A Novel by Amelie - Chapter One

Chapter 1




         Glowing coals responded to flowing air near the iron stove, but did not bring comfort to the uneasy patient, Finley, a timorous Sheltie mix. He eyed an illustration of the canine mouth as it mercilessly contrasted with the dusty red and plum floral wallpaper. The gauche white paper and faded ink blinded its viewer, illustrating especially the incisors and fangs. Though Finley’s incisors and fangs were of decent wear, his left fifth lower molar bore a partial fracture in what was left of the decaying tooth. Dr. Abel, a reputably humane physician certified in most things dental, coordinated his ivory-handled tools alongside a silver spittoon. He hummed The Rainy Day, at which Finley grew bothered. It was indeed not a rainy day. It was a damp, snow-laden day in February of which the luckier citizens of London were permitted to stay inside. It was a perfect day, Finley had pondered upon awakening, to suffer a tooth extraction.

         His darting blue eyes skimmed the quaint office as he fidgeted with a semi-detached button on his brown paisley vest. Intricately carved mahogany cabinets adorned the bizarre, dank room and housed a variety of powdered and liquid medicines. Poisons, as Finley imagined. He debated if such a thought were his over-active imagination or perchance some sort of hunch. Perhaps Dr. Abel was not able at all. Finley pondered if he were a quack, an evil quack, and wondered if a grim secret may be afoot. The physician was, in fact, uncommonly chummy with the mortician just down the road. The fur on the back of his neck began to rise and he took a deep breath, failing to calm himself. His pulse rose in rapid succession and he began to sweat profusely as the images in the room stretched and altered before his eyes.

         Finley’s awareness diverted back to the madness looming above him. Dr. Abel hummed louder with each instrument of torture he lifted and polished, ultimately singing in a high baritone. I have to escape, Finley panicked. He squirmed in the red velvet chair, but it was locked in position. Dr. Abel bordered his victim with a whirring, foot-pedalled drill. Finley’s heart thumped wildly and his mouth grew dry. He forced his jaw shut against the pressure of the physician’s grip.
         “Relax, Mr. Dutch,” Dr. Abel said. Finley stammered and shook his head obstinately.
         “P-p-perhaps I am having second thoughts.”
         “Mr. Dutch, this tooth is agonising to see.” The physician scooted the foot-pedal closer to the anxious mutt. “I can only imagine the grief it has given you.”
         “I exaggerated!” The lie flew from Finley’s mouth before he could think. He decided to agree with it. “Truly, it’s not that dire.”
         “Oh, boof,” Mr. Abel again manipulated Finley’s jaw to the open position. “Soon, you will be wondering why you put up such a fuss.”
         “I bid you, pray do this at a later date,” Finley begged. Dr. Abel inched toward his patient. Finley focused on the hellish device inching near and the high-pitched drone rung in his ears. Finley let out a sharp yelp, and in doing so, Dr. Abel latched onto Finley’s jaw and locked it in place with a limber, experienced hand.
         “Steady on!”
         Finley screeched in response to the hot, sharp pain shooting through his lower jaw and down his neck. The sensation of chipped tooth ricocheting in his mouth was as piercing as the sickening scent of the drill and disturbed bacteria. Finley grimaced as the drill neared the pulp. I have to get out of here!

         Dental keys and forceps sparkled in the dim window light as they arched across the room. They landed with a clatter, complimenting the offending noise of the drill. Finley thrashed about in the chair, knocking over the spittoon and planting a skilled left hook on the physician’s jaw.
         “Mr. Dutch!” Dr. Able graciously ignored the blow. “Sit, dog! Stay!”
         “I must leave!” Finley tumbled over the physician before grabbing his toolbox and bolted out the door, barely stopping to throw some loose change on the counter. The swarming streets of London were for once a consoling sight. He could get lost in the crowd, weaving in and out of carts and stands, jetting past shops and rawhide dens, and the physician would never find him. With that thought, he sprinted down the swarming sidewalks of Regent Street, tripping over a man sleeping against a stoop and colliding into a bickering old lady prior to hailing a cab. Within a few moments, a hansom appeared.
         “Hampstead! Hurry!” Finley shouted at the driver, a stout Dalmatian. He shunned himself for his rudeness, but he was terribly afraid. Though he had a right to be afraid; did he? He removed a pre-measured bottle of laudanum from his black frock coat. Half empty. He groaned disapprovingly and chugged its remains.

