Six

Weak sunlight struggled through a crusty window, and for Silas, the morning brought rare comfort. He was woken by unfamiliarity in the form of a dry mattress and warm blanket. Along with them came a more familiar feel, that of Fecks, spooned in from behind with a leg and an arm holding him close. Fecks’ breathing was light and through his mouth, where he made an inward sucking sound followed by a soft moan. His breath smelt of stale alcohol which mixed with the smell of damp beneath the eaves.

This was about as good as waking up could be for Silas, and he lay peacefully in Fecks’ friendship enjoying it, but expecting Molly to appear through the curtain at any moment and throw them out. He lay innocently stroking his friend’s arm until a clock struck the hour, and, realising they had slept until eleven, wondered why Molly had not already evicted them.

‘Fecks,’ he whispered, pushing back against the man to wake him. ‘Oi, Fecker, we’ve got to get up.’

Fecker mumbled something in his native tongue, but even before he opened his eyes, sensed that he needed to be moving. He rolled onto his back, releasing Silas who got up to use the piss pot.

When he came back to the bed, Fecks was sitting on the edge rubbing his face with his mighty hands, his mightier erection peaking at the front of his long johns. Silas had long learned that Fecks was not talkative in the mornings, and they dressed in silence. As usual, food was the first thing on their minds as they descended the creaking, narrow stairs to the ground floor.

‘What time d’you call this?’ Molly complained when she saw them. A couple of drunks were seeking a place to sleep after finishing their night shift at the meat market, and she was fending them off.

‘You should’ve kicked us out,’ Silas answered, searching the table where she sometimes kept cachous to freshen her breath.

‘Nah.’ Molly said. ‘I did look in on yer, but you was sleeping like them babes in the wood, and I couldn’t bring meself to chuck ya.’ She kicked the drunks into the yard.

‘You’ve got a heart of gold there, Molly,’ Silas laughed.

‘But teeth are wooden,’ Fecks mumbled as they passed her.

‘What’s he saying?’

‘Wishing you a good day is all.’

Silas poked his head into the rope-room just in case there was anyone about who owed him a favour, a copper, or something to eat, but there was nothing in there except empty benches and the familiar smell of the unwashed.

‘My arse.’ Molly booted one of the drunks trying to re-enter and hurried Fecks outside. ‘Not renting tags ’til later,’ she told Silas.

‘That’s alright, Mol. I won’t be needing one tonight.’

It wasn’t until they had used the last of Silas’ money to buy a loaf of bread and some milk, and were devouring it in the relative warmth of the baker’s doorway that Fecker was awake enough to ask, ‘Why you don’t need rope?’

Silas had expected the question and had used the time to weigh his concerns against his intrigue, and the dangers against the benefits of accepting Thomas’ proposition. He repeated to Fecks what he had told him the previous night, but which Fecker had forgotten, because he’d been inebriated, and his friend listened intently to the story. Silas had said he would give Thomas a decision that night, and he intended to keep that promise out of decency.

‘You say what?’ Fecks asked, passing the milk bottle. ‘You go?’

‘Yeah, I think I am,’ Silas admitted. ‘I want to know what it’s about, the bloke I spoke to seemed legitimate. I didn’t get a bad feeling, you know?’

Fecker shrugged. ‘If you want go, we go. I don’t mind.’

‘We? Sorry, mate, it was only me he wanted.’

‘No. This is not so.’

‘It is so, you bloody Russian arse. You weren’t there.’

‘I make never-mind. I am from Ukraine.’

‘The Ukraine,’ Silas corrected. ‘If that’s what it’s called now. Either way, you’re still Russian.’

‘Nyet,’ Fecks insisted, using the crust of the loaf to clean between his teeth before eating it. ‘You not go alone.’

‘They only want a man who looks like their drawing. You don’t.’

‘Why do I care?’

‘This toff will. They won’t let you in the carriage.’

‘You don’t go in carriage. Not safe.’

‘Wish I’d not told you now,’ Silas mumbled. ‘I’d just got used to the idea I was going to do it, now you’re putting me off.’

‘Good.’

‘Not good. I ain’t going to have another busy day like yesterday, they only come along once in a blue moon, and if I got the choice between hanging off Molly’s rope or being entertained in a gentleman’s house, I know what I should choose.’

