Chapter 14 #2
A heavily pregnant woman waddled forward, lugging over one hip a delicately boned child of about a year of age.
She swatted the children away, then glared at Oliver and the others with naked hostility.
Her eyes were small and set close together, and the skin around one of them bore the faded blue-and-purple mottling of an ugly bruise.
“What do ye want?” she demanded sharply.
“Forgive me for troublin’ ye, missus,” said Oliver, politely removing his cap. “My wife and me are lookin’ for my son, ye see—”
The door slammed shut.
Unperturbed, Oliver herded the group to the next door.
This time a gaunt woman of about twenty answered.
Her narrow body had been squeezed into a tight corset so that her small breasts were plumped up like two lumps of boiled dough, and her ashen face was heavily smeared with rouge.
She had arranged her oily hair into a drab coiffure, and the sickly sweet odor of cheap perfume wafted from her, intermingled with the smell of old perspiration.
Surprise registered upon her face as she opened the door.
It was clear to Genevieve that she had been expecting someone else.
“Yer pardon for troublin’ ye, miss,” Oliver began again, “but my wife and myself are tryin’ to find our lad, and last we heard he was livin’ in this building.
Perhaps ye’ve seen him,” he rushed on, sensing that she was about to close the door.
“Built like an ale barrel, Harry is, with a nose laid flat from his taste for brawlin’.
Or mayhap ye’ve seen his mates—George is a big brute with a belly like a swine’s, while Ewan is skinny as a weed, with hair the color of smashed turnip. ”
A flash of insight lit the girl’s wary gaze. Clearly she knew something about the men Oliver was describing.
“This is Harry’s wife and bairns,” Oliver pressed on, pointing to Genevieve and the children.
“This poor wee bugger has never seen his da,” he added, gesturing at the ragged bundle in her arms. “Harry dinna ken that he’s gone and made another,” he added, slipping into a broader Scots than he normally used.
His bony shoulders were hunched with defeat as he finished, “I’m old, and canna go on carin’ for her and her brood.
’Tis time Harry come home and did right by them. ”
The children stared at her mournfully, except for Jack, whose sullen indifference seemed entirely appropriate for an abandoned lad of fourteen. Even the motley cat let out a pitiful meow as it tried to extract itself from Annabelle’s tight hold.
The girl hesitated, debating whether or not to speak. Suddenly a door banged open on a floor above them, causing her to jump.
“I dinna know nothin’,” she blurted out, her eyes flitting nervously toward the staircase. She hurled the door closed.
“She knows where they are,” Jack said, infuriated. He raised his fist to pound upon the door.
“Aye, o’ course she does,” hissed a crackling voice.
A decrepit old woman with a sparse scraggle of white hair peered at them speculatively from a doorway across the corridor.
“The scurvy hoor knows every pair o’ trousers that rubs together in all o’ Devil’s Den!
” She laughed, revealing a dark cave of slippery gray gums, like snails, intermittently spiked with the occasional yellow tooth.
“A shame.” Oliver shook his head as he shuffled over to her. “That’s what happens to a lass when she’s got nae family to help. I dinna know what’ll become of these wee cubs if I canna find their da. End up on the street, most like.”
“Filled yer belly and left ye to rot, did he, dearie?” The woman’s watery eyes were nearly swallowed beneath the limp folds of her eyelids as she studied Genevieve.
“Poor lassie. Lads today have nae honor. A quick toss of the skirts and they’re off again, never mind the mess they’ve left behind.
’Tis a disgrace, to my way of thinkin’. If ’twere my son, I’d nae spare the whip!
” She glared at Doreen, as if she bore responsibility for the transgressions of her supposed son.
“And so I shall, if I ever find him,” Doreen assured her fiercely. “I dinna know where he gets it from—his da is as fine a man as ye’ll ever know. He’d sooner starve himself than see one of these wee chicks go hungry.” She cast a fond look at Oliver.
“Well, pleasure comes from doin’ good, and that’s God’s truth,” the woman said approvingly.
“As for yer son, a wolf may lose his teeth but ne’er his nature, so even if ye drag him home by his boots, ye canna expect him to change.
” She studied Oliver a moment, considering. “Ye say ye think he’s livin’ here?”
“With friends,” Oliver elaborated. “Maybe ye’ve seen them? Harry’s short but strong as an ox, with a nose that’s been walloped one time too many. Then there’s George, with gray hair and a bloated belly, and tall, skinny Ewan—”
“With orange hair and red spots.” The old woman nodded.