         A few blocks passed by before the medicine began to take effect. The tooth pain dulled, though not enough to be less than tormenting. He watched passing scenes of soot-covered snow and people huddling against the bitter cold. A child tugged on her mother’s arm and an old man shuffled down the street. Finley sighed. Was he in the right? He soon answered himself and shook his head in remorse. Oh no, he rubbed his temples, I had another episode. It’s only been two days. Humiliated, he slouched and gazed at the drooping ceiling of the cab. He longed for home and a piping hot cup of tea. He had purchased some currant buns the day before; perhaps they would not be too stale to enjoy. Currant buns were a favoured comfort food. Sitting upright, he realised that he would have to postpone his tea. He had a prior obligation and almost forgot. Admit it, ye did forget.  He ran his fingers through his sable, tousled hair.
         “Sir, I apologise,” he called to the brusque driver. “Southwark Street. East End.”
         “Make up yer bloomin’ mind!” the driver barked. Finley’s ears hugged the sides of his head.
         “I-I apologise,” Finley stammered and replaced himself in his seat. The driver flipped his wrist and commanded the reigns.
         “I know where it is, any’ow” he replied. “Bin there meself. Many times.”

                   Though he arrived in short of half an hour, Finley cursed at his silver watch and quickly stuffed it in his pocket before the object was noticed by common pickpockets. He paid the driver and headed toward the Southwark Bridge. He grasped the watch in his right pocket and his wallet, now empty, in his left. Keeping his eyes focused on the broken pavement, he sunk low into his black frock coat, preferring not to stand out; though he most certainly made a scene when he tore out of that office like a frightened child. Finley scorned himself and huffed. Warm breath escaped his nostrils as he hurried along. Crowds braved a strong gust whipping through the restless streets. The stagnated aromas of soot and body odour were awakened, mixing with the scents of fish and stale gin. Finley removed his wallet, a small velvet pouch of warm hues, and frowned. Fantastic. It’s empty. 

         Finley found refuge in a scant alley, both from the wind and stench, and packed his light blue scarf with snow and ice. He secured the scarf around his jaw, thankful for the cold against his abscessed tooth.  The alley was the ideal spot to observe the preoccupied masses. Finley had all but missed the cranny himself. He felt safe, despite a burning sensation on his frozen cheeks from the snow-packed scarf. He leaned against a blackened wall and lit a hastily rolled cigarette. For God’s sake, Finn, get a pipe. Surveying the streets, he observed many. An elderly terrier was a simple target, but not very fair, in Finley’s opinion. A Labrador pup bounded in the snow and looked back at the askew boot prints. Absolutely not. As it is, her rather large father is close behind. A plump pug squeezed her way out of a chandler’s shop. A purse dangled loosely from the crook of her arm, hanging by a thin strap. Oh no, no. I’d rather be beaten by the father! There could still be honour, even if you were a thief. That was what his role-model, his hero, had taught him.

         He brushed off glowing ashes that had fallen on his scarf and observed his prey, though he felt like the prey. He was terrified of most things social, but regrettably, being in public was mandatory for a pickpocket.  He had found many difficulties in being an artist. A few fortunate times had fallen upon him, though not enough to make art his single income. One of his first oil paintings, Winged Moonlight, was sold for an impressive amount at an auction. A year later, he was honoured with an exhibit in a small museum in Whitechapel to showcase his gouache work and a few sculptures. Sure, it wasn’t the Victoria and Albert Museum, but it was a good beginning. Even though he had a steady stream of work, consisting of portraits to still life, and even his own emotional musings, it was barely enough. I shouldn’t have purchased that home. It was a constant regret.  A meagre side job as a general handyman helped a little, barely a little. However, it did give him a sense of purpose, though he had yet to experience that self-realisation. He enjoyed helping others. He felt a sense of worth in benevolence, even if his mortgage disagreed. Perhaps, he hoped, it would make right a few of his wrongdoings.

