Witness

Daniel was on the ship again, a great dark four-master sailing as fast as the wind could take her, over a flat and silver sea to China.
London burned behind him, warm and gold.
But as dreams do, it changed. Now the ship was sinking and Daniel found himself trapped below decks in the dark. Water was gushing in from somewhere, he could feel it rushing against his legs, but he couldn't move; something was pressing down on him. He pushed up, writhed and wriggled but was held fast.
The water rose above his head.
Daniel gasped and kicked, broke the surface of his dream, to find¦ something was pressing down on him. He had no air. It was dark.

A slit of light winked open, just by his head. As he tried to move, it winked again. He wriggled towards it, but his movements were hampered by some great flat, softish thing lying on top of him. Exhausted by his struggle, and still feeling drowsy, Daniel rested just by the wink of light.
He recognised the smell first: the mould and straw and damp and smoke. A hint of horseshit. And as his senses cleared some more he looked out through the slit, and by the light of some still-burning collie-lamps that hissed somewhere out of sight he discerned the flickering shapes of flaking wooden pillars rising up from the straw-covered floor of Irish's basement. Daniel sussed it: that mouldy stink was emanating from the dirty threadbare mats that Irish kept for his punters, and he was wedged firmly in between them, halfway up the pile stacked against the wall.
He must have passed out some time earlier - having smoked all night - and sprawled out on a then much smaller heap, to dream of children's games he'd never played, far away from the stink.
Then some time later, as the punters had drifted out into the night, Irish's lackeys must have piled the mats up without bothering to dislodge him.
The lazy stupid Micks.
He could have been there for hours.
They'd probably spun his pockets.
But he was drifting again, forgetting his predicament as the last of the pipe's effects washed through him, and he shut his eyes in a bid to rejoin the ship to China.
He thought he heard the sea, but it smelled of mould. He glimpsed a mouldy rotten ship, its sails in tatters, crashing down on the horizon. Daniel heard its timbers rip.
His eyes snapped open at the sound, and again he heard the timbers rip. That was no ship, someone had kicked in the door, and now Daniel could hear the creak and splintering of the wrecked wood being shoved over the flagstones, followed by thumping, dragging, padding, low cursing.
It's on top, thought Daniel, waking up to his predicament. It's the Peelers.
Like all thieves, slippery types, duckers and divers and scallywags, Daniel always assumed that any trouble - with Peelers or otherwise ' centred upon his good self, and usually with good reason, but he couldn't move quick enough to get away - he could hardly move at all, and he was still too dopey to recall any particular deed that might warrant the attentions of the local constabulary.
But it wasn't the Peelers.
Instead, the sound of two hushed voices, interspersed with muffled grunts and groans, reached his ears: the visitors appeared to be labouring one slow step at a time down the short wooden staircase to the basement floor, the sound of their steps mixed with the shooshing noise of some thing being dragged over the stairs.
The last fading dregs of the opium sloshed through Daniel's imagination, creating various fanciful scenarios that he had to shake out of his head as he tried to concentrate. He was sure: this was some underhand, late night skulduggery.

The huffing, puffing, scraping sounds of struggle were continuing by the staircase, when Daniel's limited view was shut out. He caught his breath, surprised: he hadn't heard any other footsteps, but there was someone right in front of his hidey-hole, he could see the close weave of the dark evening coat covering the stranger's back. A quality bit of cloth, Daniel noted; no holes or wear, no dirt.
The wearer moved. Daniel could see the basement once more, and then saw the owner of this fine cloth as he stepped back, treading softly, carefully, pacing out the sparse, straw-covered basement area.
Daniel recognised him, and tried to shrink back into the mats. This was the man Jarrick had flinched from back in the alley by the Jew's den, the man whose company, according to Jarrick, signalled sinister events to come, someone to duck away from if you could, a man who's mere presence could freeze your blood. A man of wealth who was , again according to Jarrick, haunting the slums on some private, nefarious business.
Lord Rathbone.
He cut a line that was easy to clock; his back was stiff and straight as a broom handle and went up taller than your average, but he stooped at the neck like he was ducking a blow, which served him well in this cramped basement, although he took the same stance up above, Daniel recalled.
To compensate for the stoop he kept his balding head cranked back, so he faced forward, and his hunched outline reminded Daniel of some big bird.
And he had the beak for it too, the grandest nose Daniel'd ever seen, grand in all the ways, a proper top class aristocratic nose, long and well defined, well-bred and used to sniffing the finest smells; roses and lavender, top-notch wines and proper polish, and a decent cut of meat. Daniel wondered if it could smell out small boys stashed away between mouldy old mats as thin as a dog skin. Either side of the nose were two round owlish eyes, cold and black, and beneath was a small mean mouth, turned down at the corners.

