Note: Written in response to the "Pick a Challenge, Any Challenge" Challenge. Not going to say which challenge I'm answering quite yet though, that will be revealed in a later chapter. Rated T for some darker material in later chapters.
The bar was quiet this evening, a few local working men drinking the day away with a stein of beer in front of them, the barmaid clearing up after the latest table to leave and already beginning to think about the end of the night. Peter Newkirk sat in a booth in the back of the room, the same one that he had sat in so many times before as he did his best to blend in with the local crowd. It had the perfect view of the front door to the bar, with a wall to his back so he could unobtrusively track every person who came and went. The perfect place to sit and wait for the underground to make contact.
Newkirk sipped his beer slowly, stifling a yawn. While it would not exactly make him stand out to be yawning after a hard day's work in this crowd, he didn't want their underground contact walking in and thinking he was sleeping on the job. But the truth is, he wasn't simply tired. He was exhausted, and hiding a yawn was the smaller problem. The larger one was keeping his eyes open.
The past few weeks had not been easy. That last mission… But he did not want to think about it again. It was bad enough reliving it every time he closed his eyes, or everytime he strained a muscle that was still tight or pulled on a stretch of half healed skin. The worst of his physical injuries were beginning to heal at least, though he wondered at how much longer it would take to get past the mental ones.
He shook himself sharply before he went too far down that road. He had a job to do tonight, and he needed to stay on track. Once he had the information from their Underground contact, he could worry about whether or not he would sleep enough tonight to finally feel himself again.
Off in his own mind as he had been, Newkirk had not immediately noticed the new arrivals. A skinny, dark haired woman was leaning on the bar, trying to catch the attention of the barmaid. She was wearing a thin red dress that clung to her skin, a coat that even from here Newkirk could tell was only a fake fur shrugged around her shoulders. Her companion was standing next to her but facing away from the bar, glaring about the room through a set of narrow glasses. The glasses matched the rest of him - he was a thin man with thin hair, wearing a dark suit that fit tightly around his shoulders, and pants that did not quite cover his socks.
Newkirk raised an eyebrow. This was a working class type bar, but he was not sure these two even fit that type. They clearly were not high society types, but neither did they appear to be anyone who had ever been said to do a hard day's work. But he was not here to wonder who they were or what they were doing here - he was here to watch the door for his contact, so he went to turn his attention back toward it.
Before he could fully turn his gaze back towards the door, the woman at the bar turned and caught his eye. To his surprise, her face broke into what he could only describe as a wicked grin. She raised a hand over her shoulder to smack her companion, bringing his attention to Newkirk as well, and then immediately began striding towards Newkirk's booth. The thin man followed shortly behind.
Newkirk glanced around the bar - he could not understand what he had done to attract their attention like this. This was not in the plan for the night - he was meeting one of their regular contacts, and he was supposed to be sitting alone. Whatever this strange woman wanted, he would need to get rid of her quickly.
Without so much as a hello, the woman slid into the booth across from him. She stared at him intently, the grin never leaving her face. The man behind her remained standing, turning once more to face away from her.
"What," the woman said slinkily, "Are you doing here?"
Newkirk stared at her. He was completely lost by this turn of events. While he normally did not mind the attention of a beautiful woman, this woman was… the kind words might be "rough around the edges", but truthfully she seemed rough the whole way through. Up close, he could see the bones around her collar sticking out. Her face was thinned in a way that suggested she had skipped too many meals, though as she pulled a cigarette from her handbag he thought chain smoking might be the culprit as well.
"I'm sorry, who are you?" he said, trying to stay polite to this strange woman.
"Oh I see," her voice dropped to a whisper as she leaned across the table to be closer, laying her cigarette free arm on the table towards him, "You are undercover then? Are you meeting someone else to help with our plans?"
His heart sank through his boots - how could this woman know anything about why he was here?
"Look, I don't know what you think you know, but I have never seen you before in my life."
Her eyebrows dipped and confusion entered her face for the first time.
"Is this part of the act? No one can hear us, you know, you do not have to pretend for Alfred there. You should know by now that he can keep a secret."
