Richard Ford - Herald of the Storm

Nevertheless, a gal had to eat, and Rag was mighty hungry.

The smell of Gunta’s bread stall was wafting her way, almost as though the fat baker was just asking her to take one of his plump, brown loaves. She’d robbed him before, more than once, and it was likely he’d be looking out for her, but Rag had a knack for going unnoticed. For some children, normal children with parents who bought them food and clothes and kept a roof over them, lack of attention might have been a problem. Not so for Rag. Her talent for being ignored suited her just fine.

Across the market the Guild lookout was busy marking a punter for his pincher, so there’d be no trouble there. The three lads in the Greencoats were laughing and joking with two well-dressed girls who looked well out of their league, so no trouble there neither.

Fat Gunta was busy chatting to two equally fat women, who by the looks of them needed to skip a few meals. It was almost as if the baker was begging her to help rid him of his wares.

Rag walked up all casual. She matched the pace of a passing merchant, allowing his bulk to shield her, and for a split second thought of cutting his purse, but she knew it wasn’t worth it. Loaves was of no interest to the Guild. Purses was quite different.

As the merchant passed the end of Gunta’s stall, Rag stopped walking and let him move on, never looking up, never locking her eyes on the mark lest he glance round and see her, or those fat ladies spot her and give the game away. Most times if you didn’t look at someone they wouldn’t look at you, wouldn’t even notice you were there. She was right next to the stall now, within arm’s reach of a nice crusty loaf. It weren’t nothing just to take one, and it was in her hand before anyone noticed; not so fast as to attract attention, not so slow as to take all day. In less time than it took to suck up a breath, her coat was open and the loaf aiming for the inside of it, when someone banged into her. Rag stumbled, the bread spilling from her grip and cracking on the cobbles right in front of the stall, crust breaking to bits like a shattered mirror, and making not much less noise.

‘Oi!’ screamed Gunta, ladies forgotten and his face all twisted in rage. ‘You little bastard! Come here!’

Rag didn’t need further encouragement to head off through the crowd, but before she could take a step someone had grabbed her coat by the collar. She struggled in vain — he had her. She glanced back to see who it was, hoping it weren’t a Greencoat, terrified it might be someone from the Guild, but it was just an ordinary bloke, going about his business.

She struggled and squirmed her best, even trying to stamp on the wanker’s foot, but he was immovable, and Gunta was coming from behind that bread counter, his face all puffy and red. She was going to get a right beating for this and no mistake.

Rag let her body go slack, bending her knees and dropping out of her coat, just before Gunta was able to grab her. Then she was off and running, through the crowd and all the hubbub. She’d had that coat for years, and it pained her to leave it behind, but better a coat gone than maybe some fingers, she reckoned.

Gunta was coming on behind, screaming his head off and stirring up the whole marketplace, but Rag, concentrating on escape, only thought to get to the nearest alley and disappear.

Before she could make it, she caught sight of a figure moving fast and purposeful towards her through the crowd. A Greencoat — young and eager, unlike most of the others, and definitely in better shape than Gunta. He had the determined look of a man with something to prove, and catching Rag was his way of doing it.

Ducking a swipe of his arm, she dodged sideways into one of the narrow streets that led from the market. Her bare feet mashed the shit of the alley as she increased her pace, but the Greencoat continued his pursuit, helmet rattling and crossbow slapping against his back. Rag sped through the tight labyrinthine alleyways with practised ease, but her pursuer was matching her pace with sheer power. For a brief second she considered her knife — pulling it on her pursuer might make him wonder whether catching her was worth being cut — though she hadn’t used a blade in anger for years. Truth was she’d never been convincing with a shiv. She remembered how Gus the Puller had just taken it off her once and put a stripe down her cheek for her trouble. After that she never bothered again.

Rag realised she wasn’t going to outrun the lad so she would just have to disappear. As she turned another corner she jumped, planting her bare foot against a narrow windowsill and propelling herself upwards, catching hold of the lintel and dragging her body up above head height. Within two breaths the Greencoat turned the corner, splashing through the puddles and heaving air into his lungs. Thinking Rag had gone, he stopped, cursing loudly and slapping his thigh in anger. All the while she watched from above him, holding her breath, but this Greencoat obviously wasn’t a clever one; he never even bothered to look up.

When he was gone Rag climbed down from the sill, with neither food nor coat. All in all it hadn’t been a good day’s work, but the day wasn’t over yet — something else might come along.

With the market too hot to return to, she headed for Slip Street where she usually bedded down. Slip Street was on the edge of Dockside, not the worst place in that district, but certainly worse than anywhere in Eastgate. It was generally filled with drunks looking for a good time, and expecting to find it there. Aside from the alehouses that lined the street, almost every spare doorway housed a whore of one type or another. Rag would have felt uncomfortable here, vulnerable even, but this was where she’d grown up; her face was known to most of the girls and boys who plied their trade, but for the most part she was ignored. But then that had always been her talent.

She climbed the rickety stairs at the side of the Silent Bull inn, her filthy feet padding lithely across the cracked and broken wood. Her weight made the whole staircase creak violently, but it held beneath her. A full grown man using those stairs might have made them collapse; he’d certainly have made a hell of a racket climbing them. It was the kind of early warning that kept Rag alive in the foul and dangerous streets. Rag and her fellas.

As she made her way up, past the third storey and onto the roof, Tidge was there waiting for her as usual. His big sad eyes stared hopefully from his dirty, podgy face.

‘Didn’t get nothing, mate,’ Rag said, walking past him towards the rickety shack that sat on the flat roof of the inn.

‘Where’s your coat?’ Tidge asked.

‘I had to lose it, but don’t you worry, I’ll find another before the cold nights come.’

She stooped below the broken lintel of the makeshift shack that sat in the centre of the roof and climbed inside. The previous night’s fire had burned down to embers, which smoked feebly in the bottom of the rusted old shield that made do as a fire pit. On the bench opposite were Migs and Chirpy, sitting close enough to be hugging, as they usually were.

‘All right, Rag?’ Chirpy asked with his usual smile. Migs was silent as ever, looking out from beneath the long fringe that fell down almost to his nose.

‘Yeah,’ Rag answered, but she knew she wasn’t. Another failed day in the market meant they had another night with nothing to eat. She could only hope that Fender would bring them something later — if he decided to come back at all.

Tidge climbed into the shack and sat beside her, resting his head on her arm. She hugged him close, looking through the cracks in the wall of the shack and out across the city.

Below, from the streets surrounding the inn, came the sound of the corner girls plying their trade, their sweet voices full of promise and allure. Rag felt both disgust and envy. She resented them for giving their bodies away so easily, degrading themselves for a few coins, but deep down she knew they only did it to survive; if they had an alternative they’d take it. She was jealous too — jealous that she’d been born so pig ugly, so awkward and unsightly. There was no way she’d make any money on the street corner even if she could lower herself enough to try. Not that she ever would.