Jack Lark: Rogue

by Paul Fraser Collard

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

Rogue by Paul Fraser Collard recounts the early life of roguish hero Jack Lark - dubbed 'Sharpe meets the Talented Mr Ripley'- who will one day become The Scarlet Thief. This series is a must-read for fans of Bernard Cornwell and Simon Scarrow. 'An appealing and formidable hero' - Sunday Express 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?

Release date: December 4, 2014

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 128

Sample

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 that 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 . . .