Page 23 of Don’t Let Me Go

Truth is, people can get used to anything. Look at Myrtle. Nine months ago, every time the Germans dropped their bombs, she

would scream her head off and scramble for the nearest shelter faster than you could say “God save the King.” Tonight, she

just lights up a smoke, not even bothering to look up at the planes buzzing overhead.

Why should she? The Germans never bother with Piccadilly. All the girls who work the streets ’round here know that. Even the

sounds of the bombs dropping on the other side of the river hardly warrant their consideration.

It’s all a bit old hat now, innit? I mean, every other night, the same routine: The sun goes down, the air-raid sirens go

off, a dozen planes courtesy of Herr Hitler fly up the Thames and blow up a few buildings. Then they pop back across the Channel,

and we all get on with our lives. Start to finish, the whole thing only lasts an hour. I suppose that’s what they mean on

the radio about “German efficiency.”

“All right there, Myrtle?” I shout over the din, tipping my cap to her as Charlie and I make our way past the fountain with

the flying baby on top. Myrtle told me once it’s not actually a flying baby. It’s some Greek lad named Eros who’s the god

of love or something. That’s why all the tarts hang around it.

“Slow night.” Myrtle yawns and flicks a bit of ash off the sleeve of her coat as another loud boom echoes in the distance.

Only ten minutes ago, Charlie and me saw the Germans hit Tower Bridge on our way across the river.

Watched the Constable Tower go up in flames and everything.

That last explosion sounded closer, though. Maybe London Bridge? Or Southwark?

The Germans always go for bridges.

“Why don’t you go inside, have a warm-up?” I ask as a gust of wind causes Myrtle to shiver. It’s a bit nippy for May, and

the streets were emptier than usual even before the air-raid sirens sent everyone ducking for cover.

“Nah,” Myrtle says with a shrug. “Business’ll pick up once the all-clear sounds. Don’t want to miss my Prince Charming now,

do I?”

“You’re a credit to your profession.”

“I do what I can.”

Myrtle takes another drag and casts a glance over at the eastern sky, where ribbons of smoke curl up into the air like fat

snakes from the flames below. Poor bastards. Hope whoever’s getting it tonight are keeping their heads down.

Charlie pulls on my sleeve, impatient for us to be on our way. He still gets nervous on nights like this, and I can see his

green eyes grow wider every time another bomb shakes the air.

“Ready to shove off?” I ask, shooting him a smile as I put my arm ’round his shoulder. He likes when I do that. And I don’t

mind it so much myself.

Charlie nods, and we wave farewell to Myrtle as I lead us north onto Regent Street.

“You got your sack?” I ask. Though I ain’t really asking. I watched him tuck it under his coat before we left our digs. But

I try to keep Charlie’s mind occupied whenever we’re about to do a job. Otherwise, his nerves get the better of him and he’s

a bit useless.

“I’ve got it,” he says.

“Good lad. I think we’re in for quite a haul tonight.”

“Where are we going?”

“Someplace special.”

“Can’t you tell?”

“It’s a surprise,” I tease him. “For your birthday.”

Charlie’s eyes narrow like a cat’s. When you grow up on the streets, surprises are rarely a good thing.

“Don’t make that face. When have I ever steered us wrong?” I ask.

Charlie considers, then flashes me that shy little smile of his. “All right, Jack.”

I suppose you could say, like the bombs, that smile’s something else I’ve gotten used to. Lord knows, when Charlie first came

along, I wasn’t looking for no “partner in crime” (as Myrtle calls him). In fact, I’d been doing all right on my own if I

do say so myself. But that’s the thing about Charlie, innit? He’s got a way of growing on you.

We were twelve when we met. I’d been on the streets ’bout two years then, scrounging for food and nicking things by day; dossing

where I could at night. I don’t mind admitting those were some dodgy days. Even so, the streets weren’t half as rough as home.

My old man was a boxer. Used to fight at Vauxhall under the name Bruisin’ Bill. Made a decent bit of money at it too, I’m

told. Only trouble was, he liked to practice his punches on my mum and me. Mum didn’t seem to mind taking it. Like I said,

people can get used to anything. But it struck me at the time that a black eye and a broken arm weren’t things a body should

get used too.

So I left.

For a while I ran around with some of the neighborhood gangs in Bermondsey. The boys were older, sixteen, seventeen, but they

didn’t mind having me around. Thanks to my dad, I knew how to throw (and take) a punch. Plus, I was useful.

My special skill was squeezing myself through tight spaces (iron gates, open windows, et cetera), then unlatching the door so the other boys could turn a place over.

I also made a pretty good lookout. With my blue eyes and my curly bronze hair that turned kind of golden-like in the summer, people said I looked like a right little cherub.

Coppers would pass me on the street and not give me a second glance.

The other boys weren’t so lucky, though. Most of them got pinched and went off to the workhouses. But by then, I could look

after myself.

To be honest, I preferred being on my own. Other people had their uses, but in the end, you couldn’t count on anyone but yourself.

Best not to get attached, I said.

But one day in the early fall, I was nicking apples from the Borough Market when I got this funny-like sensation on the back

of my neck. Like I was being watched. I thought it might be a cop, but when I turned around, all I saw was this skinny dark-haired

boy staring at me from across the stalls. He was about my age, with big green eyes that had this way of burrowing into you.

Like they could see into your soul.

