Dodger: Chapters 6–8

Somehow he wasn’t quite as certain of who he was now—a kid from the sewers, or somebody who chats with the gentry—although he knew enough to understand that Mister and Missus Mayhew were not exactly all that much like gentry, even with their house and servants.

But now he was startled by somebody tugging at his trouser leg, and he looked down irritably at a couple of kids maybe five years old or six perhaps, looking up at him with their hands out. It wasn’t the kind of tableau he needed to see right now, but both of them had one hand held out while the other one was firmly grasped by their friend.

So he led the kids to the stall run by Marie Jo, who dispensed nourishing soup to all and sundry who could put down a few farthings—perhaps even less if she was in a generous mood.

Marie Jo blew him a little kiss with the smell of peppermint in it, lowered her voice, leaned forward, and said, “I’m hearing all kinds of things concerning you, my lad. Careful how you tread! One of them was the little fracas you had with Stumpy yesterday. He’s boasting about it, you know.”

Dodger wandered on, meeting somebody he knew on every street corner, with a bit of banter here and a bit of conversation there, and every now and then asking a little question—not very important really, just as a sort of afterthought, concerning a girl with golden hair escaping from a carriage into the storm.

Dodger showed him the largesse from the kitchens of the Mayhews, and Solomon said, “Mmm, very nice, really very nice and a fine piece of pork, I see; possibly a casserole later, I think. Well done.”

At the time he had been quite indignant about the farthing; what was a grand lady with a coachman doing with one farthing in her purse?! Farthings were for poor people, and so were half farthings!

This was his territory; he knew every sewer in the length and breadth of the city, every little hidey-hole that could barely be seen unless you knew where to look, the places that were half blocked off and nobody knew they were there.

There were many candles in this room, but none of them illuminated the face of the man seated by the tapestry. This considerably disconcerted the man known to his special clients as Sharp Bob—most certainly not the name he used when dealing with more ordinary legal affairs.

Sharp Bob was satisfied with “methodical” as a description, but not pleased when the voice said, unnecessarily sharply in his opinion, “Good heavens, man, surely you can use your own initiative, can you not?”

Um, and well, he’s sharp, crafty, um, not exactly a thief but somehow things find their way into his hands.

This is a very delicate matter, and we will be extremely disappointed should matters not be brought to a happy ending. I don’t intend to expand here, but I’m sure you will understand what an ultimate failure ultimately entails.

After taking up the sovereigns and being allowed the blessed relief of the jakes, Sharp Bob was bundled back into the wretched coach, which by the feel of it trundled him all around London again before he was rather rudely pushed out close to his office, his mind busy with what he knew about the lad called Dodger.

One of the invisible gentlemen who had been sitting in the dark leaned down and, switching to his native tongue, said to the interlocutor, “Are you quite sure about this man, sir? After all, we could get the Outlander? I have made inquiries and he is free at the moment.”

He felt almost indignant that he hadn’t been let into the secret before, and as they continued their walk, he listened hard as Solomon imparted as much astronomy as he could remember, a process that ended when Dodger said, “Can we get to any of these worlds?”

But who, for instance, are humans to sanction love to themselves alone? Where there is love, there must mmm surely be a soul; yet curiously the Lord appears to believe that only humans have souls.

But Onan was irredeemably a dog, which made his metaphysics considerably less complicated than those of humans, although sometimes he had a slight crisis in that he had two gods to worship: the old one who smelled of soap, and the young one who smelled deliciously of just about everything else—at least when he got back from toshing, when to the senses of Onan Dodger was like a rainbow stuffed with kaleidoscopes.

Outside in the street, one man watched, though he wished there were two men, because one man by himself could so easily be one dead man in the morning, if indeed the dead can find themselves dead, which was one of those philosophical conundrums that Solomon liked.

Up in the attic Dodger slept, and in his dreams he listened to the planets rolling overhead, interspersed occasionally with visions of the girl with golden hair.

With some misgivings, he sat down in the chair and Sweeney swirled a white sheet over him in a way that would have been called theatrical if, indeed, Sweeney had really known how to do it the first time.

