بخش 17

CHAPTER 32

A FEELING

PETER GASPED, AND his hand went to the locket around his neck.

What is it? said Tink, who had felt it also, the sudden warmth. What’s happening?

“I don’t know,” whispered Peter, touching the locket, feeling it pulse twice. He held it for a moment, not daring to pull it out on this busy street. Then he let it go and pushed himself away from the wall. Hunching his shoulders against the cold, he started walking purposefully uphill, away from the water, toward the smoky density of London.

Where are we going? asked Tink, from under his shirt.

“To find Molly,” said Peter.

But you don’t know where she is.

“No,” said Peter. “I don’t. But I know she’s here.” CHAPTER 33

A WAY OUT

AS THE GRAY DRIZZLE of evening sky turned to the murky dark of night, Peter trudged through mud-slick streets, his feet bleeding from cuts he was too cold to feel.

It would be inadequate to say that he was lost, since he’d never known where he was, or where he was going. No, he was far beyond lost. He tried to keep aimed in one direction—away from the river—but the cobblestone streets were a maze, twisting this way and that, sometimes branching off in four or five directions, sometimes stopping in a dead end, forcing Peter to retrace his weary steps. He could have been miles from where he started; he could have been only yards. He simply didn’t know.

As night fell, the streets grew less busy. But they were not deserted: Peter encountered other shadowy shapes moving through the fog. Most of them, especially the women and children, scurried past, keeping their distance, their eyes avoiding Peter’s. But some of the men and larger boys slowed and gave Peter hard, appraising looks, looks that made him hold his breath and tense his legs, ready to run.

Peter was working his way along a dark, narrow stretch of street when Tinker Bell, under his shirt, emitted a sharp warning sound an instant before Peter sensed something moving to his left. He jumped away from it, an action that saved him; for at that moment, a dark form lunged at him from a pitch-black alley. Peter felt a hand brush his back, the fingers grasping his shirt, trying to get a grip. Peter scrambled forward, jerking free, almost falling, catching himself with his hands on the ground as he stumbled away, hearing a grunt and a curse behind him, then the sound of heavy footsteps right behind.

Upright again, Peter raced blindly through the fog, hearing the hard clomping following him. On and on he ran until, finally, the sound began to fade. Peter came to a cross street, where he turned right and kept running until he could no longer hear the footsteps at all. He finally came to a stop, breathing hard, near a gas streetlight that infused the fog with a ghostly glow.

“Thanks, Tink,” he gasped.

Why didn’t you fly? she demanded.

“I’m attracting too much attention as it is,” he said. “If people see me fly, word will spread that there’s a flying boy in London, and Slank and the others could figure out that I’m here. Besides, I got away, didn’t I?”

Tink, unable to come up with a counterargument, changed the subject. I want to get out, she said. It smells awful in here.

“Not yet,” he said. “We can’t—”

“Who’re you talking to?” came a voice from behind him.

Peter whirled and emitted an involuntary yelp of surprise.

“No need for that, mate,” said the voice. “It’s only me.”

In the pale gaslight, Peter saw that the voice belonged to a boy. He was about Peter’s height, but considerably huskier. His wide face was streaked with dirt. The boy wore a threadbare coat; it was a man’s coat, too big for him, but it looked wonderfully warm to Peter, who was also jealous of the boy’s shoes. They were oversized, but far better than bare feet.

“So who was it?” said the boy.

“Who was what?” said Peter.

“Who was you talking to?” said the boy.

“Nobody,” said Peter.

The boy stared at him for a few moments. Peter stared back, trying to look confident despite his uncontrollable shivering.

“You’re cold?” said the boy.

Peter said nothing, but his chattering teeth were answer enough.

“Come with me, then,” said the boy, his tone friendly now. “I know a place where you can warm up. There’s food, too. Come on.” He started to walk away.

Peter hesitated. The boy stopped and looked back.

