The Winter Rose (21 page)

Instead, Malone sat down and talked to him. He told him that if he
hadn't reached for his wallet just then, he'd never have known it was
gone. He asked him to do it again. Frankie did and Sid, impressed, said
he hadn't felt a thing. "You've talent, lad," he said. "You're good."
Frankie remem-bered those words to this day. He treasured them.

Then Sid asked his story. After Frankie told it, Sid sent Desi for a
plate of food. An hour later, instead of finding himself dead, Frankie
had found himself quite alive--with a full stomach and a bed in the
Bark's attic.

That was six years ago. He was eighteen now and no longer a street
kid, cold and hungry. People stepped out of his way these days.
Publicans hur-ried to serve him. Tailors to fit him. Barbers to shave
him. He was Mad Frank to his friends, but Mr. Betts to everyone else.

Sid had given him a whole new life. A good one. He'd given him a job,
plenty of dosh, and a family of sorts. Made him one of his crew, a
villain who was feared and respected. Most important to Frankie, though,
was the interest Sid had taken in him. He'd taught him things. Small
things at first--how to crack a safe. Pick a lock. Case a building. And
then he'd taught him bigger things. How to gain power and how to wield
it. Who to trust. He made him understand that being tough was only part
of the equation--being smart was the rest of it.

It had taken him time to learn, though. For a while it seemed like he
was getting into a fight every day. Desi had fixed a broken nose for
him. A cracked jaw. An ear that nearly had been torn off. He remembered
sitting at the bar one night, barely able to see out of his swollen
eyes, with Desi pouring him whisky to kill the pain. Sid had sat down
next to him and asked him what the fight was about this time. Frankie
told him one of Billy Madden's boys had looked at him the wrong way and
the next thing he knew it was tables going over and fists flying.

Madden controlled London's West End, running whorehouses and gaming
dens there, knocking off mansions. He made a tidy sum, but he was
greedy. He wanted East London, too, with its docks and wharves and
immense river wealth. He was always sending his boys over to nose
around. It drove Frankie wild.

Sid had listened, then he'd said, "It's not about Madden's boys,
though, is it? What they say and what they do don't really matter. It's
about you, Frankie. You're angry. Furious, in fact. It smashes at you
from the inside, don't it? Makes you half mad."

When he heard that, Frankie felt as if Sid had seen right inside of
him. Seen his drunken mother stumble in front of the carriage. Seen the
work-house matron beat him senseless. Seen the other boys steal his
food, his blanket, his shoes. He couldn't answer Sid. Couldn't speak at
all.

Sid didn't make him. He'd just stood up, patted his shoulder, and
said, "You want your own back? Then use your rage. Don't let it use
you."

Frankie tried. He could control his anger better now. Not always, but
most of the time. He'd started to see things the way Sid saw them--that
it was better to keep shtum, to let the other bloke swagger and boast
about a five-quid blag, and get himself nicked into the bargain, while
you walked out of Stronghold Wharf with two thousand in your pocket and
the rozzers scratching their heads.

Frankie listened and learned. And in return for all the things that
Sid had given him, Frankie gave Sid his loyalty, and--though he would
never have used the word--his love. Sid became everything to
him--father, brother, boss, friend. And Frankie was never happier than
when he was in Sid's company, picking a lock, cracking a safe, plotting a
job, living the life.

And then he'd gone and nearly wrecked everything. He'd got into
an-other fight with some of Madden's boys and had so thoroughly
destroyed a pub that the police were called. He'd been arrested, held in
the Deptford nick, and was about to be sent down for half a dozen
different charges. Word was, Sid was furious and refused to do anything
for him. And then the day before he was supposed to go before the
magistrate, the door to his cell had suddenly been opened and he was
free to go. Sid had been waiting outside. He'd taken him straight back
to the Bark. It was deserted. Even Desi was gone. Frankie had thought
that odd. The Bark was never empty.

"Cost me a thousand bleedin' pounds to get you out, you tosser," Sid had said to him.

"I'm sorry, guv. I didn't mean--"

Sid hadn't let him finish. "I saw you smirking when the screws
marched you out. You think the nick's funny? What if I wasn't around to
pay off the beak? Think you'd be sitting here now? You wouldn't. You'd
be looking at five in Wandsworth. Prison, Frankie."