         Juss wait fer it. It’ll come. A familiar voice Finley heard often. It lived inside his head; the voice of his hero. It gave Finley relief in both hearing the comforting voice and knowing it was not one his mind had manifested on its own. It was from real life; unlike those that had haunted his mother. He didn’t want to think about that. The very idea that his mother might have truly been ill terrified him. If she were truly mentally ill, then it was possible he was, too. He tugged at his hair and shook off the thought. A few breaths later, he refocused on those coming to and from the bridge. In short time, a black-and-white Papillion, somewhere in her mid-teens, struggled to carry a basket of various packaged meats. Looking at her dishevelled demeanour and her dress, tattered peach chintz and a stained apron, she certainly could not afford such luxuries. She must work for someone, someone who gave her a few pounds to purchase his supper.

         Finley left the protection of the alley and sidled closer to the girl. He exhaled as he eyed a few coppers in her apron pocket. I’m so sorry. I promise to bring no harm to you. It at least made him feel better for what he was preparing to do. Besides, some wealthy geezer would suffer, not her. Well, he hoped not. He replayed the judgment in his head and dodged pedestrians and carriages alike, never taking his eyes off the girl. Don’t go off and make yerself known. Look casual. Finley obeyed his hero’s words and relaxed. Mimicking the gentleman in front, he changed his gait and stood straight, though not too straight, and kept his focus. Nonchalantly, he glimpsed the streets of the East End as if he were searching for something, but certainly nothing in one’s pocket. To aid his cause, his groomed attire gave him the appearance of a middle-classed gentleman of the West End, not a run-of-the-mill Cockney thief. Though he had purchased a home in upper-classed Hampstead, he had a tragic start in life. He worked hard to improve the quality of his life, but he more or less felt as if he were drowning in a sea of finances.

         The working-girl turned right on Park Street, and ahead, an unruly crowd had gathered. A petty fight had caught the attention of excited passer-bys and Finley blessed the fortunate opportunity. Echoes of snarls, barks and yelps caught the attention of the girl and she weaved her way past the boisterous mob. Distracted, she glanced to the side and slowed her pace, wishing to enjoy the entertainment. A shirtless German shepherd hooked a right and slammed his fist in a much taller Great Dane, causing a loose tooth to escape the Dane’s mouth and land amidst the crowd. The gang roared and readjusted their bets, cheering the shepherd on. The girl, too enticed to indulge her responsibilities, soon slowed to a stop. She did not notice the Sheltie mix closing in behind her. Finley narrowed his eyes and flattened his ears as he advanced, honing in on her possessions. The crowd jumped about as the shepherd gave the Dane a harsh kick to the head. The girl was shoved and dropped her basket.
         “I’m terribly sorry, miss!” Finley helped her to her feet and retrieved the spilt contents. “Reckon I was excited ‘bout the brawl. Are ye harmed?”
         “No, no, but oh!” the girl cried. “Everythin’ is filthy!”
         “Ah, this can all be washed up,” Finley replaced the last package of muddy meat, nearly getting his hand stepped on by a careless hound. He gathered his toolbox and brushed off his coat. “Do ye need escortin’ home, miss?”
         “No,” she was baffled, glancing at Finley, at the fight and back again. “I am soon to arrive.”
         “Well then, good day.”

