Dodger by James Benmore

scratchings on, by which we had marked them as our own. And there was still toys scattered about the place, dusty and unused, a moth-eaten, cobwebbed bear that had once belonged to Mouse Flynn and the toy soldiers with which we had played war what was now broken and left underfoot like they had died in battle and not been buried. The walls was marked with chalkings of animals and lines where we had measured ourselves growing tall. On the beams above was our names, or what we could spell of them, carved in with knives. There was ‘Jem WITE’, ‘CHarly’, ‘Blukers’, ‘mowse’ and, at the top, ‘Jack DAW’. I pointed at ‘Jack DAW’ and told Warrigal that this was me and then I showed him a chalking next to it of a bird flying upwards with his beak pointing down. ‘I did that,’ I whispered.
    Warrigal was sat on the bed by which Mother Froggat had left the blankets and looked to me as though he had no time for my reminiscing.
    â€˜So –’ I smiled – ‘see where the beak points to.’ With my fingerI followed the line from the beak down to a thick floorboard near the wall. Warrigal understood and rose from the bed.
    â€˜There?’ he said.
    â€˜There,’ I said back and with my hand told him to open his bag. He pulled out a claw hammer and chisel and walked over to where I was crouched. The floor creaked and I told him not to move around so much as I took them from him. I went to work prising up the board as quiet as I could, knowing that John Froggat lay in the room below, most likely staring up at this very spot on the ceiling. But after some minutes’ labour I had the board out and passed it to Warrigal who, quiet and soft, put it on a bed. Then I reached my hands down under the floor and felt something cold and rusty just where I had expected it to be. I grinned at Warrigal, pulled up my old metal box by the twine that I’d tied around it and took it over to the bed nearest to the lights. The lid was not easy to remove after all these years and it made an unfortunate, loud squeak as I got it off. Then I placed the box on my lap and started searching through. At the top, acting like a cover for the rest, was a folded copy of the
Newgate Calendar
which my mother had given to me when I was seven. It had turned a deep yellow and the weak, brittle pages was crumbling at the edges as I handled it. On the cover was a story I had read many times of how a treacherous servant had violently beaten his employer, a great lord, to death with a heavy candlestick when caught in the act of stealing the family silver. He was caught by a Bow Street Runner who had pursued him all the way to France and dragged him back to Newgate where he had been hung by the neck until dead. The man’s name was Michael Dawkins and I was once told he was my father.
    Underneath that was some breast-pins, fogles and a now colourless fob-watch what I had kept as souvenirs of my first ever outings.But below all these was the real treasure and I was relieved to see it was still there. I pulled out the wooden toy and showed it to Warrigal. It was a mahogany-coloured doll of an Indian prince, with turned-up toes and bright-painted clothes, a blue coat with yellow lining and red trousers, and its white-teethed face was smiling up at me. It was an exotic thing and I remember being well pleased when given it. I shook it and heard it rattle. Warrigal leaned in to get a closer look.
    â€˜That it?’ he said.
    â€˜That’s it,’ I replied.
    â€˜Go on,’ he whispered.
    â€˜No. We’ve made too much noise. We’ll put the room back to how it was and then we’ll leave good and early. We’ll take a glim tomorrow.’ Warrigal looked vexed but nodded and together we laid the floorboard back down, after having put the box back in its place. The only thing we wanted to take from this room was the prince.
    â€˜Give,’ said Warrigal,