Jack Lark: Rogue Read online

  Copyright © 2014 Paul Fraser Collard

  The right of Paul Fraser Collard to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2014

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  eISBN: 978 1 4722 2276 3

  Cover image © STILLFX/Shutterstock.com

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  338 Euston Road

  London

  NW1 3BH

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About Paul Fraser Collard

  About the Book

  Also By Paul Fraser Collard

  Praise

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Epilogue

  For more Jack Lark. . .

  About Paul Fraser Collard

  Author photograph © Martin Collard

  Paul’s love of military history started at an early age. A childhood spent watching films like Waterloo and Zulu whilst reading Sharpe, Flashman and the occasional Commando comic, gave him a desire to know more of the men who fought in the great wars of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries. At school, Paul was determined to become an officer in the British army and he succeeded in winning an Army Scholarship. However, Paul chose to give up his boyhood ambition and instead went into the finance industry. Paul stills works in the City, and lives with his wife and three children in Kent.

  About the Book

  As pot boy at his mother’s infamous London gin palace, Jack Lark is no stranger to trouble.

  Between dog fights and street scuffles, if he’s not being set upon, he’s starting a brawl himself. But when an unlikely ally draws him from the dark alleys of the East End into the bright lights of a masked ball, he gets a glimpse of another life. That life, once seen, is impossible to forget.

  Jack will do anything to outwit, outsmart and escape the cruelty in his own home. He is determined to get out, but what price will he be forced to pay for his freedom?

  By Paul Fraser Collard and available from Headline

  The Scarlet Thief

  The Maharajah’s General

  The Devil’s Assassin

  Praise for Paul Fraser Collard:

  ‘This is a fresh take on what could become a hackneyed subject, but in Fraser Collard’s hands is anything but’ Good Book Guide

  ‘Savage, courageous, and clever’ Goodreads

  ‘This is what good historical fiction should do – take the dry dusty facts from history books and tell the story of the men and women who lived through them – and Collard does this admirably’ www.Ourbookreviewsonline.blogspot.co.uk

  ‘This is the first book in years I have enjoyed that much that I had to go back and read it again immediately’ www.parmenionbooks.wordpress.com

  ‘Collard is to be congratulated for producing a confident, rich and exciting novel that gave me all the ingredients I would want for a historical adventure of the highest order’ www.forwinternights.wordpress.com

  Chapter 1

  The boy moved quickly. He kept his master in sight but held back, hiding away in the dense yellow fog that smothered the city like a dank, dun-coloured veil. That evening’s particular was thick and the smog dulled the sounds of his footsteps but still the boy was wary. He was too familiar with the heavy wooden cudgel at his master’s hip to treat it with anything other than respect. Despite his bulk, his master was fast, and the thick shaft of oak waited just inches from his right hand. It could be drawn in a single heartbeat, and woe betide any man or woman in reach if it were wielded in anger.

  ‘Evening, Mr Lampkin.’

  The boy heard the respect in the muttered greeting. He hid in the opening to the alley that led behind the row of rancid houses close to his destination, biding his time. He kept his eyes on his master, waiting patiently for him to move on.

  The greeting was met with silence as the boy’s master paused, his head turning in the direction of the lad charged with guarding the entrance that led to the cellar of the Ten Bells.

  ‘No charge for you, Mr Lampkin.’ The door-keep shuffled from foot to foot, his fear bright even in the murk.

  The only answer came in the form of a thick wad of phlegm spat to the ground. The boy’s master shuffled past without another word and disappeared down the dark staircase.

  The boy moved quickly, slipping out of the alley and trotting into the light cast by the single gas lamp near the back entrance to the public house that was hosting that night’s entertainment.

  ‘All right, Mud.’

  ‘Evening, Sam.’ The boy moved closer now that his master had begun to descend the stairs, his bearing more confident as he stepped out of the man’s shadow.

  ‘I’m supposed to charge you a shilling if you want to come in.’ Sam sniffed, his hand lifting to wipe away the trail of snot that hovered over his upper lip.

  ‘I ain’t got a shilling.’ The boy known as Mud gave the lie easily. The coins were heavy in his pocket but he needed them for the betting. He would not waste any on Sam Taylor.

  ‘You’ve always got money, Mud. Give us a penny and I’ll let you in.’

  ‘I ain’t got a penny.’ Mud stepped closer. He was tall, his body lean and hard. There was no hiding the muscles in his arms, the legacy of a life shifting barrels heavy with gin. ‘My ma told me to come to keep an eye on her old man. I ain’t here for nothing else. You want me to tell her you wouldn’t let me follow him down?’

  ‘I reckon I can let you in then.’ Sam sniffed, then gurgled as the contents of his nose caught in the back of his throat. ‘If you ain’t here for the betting.’

  The boy needed no more permission. He followed the man who shared his mother’s bed into the gloom.

