Alex Grecian - The Yard

Fenn bent so that his back was against the ceiling of the cupboard and straddled the panel in the floor, his feet wedged against both walls. He was uncomfortable and his neck cramped, but he was excited, too. He reached down, got a finger in the hole, and pulled up. There was a wrenching sound and most of the floor came away. But now Fenn was pinned to the counter above by the edge of the trapdoor. He moved it back and forth, trying to find a way to move past it. Suddenly it gained weight as gravity took hold and he couldn’t hang on to it anymore. He lost his balance and steadied himself with a palm against the cabinet doors. The trapdoor dropped away from him, down the hole, and crashed to the ground somewhere below.

Fenn eased himself down to a sitting position, his feet dangling through the opening, and turned his head back and forth, working the kinks out of his neck.

He had no idea how deep the hole went. If he dropped through it, he might fall too far and be killed. But if he stayed in the cupboard, he knew that the tailor would eventually kill him. That was a certainty. And so the hole in the floor was the only hope he had.

He took a deep breath, held on to the far edge of the cupboard floor, and scooted himself forward. He plummeted, stopped short by his grip on the floor, but he wasn’t strong enough and his fingers were torn away from the narrow lip. He fell down into the darkness.

He hit the ground hard and felt his ankle twist under him. Pain seared up his leg and lodged behind his ribs. He gasped.

The darkness around him was complete, and beneath him was cold, hard-packed earth.

When he had caught his breath, he dragged himself forward and found the trapdoor where it had fallen. It was broken in half. Past it, he found a wall. Mud at the base of the wall gave way to dense crumbly dirt and then to loose stones. Fenn scraped at the stones with his fingers until pebbles came away. He had no idea what was on the other side of the wall. Probably nothing but more dirt. Still, he had to try something.

He crawled back and retrieved half of the broken trapdoor. Back at the wall, he raised the door over his head and struck the splintered edge of it against the stones. More pebbles tumbled out onto the ground. He struck the wall again and larger stones fell away. Again and again he hit the wall with the stout piece of wood. When he felt he had made some progress, he jammed the end of the door into the small gash he’d created in the wall. He pushed down on the other end. Nothing happened. He got his upper body on the edge of the door that was sticking out from the wall and bounced on it, putting his full weight on the makeshift lever. There was a tearing sound and a shower of stone and dirt sluiced away. Fenn breathed deep and smiled.

Another tearing sound. This time the stones above him fell straight away from the wall. Fenn felt a sudden intense pain in his leg and tried to pull back, but he couldn’t move. His leg was caught.

He forced himself to remain calm. He closed his eyes and did his best to put the pain out of his mind.

Something furry ran up his arm and he screamed.

Fenn knew that the only person within earshot would be the tailor when Cinderhouse came back to the shop. But Fenn was a little boy and he wanted his parents. And so he screamed again.

Blackleg rapped on the door and waited. When there was no answer, he took a flat strip of metal from his back pocket and inserted it between the door and the frame. He pushed on it until he heard a faint click . He put the metal bar back in his pocket and turned the knob. The door swung open.

“Here now, what’re ye doin’?”

He turned and saw an old woman coming down the hall toward him. She was pointing her finger at him like a weapon.

“That’s Mr Hammersmith’s flat,” she said. “And Mr Pringle’s, too, only he ain’t here no more, God bless him.”

Her finger flitted away from him long enough to make the sign of the cross, touching her forehead, then her heart and, quickly, her left and right shoulders. Immediately she was pointing at him again. By now she was directly in front of him, her bony finger an inch from his nose.

Blackleg held his hands up, palms out. “No worries, ma’am,” he said. “We’re friends, him and me.”

“You were a friend of Mr Pringle? I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t know the bloke. But Hammersmith’s me mate.”

He heard himself and smiled when he realized that he was telling the truth. Who’d have guessed that he’d ever be friends with a bluebottle?

“Well,” the old lady said, “I don’t know about that.”

She looked him up and down, clearly taking in his grubby clothes and unkempt beard.

“I’m a police, ma’am.”

Blackleg had long practice in telling people what they wanted to hear. The lie came to him easily, and he saw in her eyes that the old lady wanted to believe him.

“You don’t look like a policeman,” she said.

“Thank you.” He leaned in closer to her, which caused her to back up a step. “What I do,” he said, “is I dress up like as if I’m a lowlife and I mix in amongst them. Amongst that sort, I mean. They take me for one of their own and they tells me things as I can take back to Mr Hammersmith and the other police.”

“Why, how clever,” the old lady said. “You certainly look convincing.”

“Thank you again, ma’am. I do try.”

“Well, I’m afraid Mr Hammersmith isn’t at home today. I would have heard him on the stairs.”

“Quite all right, ma’am. He gave me the key to the place and tole me to wait here for ’im. I’m sure he’ll be here soon enough.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Unless you has a problem with that. If it makes you uncomfortable, me hangin’ about in the flat here lookin’ like I do, lookin’, I mean to say, like as if I’m a criminal, I understand most complete. I’d be happy to go on outside and wait at the door for him.”

“Oh, no,” the old lady said. “That wouldn’t do at all. No, you stay here and make yourself at home. I’m sure if Mr Hammersmith asked you here then it isn’t my place to say otherwise.”

Of course she didn’t want him loitering outside her building. That might make a bad impression on the neighbors.

“Well, you’re uncommon gracious, ma’am. ’Most exactly like my own sainted mother.”

The old lady blushed and covered her mouth.

“My name is Mrs Flanders,” she said. “I’m down the hall here, first door on the right. If you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to ring the bell.”

“Thank you much, ma’am.”

She smiled and turned away.

“Ma’am?”

“Yes?” The old woman paused with her hand on the wall.

“There’s one more expected here today. ’Nother police like me who looks maybe a bit down at the heels as well.”

“A meeting here?”

“You might call it that.”

The old woman frowned. “I don’t care for business being conducted on my premises,” she said.

“It’ll be just the one time. We don’t like to meet at the station ’cause someone might see us there and connect the fact that we ain’t really criminals.”

“Oh, I suppose that makes sense.”

“Yes, ma’am. So when he gets here, don’t trouble yerself none. He can find his own way.”

“You’re quite the gentleman, you are, regardless of appearance.”

“Thank you.”

She waved a hand at him and tottered down the hall. When she turned back to look at him, he nodded. She went back into her own flat and closed the door. Blackleg let out a deep breath and pushed Hammersmith’s door open. He went in and closed it behind him.

Inside, the flat was even smaller than Blackleg’s own place. He chuckled to think that a bluebottle probably made less money in a year than he did. Crime wasn’t respectable, but it paid.