In a narrow street in one of the poorer parts of the city of Spoke, two boys were sitting on a stone step, watching the shop opposite. The older boy, Pounce, had his scabby arms wrapped around his knees, trying to keep out the cold wind that was blowing up from the harbour. He would have given up ages ago if it wasn’t for the money that Harrow’s underling, Flense, had promised him.
Pounce
‘One thing I’ll say about Harrow’s mob,’ he whispered to the small boy beside him, ‘is that they pays well. Not like most people. Most people try and fob us off with a two-week-old pie that’d ’ave us spewin’ in the gutter if we was thick enough to eat it. And they expect us to be grateful.’
The younger boy grinned and pushed his white hair out of his eyes. Pounce blew on his cold hands. ‘I reckon they should pay us as much as they pay a grownup,’ he said. ‘More, prob’ly. Snotties make better spies than grownups. ’Specially street snotties. We’s as good as invisible, ain’t we, Mousie? We could lie right down in the middle of the Spice Market and die of ’unger, and no one’d notice till our corpsies started to stink.’
The white-haired boy pointed to the arm of his jacket, where it sagged under the weight of a dozen sleeping mice.
‘Yeah, I s’pose they’d notice,’ said Pounce. ‘Greedy little beggars. They’d prob’ly chew our fingers off before we was even cold.’
Mouse’s eyes widened and he laughed in silent delight. Pounce felt a tiny patch of warmth in the pit of his belly. ‘Well, anyway, we ain’t gunna die of ’unger this week, thanks to Harrow and Flense,’ he muttered gruffly.
Mouse pointed to his sleeve again.
‘Yeah yeah,’ said Pounce. ‘And thanks to the sprats.’ He patted the other boy on the arm, careful not to disturb the mice. ‘You and them does a good job. There’s lotsa times we woulda starved without your fortune-tellin’ tricks.’
A line appeared on Mouse’s forehead. Pounce held up his hands in mock apology. ‘All right, so they’s not tricks. They’s real. They just looks like tricks.’
Across the street, old Warble had been serving behind the counter of his bread shop. Now he came to the door, scratching nervously at one of his hairy eyebrows.
‘Here, make out like ya’s asleep,’ whispered Pounce, dropping his head onto his knees and watching through his fingers.
Beside him, Mouse began to snore gently. But as soon as Warble disappeared back into his shop, the little boy frowned, as if he’d only just realised what they were doing here. He pointed to the shop, then to his own mouth.
‘What?’ said Pounce, deliberately misunderstanding him. ‘You ’ungry?’
Mouse made a wiping gesture, as if to say, Of course he was hungry, he was always hungry, but that wasn’t important right now. He pointed to the bread shop again, and smiled and held out his hands. He tapped Pounce’s shoulder, then his own.
Pounce sighed. ‘Look, Mousie. Ya can’t be soft, all right? I know old Warble gives us leftovers when he’s got ’em. But that’s not the point, see? The point is, Flense is payin’ me to keep an eye on ’im.’
Mouse pulled a face and drew his finger across his throat.
‘Nah, nothin’ like that,’ said Pounce quickly. ‘No one’s gunna get ’urt. Flense is expectin’ an important delivery, that’s all, and she wants to make sure it arrives safely. She don’t trust no one, see. No one except Harrow. It’s a wonder she ain’t sittin’ ’ere ’erself, givin’ orders.’
He sniffed, trying to think of some way of distracting Mouse. He didn’t usually bring his friend on jobs like this one, but there’d been a lot of rain lately, and he was worried that the old sewer where they lived might flood, or even collapse. He didn’t like to leave Mouse there on his own, just in case.
Truth was, Warble might well end up with his throat slit – that was the way things usually ended with Harrow’s mob. But it was none of Pounce’s business, and none of Mouse’s either, however kind the old bread-shop man had been to them. You couldn’t be soft, not in this world. Not if you wanted to survive.
‘Well now,’ he whispered. ‘Let’s you and me think about what we saw.’ He nodded towards the shop door. ‘He was nervous, did ya see that? Did ya see how ’e took out ’is snot rag and wiped ’is forehead? As if maybe ’e was expectin’ someone, and wasn’t real ’appy about it? That’s what I’ll tell Flense when I report back. Harrow likes details like that. He says they make all the difference, and that’s why ’e hires me, ’cos I’m a noticer, and noticers are rare birds.’
To Pounce’s relief, Mouse laughed his silent laugh again, and flapped his skinny arms.
‘What?’ said Pounce, pretending to scowl. ‘Ya don’t reckon I’m a rare bird?’
Mouse shook his head.
‘What am I then? A scrawny old pigeon, with moulty feathers and crusty bits round its eyes? I s’pose yer gunna creep up behind me and whack me with a stick, and roast my corpsie over a fire, like we did to that pigeon the other day.’
Mouse grinned and rubbed his tummy.
For as long as Pounce could remember there hadn’t been enough to eat. It was worse in winter, when the cold made your belly stick to your backbone.
‘Tell ya what, Mousie,’ he said. ‘One day I’m gunna find somethin’ that Flense and Harrow really want. Not just a little spyin’ job like this one. Somethin’ big and important. Somethin’ they’ll pay lots and lots of money for. And then, you and me’s gunna rent a room. A proper room, with a fireplace. And we’s gunna sit by the fire and eat pigeons all day long. Just think of it, eh? The grease runnin’ down our chins. Our bellies so fat we can’t ’ardly stand up.’
Mouse closed his eyes and licked his lips as if he could already taste the pigeons.
A fierce protectiveness welled up inside Pounce. I’ll do it, too, he told himself grimly. I don’t care what it is, or who it ’urts, just as long as Harrow’ll pay good money for it.
Aloud he said, ‘It’s you and me against the world, Mousie. We don’t need no one else. You remember that. You stick with your mate Pounce, and he’ll get ya all the pigeons you want.’