                   Once past Sumner and halfway down Guildford Street, he removed the prize from his right pocket. I hope I didn’t hurt her. A half crown, two-and-a half shillings, fell into his cold-numbed hands.
         “This is it?” He clenched his fist and sighed. Keep yer pecker up. The words of his adoptive mother came into mind. As a child, he had always giggled at such an utterance and found himself still amused as an adult. With that, he cautiously edged his way back to Southwark Street. A short walk to the main road, and approximately ten minutes toward the Thames, he found himself feeling a tad safer. Certainly, he would have heard a riot in the distance by now if the girl found her empty pocket. As it was, the crowd would have been too interested in the fight to care. Walking with more confidence, but never too much, he eyed a chandlers’ shop selling various foods and sugar. He thought of what he could buy with his catch. He could purchase a decent meal for himself or he could buy some time with Daisy, a prostitute in Greater London he visited often. Typical of his soft-heartedness, he conceded to his original intention and set foot to the shop. Flabbergasted at the prices, five pence for a loaf of bread, he purchased that and a slab of old cheese. He made for Guildford Street once more, albeit reluctant, and soon turned left into a dark alley. A miserable row of houses, suffocating in soot and rubbish, lined the pathway. It was an underprivileged area of London, but Finley had seen much worse. He didn’t want to concentrate on that, either. Instead, he tucked the food safely in his coat and kept focus on the end of the alley.

         Finley marched on and soon a turned a sharp left before arriving at a neglected habitat. The house mirrored the blackness of its surroundings, but the real horror had always lain within. An accumulation of jumbled bricks and billysweet covered the stoop and old rags and hats filled where the bricks had been previously installed. Finely shooed a hoard of rats from the top step with his foot and pushed away some of the mortar in his path. He hastily rapped on the door, glancing to both sides, assuring he was not in company. After knocking a second and third time, he heard the muffled sounds of a mother hushing her children. With a turn of the knob, the door creaked open. Finley grimaced at the piercing sound.
         “Gaw bless ye, Mr. Dutch.” Mrs. Nesbitt, a fourteen-year-old collie, stepped aside as Finley entered the distraught dwelling. The young mother, with a set of twins around her knee, holding an infant and still one on the way, wiped a tear from her battered cheeks. Her left eye bared a red and purple bruise and was all but swollen shut. The emaciated children, especially the infant, had not fared better. Finley assisted her when no one else would, and for that, she was everlastingly grateful. “It’s bin leakin’ fer a dog’s age.”
         “Why didn’t ye call on me sooner?” Finley removed his tan ivy hat and soggy scarf and gently placed them on the rickety staircase, more steps missing than not. There was no hat stand to be found. The house was scarce with furniture. In fact, it housed more cobwebs and piles of soot than anything. The dull, blackened walls overwhelmed Finley with a familiar sensation of hopelessness; though, his synaesthesia needed not to interfere. The air was thick with it. He shook off a childhood memory and was led into what Mrs. Nesbitt deemed the kitchen, though it was simply an undersized room with a table, two chairs and an old wood-burning stove. 
         “It’s bin ‘ard gettin’ out of the ‘ouse,” replied Mrs. Nesbitt. Finley laid his ears back. He set his toolbox on the wobbly table in the far corner of the kitchen and sat down on one of the chairs.
         “Mr. Nesbitt’s not here, is he?”
         “No, Lor’ no! I wouldn’t ‘ave ye come were ‘e ‘ome.”
         “That is reassuring,” Finley exhaled and smiled heartedly. The twins, a boy and girl around the age of seven, though their small statures gave the illusion of them being much younger, tugged Finley toward the stove. They promptly stuck their hands in Finley’s pockets, giggling and curious to see what lay inside. Finley grinned softly. 
         “Garn, git!” Mrs. Nesbitt shouted. “Leave ‘im be!”
         “They are no trouble,” said Finley. He wriggled his way under the stove, towing the toolbox behind him. The stove was dreadfully rusted and Finley spotted a hole in the base plate. Mrs. Nesbitt, daughter and infant returned to the living room, a small room with an even smaller hearth. Finley stood and turned to the young boy sitting on the floor. “Is she gone?”
                   The pup nodded.
         “Don’t tell yer mum, awright?” Finley cautiously removed his coat and hid the bread and cheese in the cupboard. The door hung askew, but it would have to do. The child’s eyes beamed.
         “’Ow come?” He scooted toward Finley and copied him by glancing underneath the stove. Finley rubbed his neck.
         “Well, some people don’t care to receive charity,” he explained. “I’m helping yer mum, but also tryin’ to respect her pride.”
         “Eh,” the child shrugged. Finley bore a small grin and inched his soldering iron to an open flame. Finley warned the pup of the dangerous tool and answered a few curious questions. A few bad jokes from the child later and growing weary of his own false laughter, Finley loosened the base plate and attempted to push it up and out of the range. It was stuck fast. The boy’s thoughts returned to the cupboard. “So, when can we eat it?”
         “As soon as I leave,” Finley grunted and pushed one last time, much harder than before. The plate popped loose and bits of coal and ash fell onto his face. He wheezed and began sneezing violently, which was rather comical to the young pup. He giggled and handed Finley a dirty cloth.
         “It’s cleaner than yer face!” he tittered. Finley shook the soot out of his fur. The child laughed as a grimy cloud filled the kitchen. Sneezing once more, Finley squirmed under the stove and repositioned the plate.
         “Hey, ye wanna hold this in place for me?” Finley smiled. The eager child forced his way under and held the plate as instructed. Finley, nearly receiving an accidental kick in the face, refastened the bolts around the plate. After wiping the child somewhat clean, cleaner than before, and now placing him at a safe distance, he soldered a patch over the rusted hole. “I need to beg one more favour.”
         “Yeah?”
         “Stay in here when I leave,” Finley positioned his tools back in the box. “You can tell yer mum about the goodies when I’m finally gone, awright?”
         “Why?” the child asked.
         “’Cause she’s gonna insist on payin’ me.” Finley latched his toolbox shut. “I don’t want her thinkin’ she has to pay me fer yer dinner, too.”
         “I suppose.” The child sighed; anything to enjoy that feast.