‘You don’t go to houses.’

‘Yeah, I did say that, but I’ve changed my mind.’

‘I drink.’ Fecks took the milk bottle, noted the level, drank exactly half and passed it back. ‘For you.’

‘Thanks. Anyway, what are you doing today?’

‘No work. I go to baths. I wash. I come with you tonight.’

‘No, Fecks, you fecking fecker, I told you…’

‘And I tell you this. You go alone, you get yourself dead. I go with you, or you don’t go.’

‘You’re not my lord and master, mate.’ Although he found Fecker’s concern touching, he was only his best friend and not his mam. Silas could protect himself, he was savvy and hadn’t just fallen off the potato cart.

‘Nyet, I am not master,’ Fecks agreed. ‘But you are only friend and no use dead. Four boys, Banyak. More maybe.’ He shook his head and looked sideways at Silas from beneath his shaggy fringe, drawing a finger across his throat. ‘You make them take me with you.’

‘I’ll share the money when I get back.’

‘This I know. But I worry for you.’

‘Don’t.’

Silas’ insistence that he go alone got the better of Fecker, and he stood, angry. ‘You don’t care,’ he accused bitterly. ‘You don’t care what happen to you.’

‘I’ll be fine. I got the luck a the Irish.’

‘Which you isn’t, and is not point. You disappear, what happens to me? You don’t care. “Oh, Andrej,” you say. “You are only friend. I love you.” But is only when you drink, or when you want fucked. I love you too much to fuck you. You are not trade.’

He sat heavily, and sulking, snatched the loaf from Silas’ hands.

Silas had heard this before, and it always confused him. He’d never understood how Fecks could appear so outwardly manly and yet talk without embarrassment about love, particularly of another man. Theirs wasn’t sensual love, he reminded himself, no matter how much he wanted it to be.

As they ate in silence, a paper seller trod the opposite pavement, calling his sensational headline. ‘Fourth victim of the Ripper,’ he shouted. ‘Carnage terrifies East End.’

‘This is old news,’ Fecks grumbled, and he was correct.

‘And miswritten,’ Silas noted. ‘Carnage doesn’t spread terror. The act of creating it does.’

‘You too clever to be rent,’ Fecks decided. ‘But you go alone, you be tomorrow’s news.’

‘There’s nothing I can do about it, Fecks.’

‘You take me, and I let you suck big cock from Ukraine.’

‘Ha!’ Silas laughed. ‘I’ve done that before.’ He had, but only during paid-for sessions, and each time Fecker’s reluctance had been so apparent Silas felt terrible about it.

‘This time I let you suck,’ Fecks said, ‘because I prove you are my friend.’

‘You turning queer on me there, Fecks?’

‘I not queer. I’m from…’

‘Yeah, I know.’ Silas sighed. ‘Fecks, mate, you know that If I still had one, I’d sell my mam so you and I could live clean and quiet in fresh air away from this shit. Who knows? Maybe tonight could be the start of me making a fortune. Loads of boys go to the houses of gentlemen. There’s that one over Cleaver Street the messenger boys rent at. Molly’s family’s got that one down Limedock, and what about Jimmy-the-Nob? Got a house and a wife now, afforded by his visits to toffs in their own homes. No-one’s been found dead at any Lord Snotalot’s house that I’ve heard of.’

‘No. They die in prison when policeman catch them and toffs go free.’

Whatever excuse Silas could think of as a reason to go, Fecks would find a reason why he shouldn’t and a good one too. It was reassuring to be cared for in this way, but Fecker’s well-placed concern caged Silas’ optimism, and he didn’t want to end up resenting his friend, because he was trying to protect him. This was why he shied away from what most people called love, it was far too complicated. He loved Fecks for sure, but as the Ukrainian constantly pointed out, it was friend-love only. Love and sex were two different things, and although Silas could perform sex at the pop of a buttoned fly, when it came to sharing feelings and emotions with another, his guts churned.

The only way to settle this was to make Fecks an offer.

‘I tell you what, mate,’ he said as he watched the paper seller amble away, fighting off urchins who tried to tamper with his money tin. ‘You be with me at six, and I’ll ask them, but I can tell you they’ll say no.’

Fecks considered this, staring at Silas and chewing. He nodded, swallowed and pulled Silas to him, keeping him tightly locked beneath his arm.

