Page 18 of Molly Boys
Her lips thinned as she huffed in anger. “Let ‘im. What’s he gonna do that he ain’t already?”
Jacks eyes skimmed over her pretty, pale face, past the unnaturally rouged circles of her cheeks to the very dark bruise at her jaw.
“I don’t want you getting in trouble cos of me, Pol.” Jack shook his head.
She stroked his cheek fondly, her expression softening. “Sweet boy, you really do look like yer ma, you know. Lord knows yer as stubborn as she was.”
“I wouldn’t know.” Jack shrugged. “I don’t remember.”
“Enough of us do,” Pol nodded. “She was real kind. She didn’t deserve what that monster did to ‘er.”
Jack shrugged again, not really wanting to talk about his mother.
“Where you sleepin’ tonight?” Pol asked.
“Dunno.” Jack’s eyes filled with hot tears again, which he scrubbed away with dirty hands. “He took my pennies. I can’t afford nowhere to doss. Guess I’ll go back to the bridge.”
“Don’t be daft, you’ll freeze,” Pol admonished as she shook her head. “Come on.”
She turned and started down the street, giving Jack no choice but to follow. With every step, his body ached and shuddered against the cold.
They wound down a couple of narrow streets, past tenements and hovels, until they reached a door with peeling black paint. Jack glanced up as it began to snow again. The building looked just as grim as the rest but with the flurry coming down harder, he knew if Pol couldn’t find him a place to kip, he’d die tonight out on the freezing and unforgiving streets.
Pol raised her hand and knocked briskly. After a few moments, the door opened and a tall burly man with a hard face and suspicious-looking expression filled the doorway, one hand holding up a small oil lamp. His gaze landed first on Pol then crept across to Jack.
“Boy needs a place to doss down for the night,” she said matter-of-factly, fisting her hand on her cocked hip as her thin shawl hung from her skinny elbows.
His gaze dropped to the boy. He stared at him in silence before he turned his attention back to Pol, taking in her curly ginger hair poking out from beneath her weathered bonnet, the scraggly ribbon tied under her chin in a limp, lopsided bow. His gaze slid to her breasts spilling from her partially unlaced bodice, then further down to the ragged and dirty hem of her skirt sitting just above her worn boots.
He sucked his teeth loudly, his eyes narrowing. “You know the price, Pol,” he said flatly.
Her jaw tightened as she stared back at him unflinchingly. Her gaze flickered to Jack before she nodded sharply to the man in the doorway.
He opened the door and allowed them to enter a tight and dark passageway. Closing the door behind them, he headed toward the back of the house, his lamp the only light. He led them into a kitchen where a meagre fire burned in the grate and a small sad-looking pail of coal beside it, almost empty.
The man stopped beside a dented and rough wooden table upon which was a plate with a few crusts of bread. His eyes fell on Jack once more.
“Is he going to watch then?” he growled with impatience.
“You’ll get what you want, but first, food for the boy and something for ‘im to drink.” She crossed her arms, her brows raised in challenge.
Huffing, he plucked a tin cup from a nearby hook and, with a cloth to protect his hand, he retrieved a tea kettle from where it was warming over the fire. He poured a stingy amount into the cup, barely enough to fill it half full, and thrust it into Jack’s hands. He then handed him one of the stale crusts of bread from the plate before grabbing Jack by the scruff of his collar and pushing him from the room.
“Through there,” he grunted, pointing to a door opposite.
He stepped back and pushed the kitchen door closed but it didn’t latch, and a sliver remained cracked open. Jack watched through the narrow gap as the huge man bent Pol roughly over the table and shoved her skirt and petticoat up and over her bare buttocks while unbuttoning his trousers.
Jack turned away; he didn’t need to see. He wasn’t dumb, he knew what was about to happen. He’d seen the whores and unfortunates plying their trade in the darkest corners and alleys of The Nichol, spreading their thighs for dirty grubby men to hump away at them. He couldn’t understand why anyone would want to. It didn’t sound in the least bit enjoyable, just a lot of huffing and moaning.
From the door behind him, he heard loud grunting and the rhythmic banging of the table. Not wanting to listen to anymore, he shoved the heel of bread into his pocket. It wasn’t much but he was grateful anyway, his stomach so empty it was cramping painfully. Clutching his tin cup in one hand as carefully as if it were the crown jewels, he opened the door the man had indicated and looked down into the darkness.
There was a ladder leading down into the space underneath the house. He’d seen subterranean passages like this before. It was an unpaved cellar passageway just a few feet high which led under the house and emerged into the backyard where the lavatory and dustbins were.
Very carefully holding his cup in one hand, he climbed down the ladder, the door above him swinging closed on protesting hinges.
He reached the bottom and his feet sank into the damp soft earth. The wet rotting smell almost made him gag, but at least he wouldn’t freeze to death. He turned around and saw several pairs of eyes staring back at him. At least ten other people huddled together around the wooden posts that supported the floorboards above.
He cradled his lukewarm cup to his chest protectively in case anyone tried to take it from him. He edged into a corner and pressed his back against the damp wall as he slid down and sat. Pulling his knees up, he retrieved the heel of bread from his pocket. It was hard and difficult to chew, but he was so hungry he didn’t care.