“Come on,” he repeated. “Do you want to stay out here and freeze to death? Or do you want to be warm?”

Peter, who wanted to be warm more than he’d ever wanted anything, started walking toward the boy. He felt the flutter of a vibration from Tink, but he put his hand gently on his shirt to silence her.

“I’ll be careful,” he whispered. “He’s just a boy, and he seems friendly enough.”

“There you go again!” called the boy.

“It’s nothing,” said Peter. “Talking to myself, is all.”

The boy waited until Peter caught up with him, then resumed walking.

“What’s your name?” he said.

“Peter. What’s yours?”

“Trotter,” said the boy.

“Where are we going, Trotter?” asked Peter.

“Just ’round here,” said Trotter, turning onto a narrow lane lined with rickety wooden structures leaning this way and that.

“Is it your house?” said Peter.

“Sort of,” said Trotter.

He ducked into a narrow, very dark alley between two buildings. Peter hesitated. Tink vibrated again, and again he quieted her.

“Come on,” said Trotter, barely visible in the deep gloom.

Peter moved cautiously forward until he reached Trotter, who continued down the alley, then turned left into an even narrower and darker alley. So complete was the blackness that Peter couldn’t see Trotter, or for that matter, his own hands. From somewhere in the buildings around him he heard a baby’s cry; from somewhere else, a scream. He bumped into Trotter, who had stopped.

“Sorry,” said Peter.

“Here we are,” said Trotter. Peter heard the creak of a door opening and felt Trotter push him through the doorway. He found himself in a room smelling strongly of smoke and sweat and filth. But it was, as Trotter had promised, warm, the source of the heat being a glowing bed of coals in an iron grate on the far side of the room.

Small shapes crouched on the dirt floor close to the fire; by its glow Peter saw that they were children, three boys and a girl, wearing clothes not much better than Peter’s rags. The girl and one of the boys turned toward him. They examined him for a moment, their expressions vacant, then turned back to the fire.

Peter felt Tinker Bell stirring, but before he could move his hand to stop her, the door closed behind him, and he heard a deep voice rumble, “Who have we here?”

Peter whirled and saw a tall, heavyset man with a thick black beard flecked with pieces of food, above which protruded a sharp, beaklike nose flanked by deep-set eyes.

“His name’s Peter,” said Trotter.

“Well then, Peter,” rumbled the man. “Here you are.” His tone was pleasant enough, but it was not matched by the intense look in his eyes.

Peter took a step toward the door, but the man casually sidestepped in front of it, blocking Peter’s path.

“Now then, Peter,” he said softly. “No need to leave when you just got here, is there? Why don’t you go over by the fire there and warm yourself?” He took a step forward. Peter took a step back.

“There’s a good lad,” said the man, giving Peter a shove that sent him staggering backward. “Sit down there, with them.”

Peter hesitated, and instantly felt the man’s hand grip his shoulder with painful force, shoving him hard to the floor.

“When I tell you to sit down,” the man said, “you sit down.” He turned to Trotter and said, “Fetch the supper.”

Trotter went to the corner of the room and came back with a filthy cloth sack, which he handed to the man. The man reached in and pulled out a dark loaf of bread. He raised it to his mouth and tore off a large hunk with his crooked brown teeth, chewing it openmouthed, swallowing loudly.

He ate another piece, then another, taking his time, while the children on the floor watched the loaf dwindle. The man finally tore off a large piece and handed it to Trotter, who began eating it greedily.

Less than half of the loaf remained. The man held it out toward the children on the floor.

“Now then,” he said. “Who wants supper?”

The children—Peter included—stared at the bread hungrily. Several reached out toward the man.

Slowly, deliberately, the man tore off a piece and tossed it to Peter.

“Company first,” he said.

Peter caught the bread and took a bite. It was hard and stale, but he didn’t care: it was the first food he’d had for days. He chewed slowly, meaning to make it last.