         “All fixed, love,” Finley tugged his cap over his head. “I put a new patch in place. Should hold fer awhile, but it’s gonna need replaced soon.”
         “Bless ye,” Mrs. Nesbitt reached inside a small, wooden box.  “’Ow much?”
         “Love, we’ve the same conversation every time,” Finley eyed the kitchen to make sure the child was doing as told. “No payment.”
         “Oh, I owe ye so much,” Mrs. Nesbitt pleaded. “Ye ‘ave done so much fer me, please.”
         “Ye owe me nothin’,” Finley insisted. Before Mrs. Nesbitt could demand on handing him her last three coppers, her infant wailed at a random shrieking in the kitchen. Mrs. Nesbitt apologised to Finley and handed the baby to her daughter. The little girl at once sat on the staircase and rocked the child, an obvious expert in childcare at such a young age. As the frantic mother tended to her son, in hysterics over God knows what, Finley ducked out the door and silently latched it shut.

         After trying everything in her power to calm the child, surely enough time for Finley to have passed through the alley, the boy calmed and began cackling. Mrs. Nesbitt cursed. “Yer the devil.”
         “Finn don’t want ye payin’ him,” the boy tugged on his bewildered mother’s arm and pointed to the cupboard. “Look’it up ‘ere!”
         Mrs. Nesbitt sat on her haunches and held her face in her hands. She gathered a few breaths before standing.
         “Go on,” the child coaxed. “Look’it.”
         The mother smiled wanly and obeyed her son’s repeated plea to look in the cupboard. As she opened the door, her eyes became glassy and she choked back a tear. She removed the bread and cheese, more food than she had seen in days, and held it close to her heart.
         “Oh, Mr. Dutch. Bless ye.”

_______________
         
         Finley strolled along Newington Causeway Borough and was focusing more on his latest crime than his rumbling stomach. It was growing dark and his tummy pleaded for its fill. The currant buns will have to do, unless the last of the roast isn’t spoiled. Been a few days. He turned toward Westminster Bridge Road and shook off a sharp tingle racing down his spine. Pulling his coat taut, he wrapped his arms around his chest. Too much laudanum. Finley startled as a prepubescent child ran out of a candy shop with the screaming clerk an arm-length away. Snow swirled around the mutt as the wind pushed its way through the street and he had to fight the current eager to propel him forward. He caught himself on a lamp post as he almost slipped on a hidden patch of ice. He stopped and looked about his environment. Sure hope no one saw that. London, now the dull gray of a winters’ evening, was too busy to even notice him. Finley doubted this logic and repacked his scarf. He winced as he secured it around his head, though this pain was not from the tooth. He rushed a free hand to his temples and began rubbing feverishly as he staggered down the street. He reached in his coat pocket for the laudanum, forgetting the bottle was now empty. Damn!  He squinted as the blinding light from the gas lamps began to ache in his eyes. His heart felt as if it was slamming into his sternum and he immediately checked his pulse. Too fast, way too fast! The world spun about him, each turn causing the pain in his head to swell exponentially. People are lookin’ at ye, stop it! Though no one was, he felt the eyes of London staring into his core, knowing him better than he knew himself. He had to run.

