Katherine Woodfine - The Clockwork Sparrow

Left behind, Bert smirked to himself as the distant sound of Sophie’s feet skittering on the cobbles faded to nothing in the settling dark.

Sophie kept running, her feet clattering, her heart bumping. She was conscious of attracting curious looks from passers-by: after all, young ladies didn’t generally go racing down the city streets. But at that moment, Sophie didn’t care in the least about what young ladies generally did.

It had begun to rain, and everything seemed darker now. The last few shops were shutting, and the bursts of music and voices that spilled out of the public houses seemed louder and more menacing. As she turned the corner she ran blindly into a young man carrying a big portfolio, which at once crashed to the ground, spilling out papers. ‘Hey! Look where you’re going, can’t you?’ he demanded, but too agitated even to pause and apologise, Sophie kept her head down and ran for home, leaving him calling angrily after her.

By the time she reached her lodgings, pink-cheeked and out of breath, she had missed supper. The lodging house was not an attractive place, and as usual the hall smelled like overcooked cabbage. As she started up the creaking stairs towards her room, a trio of girls spilled out on to the landing. Edith was at the centre of the little group and gave her a sneering look, taking in her red face and damp hair, which was now most definitely coming down. There was a bubble of laughter and then they breezed past and the door slammed abruptly behind them.

Sophie trudged upwards to her room. It was small and shabby. There was a damp patch on the ceiling, and the sound of a baby crying could be heard through the thin walls, but at least it was her own. There wasn’t much in it: only a narrow, iron-framed bed, a washstand squeezed into a corner, and a chair wedged in the space between the bed and the tiny fireplace. But her old china doll sat on the chair smiling a glassy-eyed welcome, and on the mantelpiece were a few treasures she had been able to save from Orchard House: a jug with cowslips on it, one or two books with pretty morocco bindings, and a walnut box that held keepsakes – a hatpin shaped like a rose that she wore often, a string of green beads that had once belonged to her mama, and her papa’s medals. Most precious of all was the photograph of Papa, which she kept at the very centre of the mantelpiece. It was a rather stiff, formal portrait in which he stood very upright and gallant in his military uniform, and yet somehow he seemed to be looking at her with the barest hint of a smile. It gave her a strange sort of comfort to fancy that he might almost be watching.

She dropped the parcel containing Billy’s jacket on the floor, lit the lamp and then sank down on to the bed to ease her boots from her aching feet. In the warm glow of the lamplight, everything troubling – the dark streets, the empty store, the girls’ laughter, and even the looming figure of Bert – seemed to fade away. There would be no buns for supper, but bread and butter would do just as well, she thought decidedly, pulling the shabby curtains firmly closed against the darkness outside.

He sat still in the shadows of the stable-yard, watching. It was a risk staying here after that lad had spotted him earlier, but he felt it was a risk worth taking. He’d stay tonight and be on his way again tomorrow. It was a shame, for this was a good place, safe and quiet. He felt sure that no one would ever think of looking for him here. Besides, he was fond of horses, always had been, and they were fond of him.

There was a light burning high up in one of the top windows of the big shop building – a little point of yellow light in the grey dusk. It made his thoughts flash suddenly back to that awful night, to looking in through the misted window as the watchmaker held up a pocket watch, like a gleaming gold star in the dark. He remembered how still the old man had been, motionless, but for the delicate movements of his long fingers as he bent over the bench, all scattered with the parts of clocks and watches. Something about the way he sat there had made him think of his old grandad. Suppose the watchmaker had been someone’s old grandad too? He had known then that he couldn’t do what they wanted. He couldn’t do it, and so he’d have to run.

He pushed the memory away and wiped the rain off his face. He had to forget all that. He had to stay sharp, concentrate on the here and now. He’d been watching since the store closed. Soon, he’d be able to find a quiet corner to kip for the night, well away from the nightwatchman’s beat. Not that he’d been getting much sleep since he left the Boys behind. The wound from Jem’s knife ached, and the pain left him wakeful. Besides, what little sleep he managed to snatch was tormented by dreams. He dreamed of his own treacherous hands, shaking as they gripped the blade; the small, defenceless figure of the watchmaker behind the window; Jem smiling his jagged smile; and always the unknown figure of the Baron, lurking somewhere beyond, a faceless monster from a child’s nightmare. ‘Know why they call him the Baron?’ he remembered Jem saying to him once. ‘Cos he’s the tops when it comes to villainy. There’s no one who can touch him for that.’ He’d heard some people say that the Baron was no more than another tall tale surfacing from the slums of the city, but he knew they were wrong. The Baron’s Boys and the things they did were real enough, that was for sure.

There was hardly anyone left in the store now. The big fellow with the black moustache had long gone, heaving himself on to his bicycle and pedalling strenuously off into the evening. One or two others had followed, but still the thin young fellow remained, standing just beside the door smoking a cigarette. He wished that young fellow would sling his hook. There was something about him that he didn’t trust – the curl of his lip, the glint in his eye, or perhaps just the way he’d tried to bully that girl, the one who had given him the shilling. It had been a relief to see her dart past him and hurry away.

A shilling, that was something. For the dozenth time, he felt for the reassuring circle of it in his pocket. Once or twice before he’d got a penny or two, but he didn’t set himself up to go a-begging. The old fellows and the kids, they might do all right, but he didn’t reckon that anyone would want to give a farthing to someone like him. But that girl, she’d just given him that coin, right out of nowhere. A whole shilling, just like that.

His ears pricked at a new sound. The door was opening and someone else was coming out. Another man, his collar turned up, a cap pulled well down over his eyes. The young fellow looked surprised, but then an expression of interest broke over his face and he opened his mouth as if to speak. Somewhere, close by, there was the splintering tinkle of glass shattering, and the yowl of a cat.

Then all at once, as if the sound had sparked it off, everything happened very fast. There was a glint of metal in the dim light; a sudden, heart-stopping explosion of sound. He started and shrank back into his corner, but the thin young fellow had fallen. He was on the ground. His body was crooked, slumped face-down. The other man turned smoothly, soundlessly away, and a moment later he had melted into the dark.

The yard was empty but for the black shape of the young fellow’s body. He stole forward and hesitated, seeing the dark pool blooming on the ground. The young fellow had been shot.

There was a crumpled piece of paper lying beside the body. He picked it up instinctively and shoved it into his pocket with the shilling. Already he could hear the sound of a whistle: the police, the nightwatchman? He couldn’t stay to find out which it was. He had to get away.

He slipped into the shadows by the wall, where he blended with the darkness and became invisible. It was something he knew only too well how to do. Silent and swift as a fox in the night, he padded away down the alley. Once again, he had to disappear.