Allardyce

"Nearly there said the bow-legged old man as he looked down and smiled at the small girl holding his hand, "this is the road, nearly there.
Janie gazed up at the gaslights, saw Allardyce's face and how the light yellowed his skin, deepening its wrinkles and furrows, etching them thick and as black as his overcoat. Back in the alleys where she called home, you carried your own light if you needed one, or let your eyes adjust.
"It's a pretty little street my Patsy, said Allardyce in an over-sweet manner, giving Janie's hand a squeeze to get her attention.
"Why yes, Mr Jinks, she replied, but what struck her about this tree-lined avenue was its silence: there was no-one about to disturb the peace, no fighting or singing, or shouting. It was an expensive quiet, sought after and paid for; it was not the dread silence of the hiding and waiting and watch your back in the rookeries.

Allardyce led her through a gap in the low railings, up to a large, shiny green front door with a large brass knob the size of a fist set just above the centre. Allardyce turned two large brass keys in the two locks, pushed on the knob and led Janie up the steps and into the hall, shutting the door behind them.
It was cold and dark in the hallway. No fires or lights. No servants.
Janie was familiar with these new-rich types: they lived thrifty and watched every penny, every candle, every log and piece of coal.
They never succumbed to a good time; they held everything down, in its rightful place. All neat and tidy and as it should be.
Until the inevitable. Out it came: nights like this. And all for thirty shillings.
"Uncle Jinks, it's very cold.
"We'll soon warm you up! said Allardyce as he lit the small lamp on the small dark table by the door. As he held the lamp up, Janie could see him wink at her, and he grabbed her hand once more and pulled her up the stairs.

Allardyce sat on the thick mattress of the high brass bed and bounced twice, patting the space beside him.
"Come and sit with your favourite uncle, my dear.
Janie stayed by the door. "Oh, Mr Jinks, may I really sit on your big bouncy bed!
"Yes! Yes! Come on! Come to Uncle Jinksy!
She did a little cutesy tiptoe skip over to Allardyce, who picked her up by the waist and plonked her down next to him. Her little feet waggled a couple of feet clear of the floor. Janie looked down at them, checking she hadn't snagged her stockings on the untreated floorboards. More skinflint behaviour, she thought. She wondered then if she'd see any sign of his wealth before Allardyce's game took a serious turn.
There was no great rush or worry; these new rich men weren't as tricky as lords.
Lords were strange and dangerous.

And so they sat thigh to thigh on the edge of the bed. Janie sensed Allardyce's awkwardness now they were here. She waited.
Then: "Oh, you naughty girl, you've put your muddy feet all over your uncle's nice clean sheets.
Janie sighed. Her shoes weren't even in the room ' she'd left them at the door. She hated this lack of continuity in her punters' flights of fancy; it made her feel sad and unsafe, she needed to escape the world as much as they did.
But the customer is always right.
"Oh I'm terribly sorry Mr Jinks, and on to the usual: "please don't punish me.

Janie bit her lip as Allardyce brought his hand down again on her behind. Not too hard, yet.
Janie had acquired the sense for that moment when her punters' excitement began to spiral but she was unaware of the effect her little bit-back squeaks and yips had on Allardyce. She heard his breathing get more laboured, more wheezy and gasping, and guessed they were nearing the end. Her head lolled down by the foot of the bed, rocking up and away and then down again, so every few seconds she was a nose away from a now shaking floorboard, rattling loose against its companions. One leg of the bed happened to be standing on the board's end by the wall, and Allardyce's bouncing was forcing it down hard and thus rattling the floorboard against the other, more secured planks.
Thrifty he may be, thought Janie, but in her experience a loose floorboard in a rich man's house meant only one thing.
Allardyce was gripped by a fit of spluttering, wheezing coughs and gulps. He stopped his bouncing. His body jerked and Janie nearly slid off him. Allardyce just caught her, then lifted her off his lap and put her down on the floorboards. She rolled over to look up at him; Allardyce was now doubled up on the edge of the bed, rocking slowly and still wheezing.
"Why Mr Jinks you look quite flushed!
Allardyce's head drooped further down between his thighs. He sucked in air in deep coarse breaths. Dragged it down. He coughed, shook, and was still.
Janie watched him for a moment. The old man didn't move.
"Mr Allardyce?
Allardyce cricked his head up: "No, Patsy, no.
"Uncle Jinks, "she said, quietly.
At this, Allardyce pushed himself up, gasped and spluttered some more, and Janie saw the spittle swinging from the corner of his mouth.
"Wait a moment, my dear, while your favourite uncle gets a glass of water. I seem to have come over all hot.
"You do look rather flushed, Mr Jinks.
"You do excite your uncle so!
And he dragged himself upright by the bedpost and tottered out the bedroom door.
Janie sat where he'd put her, listening to Allardyce's faltering footsteps as they faded away down the wooden staircase.
She waited some more seconds, then padded over to the door, stood very still and listened again.
Reassured, she dived onto the floor by the loose floorboard, and began tugging and scraping at its edges.
But the bed's leg still stood on it. She took a deep breath, and slammed herself against the bed - once, twice, and the third time it screeched clear of the board. She sat as still as she could, holding her breath. Listened.
Nothing.
She scrabbled at the floorboard once more, got some purchase on one corner, and flicked it up and out of its fitting.
Peering down into the space now revealed under the floor, she could see packages tucked in between the joists, packages the size of bricks, wrapped in newspaper.
She reached down and pulled up three - as many as she could bundle under one arm and still perform her next trick: she stepped over to the high French windows and began to climb the curtain. Above them was another, smaller window, open a fraction to allow the night air to enter.
She'd gone up like a circus performer, it was no new trick, but as she fumbled with the window's catch Janie dropped a bundle. It thudded onto the floorboards, eliciting a cry from the now returning Allardyce.
"Patsy my dear! Are you in trouble? he shouted as he reached the top of the staircase.
Janie was already out of the window and had let herself down onto the wide ledge.
Allardyce rushed into the bedroom, saw Janie on the wrong side of the glass, then saw the floorboard up and the banknotes strewn over the floor. He galloped over to the window and pushed his face to the glass; there were tears already in his eyes.
"Patsy! he wailed, "Oh Patsy, please, please don't leave me. Please. You can have that money. Just please come back, Patsy.
Janie looked up at him, still clutching her bundles like a favourite teddy bear.
"I ain't Patsy no more, Mr Allardyce, she said, and felt her throat tighten. She had to get the names out, stop the urge to climb back in, into a real house, a safe place for one night.
Allardyce knew it was all gone. He hung his head, sobbed one big loud sob. He felt stupid, and old. Janie waved a little hand as she grabbed the drainpipe and slid away, and Allardyce couldn't help but wave back as she disappeared into the night.