The Clockwork Sparrow. Katherine Woodfine

jacket on the floor, lit the lamp and then sank down on to the bed to ease her boots from her aching feet. In the warm glow of the lamplight, everything troubling – the dark streets, the empty store, the girls’ laughter, and even the looming figure of Bert – seemed to fade away. There would be no buns for supper, but bread and butter would do just as well, she thought decidedly, pulling the shabby curtains firmly closed against the darkness outside.

      He sat still in the shadows of the stable-yard, watching. It was a risk staying here after that lad had spotted him earlier, but he felt it was a risk worth taking. He’d stay tonight and be on his way again tomorrow. It was a shame, for this was a good place, safe and quiet. He felt sure that no one would ever think of looking for him here. Besides, he was fond of horses, always had been, and they were fond of him.

      There was a light burning high up in one of the top windows of the big shop building – a little point of yellow light in the grey dusk. It made his thoughts flash suddenly back to that awful night, to looking in through the misted window as the watchmaker held up a pocket watch, like a gleaming gold star in the dark. He remembered how still the old man had been, motionless, but for the delicate movements of his long fingers as he bent over the bench, all scattered with the parts of clocks and watches. Something about the way he sat there had made him think of his old grandad. Suppose the watchmaker had been someone’s old grandad too? He had known then that he couldn’t do what they wanted. He couldn’t do it, and so he’d have to run.

      He pushed the memory away and wiped the rain off his face. He had to forget all that. He had to stay sharp, concentrate on the here and now. He’d been watching since the store closed. Soon, he’d be able to find a quiet corner to kip for the night, well away from the nightwatchman’s beat. Not that he’d been getting much sleep since he left the Boys behind. The wound from Jem’s knife ached, and the pain left him wakeful. Besides, what little sleep he managed to snatch was tormented by dreams. He dreamed of his own treacherous hands, shaking as they gripped the blade; the small, defenceless figure of the watchmaker behind the window; Jem smiling his jagged smile; and always the unknown figure of the Baron, lurking somewhere beyond, a faceless monster from a child’s nightmare. ‘Know why they call him the Baron?’ he remembered Jem saying to him once. ‘Cos he’s the tops when it comes to villainy. There’s no one who can touch him for that.’ He’d heard some people say that the Baron was no more than another tall tale surfacing from the slums of the city, but he knew they were wrong. The Baron’s Boys and the things they did were real enough, that was for sure.

      There was hardly anyone left in the store now. The big fellow with the black moustache had long gone, heaving himself on to his bicycle and pedalling strenuously off into the evening. One or two others had followed, but still the thin young fellow remained, standing just beside the door smoking a cigarette. He wished that young fellow would sling his hook. There was something about him that he didn’t trust – the curl of his lip, the glint in his eye, or perhaps just the way he’d tried to bully that girl, the one who had given him the shilling. It had been a relief to see her dart past him and hurry away.

      A shilling, that was something. For the dozenth time, he felt for the reassuring circle of it in his pocket. Once or twice before he’d got a penny or two, but he didn’t set himself up to go a-begging. The old fellows and the kids, they might do all right, but he didn’t reckon that anyone would want to give a farthing to someone like him. But that girl, she’d just given him that coin, right out of nowhere. A whole shilling, just like that.

      His ears pricked at a new sound. The door was opening and someone else was coming out. Another man, his collar turned up, a cap pulled well down over his eyes. The young fellow looked surprised, but then an expression of interest broke over his face and he opened his mouth as if to speak. Somewhere, close by, there was the splintering tinkle of glass shattering, and the yowl of a cat.

      Then all at once, as if the sound had sparked it off, everything happened very fast. There was a glint of metal in the dim light; a sudden, heart-stopping explosion of sound. He started and shrank back into his corner, but the thin young fellow had fallen. He was on the ground. His body was crooked, slumped face-down. The other man turned smoothly, soundlessly away, and a moment later he had melted into the dark.

      The yard was empty but for the black shape of the young fellow’s body. He stole forward and hesitated, seeing the dark pool blooming on the ground. The young fellow had been shot.

      There was a crumpled piece of paper lying beside the body. He picked it up instinctively and shoved it into his pocket with the shilling. Already he could hear the sound of a whistle: the police, the nightwatchman? He couldn’t stay to find out which it was. He had to get away.

      He slipped into the shadows by the wall, where he blended with the darkness and became invisible. It was something he knew only too well how to do. Silent and swift as a fox in the night, he padded away down the alley. Once again, he had to disappear.

PART II

       ‘About Town’

       This elegant crinoline straw, with velvet on the crown and bunches of violets under the brim, is a smart choice for spring. Bringing elegance and grace to even the most modest costume, it will serve excellently for any town occasion – from a tea party to a tour of the shops . . .