Sid took off his jacket and put it on the table. Then he started to
unbut-ton his shirt. Frankie wondered why he was doing that. And then it
hit him--he didn't want to get blood on his clothes.

"Please, guv. Don't. I'm sorry. I'll never do it again. I swear," he pleaded.

Sid said nothing. He finished unbuttoning his shirt and took it off.
His chest was broad. Muscles rippled under the smooth, pale skin. He
looked Frankie hard in the eye, then turned around. It was all Frankie
could do not to gasp.

Sid's back was an obscene crosshatch of welted red flesh. The scar
tissue was thick and knotted in some places, and so thin in others that
Frankie could see his ribs moving underneath it.

"Jesus Christ," he whispered.

"Cat-o'-nine-tails. Tore me to ribbons. Sentence was ten lashes. Screw gave me thirty."

"Why?"

"Because he felt like it and there was no one to stop him. When he
finished, he slung me into a punishment cell. No mattress. Damp dripping
down the walls. No one thought I'd make it. Bastard told me he'd
ordered my coffin." He put his shirt back on. "Remember that, Frankie.
And remember this: the scars the screws put on the outside of you are
nothing compared to the ones they put on the inside."

Frankie had wanted to ask Sid about those scars, the ones on the
inside. He'd wanted to ask if they were why he never slept, why he
walked the streets at night to the point of exhaustion. Why Desi
sometimes found him asleep sitting up in a chair by the fire, but rarely
in his bed. He wanted to know if the scars had anything to do with the
money he gave away to any sorry sod who asked. And how he'd look at the
dosh they'd made from a job--the notes stacked up on the bar--as if he
hated it. He'd wanted to ask about all of these things, but something in
Sid's eyes had forbidden it. So instead he promised to try harder to
stay out of the nick, and he'd mostly succeeded.

Frankie felt Susie's hand on his back now. "Sid'll be out in no time,
mark my words. And you lot will be right back at it. Wearin' my girls
out and the coppers, too."

"You think so?"

"I know so. Meantime, get out and about and do some work. Go back and
see if you missed anything at the Stronghold. Go hassle Teddy Ko. Work
takes your mind off your troubles."

Frankie nodded. "Think I will, Susie. Ta, luv," he said.

"Don't come back until you're smiling," she warned. "Long faces are
bad for business. I don't want to have to tell Sid I'm short this week."

"You're short every week, darlin'," Frankie said, kissing the top of her head.

"Go on with you!" she scolded.

Frankie left the Taj with a spring in his step. Susie was right on
both counts. Sid was tough, and a bit of work was just the thing. Sid
would come out of the hospital, and when he did Frankie wanted to be
able to show him that he'd been busy in his absence. He wanted him to
know that he was good for more than picking locks and cracking safes. He
wanted to show him that he was not just a fighting man, but a thinking
man.

He'd show Alvin Donaldson, too. And that pillock of a Lytton. Throw
him in the nick because they hadn't closed the Bark on time? He'd give
them a bleeding crime. Just watch.

Out on the street, Frankie headed south. Toward the river. He
wouldn't be mucking about at the Stronghold again any time soon, and
Teddy Ko was in the good books this week. No, tonight would be all about
new prospects.

After a half hour's walk, Frankie arrived at his destination--the
Morocco Wharf on Wapping's High Street. It loomed up at him, immense and
impenetrable. Well, that was all right. He wasn't looking to break into
it. He was only looking for a chat with the watch. Bloke by the name of
Alf Stevens.

Sid had always shied away from Morocco Wharf. He'd never given a
reason for doing so, and as far as Frankie could see, there was none. It
housed goods for a firm called Montague's--a very profitable business
owned by a bloke named Joe Bristow. He had shops on every corner in
London. Frankie had heard that Bristow was an East End lad. All the
better. He would understand that there were costs of doing business
...and that it was high time he started paying them.

There had to be a way to let go. A way to die.

There had to be something inside a man that held body and soul
together. Some handle or clasp or lock that could be turned or slid,
releasing one from the other.

If only I can find it, Sid thought.

