“Hold your noise!” I hear my gritty voice bark, hardly recognising it as my own. I continue, “Keep still, you little devil, or I’II cut your throat!”
My desire to prevent the child from alerting my captors to my presence is all consuming. The boy stands perfectly still; only his mouth open’s and closes several times, yet not a sound does he utter. It is as though my presence has turned his feeble young body to stone. Like a marble statue he stands, eyes glittering like stars, round like two sauce’s they peer, from a face that is no longer pink and rosy, but a dark soot colour; he shivers as I seize him by the chin, responding by pleading in a hushed squeaky voiced, “Oh! Don’t cut my throat, Sir, pray don’t do it, sir.”
My muddled frightened brain is immediately consumed with guilt as it registers his youth. And yet! This young child is a possible meal ticket, perhaps my only chance of freedom.
“Think! Think! Magwitch,” a voice implores my stupefied brain.
“Tell us your name, show us were you live,” I hear my voice bark out the questions, not sure what I am going to do with the information, and yet by some miracle, my questioning of the little fellow leads me to learn that his guardians were Blacksmiths. I peer down at my shackled leg.
“You get me a file and you get me whittles, or I’II have your heart and liver out.” I fell guilty at frightening the young chap, but he is my only hope! and I know that by frightening him in this way, it is the only chance I have of escape. Not entirely satisfied my words have scared the chid enough, I threaten him with a fellow worse than myself! as if! I tell him that if he doesn’t do as I say, then he will not be safe in his house or bed. And as I watch his young face register my threats, I am aware that he believes every- single- word! And as he leaves I am left with some hope that he will return.
I turned away as the boy escapes back to his family, to food and shelter. My mind wanders, but I stop it in its tracts. “Can’t go there!” I warn myself. Have to concentrate, stay alert, stay alive!
I turn in the direction of the river, looking for shelter a safe place. It’s cold so cold. I look at the sky and feel the biting wind on my face; angry black clouds stare down at me, as though mirroring the anger and guilt I feel for terrorising the young boy, yet what choice did I have? I stumble, the weight of the iron dragging me down. I stay down. The earth is cold, damp, but too tired to care, there I remain. My eyes flutter as I fight the urge to sleep. I feel myself drifting, warm sun on my face, my family, my home, a feeling of comfort and contentment. Then, grey mist and sadness, loneliness! The sun returns but with it a feeling of despair, I am surrounded by people and yet I am alone, loud noises shouting, crying, the banter of the market traders and such a multitude of smells that my senses are in overdrive, rotting vegetables, over ripe fruit, bread, animals and as I peer upwards from my hiding place I see the dead eyes of chickens and rabbits hanging from a market stall. Their eyes appear to be mocking me, pitying me, yet they are dead ones! My stomach groans with hunger and I watch and wait my desire for food overwhelming. I stand and move unnoticed towards the grocers stall my hand reaches out, then loud noise gun fire! Soldiers in red coats all around me, torches a musket in my back!
My Saviour
The boy stands looking down at me, a strange mixture of expressions on his face: fear, shock, pity even. My eyes drop to his left hand, for in it he holds a file about to snatch it, I spy the bundle he is holding in his other hand. Food! Brandy! I grab the food swallowing it so quickly I almost choke. My starving stomach growls like a dog. I tear at the food like the animal I have become.
“Leave any for him?” questions the boy.
“Who’s him?” I ask pausing for breath.
“The young man that you spoke of,” he replies.
An all consuming anger erupts in the pit of my stomach. My brain feels about to explode, as my mouth barks an avalanche of questions.
What did the man look like? How long ago did he see him? Which direction? Show me show me I cry! He indicates in the direction of the rising mist.
Roughly, I grab the file and begin to work at the shackle in a frenzied manner, backward and forward. Anger and fear my only emotion. I wasn’t aware when he left, only of the relief when the shackle snapped open. Unaware of my bloody blistered hands, standing I stride stealthy in the direction the boy indicated.
LUKE BRADDOCK 10 GU