Then Daniel spied the two other men, as they carried a roll of carpet into his line of vision, dropping it at the feet of Rathbone. One man was large and the other was squat, both were dressed in black suits resplendent with oil-slick shiny patches of city filth garnered from days of constant wear, and both wore bowler hats rammed down as far as their eyebrows.
The larger of the two pulled up one end of the carpet. It unrolled, revealing its contents: another man, dressed in fine high-waistband trousers and shiny leather boots with expensive soles (no holes, noticed Daniel), a silk waistcoat over a still-white shirt, and finely coiffured light brown hair and whiskers round his unconscious features. The big man pulled the carpet away and the well-dressed chap rolled out onto the straw-covered flagstones.
"Mr Ellis, said Rathbone quietly.
"Y'ordship? answered the larger man, his jacket scrunching up at the waist as he straightened up.
"Sit him up. See if he's with us.
Mr Ellis put his great hands under the recumbent toff's armpits and heaved him up into a sitting position. Then, grabbing the man's hair he gave his head a hearty shake, following it up with a couple of good solid slaps round the chops. His efforts produced no discernible signs of life.
"He's well gone, said Mr Ellis, with the authority of a Harley Street quack.
"No matter, said Rathbone, "It was merely a point of curiosity. Hold his head still, Mr Ellis, and pull open his jaw.
Mr Ellis complied.
"Now, I believe your man has the apparatus, Mr Ellis, so set him to work and have done with it. Be quick, and be clean about it
"You heard his 'Ordship, Mr Wilbur. On you go.

And with that, the smaller of the two bowler'hatted men produced a length of tube and a funnel from inside his jacket, and pulled out a large dark blue glass medicine bottle from his side-pocket.
He bent down to the recumbent captive, hesitated, stood up again, returned the bottle to his pocket then crouched back down, whilst Mr Ellis huffed and shuffled and Rathbone stared impassively at his back.
Then, while Mr Ellis grabbed the man's head, forcing his mouth open, his companion attempted to jam the tube down the unconscious man's throat.
Daniel watched, fascinated, as Mr Wilbur made a complete arse of the job, performing the act with all the finesse of a drunken man trying to thread a needle.
Rathbone stepped nearer, looming over Mr Wilbur, whose fumblings grew ever more erratic and ineffective as he started to panic under the pressure of the lord's scrutiny.
"Enough, snapped Rathbone, "it's time I brought this pathetic charade to swift termination.
"Eh? said Mr Wilbur.
"His "Ordship'd says he'd be much obliged if you'd fuck off out of it, Mr Wilbur, and let his good self have a go.
Mr Wilbur stood up, refusing to look out from under his hat.
"I ain't never done it to a man in his sleep before, Mr Ellis, he whined.
"Shut up, Wilbur, and give 'im the doin's.
Wilbur handed over the tube, funnel and bottle to Rathbone, muttering sorry's and excuse me's from beneath his bowler.

Rathbone ignored his pleas. He moved quick and silent, a professsionalism to his actions, and the tube was down the man's throat at the first go. He fixed the funnel to the loose end, pulled out the stopper of the bottle with his teeth, and emptied the contents down the funnel. The comatose man's body twitched once, and was still again. Daniel could smell the sickly whiff of spices and alcohol and guessed the concoction was laudanum. He'd have turned away from the scene if he could; he had no wish to witness. What you don't know don't hurt you. A bottle that size, he knew, contained enough opium to kill a horse.

Daniel cursed himself for being stuck where he was, and to compound the situation his bladder had started complaining, demanding to be emptied now the opium had worn off. He cursed Jarrick for leaving him there, cursed the Irish for the same, cursed the pipe, took that last curse back and wished he could have one now.

Rathbone had stepped away from the soon-to-be-dead toff, flicking his hand over the body as a signal for Mr Wilbur to clean up the mess and remove all signs of their having been there. Eager to make up for his earlier balls-up, Mr Wilbur quickly pocketed the medicine bottle and set to extracting the tube from their victim's throat, while Mr Ellis continued propping him up.
But the tube was stuck; it wouldn't budge. Fearful of making an arse of himself a second time, Mr Wilbur put his back into the job, jerking and pulling at the tube. Daniel looked on horrified as the probably-dead-by-now man's head snapped back, forth and sideways, his throat emitting sucking, squelching noises.
Growing ever more desperate, Mr Wilbur placed one great dirty boot on the dead man's chest, and heaved back on the funnel.
The tube stretched, stretched, reached its full extension, and for one long moment Rathbone, Mr Ellis and the hidden Daniel watched and waited as Mr Wilbur held on grimly.
The funnel popped loose. Mr Wilbur careered backwards, flinging the funnel into the air, tripped sideways and crashed violently into the pile of mats.
Daniel hadn't prepared for this turnout.
He let out a loud "oof and pissed himself.

Daniel immediately bit his lip, screwed his face up and sucked in air in a vain attempt to catch back his muffled cry. Once again he cursed himself, Jarrick, Irish and the pipe. But Mr Wilbur was still leaning heavily on the mats, apologising profusely, covering the small gap in the pile, and it seemed that the clumsy berk's commotion had smothered Daniel's own outburst. He lay in the dark and the damp, thankful for this small reprieve, and tried to move his legs without making any noise, to get the blood flowing through them. His wet trousers rasped against his skin and the piss'soaked mats released long-dormant foul odours.
The slit of light winked open. Mr Wilbur must have moved. Two great owlish eyes were peering in at Daniel. Rathbone eyed the boy with the cold curiosity of a bird of prey at a mouse hole. Daniel stared back, shocked, too petrified to look away or move.
After some long seconds, Rathbone finally stepped away, but kept his eyes on the boy.
"We have company, he said softly, and pointed a long bony finger at the gap in the mats.
"Get him out.
Then he added, "Mr Wilbur. You are now on probation. Tread carefully.

