Page 17 of Molly Boys
“Mr Rackstraw, sir.” Jack dug into his pocket. “Come to pay my dues.”
He handed the fob watch to Rackstraw, but the man barely spared it a glance. He turned it over in his hand, his gaze firmly fixed on Jack.
“A little birdie tells me you’ve been talking to the law,” he said slowly, the quiet and deadly voice sending a trickle of unease down Jack’s spine.
Jack knew there was no point denying it. Someone had obviously seen him and told Rackstraw. Lying about it now was only likely to earn him a beating… or worse.
“There was a body, pretty boy got dun in and dumped on the banks near the docks. Copper saw me in the crowd, grabbed me ’fore I could give ‘im the slip. I lifted that watch from ‘im though.”
Rackstraw’s black eyes sharpened at the mention of the dead pretty boy. He tossed the watch onto the table with a clatter beside his half-drunk beer and pushed himself out of his chair abruptly, striding over to Jack and grabbing the front of his jacket in his fist.
Jack’s toes scrambled against the scarred wooden floor and his hands grasped the tightly corded muscle of the forearm holding him as Rackstraw drew him so close their noses almost touched.
“You tell him about Simon’s boys?”
“No.” Jack shook his head, the first flutterings of panic beating against his ribcage like a tiny bird dashing itself against the walls of its cage. “I didn’t tell ‘im nuffin’, I swear.”
Rackstraw stared at him for several long moments.
“I swear,” Jack repeated desperately.
After what seemed like an eternity, Rackstraw finally let go but Jack didn’t quite have his feet under him. He stumbled back a few paces, his momentum sending him crashing to the ground. There was a small clatter and his few measly coins spilled from his threadbare pocket and rolled across the floor. Jack’s heart lurched as he scrambled to gather up his precious pennies.
He turned his head but he already knew it was too late. Rackstraw had seen. He watched silently, his black eyes boring into Jack as the boy pushed himself to his feet and reluctantly turned to face the towering man.
Rackstraw didn’t say anything, he didn’t have to. He simply held out his huge hand, palm up.
With a sinking feeling of utter misery in his belly, Jack loosened his tiny fist, dropping the coins into the calloused palm.
Rackstraw’s dark gaze flashed as he tightened his fingers around the few puny coins and ploughed his fist into the side of the boy’s head, sending him flying.
Jack crashed into a nearby table, rolling and hitting the floor with a thump. His ears rang and a sharp pain lanced through his skull. Rackstraw had pulled his punch so as not to kill the boy but hit him hard enough to leave him dazed. He lay for several moments breathing heavily as his head spun before it settled to a painful throb.
He looked up as Rackstraw’s shadow fell over him.
“I tolerate you because of your ma,” he said slowly, his voice taking a dangerous edge. “But if you hide dues again or bring the law down on us, not even your dead mother will be enough to save your worthless hide. Understand?”
Jack knew he wouldn’t be able to answer without crying so he nodded instead, a motion that triggered another sharp stab of pain in the side of his head and a high-pitched whine in his ear.
Rackstraw, as if to emphasise his point, not just for Jack’s benefit but to everyone watching silently, lifted his booted foot and kicked Jack in the backside, sending his small body skidding across the floor.
“Get out,” he said coldly, returning to his seat as he tucked the few measly coins into the small pocket of his waistcoat. Retrieving the watch from the table, he slid it into the pocket of his heavy coarse jacket and once again lifted his beer to his lips.
Jack rolled over and pushed himself onto all fours with shaky arms and legs. Sucking in a determined breath against the pain, he swallowed down the hot flush of shame that painted his pale cheeks and blinked back the tears threatening to spill. He wouldn’t cry in front of anyone, he wouldn’t give them that power over him. He climbed to his feet and, ignoring the watchful eyes filled with varying degrees of pity and judgement that surrounded him, he limped slowly back across the pub. As he reached the door, the chatter and noise once again started up behind him.
He hobbled into the cold night where the snow had stopped for the moment but there was a heavy layer underfoot. Leaving the pub behind him, he shuffled down the street as the first hot tears began to slip down his grubby cheeks.
Somewhere behind him, he heard his name called, but he kept moving, hoping whoever it was would get the message and leave him be. No such luck. After a moment a gentle hand covered by a moth-eaten lace glove wrapped around his arm.
He kept his blurred vision on the snowy ground in front of him—he didn’t want her to see his tears—but she wouldn’t be ignored. Her other hand cupped his jaw carefully and turned his tiny face toward her.
“Jack,” she said softly, her voice somehow muted by the silence of the snowy night. “You alright, pet?” Her thumb wiped the tears from his heated cheeks.
He nodded slowly.
“You’re not.” She scowled. Grabbing the corner of her tatty shawl and spitting on it, she used it to wipe away the trickle of blood from his throbbing ear. “He’s a bloody bully.”
“Don’t say that, Pol.” Jack’s eyes widened as he looked around nervously. “He’ll hear you.”