“Now you,” said the man, tossing a piece to one of the boys. “And you, and you,” he said, tossing pieces to another boy, and the girl.

That left one boy without bread. The boy, who was sitting next to Peter, looked at the man expectantly. The man tore off a piece of bread and held it toward the boy. The boy reached for it. The man laughed and stuffed the bread into his own mouth.

“None for you,” he said, chewing. “You didn’t bring me no push today, so you don’t get nothing from me.”

“But,” said the boy, “I was…OWW!”

The man’s heavy boot caught the boy on his ear, sending him sprawling on the floor.

“No back talk,” said the man. “I get nothing, you get nothing.” He turned to Peter. “Them’s the rules here,” he said. “You brings me push, I give you something to eat. You understand?”

Eyeing the man’s boot, Peter said, “No, sir. What is…push?”

“Push,” said the man, “is chink.”

Peter looked at him blankly.

“It’s money,” said the man. “You brings me money.”

“But,” said Peter, “how do I get money?”

“Same way this useless lot does,” said the man, gesturing at the other children. “You go griddling.”

Peter’s look remained puzzled.

“They’re mumpers,” said the man. “Lurkers. Gegors. Shivering Jemmys.”

Peter shook his head.

“They’re beggars,” said the man, growing impatient. “They ask for a copper or two, looking pitiful as can be, poor things. And they brings the coppers back to me, and I gives ’em this nice warm house and a nice supper. That’s the arrangement, you see? You takes care of me, and I takes care of you.”

“But,” said Peter, “I can’t. You see I have to get to—” he left the sentence unfinished, seeing the look in the man’s eye, the twitch of the man’s heavy boot.

“Oh, you can, all right,” said the man, very softly now. “You can, and you will. You’ll go out with them in the morning, and you’ll stay out there all day, and you’ll come back at night with some coppers for me, or you’ll feel me belt on your back. Show him, Trotter.”

Trotter went to the boy sitting next to Peter—the one who’d received no bread—and yanked up the boy’s shirt. Peter saw that the boy’s back was covered with dark red welts, some oozing blood. Peter looked down.

“And if you’re thinking of running away,” said the man—correctly guessing what Peter was thinking—“you’d best think again. Trotter and me will be out there keeping an eye on you.”

Peter looked up at Trotter, once so friendly, now staring down at him with a look of easy contempt. Peter remembered Old Trumpy’s words: You can’t trust nobody out there.

“If you tries to run,” continued the man, “Trotter and me will find you. There’s nowhere you can go on these streets where we won’t find you, understand? Nowhere. And when we finds you, you’ll wish you hadn’t run. Ask these others, if you don’t believe it.”

Peter glanced at the other children; their expressions—a blend of terror and hopelessness—confirmed the man’s words.

Peter considered his situation. He could escape from Trotter on the streets tomorrow, but he’d have to fly, and he very much wanted to avoid that. He also couldn’t afford to waste any more time, not with the men from the ship looking for Molly.

No, the best thing would be to escape from this place now, tonight, after the man and Trotter were asleep. The door was only across the room. He’d open it quietly, and…

“Bedtime, then,” said the man, breaking into Peter’s thoughts. “You wants to get your rest, because you’ll be working hard for me tomorrow. And the next day, and the next.” He smiled unpleasantly. “And to make sure you don’t get restless in the night…”

The man went to the corner, where Peter saw a filthy straw mat. The man grabbed it and dragged it in front of the door. He lay down on it and, looking directly at Peter, said: “There. Now we can all sleep nice and sound.”

Then he lay down, his body completely blocking the door, and almost immediately fell asleep. Trotter went to another mattress and did the same. Without saying a word, the other children lay down where they were, curled up on the dirt floor.

In a few minutes, Peter was the only person awake. He stared at the glowing coals, listening to the man’s loud, irregular snores, berating himself for being such a fool, wondering if the men had reached Molly’s house, and trying desperately to think of a way out of this room.