The two lackeys peeled back the mats, revealing a curled up Daniel lying stiff with fear on a dark stain of piss.
"It's a nipper! exclaimed Mr Wilbur.
"Bloody street urchin, replied Mr Ellis, "They're as common as rats.
The boy lay still and scared; Wilbur and Ellis had to drag him down and hold him up to present him to their master.
Daniel could feel himself trembling all over. He wanted to piss again, and his bowels were threatening to open. He wanted to scream out at his captors, promise them he'd be good, he wouldn't tell, he didn't care what they were up to, just let him go and he'd behave. But the relentless gaze of the Lord seemed to prevent him from speaking, or moving. He shivered like a frightened rabbit, but he returned the Lord's stare.
"Mr Ellis. You had better hold him.
Mr Ellis got behind Daniel and grabbed both his arms, holding him tight and still.
Rathbone crouched down so he was face to face with the boy. Daniel began trembling more violently under this terrible scrutiny, despite Ellis's firm grip. He could discern no emotion in those eyes, just a vague intellectual curiosity. Daniel remembered looking the same way upon a French coin some oily punter had passed to Janie once. This man looked at him now like he was just such an oddity, like he was not even alive.
Rathbone slipped his hand inside his overcoat, produced a barber's cutthroat razor with a fine mother-of-pearl handle. With his eyes still on Daniel, he opened out the blade and spoke to his men: "I shall be quick but it will be messy. You'll clean up when I'm finished, and put him in the carpet.
"But he's just a boy, Y'Ordship, can't be more than ten or eleven. Can't we¦
"Shut up Wilbur, Ellis interjected, "let his Lordship do his work.

Daniel found his voice. He screamed his lungs out. Rathbone blinked.
As the last contents of his bladder ran down his leg, Daniel snapped out of his paralysis and tried to wrestle free of Ellis's hold. The big man stayed firm. Rathbone brought the blade up. Daniel still screamed, no words, just a long raucous howl, stamping his feet and shaking them, the only part of his body he could move. Anything to keep his head out of this moment, his last seconds.
Rathbone placed a hand on the boy's head to steady him. Daniel's feet pedalled faster, up and down, he screamed louder and tears poured down his cheeks.
And then the heel of his shoe connected.
The thin sheet of tin plate hammered onto his heel two nights back, as a last-ditch favour by Tom the bag-thief, had found Ellis's shin. It broke the skin like it was tissue, pushed the flesh hard down over the bone and the metal edge jarred against it for a good inch.

Now it was Ellis's turn to howl. He jerked sideways, pulling the boy with him. Daniel felt the razor slide through his cheek and into his mouth, bang against his back teeth and slip back out again just as quick. Strangely, it didn't hurt.
With the desperate awareness of a trapped animal facing its last, Daniel knew what he had to do, and scraped his roughly cobbled heels down Ellis's ankles again and again.
Ellis howled some more, jumped to one side and let go. But only for a second; he was reaching for the boy again, but Daniel was gone. Ellis had yanked him round to the side of the mats and it was a couple of jumps from there to the far side of the nearest pillar.
But Wilbur had come to life and was blundering towards him, and Ellis was hopping his way too, though it was Rathbone who moved like a ghost and was nearly upon the boy.
"Mr Ellis, get to the door. There's no way out for him, said Rathbone calmly.
But Daniel knew the layout. He led them round the outside of the pillars, behind the old empty barrels sometimes used as tables, to his only chance of escape.

He reached the small metal hatch and pulled, but it was slow to give, there hadn't been a coal delivery here for more than five years, and Daniel himself hadn't opened it in months. Rathbone was already looking over the barrels at him, and set to pushing them clear. Daniel heard one of them crash on the floor and roll away just as the hatch finally clanged open. He daren't look back , this was his one chance, slim at that ' the Lord must surely be on him. He scrambled up the chute, just small enough to fit, pushing his back against the ceiling of the shaft to give some purchase. He'd done it before, it was his bolthole, but he'd been much smaller last time, and it wasn't going quick enough.
Someone - Rathbone surely ' grabbed his foot, and he slid back an inch. He pushed up again, clawing at the base, ripping his nails, heaving and screaming, refusing to be dragged back down to the waiting razor.
His back hurt like it would break, his mouth was filling with blood, his fingers were torn and bleeding; Daniel had no strength to hold on.
His shoe came off in the Lord's hand. He pinged up the shaft another few inches. He scrambled further up, out of reach, but didn't stop there - he kept going until his head smacked open the old wooden doors and he popped out the other end, rolling onto the pavement, jumping up and running down the street and into the night before anyone could emerge from the broken door of the basement.
Rathbone stood down below, staring at the sole of Daniel's ripped, patched up, poorly cobbled left shoe.