‘This we do,’ he decreed. ‘But, if I get the bad feeling, you stay.’

‘We’ll see.’

The embrace tightened. ‘Nyet. I see first. If okay feeling, I go with you. If okay feeling, but only you…’ He waggled his head and scowled. ‘Maybe. But bad feeling, no going by no-one.’

‘And I still get to suck your cock?’

‘Who knows,’ Fecks said. ‘Maybe I let you sit on it.’

‘Now you’re just teasing.’

Fecks laughed and kissed Silas’ hair before pushing him away. The matter was settled.

Which was more that could be said for Viscount Clearwater as he paced the drawing room waiting for Lady Marshall to react.

‘I hope that was not too graphic a description for you, Dolly,’ he prompted, turning at the window to retrace his steps. ‘But you did insist on honesty.’

Lady Marshall, a grand galleon of fashion, rose from her chair, a billowing cloud of maroon velvet pinched at the middle but voluminous in the bustle. She was a rakish woman who hid her slight frame behind lashings of material that rustled obediently around her, only settling when she did, and even then taking its time to deflate. Her Ladyship wore a mix of the decade’s styles having recently thrown off the shackles of her grandmother’s time, the crinoline skirt, to replace it with a French bustle and corset that would have guillotined anyone else’s waist. She was a patron of the arts and numbered many painters and writers in her wardrobe of glamorous accessories. She supported the struggling and the oppressed, but, ironically, drew the line at actors.

She faced Archer across the room, her expression halting him in his tracks.

‘You’re bringing one here, Archie?’ she asked. ‘To Clearwater?’

‘I can hardly go there.’

She took a pace towards him in a fashion reminiscent of his nanny bearing the slipper, her narrow eyes marvelling at his stupidity.

‘I understand,’ she said. ‘But here?’

‘I will be quite safe, Dolly,’ he assured her. ‘I have fought for my country.’

‘I know that,’ she replied, taking another step, one slender arm snaking into a fold of her dress. ‘My husband pinned enough medals on you to attest to that.’ She withdrew from somewhere secret and satin a pair of mechanical lorgnette and pressed a button to release the lenses. She held them to her face and scrutinised the viscount, drawing near until she had found her focus. He waited patiently, trying not to smirk. She did this often, and it was for show. It was her way of reminding him that whereas he had inherited his title, hers had been awarded to her in her own right, a most unusual honour.

After taking a deep breath that swelled her bosom and ambitiously tested her stays, she let it out with an unladylike guffaw.

‘You’re going to send Tripp to an early grave,’ she said, clicking the lorgnette closed. ‘I wish you had invited me to be present when you informed him.’

‘It was mildly amusing.’

‘You sound like a bad review of a good tragedy,’ she said before spinning on her heels and throwing herself dramatically at the mercy of the settee. ‘Oh, Archie! What am I to do with you?’

‘It will all be above board and perfectly respectable,’ he promised. ‘The young man, should he acquiesce, will be brought to the tradesman’s door, and I will meet him below stairs. Tripp will be nearby, and I shall have Thomas with me. I shall interview the youth as privately as possible for his sake, and when I have learnt all he can tell me, I will see to it that he is given a decent consideration for his time. I’ll instruct Mrs Baker to feed him too if he wishes. He shall be gone from the house after a few hours, and I can assure you, no-one else in the street will see him come and go. Even if they do, there is nothing flouncy or effeminate about this young man, so Thomas tells me. He could easily pass for a sweep, Thomas says, or any apprentice come to be interviewed…’

‘You’re boring me now,’ Her Ladyship declared. ‘Except for your enthusiastic repetition of Thomas as if he was your lover.’

‘I cannot help the imaginings of your fancy, Your Ladyship,’ Archer teased. ‘You know how I am, but I know how I must be. Now then!’ He clapped his hands to change the subject. ‘Now that you know my plan and my intention, and have come to realise there is nothing you can do about either, shall I offer you a sherry?’

‘Heaven’s no. Filthy. Do you have Absinth?’ She grinned hopefully from where she reclined. ‘I rather fell in love with it in Paris when travelling with my niece. Sadly, it didn’t agree with her, but her spell at the infirmary gave me time away from disapproval to nurture a taste.’

