Dodger Page 0,39

no-holds-barred war in which any weapon was fair game. He spoke to the street traders, trading on the smallest of margins; and he chatted to the ladies who hung about doing nothing very much, but always happy to meet a gentleman with money who would be generous to a girl, especially after his drink had been spiked – after which he could have the luxury of a long voyage down the Thames to places far, far away where he would possibly meet interesting people, some of whom might even endeavour to eat him, by all accounts. If a gentleman was very unlucky – or upset someone like Mrs Holland on Bankside – he would do the journey down the Thames without a boat . . .

Then there were the men offering games of Crown and Anchor, which at least had the benefit of being winnable if you were sober enough and the dice rolled your way – unlike the other game you might be offered by a cheery man who owned nothing more than one flat wooden board on which were three thimbles and one pea. On that little battlefield you would indeed bet some money on the whereabouts of the said pea, relying on your keen eyesight to keep track of it as the thimbles turned and spun under the hands of the cheerful chattering man. You would never, ever guess right, because where the pea really was was known only to the cheerful man and God – and probably not even God was certain. If you had drunk enough, you would try again and again, betting more and more, ’cos sooner or later, even if you simply guessed, it was surely bound to be under the one you guessed. But sadly, it never would be, ever.

Finally, of course, there was the Punch and Judy man, running his puppet show, which was even more of a hoot these days now there was a policeman for Mister Punch to beat with his stick. The kids laughed, and the adults would laugh, and everyone would laugh as the laughing Mister Punch screamed, ‘That’s the way to do it!’ in that squeaky voice of his, like some terrible bird of prey . . . or the wheels of a coach.

You knew when you grew up that Punch was the man who throws the baby out of the window and beats his wife . . . Of course, such things did happen: certainly the beating of the wife, and as to what might happen to the baby, that might not be the subject for children – not a happy family.

Now Dodger, into whose mind was creeping a dreadful shining darkness in which lay a wonderful girl with golden hair, had to restrain his fists from knocking out that damned shrieking puppet as he passed the stall. He felt himself shiver for a moment and brought himself back down to earth. He knew all this, had known it for ever. But Simplicity . . . well, Simplicity was someone he could maybe do something about. And that something wasn’t just for Simplicity; it was for himself too, in some funny way he couldn’t quite work out yet.

Better though, if he wanted to see things that didn’t make him feel sick or angry, he would find the men whose dogs could do tricks, or the men who lifted heavy weights, or the boxers – bare knuckles, of course.

But today, today Dodger was asking questions. And he had done his best. He had spoken to two ladies waiting for a gent. He had chatted to the Crown and Anchor man, who knew him by name, and even the man who lifted weights, who had grunted with pleasure. On one occasion he even reminded somebody of the sixpence he had loaned to him because of his poor old mummy and subtly said, ‘Oh no, don’t bother, I’m sure you will find a way to repay me someday.’ In short, Dodger moved over the face of the world – or at least that part encompassed over the stews of London – spreading Dodger like a cat spreads piss and leaving little questions in the air. So that if ever somebody heard a coach that screamed, they might just have a word with Dodger; and even better, he thought, if someone who owned a coach that screamed, maybe screamed like a gutted pig, he might want to sort it out with the man who was asking all those questions.