  The cellar was dim, the scattered oil lamps fighting an unequal struggle against the darkness. It stank, the cloying stench of dog shit overlaid with the rancid odour of too many bodies pressed into too small a space. The low murmur of voices betrayed the building excitement in the room, the expectation of violence simmering just beneath the surface.

  The boy followed his master’s bulk. There was little room in the cellar, but the men packed into the dank and fetid space still found an inch or a foot to ease out of the way of the big man. Faces lifted to glance his way, then turned away quickly, like hounds finding themselves facing a wolf.

  ‘Gentlemen! Gentlemen!’ A loud voice cut through the hubbub of men talking in low tones. A tall figure in a fabulous long coat rose above the heads of the crowd as he ascended a pulpit fabricated from wooden crates. He lifted his hands, motioning the room to silence. Like any good audience, those gathered in the cellar hushed and turned to face the man who would run the evening’s entertainment.

  The boy slipped through the crowd, keeping his distance from his master now that he had made it inside. He wormed through the press of bodies, working his way closer to the low wooden fence tha
t had been constructed to form a circle six feet in diameter in the centre of the cellar. The punters thronged round its edge, their status defined by how close they could get to the very front. Chancing his luck, the boy edged nearer to where the fight would take place, desperate to be able to see. He kept his eyes riveted on his master, always wary and ready to duck away out of sight if the man turned.

  ‘Gentlemen, welcome.’ The man in the long coat preened as he felt the crowd’s eyes rest upon him. He looked round the room, nodding in greeting at the important men nearest the pit.

  The boy pulled his cap down, trying to hide his face. The man in the long coat would know him; he was a regular at his mother’s ginny, and the boy knew he would be rewarded with a thick ear or worse if he were discovered. Yet the lure of the evening had drawn him in. It was worth the risk. If his luck held, then he could double his stash of rhino. And he needed the money.

  The man standing high above the crowd took a firm hold of the lapels of his coat. It was made from dozens of bright squares of material, a gaudy patchwork of colours that gave rise to his nickname. Harlequin Billy was famous in the streets of Whitechapel, his fights known to be the best: the dogs would bite hard and the money would be good.

  ‘Time for the first bout.’ Harlequin Billy did not bother with any more preamble. He knew what his punters wanted. ‘Up first, Tom Pullen’s bitch against Harry Smith’s brawler.’

  The boy pressed forward, the men around him erupting as the first fight was called. The owners of the two dogs stepped purposefully into the ring, their animals held tight under their arms, muzzles bound with leather straps. The crowd was shouting now, the wagers flying around the dark cellar as men gambled their money on which dog would win.

  ‘Six shillings on the bitch.’ The boy turned away from the ring and raised the coins high. He was risking a fortune.

  ‘You shouldn’t be here, young Mud. Does your mother know you is out?’ A servant dressed in the livery of one of the finer London houses clapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘It ain’t her concern. You want my money or not?’ The boy spoke fast, his blood high. He recognised the servant from his visits to the gin palace. He worked for some toff out west but he was a sound fellow and the boy reckoned he could be trusted to pay out if he lost.

  ‘I’ll match your shillings, Mud. Then you can go home.’ The servant held out an open palm.

  The boy’s nostrils flared. The smell of piss was strong as Tom Pullen’s bitch squatted at the edge of the pit. The boy took it as a good omen and he slapped down his coins then turned, ducking low as he caught sight of his master again.

  The two dogs snapped at one another, sensing the excitement in the crowd. Their owners took places at either end of the ring, setting the animals down on the sand spread on the ground. The bitch clawed at the floor the moment it smelt the other dog. Both animals had fought before and bore the scars of their battles. Harlequin Billy knew what he was about and was opening with two of his best fighters, making sure that his entertainment started well. There would be time enough for the other dogs, and the rigged matches where he would make most of his money. He would hide them in between the real contests when his punters’ blood was fired up, their own animal instincts released as the dogs tore each other apart.

  ‘Let ’em go!’ Harlequin Billy roared the command and the two owners slipped the muzzle guards from the dogs, their fingers moving quickly lest theirs be the first blood spilt that night.

  The crowd erupted, the noise deafening. The dogs charged forward, each enraged by the sight of the other. Their snorts and growls were lost in the cheers and shouts as the crowd bellowed for their chosen animal. In the cramped confines of the cellar, the sound was thunderous, the primeval roar of men sensing blood.

  The two terriers were fast. With teeth bared, they snapped and snarled, their heads ducking low as they danced in front of one another. The bitch dived in first, its back legs powering into a charge. It was met with teeth, the brawler moving quicker and attacking as the bitch twisted away.

  The men bayed as the first blood was torn from the bitch’s side, the spray of claret bright on the sand even in the murky light of the oil lamps. More cheers followed as the dogs tore at one another again. Wagers were offered and taken, the crowd pressing forward, every face contorted.

  The boy bent low, cheering with the rest, his groan at the sight of the bitch’s blood matched by the roar of approval from the servant pressing hard against his side.

