bill?"

"Didn't you 'ear wot I said? I need brass…money!"

The look of confusion on Fagin's face vanished, slowly but surely being replaced with one of anxiety…no…of fear.

"There's…blood…on your coat…"

Bill could feel the tears welling up in his eyes again. He looked away, taking deep, shaking breaths to try and calm himself. But nothing worked. The expression on the faces of Fagin and the boys, the look of abject terror on Oliver's, his own tangled web of emotions…it all cultimated into an experience that was painful almost physically as well as emotionally. For the thousandth time, he asked himself the question. What have I done?

"Where's Nancy? Hmm?"

Sykes shook his head, saying nothing but feeling everything, the reality of what had occurred crushing him like a vice, piercing like a thousand steely knives.

"Bill? Bill Sykes? What did you do? What did you do?"

Somehow Bill found some words to speak, but he regretted them as soon as they were said. His voice was low and gravelly as ever, but it's shakiness clearly indicated just how unsettled and unhinged he really was.

"She won't peach on nobody no more."

An admission of guilt. He'd killed her. He'd killed Nancy. The look Fagin gave him next was a mixture of horror and terror the likes of which he'd never seen the old man wear before.

"You shouldn't…have done that…" A pause. Then, more fiercely; "She peached? You're sure?"

"She must've done, musn't she? She wos takin' the boy to Brownlow on the bridge…'e was there waitin' for 'er-"

"Well then what did you come here for? Get out, y'hear me? Get out!"

It was as though the pair had suddenly returned to the man and boy they had been in their first meeting; Fagin with the authority and the upper hand, Bill his disobedient charge who deserved to be punished. But Bill was having none of it. He started towards Fagin, eyes blazing, a hand outstretched as if to grab his old mentor by the throat…

"I want money, Fagin!"

The old man seemed to quail, trembling as he extracted his coin purse from his pocket.

"H-how much? T-ten? Twenty?"

Bill snatched the purse from Fagin's shaking fingers, ignoring the man's protests.

"If anyone should come 'ere lookin' fer me-"

"They won't find me here! You don't think I'm just gonna stand 'ere and wait for 'em, do y-"

Fagin's reply was abruptly cut off by the sound of barking. The flat fell silent. Bill's stomach churned; he knew that bark as well as he knew his own voice.

"It's him," he muttered, more to himself than the others. "Bull's-Eye."

Moving away from Fagin he hurried to the window; sure enough it was Bull's-Eye approaching the den…closely following by a baying crowd. Bill was certain he'd gone white. Hurriedly he withdrew his head from the window, mind thrown into even more panic than he would have thought possible. It seemed that Fagin was following along the same lines; having seen the crowd for himself he addressed the boys, instructing them to be quick as they were changing lodgings. This command given, chaos erupted. Boys appeared from every nook and cranny, grabbing all they could, donning hats and waistcoats, scrambling to escape.

Sykes, on the fringes of the crowd, was muttering frantically to himself, as though mad.

"Nancy, I loved you, didn't I? Look wot you've done to me!"

With that he plunged into the crowd of boys, noticing that Oliver was attempting to join in the fray. He grabbed him around the waist and dragged him to the door but before he could make his exit he was verbally waylaid by Fagin.

"Bill! Why make things worse? Leave 'im!"

Bill turned to face him, face contorted with a mixture of fury and fear.

"It's me they're after!" he spat. "But they won't go for me. Not if the boy goes, they won't. So you keep outta this!"

With that he wrenched open the door and pulled Oliver out along with him, not sparing a last look for the man who had raised him to become what he had, the man who'd taught him to pickpocket, the man whom he both respected and detested, hated and appreciated. A friend? Certainly not. But there'd been more to them than the relationship between mentor and apprentice.

The crowd was swarming towards the den, Bull's-Eye in the lead, barking all the more at the sight of his master. Standing on the bridge as he was, Bill could see the extent of the crowd; it stretched as far as he could see, and probably further; a furious crowd salivating for his blood. He could hear their cries and shouts, threats and curses and, probably due to the unusual and overwhelming feelings of guilt and regret that consumed him, he found that he was afraid.

It was then that the crowd began to ascend the rickety steps towards him. Bill considered backing away, but at the last minute darted forward and, without thinking, dangled Oliver over the side of the bridge, as if testing the boy's power as a bargaining tool. This didn't quite work out as Bill had hoped; there were appropriate gasps and cries of shock, but now the crowd seemed all the more determined to get at him, dozens more attempting to climb the steps.

However, the steps were used to the light feet of the boys, Fagin's soft shoed tread and they'd grown used to Bill's marginally heavier walk over the years. But nothing had prepared them for the onslaught of people which now weighed them down. From his vantage point Bill could see the stairs begin to give way beneath them, but he was more concerned with the boards now breaking free of their restraints around him…he had to get off the bridge before it collapsed…

Sykes stepped hurriedly backwards, Oliver in tow, unsteady on his feet as the bridge gave way around him. He was in luck however, rather than backing to the opposite side of the bridge, he'd backed against the abandoned building at its end; the window to be more specific. It was this building or the rapidly collapsing bridge, and Bill knew the most sensible option. Twisting around he gave the window a hefty kick or two; the glass was brittle with age and breaking it was much easier than anticipated. He forced his way through the gap he'd made, dragging Oliver with him.