If his clothes had been shabbier, I’d have taken him for another street kid. But he had on a proper cap and jacket, and his

shoes didn’t have no holes that I could see, so I reckoned he must be the son of the grocer and was about ten seconds from

screaming his head off.

But he didn’t say a word.

He just stared at me. Like he was waiting to see what I’d do next.

If I’m honest, it spooked me. I shoved a few more apples in my pockets, then did a runner before he could give me away.

It was a warm September day, and as I didn’t have nothing better to do, I went down to the river to watch the boats.

I used to reckon that when I got older, I’d get me a job on one of those boats.

You know, spend my days cruising up and down the Thames, delivering cargo.

I’ve always liked the water even though I’ve never learned to swim proper.

I was thinking I might head over to the Surrey docks to see if there was any work going when I felt that funny sensation on

the back of my neck again. Sure enough, when I turned around, there was the boy. Standing under a tree not twenty feet away,

watching me.

I thought about giving him a good ticking-off, but there were people about, and I didn’t want to risk making a scene. So I

satisfied myself by giving him a dirty look complete with the appropriate hand gestures and decided to shove off.

I kept myself pretty busy for the next few hours. Then, when the sun started going down, I made my way back over to Bermondsey.

The railway arch by the Peek Freans factory was (and still is, I reckon) a good place to set up camp for the night, provided

you got there early and claimed your spot. Nobody bothered you under the arch, and in bad weather, you had a bit of shelter

over your head. Also, a few weeks earlier, someone had dumped a bunch of empty orange crates there that were about the size

of mattresses and not half bad for sleeping in.

I’d just claimed one of these prize crates—by which I mean one that didn’t reek of piss—and was about to tuck into the eel pie I’d pinched when I noticed the boy was back. I don’t know how he’d managed

to follow me. I hadn’t seen him since the Thames. But there he was, standing under a streetlamp, still staring at me with

his big green eyes.

I ain’t proud of what I did next, but I’d had enough of the me-and-my-shadow routine, so I picked up a rock and chucked it

at him. It hit his foot, and he jumped back like a startled dog. I threw another, hoping to send him packing, and this one

hit him square in the shoulder. But instead of crying out or running for cover, he just stood there, not taking his eyes off

me.

At that point, I said, Right, enough’s enough . I hopped out of my crate and marched myself over to him.

“ Oi! ” I shouted, trying to look nothing like a cherub. “What sort of game are you playing at?”

The boy flinched. He opened his mouth to say something but must’ve changed his mind because all he did was hang his head like

a dog what knows he’s in for a beating.

“Well?” I barked. “What’re you following me for?”

The boy shrugged and kept staring at his shoes.

“Why’ve you been tailing me all day?”

Another shrug.

“Ain’t you got a home to go to?”

The boy shook his head.

“What about parents?”

Another shake.

“You all alone, then?”

The boy nodded.

“Well, what you want me to do about it?” I snapped in exasperation. “I ain’t the bloody Salvation Army.”

The boy didn’t answer. He just stared at the cobblestones.

Up close I could see that his clothes had once been pretty nice, but now the sleeves and collar were edged with dirt, and

his wool jacket was stained. His face was dirty, and while I reckoned he’d always been a bit on the scrawny side, something

about the way his clothes hung off his body made me suspect it’d been a while since he’d had a proper meal.

I didn’t like the thought of that.

Maybe it was the way he sniffled and buried his hands in his pockets to keep them warm. Maybe it was the way he reminded me of myself back when I was first starting out. Maybe I just have a thing for strays. Whatever the reason, I couldn’t help feeling right sorry for the lad.

Except?.?.?.?no, that wasn’t it. It wasn’t that I felt sorry for him. I felt responsible .

Hang me if I could tell you why. It didn’t make no bloody sense. I mean, who was he to me? Just another urchin on the street.

London’s full of them. It weren’t any skin off my nose if he went hungry. It’s a cruel world. And the sooner he got used to

that fact, the better off he’d be.

Even so, I found myself saying, “All right, one night. You can doss with me under the arch for one night. After that, you’re on your own. Got it?”

To this day I ain’t forgotten the look on his face. His eyes lit up like it was Christmas and he was Tiny Tim. And his smile

did this funny thing to my heart because a second later I was also smiling. Damned if I could tell you why. All I knew was

that, in that moment, his happiness made me happy.

“Right, follow me,” I told him, heading back under the arch.

It’d be a bit cramped with two of us in my crate, but I told myself I could make do. After all, it was only for one night.

As we were settling in, I remembered the eel pie I had in my pocket and I asked the boy if he was hungry. The boy nodded,

so I broke the pie in two and gave him half. He devoured it in one bite, and once again I found I couldn’t stop myself from

smiling.

I know I said you can’t depend on other people. And I stand by that. Even so, it occurred to me under the arch that there

might be worse things in this world than having someone depend on you.

“You got a name?” I asked as the first stars started to appear in the night sky.

Wiping the crumbs off his mouth, he answered, “Charlie.”

That was six years ago, and Charlie and me have been together ever since. He still follows me wherever I go. Still refuses to sleep unless he’s by my side. Still looks at me like he’d be lost without me.

And I suppose, if I’m honest, I’d be lost without him.

I asked him once, not too long ago, why he’d been so keen to follow me home that day he spotted me at the market. He said

he didn’t know. Just that he’d had “a feeling.”

I asked him what kind of feeling, and he said, “Like we belong together.”