“Aye, I’ve seen them. Not many rooms here are kept by three lads with nae lasses tae warm their beds.
But they dinna get cold—not with all their visits tae that hoor across the hall.
” She cast a sympathetic look at Genevieve.
“Yer husband’s nae better nae worse than most, lassie,” she assured her.
“All they do is sleep and drink and fight. Today they brought yet another one home—so guttered he could nae walk, an’ ’twas still practically mornin’! ”
Genevieve’s face grew pale.
“Where are they?” demanded Jack tersely. His hands tightened into fists.
“Angry at yer da, are ye, lad? An’ so ye should be.” Her scant white brows puckered together in a frown as she studied him. “Ye must have started birthin’ when ye were barely weaned,” she decided, turning her gaze to Genevieve.
“If ye dinna mind, missus, I’d like to find my lad an’ make him come home,” said Oliver, interrupting any attempt to draw Genevieve into conversation.
“’Course ye would,” the old woman agreed. “He’s up the stairs and to yer left, the last door at the end. Should be in there now, for I’ve nae heard any of them leave. Sleepin’ off their whiskey, most like.”
Oliver clamped a restraining hand on Jack’s shoulder to keep him from tearing up the staircase and breaking down the door. “Thank ye kindly, missus. I’m sure Harry will be most pleased to see his family again. Most pleased.”
The old woman looked doubtful. “I dinna know about that—what wi’ all these bairns tae feed. But I expect he’ll be fair surprised!” She cackled, her collapsed mouth opening to expose her slick gray gums once more.
“Right,” began Oliver in a low voice, struggling to stay abreast of Jack as he led the little mismatched band up the creaking staircase.
“Like any job, the most important thing is, we’ve got to work quick.
Get in, get his lordship an’ get out. Me and Jack will do any bashin’, if necessary.
The rest of ye just keep ’em scurryin’ about while we free his lordship.
Use yer weapons if ye must, an’ be sure to work together.
There’s but three of them and ten of us.
If we keep a quick hand and a sharp eye, they’ll be on the floor and beggin’ for mercy afore they know what they’re about. ”
Doreen nodded in agreement. “Remember, ’tis nae the size of the dog in the fight, but the fight in the dog!”
“Sweet saints,” gasped Eunice breathlessly, clutching the rickety banister, “how many more steps are there?”
Genevieve’s heart began to beat wildly against the cage of her ribs as the group made their way along the dimly lit corridor.
The din of men and women shouting at each other and children squealing and crying was much the same as it had been on the floor below.
Jack had been right, she realized. The families trapped behind each of those decrepit doors were too immersed in their own miserable lives to take any notice if someone was being beaten or murdered in the next apartment.
She unconsciously clutched the bundle she was carrying tighter to her chest. Whatever happened, they could expect no help from the other inhabitants of the dilapidated building.
Oliver motioned for them to be quiet. He pressed his ear against the door and listened for a long minute. Apparently satisfied with whatever he did or did not hear, he raised his gnarled fist and rapped upon the battered wood.
A hush of tense anticipation fell over the group. Even the wretched cat in Annabelle’s arms quit struggling. There was the sound of a chair scraping against the floor and booted feet moving toward them.
Then nothing.
Oliver knocked again. There was a moment of strained silence.
Finally a heavy bolt grated across the wood and the door creaked open.
Smoky light spilled from the hearth and lamps in the room beyond, illuminating the emaciated form and pimpled face of Ewan in ghostly shadows.
He regarded the bedraggled assemblage in bleary confusion, showing no sign of recognition.
Muffled within their ragged hats, scarves and heavy coats, their faces streaked with grime, the tatty gang bore little resemblance to the pristinely attired family whose home he and his accomplices had raided that morning.
“Yer pardon, lad, we’re here to show Harry his new bairn.” Oliver stepped aside to gesture at the bundle Genevieve carried, deftly inserting himself into the doorway as he did so.
Ewan gazed stupidly at the parcel of blankets. “Harry’s bairn?”
“Looks just like Harry, he does,” Eunice assured him cheerily. “Right down to his wee mashed nose. See for yerself.”
Genevieve raised her “baby” slightly, offering Ewan a better view. Unable to restrain his curiosity, Ewan leaned forward to peer at Harry’s progeny.
Quick as a whip, Doreen withdrew a heavy flatiron from her bag and brought it crashing down upon poor Ewan’s head. The gangly lad stood for an instant, apparently frozen, staring blankly at Genevieve’s arms.