It was a reprieve, but he hadn't escaped yet. The building seemed to be some sort of abandoned warehouse, not that this mattered to either party as they hurried through it, one dragging, the other being dragged. Having reached the opposite end of the building Bill wrenched open the door he was faced with, only to be confronted by an unanticipated problem; there was no way to get from this building to the next. It didn't help of course that the next building was not as tall as the one he and Oliver were occupying and would have to be accessed via the roof. It also was a hindrance that the crowd appeared to have anticipated the outcome of his decision in entering the building and had flocked to meet him on the street below.

The decision was obvious; he would have to get across from this building to the roof of the one opposite. And he'd have to be quick about it; he could see a number of policemen attempting to batter down the door below, if they succeeded they would soon be advancing up the floors of the old warehouse to arrest him…

It was then, as he attempting to come up with a solution to this new and alarming problem that he noticed a beam up above him with a disused rope hanging from it, though barely. Sykes grabbed in and tugged; the rope fell and coiled haphazardly at his feet. He bent to pick it up and tied one end into a strong loop, hopefully this would be strong enough to hold him. This done he tied the other end of the rope around his waist, secured with the strongest knot he knew. He could hear the crowd below wondering as to what he planned to do, hear the splintering of the door as the police continued to barge it…

Bill handed Oliver the rope and picked him up once more, assisting him in climbing so the boy was astride the beam. The child was clearly terrified; he was shaking in Bill's grasp, but he clung on grimly to the wood as though his life depended on it…and it did.

"You loop the rope over the end of tha' beam there," Sykes instructed, attempting to keep his voice calm as a means of keeping a cool head himself. He saw the boy nod shakily and proceed along the beam, the multitude of people below clearly outraged at the task Sykes was forcing the boy to do.

It felt like an age to Sykes but at long last he saw Oliver slip the crudely fastened rope over the beam. Having tugged the rope and ensured its strength, Bill turned to face the opposite roof. It was crazy, he knew, to attempt to access it this was, but what other choice did he have? Gripping the rope tightly he took a few paces backwards then, resisting the urge to close his eyes, swung over the edge of the small platform he was standing on, aiming for the roof.

He almost made it, but not quite. The rope could have given way, but miraculously it held. However Sykes only managed to touch the rooftop, not having long enough to grab on and climb upwards. He heard the people below gasp at his daring (and foolishness), heard the sickening crash from the door as it gave way, the jubilant cries of the police as they hurried inside…he only had one more chance. The last chance.

Bill steadied himself on the platform, gritting his teeth, face set. This was it; do or die. He pushed himself off the platform again, there was a momentary feeling of being flung into nothingness…then he felt it. The hard, solid surface of the roof in his hands. Clinging on grimly he pulled himself up, even going so far as to scrabble at the surface with his feet in an attempt to aid himself. He was on his feet again in a matter of minutes, but he was very unsteady. The rope was still tight around his waist…he would untie himself and then continue his flight, run until he could run no more…

In untying the rope he would be cutting off all ties to his past life. That was what he hoped to do. Somehow he would make the guilt and regret fade, start anew. The knot around his waist was tight and the devil to undo, and it didn't help that some members of the crowd were attempting to knock him from his new and precarious perch by throwing stones, trying to throw him off balance. He flung these back as they neared him, enraged, and continued to scrabble at the rope like a man possessed.

But all his efforts were in vain.

A bang, the stench of gunpowder, a yell, the frenzied howls of the dog, the smell of blood…

He heard Bulls-Eye yelp, heard a roar from the crowd, heard the gun go off. The bullet made its mark and he stumbled, flailing, floundering. He couldn't feel the stickiness of the blood, he was too far gone, lost in a haze of searing, excruciating pain. He tried to stay upright but it was no use; merely moments after the bullet struck he fell from the rooftop, the force of his weight causing the rope to swing back and forth as it had before.

Only this time the man wasn't alive.

Bill Sykes was dead; killed by a bullet wound to the chest. To the heart. Where it would hurt the most.

He'd begun his life in the shadow of a demonizing, alcoholic father and, having run away and attempted to escape that life, fallen into a den of thieves and been corrupted further beyond measure. He had never been destined for greatness, despite Fagin's promises. A victim of circumstance, perhaps. But then, he'd made the choice to stay with Fagin. The choice the housebreak. The choice to try and escape through his relationship with Nancy. But he'd killed her; killed his one chance of normalcy, his one chance at true happiness, at love. It was as though everything he did, everything he touched, was bound to fall apart, break into a thousand pieces. He could never have been the greatest man, not of all time. But was he truly a bad man? He'd pick pocketed, mugged, robbed from houses, lied, cursed, beaten, murdered…was it possible there'd been some semblance, some shred of good in him? As all good people have their faults, so do villains have their redeeming features, however small and insignificant they may seem…surely. Others may not have seen them, or if they had, chosen not to see. But there was one person who had. Who had seen the kindness hidden inside the gruff and violent exterior, the man behind the monster.

"'E's not a bad man Fagin, honest," Nancy replied gently. "'E's Bill."

FINIS