Newkirk continued to stare at her - he hadn't the faintest clue what she was talking about. He had never seen either of them in his life. Whatever this woman was playing at, she was a distraction he did not need right now.
"I'm afraid I don't know ya darling," he said, avoiding her gaze as he tried to get across that he did not have time for this, "Or your friend there. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to have my pint in peace."
"What are you talking about, Thomas?" she said, becoming visibly frustrated, "After everything we are doing for you?"
Newkirk's face went blank. He stared at this woman without really knowing what he was seeing, no longer hearing her or caring that the man he was supposed to be meeting had finally walked through the door.
"What did you just say?"
"I said, why are you acting like you do not know us?"
She started back in shock as Newkirk's arm shot out and slammed her wrist onto the table.
"Why did you call me Thomas," he seethed through clenched teeth.
"Because," she said wryly, glancing down at the hand he was pinning to the table, "That is the name you gave me to call you. Thomas Fletcher."
Newkirk dropped her hand in shock.
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Thomas Fletcher walked down the cold London street with a purpose. He had a plan for the day.
But would he find what he needed, that remained to be seen. If he didn't, it would be a long, hungry night. Most of the shops in this area were not what he was looking for. They had serious looking shopkeepers, men who looked each patron up and down as they came in and weighed the change in their pocket with a glance.
When they saw skinny, 14 year old Thomas walk in, they would know his game in a moment. No, he needed something else.
He continued on his walk until he came to a small store towards the end of a dead end street. It looked a little run down, as though the owner's had started the store in better days but had come on hard times. It was a bookshop, and he could see through the window a thin layer of dust on the books in the display. A quick glance past the display to the counter showed him an older woman standing behind the register working on what appeared to be the shop's ledger book. She was a grey haired, bespectacled woman wrapped in several layers of shawls.
She was perfect.
In five seconds, Thomas was prepared. He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it so it looked as though it had not seen a comb in weeks. Unfortunately, the state of his clothes needed no such embellishments, but he slumped his shoulders down to accentuate the "poor, hungry child effect".
When he walked through the shop door, the woman glanced up to look at him, and he saw his work begin to take effect. From the first moment her eyes lit on him, concern crossed her face. But it was not the concern of someone who thought they were able to lose their valuables. This was the concern of someone who saw someone in need. Exactly what he was going for.
"Beg your pardon Ma'am," he said in his softest voice, "Do you sell any used books here?"
"I have books of all kinds, young man," she said kindly, "Is there one in particular that you are searching for?"
Thomas had already spotted the one he needed.
"It's for my sister's birthday," he said shyly, "She loves rabbits!"
The woman smiled, and crooked a finger to Thomas, beckoning him behind the counter as she turned to select a book from the shelf.
"I know just what you need m'boy," she said, her back turned to him for only a few moments as she selected a pristine copy of The Velveteen Rabbit.
A few moments was all Thomas needed. Quick as a whistle, he slipped his hands into the slightly open cash register, making sure to cover any noise with the sounds of his feet moving across the floor to follow the woman. His hands grasped quickly what little money there was to be found in the cash box, and just as quickly slipped it into his pockets before the women turned around again.
"There you are," she said as she handed him the book.
He took it and looked down at it with mock awe and concern.
"It's perfect," he said breathily, "But it's brand new ma'am, I can't pay for this."
"Oh, well," the older woman's smile grew softer, "I'm sure we can figure something out. Books are meant to be read, not sit on a shelf, and something tells me this one needs to go home with you. You pay me what you can, and maybe someday you can come back here and buy another one."
Thomas reached into his other pocket for the small bit of change he had come in with and handed it to the woman. She handed him the book, which he tucked into his jacket with a grateful smile.
"Thank you ma'am, thank you very much!" he said sincerely as he moved towards the door. He needed to make an exit before she put his change in her register and noticed it was even emptier than it had been before.
He grinned to himself as he headed back out into the street, feeling the money in his pocket that would buy his dinner tonight and a few nights to come. The gullible were there for the taking, and take them he would.