Pure finder: A job collecting dog excrement. The dog excrement was used for tanning leather. Mudlark: A job, mostly for very poorest children, where they searched along the river for anything, no matter how miserable, that could possibly be collected and sold for even the smallest value. Squits: Diarrhea Panderer: Pimp
Chapter TextConstable Roronoa Zoro leaned against a brick wall, behind a curious crowd of onlookers. He closed his eyes every so often to make it look like he was fighting off sleep. Those closest to him soon picked up on his mood.
If he looked bored by the spectacle going on, the crowd was less likely to get wound up.
"Quite full of themselves, ain't they?" asked a pure finder, next to his companion.
Constable Roronoa turned his head to the side. Even after spending half his life in London, he still couldn't get used to some of the smells.
The pure finder's friend, a boy who could be anywhere from eight to twelve, nodded. "Stuck up bitches, all of them."
"Are you going to get in line to eat?" asked the pure finder boy.
"If they let me take my bucket in." His friend shifted. Constable Roronoa couldn't get a look at the contents, but it didn't matter. Everything was fair game in the East End.
Back when he first started his beat, he once found a toddler stripped naked, wandering a back alley, too cold to cry. Her new clothes from the workhouse had been stolen, taken by her own mother and sold for a shilling.
People under pressure would do just about anything, even steal a bucket of dog shit.
"Wouldn't risk it, Georgie. I heard people got the squits last time," said the pure finder lad.
One of the mudlarks, her feet caked in river dirt, spoke up. "That did happen. The food was nasty. It gave me stomach cramps something terrible. Harry shat himself and he's older than me. I didn't though."
The pure finder spoke again. "I wouldn't go in anyways. That preacher man makes me nervous. He always sticking his tongue out, like some kind of snake."
"I don't think he's a real vicar, not the way he dresses," answered Georgie.
The young people then got into an argument over the cost of the man's clothing, drawing others from the crowd into it. One comment Constable Roronoa squirreled away for later was someone accusing the man, Perspero, of being a panderer.
A piercing shriek cut through the aimless conversation surrounding the constable.
"Someone stop her!" called out a young woman in panic.
In the periphery, Roronoa saw the small figure of a dark-haired girl cutting in and out of the cramped streets. Following not too far behind was Constable Helmeppo and a blonde haired aristocrat who was going to get himself robbed as well if he kept in pursuit.
Cursing, Roronoa pushed off the brick wall and headed down a side alley.
The girl, he was certain, was not one of the regular cutpurses. Not that Helmeppo would care. He cracked skulls first and asked questions later, knocking in heads of those too weak to be any real threat.
The boys on the force always accused him of getting lost in the dirty streets and the narrow alleys of the East End, but Roronoa knew he always ended up where he needed to be and always at the time he needed to get there.
Just like now.
The girl, looking behind herself, ran straight into him, falling backwards down onto the ground. Clutched to her chest with one hand was a dark blue satin purse trimmed in fur.
In the distance, Constable Helmeppo could be heard yelling, "Anyone helps that brat will go down with her!"
Constable Roronoa did know the girl. Her mother ran a coffee cart. He hadn't seen it recently, but he assumed she had moved it to a better neighborhood.
Looking down at the frightened little girl still holding the stolen goods, perhaps something else had happened.
"Don't throw me in Newgate," she managed to get out. "The rats there are as big as cats and they can bite your fingers off."
"Just hand it to me and get out of here," he told her, reaching out his hand for the purse. "I'll make sure it goes back to the lady."
The girl froze. Roronoa could hear Helmeppo getting closer, his whistle busting ear drums as he announced his impending arrival.
With little time left, Roronoa snatched the purse out of the girl's hand and picked her up. On his side was a burn barrel. He set her down behind it.
"Stay small and don't make a sound," he ordered her before standing up.
It was just in time. Constable Helmpeppo's face was bright red from his combined efforts of running and yelling and blowing his damn whistle.
"Roronoa! What are you doing standing around? There's a thief loose, you daft bastard."
Helmeppo didn't see the spittle hanging from the corner of his own mouth. Roronoa hoped it stayed there when Helmeppo returned the purse to the missionary snobs.
"Here. The kid dropped this." He handed over the purse.
Helmeppo seized it from his hands and started to open the finicky little clasp. "You better not have helped yourself."
Constable Roronoa took a heavy step forward. "Search me. Go ahead."
There were catcalls from those that had tagged along following behind Helmeppo. If Roronoa knew his beat, they were most likely hoping to see the constable slip and fall in the wet muck.
Or for someone to empty out a piss pot on his head.
They'd settle, though, for seeing him and Helmeppo duke it out on in the alley.
Roronoa knew what Helmeppo's answer would be. The man was a bully and a coward. He was too old, too male, and too awake for Helmeppo to take things further with him.
"Half job as always. Where's the little bastard, or did you let her get away?"
Constable Roronoa crossed his arms over his chest and counted slowly to ten. It wasn't because he was angry. He just wanted to make Helmeppo wait for his answer.
"Never saw her."
Out in the distance, a voice called, "I think I see her. Over here!"
Roronoa frowned to keep himself from smiling. He recognized the voice. "Maybe you should return the purse, Helmeppo. I'll head that way."
When Helmeppo seemed ready to disagree, Roronoa added, "If you're gone too long, I wonder what those good ladies are going to start thinking?"
Waiting until the other constable was out of sight, Roronoa called over to the girl. "It's all clear. You can come out now."
She didn't come out right away. Letting out a sigh, he went over and knelt down. She had her arms wrapped around her legs and was leaning flush against the barrel.
"Go home and forget about today," he told her quietly. It took a moment, but he got a nod in return and she slowly unfolded herself and stood up.
"Thank you."
"Forget about it. The lady got a story to tell all her rich friends now. And you, it looks like you dropped this." He took her small hand, damp with sweat, and pushed some farthings into it.
She opened her mouth to deny they were hers and then realized better. She closed her fist over the small change.
"Now, get out of here."
The little girl, now suddenly alert, darted off, quickly disappearing around a corner, going the opposite direction of Helmeppo.
Constable Roronoa turned his attention to the group that had followed Helmeppo into the alley. He turned deliberately to face all of them, just in case they had gotten the wrong idea about what kind of copper he was.
"That goes for the rest of you lot. Get out of here. Go home. Go to a bar. Go jump in the river. I don't give a damn. Just break it - "
His heart stilled. He'd been caught. "Up."
The blonde aristocrat from earlier was there in the crowd as well. He wasn't out of breath, so he hadn't just arrived.
"Constable?"
Roronoa breathed in, held it and then let it out. He was no coward. "Yes, sir?"
The aristocrat looked to be about his age, except with the easier life, the years didn't show as hard. He had the pale skin that never knew dirt or sun, only good food and clean water.
His eyes were the kind of blue that Roronoa had almost forgotten about, the color of an open sky out on the sea, just before twilight as the sun was starting to sink.
They made Roronoa remember swimming in water that was warm and far away. It made him miss the smell of grilled shishamo and the sound of crickets as the light faded and he grew colder under the darker sky.
"Would you mind to escort me back?"
"Of course. Sir."
In all the stories of men walking to their doom, here in England and back in Japan, it was always in the company of someone beautiful.