Archer crossed the room to the fireplace. ‘Perhaps in the dining room. I can ask Thom… the footman to see if any can be found.’

‘Don’t trouble Thomas,’ Her Ladyship said. ‘I am sure he is troubled enough by your intentions.’

‘I have no intentions towards Thomas,’ Archer exclaimed in mock outrage. ‘Except to train him to take over from Tripp if the fossil ever retires.’

The sprawling swathe of fabric shimmered with laughter. ‘We are wicked,’ she said, enjoying the naughtiness. ‘There’s nowhere else in this city I can be so frolicsome and listen to such talk, but your mother would berate me for not pulling you up on the way you speak about your servants behind their backs.’

‘Only Tripp,’ Archer said, as if it excused him.

He tugged the bell-pull and noted the time. ‘Luncheon will be served in five minutes.’

‘Oh, then I shall wait.’ Her Ladyship pulled herself upright. ‘The eon of time between now and alcohol will enhance the flavour of your champagne. We really must talk about what we are to do with your endowment,’ she said. ‘Were you thinking of a home for these unfortunate boys? Or a hospital? It must be something lasting, we know that cash donations will only be squandered, and it must be well run. Have you spoken with Quill?’

Archer waited for her questions to fall into line in his head before constructing a reply.

‘I shan’t address the precise nature of what our trust will afford,’ he said, ‘until I have interviewed at least one boy with experience. That way I can learn first-hand what is needed, what they think would be best for them. As for Benji Quill, yes, I have had an informal chat with him, and he is prepared to assist with his medical expertise should it be required. I was mooting the idea of a clinic. Somewhere the boys can go for treatment and learn about nutrition, perhaps hygiene, health and… so on.’

‘My word, must we now call you Saint Archie?’ Her Ladyship joked. ‘But very sensible. I am happy you know what you are doing, apart perhaps, from this evening’s promised escapade, should your chosen sewer rat know what acquiesce means.’

‘Now it’s me who should be telling you off, Dolly. If we are to help these unfortunates, we should start by not referring to them as rats.’

‘I think rats are quite lovable,’ she said.

‘Until they bite you, or pass on the plague.’

‘That’s a good word,’ Her Ladyship decreed. ‘It is a plague. Not the boys themselves, the squalor that confines them. It is against that we must rage, but not to the detriment of the good name of your family or your title. Once again, dear boy, be cautious.’ She took his hands in hers in a motherly fashion. She was old enough to be his parent, but they behaved with each other like siblings despite Lady Marshall being thirty years older. ‘I know that you have a predilection for men,’ she said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. ‘And that bothers me not one bit. But, I have seen your heart given away and returned damaged on at least one previous occasion that I fear it will soon cease to function.’

He knew what she was referring to, and the tragedy of that time burned in his mind like acid as his stomach lurched.

‘I was young then, Dolly.’

‘You still are, but you are not as young as you think. Your father’s death landed responsibility upon you, and although you are now master of your own fortune, you must address the unpalatable fact that you are required to sire an heir.’

Archer had heard this before. ‘You are not here to discuss that,’ he said, squeezing her fingers and letting them go. ‘We are here to talk business.’

‘I only reiterate what I have iterated before,’ she insisted. ‘You have a big heart set on a noble cause, but you are a man, and we all know how men are. Don’t let your base instincts cloud your judgement. If you are serious about your mission, you will apply your favours to every young man who works the streets and alleyways, and not only the one who matches the drawing of your ideal.’

She knew him too well, and he regretted showing her the sketch. It sounded not only foolish but also perverse to specify who he wanted to meet according to appearance when he had publicly set out to help all street boys. On the other hand, he had the wherewithal to make up his own rules.

‘The trouble with youth,’ Lady Marshall said, ‘is that it wastes itself on itself.’

Whatever lecture she was about to give was made to wait. Thomas arrived to answer the bell-pull and announce lunch.

Archer took her Ladyship’s gloved arm, and they fell in behind Thomas who led them silently across the hall to the dining room.

‘I have to say, however,’ Lady Marshall whispered when the footman was out of earshot. ‘I can see why you should want to elevate Thomas. If I had a penis, it would no doubt elevate in his presence.’

‘Now you really are being naughty,’ Archer replied, and unable to hold back, laughed his way to the head of the table.