The Blog of Roon

As Shirley prepares for bed, there is a knock on his door. A disreputable-looking man stands outside. In one hand, he holds a dirty, crumpled, smudged piece of paper. His other hand is behind his back. He studies the piece of paper intently for a moment. In a broad cockney accent, he asks, “Are you… uh…” He looks at the paper again, squints. “Are you Mister Addam? Izzat you, then?”

He puts the piece of paper back in his pocket. His other hand remains behind his back. He squints at you again.

“It IS you, idn’t it? Crikey, You prob’ly don’t remember me, but you done me a good turn year ago. Got me off that robbery charge by provin’ I ain’t done it that time, on account of me bein’ busy drownin’ them kittens. Cor, I can’t do this to yer. Sorry to disturb you, Mister Addam, sir.”

Shirley lets go the throat of his dressing-gown and reaches out to stop the man. “No, wait! If you please. You are—why, James, Jimmy Pilkington. I do remember. Half a moment, please.” He half-closes the door, buttons the top button of his high-necked nightshirt, and reties his dressing-gown. “Please, Jimmy, come in,” he says then, opening the door wide enough to admit the cockney. “What is it you have there? What are you doing so far from York? And what is it you’ve been given to do?”

Jimmy slinks into the room, and half-falls into the only chair. Shirley notices that he’s holding an old sock with a lump in it in one hand. Discreetly, Shirley looks down. Yes, Jimmy is only wearing one sock.

“It all done gone wrong for me, Mister Addam, sir. Me ’n’ One-eyed Jack even stopped drownin’ the kittens, like you said. The thing is, Jack forgot to pick up ’is traps, see, so we had a sackful of kittens and bugger-all to do wiv ’em.”

Jimmy sniffles, and Shirley remembers that he was turned fourteen during last year’s trial. He has grown quite a bit since then.

“So, One-eyed Jack says we ort to take them kittens to London, as there’s people there wot’ll buy anyfing. So we does, see, and we sells ’em to this bird on Fleet Street, wot owns a pie-shop. An’ she asks if we got any more, so Jack sets up ’is traps again, and for a while, it’s all gravy. ’Course, we never et at that pie shop again. Then, after a few months, the bird don’t want no more kittens—says she’s got somefing much better. And when Jack goes out for ’is traps, he gets ’it by a carriage an’ kilt. So here’s me, wiv no money, no kittens, and no job.”

Jimmy sniffles again and wipes his nose on his sleeve. Shirley reaches into his valise and extracts a handkerchief. “Here. Keep it.”

“Last week, I was lookin’ through some rag bins an’ this man come up to me. “Yer a likely-lookin’ lad,” ’e says; “strappin young chap like yourself can do much better than pickin’ rags, don’tcha know?” An’ as pickin’ rags is nasty work, I says I wouldn’t mind some better work, right? So ’e says all I’ve got to do is follow this bloke, tell ’im to stay away from the Grand Eclipse, and cosh ’im one good, so’s to ’elp ’is memory. I’d no idea it was you, Mister Addam, sir!”

“No, of course not. Why should you? No harm done, Jimmy—and thank you, truly, thank you. I hope you got paid in advance. See here, what can you tell me about the man who hired you? Anyone you knew? Would you know him if you saw him again? Oh, and how did he know where you’d find me?”

“I got ’alf in advance, Mister Addam, sir. Don’t s’pose I’ll be seein’ the rest, eh?” Shirley grunts noncommittally. The shock of the near-attack faded, he is starting to think. Jimmy blows his nose, loudly and messily, into the handkerchief. “The man ’oo ’ired me… said ’e was a friend o’ One-eyed Jack’s; that ’e were watchin’ me. Said to call ’im Nicky. Couldn’ help but recognize ’im again, I daresay, wot wif that nasty scar.” Jimmy draws a line from the center of his left eyebrow diagonally to the outside of his left eye. “’E’s the one wot told me you was ’ere. ’Course, I ain’t eager to see ’im again, wot wif this cock-up. No offence, Mister Addam, sir!”

Shirley’s attention seems to be wandering. “Mm. None taken.” He starts to pace the little room, chin in hand.

Young Jimmy’s eyes take on an eager, speculative look. “Say, Mister Addam, sir, could I work for you instead? I can carry yer bags an’ shine yer shoes! It’d keep me right out o’ trouble, it would! No more sellin’ kittens or coshin’ people on the ’ead. ’Nless you said so, sir.”

This entry was posted on Friday, January 30th, 2004 at 6:43 pm and is filed under 1 Shirley Alone. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.