Black Wreath by Peter Sirr

what he was, a boy escaped from the workhouse. Maybe that was why he’d taken such pleasure in the destruction of the Black Cart.
    It wasn’t long before the gang shifted itself awake, like one groaning monster with a sore head and a bad temper. After a snatched breakfast, Darcy ordered everyone to make their way to the park separately, where the next action would be planned. Since he had some time before the meeting, James thought of slipping down along the quays to see Harry and let him know he was alright, but something prevented him. He realised that he didn’t want Harry to know what company he had fallen into; he even felt his face redden at the thought. He knew his life had entered a shameful phase, but he knew equally that he was stuck to it for now.
    He idled along the quays, staring at the ships, before crossing to the northern side and walking purposefully in the direction of the park. His route took him past the Bluecoat School and as he looked at the windows he could hear the low murmuring of the boys repeating their lessons. He felta pang of envy, wishing himself off these street and onto the benches of the school in a blue tunic and cap. He looked with distaste at the faded and increasingly ragged glory of his own coat. His descent down the city’s social ladder was all too evident.
    When he got back to the hide the gang was sitting around inspecting their weapons. On the grass were spread out pistols, three short wooden clubs and a canvas tube which, when James examined it, turned out to filled with lead shot. Kelly grinned as James considered the tube.
    ‘A good belt of that will keep a man quiet,’ he said.
    ‘Or woman, if needs be,’ Kitty added.
    ‘Are we doing pockets tonight?’ Hare asked. He picked up one of the clubs and struck the air a couple of vicious blows before putting it in his coat.
    Kelly licked his lips; the prospect obviously appealed to him too.
    ‘What does it mean, doing pockets?’ James asked. He knew it would have better for him to hold his tongue, but his curiosity got the better of him.
    Darcy didn’t seem so eager to answer.
    ‘It’s easy work,’ Kitty said. ‘Just got to find the right doxy.’
    ‘And follow her somewhere nice and quiet,’ Kelly added. ‘The one holds her, and the other cuts out her pocket.’
    James tried to hide his disgust, but his face must have betrayed him.
    ‘Have we offended your feelings, poor thing?’ Kelly taunted.
    ‘Poor thing! Poor thing!’ Kitty repeated.
    ‘The boy’s right,’ Darcy suddenly interjected. His voice was edged with anger. ‘Haven’t you done enough of that? There’s no honour in it, and no danger.’
    ‘What do we want with honour?’ Kelly asked. ‘Where’s the profit in that?’
    Darcy continued to voice his feelings. ‘I rode between my father’s legs in the cart they hanged him from and I expect to die at the end of a rope and do you know what, I don’t want to die for pocket snatching or frightening the life out of women.’
    ‘It’s all the same to me,’ Hare snarled, ‘I’m not fussy what they hang me for.’
    Kitty put his hand around his own throat and mimed the action of a noose, his eyes bulging and his tongue hanging out.
    Darcy punched him in the stomach, leaving him winded and gasping. He turned to Kelly and Hare. ‘That’s the difference between us,’ Darcy said. ‘I am fussy. It’s not the dying I mind, but I’m damned if I won’t die like a man for a man’s crime.’
    All this talk of dying threw a pall of gloom over the gang and they sat silently on the grass. Nobody wanted to tackle Darcy.
    But if they weren’t going be doing pockets, then what would they be doing? James wondered.
    His question was soon answered. ‘If it’s robbing you want, we’ll try the Green,’ Darcy said quietly. ‘It’s a while since we were there, and the pickings are good.’
    This didn’t sound like much of an improvement on robbingwomen to James. What part would he be expected to