He was drowning in a sea of pain. Red waters washed over him, drag-ging him under, tumbling him along in their currents.

He felt a hand upon him. Pulling him out of the sea. Fingers at his
wrist. He heard a voice, a woman's voice. It sounded distant. Concerned,
she said. Threat. Sepsis.

"Release it," he whispered to her. "Release me. Please..."

"Shh..." And then the hand again, small and strong, pressed against his heart.

It was later, much later. Days later. Weeks. Or maybe it was only
minutes. He didn't know. He heard water still. Not the sea this time,
but rain lashing against a window. He couldn't tell if it was real or in
his head.

He opened his eyes. It was her. The doctor. She was looking at his face. She had gray eyes. As pale and soft as a gull's wing.

"Where am I?" he asked.

"In the hospital. You have a bad wound. You're very ill."

In the hospital. That was bad news. Hospitals grassed you up. Someone
had taken the cuffs off him, but Donaldson might come back any minute.
Or Lytton. He didn't trust this place. He didn't trust her.

"Give me my clothes. I'm leaving," he said.

He tried to sit up, but the pain broke over him like a tidal wave, slam-ming him back against the bed.

"Don't do that," the doctor said.

He felt a thermometer slide between his lips.

She timed it, pulled it out, and said, "A hundred and five. Better. Maybe we've got it on the run."

"Why are you doing this?" he asked brusquely.

"To see if the fever's breaking."

He shook his head. "No. Why are you helping me?"

"Because I'm a doctor, Mr. Malone. This is what I do. Now, hold still. This will prick a bit."

Something bit his arm. His skin went all warm. His pain receded
slightly. He was so grateful he nearly wept. "More. Please," he said.

"I can't. Not for another few hours."

"What time is it?"

"Just after nine. You can have another dose at midnight." She stood to go.

"Three hours? I'll never make it. Where are you going? Talk to me."

"Talk to you? I can't. I have to--"

He grabbed her wrist, startling her. He hadn't wanted to do that, to frighten her. But he was afraid himself. He was terrifled.

"Please," he said, trying to sit up again.

"Mr. Malone, lie down!"

"Will you stay?"

"Yes, all right, but only if you lie down."

He did. "Tell me something," he said. "Anything. Just talk. Tell me how you became a doctor."

She laughed wearily. "You'd weep with boredom," she said.

"I won't. I want to know."

"Dr. Jones?" A young nurse was standing in the doorway.

"Yes?"

"Here's the beef tea you sent for. And Sister Abel thought you might like a cup of plain tea yourself."

"Thank her for me, will you? And thank you, too."

The girl put her tray down by Sid's bedside and left. Sid saw that
she could barely keep from curtseying. Her eyes were shining with
admiration as she looked at the doctor, but the doctor didn't even
notice.

"Could you get a bit of beef tea down?"

"I couldn't. I'd only heave at it. Just talk ...please."

"Mr. Malone, are you quite certain you want to hear about medical
school?" she asked. "I want to keep you out of a coma, not put you into
one."

Sid nodded. "The talking ...your voice...it takes me mind off the pain," he said.

Her forehead creased with worry. "Is it bad?"

"Bleedin' horrible."

"All right, then. But quid pro quo. After I tell my story, I want to hear yours."

Sid nodded. He would have agreed to anything. The doctor sat down by
his bedside and started to talk. She was self-conscious and halting. She
stopped once, embarrassed, and said, "I can't believe I'm nattering on
like this. I've never told anyone these things before."

"Why not?"

She thought for a few seconds, then said, "No one ever asked."

And then a few minutes later she was telling him what it felt like to
be eighteen years old, standing on Hunter Street, on the steps to the
London School of Medicine for Women, all alone. The frown that was often
pres-ent, clouding her eyes and creasing her forehead, disappeared. She
told him about her first F--in Chemistry. And her first A--in
Diagnosis. She told him about the endless nights in the library, her
house appointment at the Royal Free. And how she'd been pelted with mud
by other medical students--male students--who thought women had no
business studying medicine. Sid had asked her to talk to take his mind
off the pain, but to his surprise he found himself interested in what
she was telling him. Inter-ested in her. He didn't want to be.