         He didn’t run very far. He only got a few blocks past Lambert Road before he was pulled into an alley near North Street. He had yet to understand what was happening before a hand squeezed his throat and a fist was planted on his left jaw. His furious cavity throbbed to the pounding of his head and heart. He rose to view his attacker, but was kneed in the face. A final kick to the stomach landed him in a puddle of sooty mud. He sputtered and tried to catch his breath.
         “Martishius’ bin lookin’ fer ye.” The attacker grabbed Finley by the hair and forced his head back. Finley’s neck popped at the force.
         “Johnny?” Finley choked on the blood dripping down his throat. The cavity, now completely fractured, left sticky blood dripping down his chin and a coppery taste in his mouth. Moreover, he felt blood flooding his sinus cavity and joining the pool already formed in his throat. He wiped his nose and looked at the red blot on his sleeve.
         “’E ain’t too ‘appy with ye,” Johnny, a one-eared beagle, said. “’E wants to see ye t’morrow night.”
         “Tomorrow?” Finley coughed. “So soon?”
         “Ye were s’posed to see ‘im last Thursday!” Johnny released Finley and shoved him into the puddle. Finley leaned against the wall and caught his breath. He had forgotten on that day; the day he had an intense wave of panic. His mind had insisted upon him the safety of indoors and drawing the curtains shut. Painting, as he attempted many times that day, had been too intrusive to bear and only sitting in the dark brought any relief. Finley shook his head.
         “I-I was havin’ a difficult time.”
         “Yer be ‘avin’ an ‘arder time soon.” Johnny lit a cigarette as he walked away, throwing the snuffed match toward Finley. It landed on his shoulder and fell onto the snow. Finley watched the last of the sulphuric smoke drift into the air and began to fall into a daze as the snow grew crimson below. He wiped his nose, blood now smearing his hands. Johnny called back. “Don’t ferget. Tomorrow evenin’ at six. Be late an’ it’s the end fer ye.”

         Instinctually, Finley grabbed a handful of snow and held it to his jaw and muzzle. His light sable and cream fur, now sticky and wet, was stained with blood and mud. He attempted to wash with the snow, but it helped little. Finley leaned on one arm, desiring to stand, but knew he shouldn’t dare. He grew nauseous as the world swayed to and fro, soon turning circles at various speeds. Clockwise, counter clockwise and back again. Pain centred between his eyes and radiated into a sharp line across his skull. Finley kneeled further and grabbed his head. I can’t handle Martishius. Not now. He knew he had no choice, but he had no money, either. It had been five weeks since he sold a painting, and that went to his mortgage and gas bill. It also went to a few guilty pleasures; opium, marijuana, and most of all, Daisy.

         I have to get home. He longed for the circular patch of light under a gas lamp. It was too dark where he was sitting; surely a perfect spot to be coshed, or worse. He carefully rose to his feet and began staggering forward and cupped his hands to catch the blood seeping from his nose. He had to hail a cab and soon. A few steps later, his knees buckled when the searing pain in his skull began to throb. It was an odd vibration Finley had felt many times before. Vomit spilt from his mouth without warning and his heart pumped incessantly. Oh God, I pray ye. Not here. A stabbing pain jolted his stomach and radiated to his trembling legs. With the last of his strength, he willed himself to stand. On the first step, the world flipped upside down, as did he.
         Feeling his head knock on the pavement, he soon surrendered to the will of his curse and accepted the blackness closing around him.