  The bitch pulled away. Its fur was matted, its muzzle painted red. The brawler staggered as the two animals parted, shaking its head, blood and drool flung far.

  The crowd howled at the animals, commanding them to fight.

  The bitch was willing and it jumped forward, jaws snapping and teeth bared. The brawler stumbled, its forelegs weakened by its opponent’s bites. Its head dropped and the bitch took its chance.

  Half the crowd groaned, the sound like some great wounded animal, at the sight of the gush of blood surging around the jaws of the bitch as it tore out the brawler’s throat. The rest jeered, their winnings safe, the first of the night’s victories taken.

  The owners were back in the ring. The bitch was pulled away, hands pressing hard around its head as the muzzle was forced back over its jaws. The owner beamed with pride as he raised the blood-smeared animal above his head, punching it into the air in victory.

  The boy cheered with the winners, then turned and pounded his hands at the servant, delight surging through him. The exchange of coins was swift, the servant cursing as he parted with his shillings.

  The owner of the losing dog dragged his animal to the side. The boy turned back in time to see a heavy club punched against the animal’s head, its misery bludgeoned away with the single brutal blow. The boy felt sick, the sudden sight of the cruel end to the dog’s life sticking in his craw. His face burned with shame, the price of the entertainment now soaking into the sand on the floor of the ring.

  He ducked away, refusing to look at the small body tossed without thought into a hemp sack kept ready for the purpose. It was time to leave.

  A hand clamped hard around his collar. He felt his heels leave the floor as his captor lifted him effortlessly and twisted him around, bringing him face to face with his master.

  He could see little of the man’s features. His pork-pie hat was pulled low and a thick scarf covered most of the lower part of his face. But there was no escaping the gleam of rage in his eyes.

  The boy was held helpless. He could do nothing as he was frogmarched through the crowd, his feet barely grazing the floor. The first pain came, his shins banging hard on the steps as he was hauled up and out of the cellar, his ears ringing to the jeers and catcalls of the men who witnessed his fate.

  Sam the door-keep saw him coming. He had the sense to get out of the way as the boy was thrown to the ground at the top of the cellar steps. The first boot came hard and it came fast. It connected with the boy’s midriff, driving the air from his body. He curled around the sudden pain, yet there was no respite. Another kick caught him on the arm, the blow strong enough to drive all feeling from the limb. He cried out then, the pain coming on strong. He was helpless and unable to resist when his master bent low and hauled him upright.

  The big man’s face pressed close. The boy felt the wash of his breath, the smell catching in his throat. He tried to meet his master’s eyes, but the stare was too hard and he looked away, fear bubbling deep in his gut.

  ‘You shouldn’t be here.’ The words came out as little more than a grunt. The boy was dropped. He barely had time to find his balance before the fist connected with his face and he fell like a sack of horseshit, his body thumping heavily to the ground. Pain surged through him in a single great wave, the rush of blood hot and sticky on his face.

  The cudgel came out swiftly. The boy had barely noticed its arrival in his master’s hands before it came for him. He could do nothing as the big man bent low and swung it in half a dozen short, sharp b
lows that hammered into his chest and arms. Mercifully, his assailant pulled away after the last swing of the weapon, the beating quick and brutally effective.

  The boy lay still, sobbing against the pain.

  ‘Go home.’ The command was curt, his master’s breath rasping with the effort of the beating.

  The boy scrabbled to his feet, his clothes filthy from the muck on the ground, mixed with the blood that poured from his face. He staggered upright, forcing himself to stand, to show that he could take the beating.

  His master was gone, returning to the dog fight in the cellar. The boy stumbled, struggling to stay on his feet. He heard laughter and turned his head, wincing at the pain.

  Sam the door-keep emerged from his hiding place in the shadows. ‘You bloody fool. You had that coming.’

  The boy turned away, showing his back to the baying youth.

  ‘That’s it. Run home to your ma. That’s all you are, Jack Lark. A fucking mummy’s boy.’

  Jack ignored the insults. He concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other, forcing his battered flesh to obey. His hand slipped into his pocket, checking the precious coins were still there. His fingers touched the metal and he smiled. He had paid a hefty price, but he had his rhino. He reckoned it had just about been worth it.

  ‘You look pleased with yourself considering you’ve got one hell of a shiner.’

  Jack grinned as he sauntered into the empty gin palace. It was past closing, and even the slowest of the drinkers who frequented the place had been thrown out into the darkness.

  ‘It’s nothing, Ma.’ He could not wipe away the smile that was plastered across his face. Some of the pain had faded on the walk home, and he felt the need to show his ma that he was still the same old Jack. It would hurt him more to let her know that her old man had snuffed out his spirit.

  ‘Did he give it you?’ Jack’s mother did not miss a trick. ‘Did he catch you?’

  ‘Ain’t no man alive that can catch me, Ma.’