At some time, somebody must have told Mister Todd that a barber, in addition to tonsorial prowess, should have memorized practically a library of jokes, anecdotes, and miscellaneous rib-ticklers, occasionally including—should the gentleman in the chair be of the right age or nature—ones that might include some daring remarks about young ladies.

However, the person who had given him this advice had simply not calculated on Sweeney’s terrible lack of anything that could be called bonhomie, cheerfulness, ribaldry, or even a simple sense of humor.

The stuff was falling out all over the place, and here and there, because it had been so suffused with air as to make it practically dirigible, it was floating away on the breeze as if it wanted to get out of there as much as Dodger did right now—especially since he was aware of that smell, that heavy and unpleasant smell, gradually permeating the shop.

Now Dodger’s hand, which had been following the twisting flight of the erratic blade, gently gripped the hand that held it, and it seemed to Dodger that he could see those soldiers himself, so hypnotic was the sway of the razor, and he could feel himself being dragged toward some terrible outcome until the inner Dodger, the bit that wanted to survive, woke up, saluted, took control over Dodger’s arm, and neatly and carefully lifted the razor out of Sweeney Todd’s hand.

There was the sound of police whistles outside and more peelers flooded into the shop, two of them then grasping the recumbent and possibly insensible Mister Sweeney Todd, who had tears running down his face.

He tried to get to his feet at this point, but Charlie Dickens, who was bending over him, pushed him gently back down into the chair, bent down until his lips were very close to Dodger’s ear, and whispered, “It would be in order to groan a little in response to your terrible encounter, my friend. Trust me as a journalist; you are a hero of the hour, again, and it would be a pity if an unguarded comment at this juncture spoiled things.”

Incidentally, my intrepid friend, it would interest you to know that I have been told just now that Mister Sweeney Todd used his razor to slit the throats of six gentlemen who came to him earlier this week for a haircut and a close shave. But for your almost magical response, you would have been the seventh of them.

A clock ticked and, without looking, Dodger could feel the employees still taking every opportunity to look at him, the unassuming and reluctant hero of the hour.

In that sense, all men are writers, journalists scribbling within their skulls the narrative of what they see and hear, notwithstanding that a man sitting opposite them might very well brew an entirely different view as to the nature of the occurrence.

After all, my young Dodger, what exactly are you? A stalwart young man, plucky and brave and apparently without fear?

Or possibly, I suggest, a street urchin with a surfeit of animal cunning and the luck of Beelzebub himself.

Shooing him before her like a hen with one chick, Mrs. Mayhew guided him down the corridor and opened a door into a room that had white and black tiles everywhere and a wonderful privy, not to mention a washbasin.

So after a discreet interval during which he essayed an occasional groan, Dodger turned himself into a hero and strode out of the privy ready to meet his young lady.

Since it had been such a good day, Dodger was generous enough to give her a little smile, and got a little simper in exchange, which suggested that hostilities, if not entirely forgotten, were at least temporarily suspended.

But although the sun was still shining and the honey was still in the air, Dodger had an inkling that somebody other than Mrs. Sharples was watching them; someone was following.

He reached out and, much to her surprise, pulled the woman toward them, and whispered so, “Ladies, I believe there is a gentleman following us who means somebody harm. It may be Simplicity or it may be, well, me. For the love of God, and your job, I implore you now, without saying a word, to turn at the next corner and wait while I send the cove about his business.”

Right now, Dirty Benjamin looked very scared, and Dodger relented, saying, “Well, maybe it won’t be cold meat, because I know you, Ben, and I’m sure you’re going to tell me who sent you to follow me, am I right? If you do that, I won’t hurt you.”

Dodger turned back to the hapless villain in front of him. “Benjamin,” he said sternly, “I have no beef with you. This is your last chance. Tell me who you are working for and why, and I will never let on it’s you.”

“And so,” he concluded, “if you would be so kind, help Miss Simplicity with such packing as she has, help us find a growler, and I will take her forthwith to Charlie, where we will be safe enough to discuss the next move. And please, Missus Mayhew, Mister Mayhew, we will not need a chaperone.”

Dear Mrs. Sharples, can you please get a cab while you, dear, help our guest—her baggage is rather spartan—and be ready for the coach to come.