Alex Grecian - The Yard

The cat would give away his position. He picked it up and stroked its head by way of apology, then threw it across the cave. He heard it land and scamper away, and he hoped that his unseen opponent had heard it, too.

Crouching, he crept toward where he’d heard the cat land. He kept his hands out in front of him, moving them slowly back and forth, sliding his feet forward an inch at a time so that he wouldn’t trip over anything. He concentrated on breathing, quietly, deliberately. He was a shadow among shadows.

After what seemed an eternity his hand brushed against something solid, and he pulled back just in time. He heard a person turn and felt a breeze beside him as something whistled by, missing him by a fraction of an inch.

He struck out and hit nothing but air. Off balance, he stumbled forward and caught himself before he fell. He grunted as his knee came down hard on the packed dirt.

Immediately he felt the breeze again. It was followed by a burning sensation in his forearm. Something warm and wet ran down his arm. He was cut.

He rolled to the side and stayed low, crawling as quietly as he could around and back to where he’d been. He swept the area near him with one foot, keeping his center of balance low and stable. Nothing. He moved to his right and tried again. This time his foot hit something solid. There was a cry and someone hit the ground hard.

Hammersmith was on the other man immediately. Here was a torso, and Hammersmith quickly found the man’s arms, pinning them to the ground with one forearm before the knife could cut him again. The man grunted and tried to roll away. Hammersmith jabbed down as hard as he could with his free elbow and felt ribs give way beneath him. The other man cried out, and Hammersmith aimed his fist at the sound, hitting something solid enough to be a skull. There was another grunt.

From his semi-sitting position, Hammersmith sprang up and came back down on the man’s body. He heard a crack and a cry of pain and lashed out at the man’s head again. This time, he felt his own knuckle break, but the other man’s skull snapped back and he went silent.

Hammersmith found the man’s throat and felt for a pulse. It was strong. He sat back against the stone wall and caught his breath. He kept his good hand on the unconscious man to make sure he didn’t move. His other hand felt like it was on fire and his arm throbbed, but he was alive, and when he checked his wound he found that it had already stopped bleeding.

“Is someone there?” he said. “I know there’s someone else down here.”

He waited, but there was only silence. When his own breathing had calmed, he listened and heard someone else’s breath there in the cave.

“I can hear you,” Hammersmith said. “The man with the knife is unconscious. He can’t hurt anybody. You’re safe now.”

“I’ll be good,” came a small voice from the other side of the cellar. It sounded like a young boy. “Don’t hurt me.”

“I won’t hurt you. I promise. I’m a policeman and I’m here to help you. What’s your name?”

“Fennimore.”

“Fennimore, do you know the name of the man with the knife?”

“No.”

“Was he threatening you?”

“I won’t run anymore. You can tell him.”

“He can’t hear us. He’s asleep.”

“Not him. Tell the other one, the bald man. Tell him he can be my father forever if he wants.”

“Fennimore, were you being kept down here?”

“No. I ran down here and now I’m stuck.”

Hammersmith removed his shirt and used it to tie the unconscious man’s hands together. It occurred to him that he was running out of shirts. It also occurred to him that he was beneath a tailor’s shop. There would be more shirts above. He ought to be able to make himself presentable again once he left the cellar. It wouldn’t do to be seen in his undershirt.

He patted the ground in widening circles, searching for the knife that had dropped during the scuffle. When his fingers touched cold metal, he found the handle, picked the knife up, and stuck it in the waistband of his trousers, against his back.

He crawled toward the sound of the boy’s steady breathing. When he touched what felt like the boy’s shoulder, there was a cry of fear.

“It’s all right, Fennimore. Do your friends call you Fennimore?”

“They call me Fenn.”

“Is it all right if I call you Fenn, too?”

“Yes.”

“Just now you said that the bald man could be your father. Do you know the bald man’s name?”

“It’s Cinderhouse, sir. His name is Cinderhouse.”

“The tailor?”

“Yes, sir. Please tell him I won’t run away anymore.”

“Is he your father?”

“He can be. It’s okay now.”

Hammersmith hesitated. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but he didn’t like the sound of it.

“Are you tied up, Fenn?”

“No, sir. My leg’s stuck under some rocks.”

“Is it all right if I touch your leg and try to free it from the rocks?”

“Yes, sir.”

Hammersmith nodded, though he knew the boy couldn’t see him. Fenn’s ankle was lodged under a small landslide of rocks and dirt. It would take some effort, but the stones were loose and Hammersmith began to work at them, moving them aside one at a time.

“Do you have another father, Fenn? Someone before Cinderhouse?”

“Yes, but I’m not supposed to talk about him. Or about my mother, neither.”

“Fenn, did they sell you to the tailor?”

“No, sir. He took me in the street.”

Hammersmith sighed and worked harder on the stones trapping the boy.

“Fenn, that was a bad thing to do. When I get you free from here, we’re going to find your father, your real father, and your mother, too, and return you to them.”

The boy sat perfectly still. He began to breathe faster.

“And we’re going to put Mr Cinderhouse in jail. He won’t bother you again.”

“He won’t get out of jail?”

“I won’t let him get out.”

“Are you really a policeman?”

“Yes, I am.”

“The other policemen didn’t help me. But the fat one tried to. Mr Little tried to help me before Mr Cinderhouse done him.”

“Did you say Mr Little?”

The stones were coming loose faster, now that he’d moved the largest of them out of the way.

“Yes, sir. It’s my fault; I didn’t tell him about Mr Cinderhouse. Don’t let Mr Cinderhouse stab you, too.”

“I won’t, Fenn. Mr Cinderhouse won’t ever hurt anyone again. Sit still and I’ll have you free in another moment, and then we’ll get out of here.”

The boy wiggled his ankle and dirt sifted away from his leg.

“I’m almost free already,” Fenn said.

“We’ll have you back with your parents in no time at all,” Hammersmith said.

He took a deep breath and yanked another stone loose.

I know you,” the dancing man said.

“Yes,” Kingsley said. “We’ve met on several occasions now.”

They were wandering down a dark hallway in Hobgate workhouse. Kingsley held the lantern up and watched ahead of them as shadows played up the walls and disappeared into the dark hollows of low open doorways that led into too-small rooms. Kingsley had allowed himself to get turned around and had no idea where the exit was or how long they had been zigzagging through the makeshift tunnels of Hobgate. They had seen occasional faces peering out from the open doors, furtive men who disappeared immediately back into darkness. The great crowds of men had scurried into their rat holes as soon as word spread that police were on the premises.

“Did I dance for you?”

“No,” Kingsley said. “You haven’t danced for me. Why do you dance?”