Lucky Socks

The urchin trailed his prey, deftly dodging behind pillars and stallholders as they made their way through Bayswater. The man looked well off, and the urchin knew that in his pocket somewhere would be something shiny, something that meant he could eat tonight, maybe even tomorrow, sleep somewhere warm, and maybe even placate the Scotsman.

He didn’t know how old he was, he existed day to day, from one scrap of food to the next, as long as he pinched without getting pinched, and paid the Scotsman out of what he could steal he would get by. His trousers were clean, of a sort, they were new to him today, along with some threadbare socks, now pointless as the drizzle soaked up through his holed boots. Despite the grey sky, road, and pavement, he felt good today, he had already pinched a metal cylinder, covered in a fine pattern, green, inlaid with flecks of red, he thought it might be a fine pen, and the Scotsman would reward him well for it, some food, perhaps a shirt, perhaps a blanket. Nevertheless, had he had a home; he was a long way from it.

He had trailed the prey since Hyde park, it wore a heavy coat and well- made hat, and walked with an off-white cane. It looked old, and affluent. Had he had a conscience; the urchin would think that the prey could afford to miss whatever he took from him.

The early signs of rain had sent people scurrying from the park, and now the streets were busy. Boys about the same age yelled about News, selling their papers, the mongers sold their oranges and flowers. The urchin bobbed between them never losing sight of the prey, and like a ritual, checked that the cylinder was still inside his rough jacket every few paces. He focussed, ignoring the background noise, looking for the chance to lift the old mans watch from his pocket. The news never related to the urchin anyway, that was for other people, rich people like these.

The urchin did not like to spend too long in the west of the city, there were more coppers and more toffs, the air and floor were cleaner, and it made him feel uncomfortable. Now he moved with the city’s rhythm, perpetually unnoticed and anonymous, as they both reached the throng outside Bayswater station, new and under ground, the urchin did not like the idea of being below ground, but the crowd might give him the cover he needed, so he closed in on his prey.

The conjuror was tired, but not as old as he must have appeared to the outside, after a stroll in the park he planned to visit his club near Tottenham Court and he had ordered roast beef for his Dinner. He had returned to England last year, and the weather this February morning had made him question why he had bothered. He had spent time in the East in Monsoon seasons, and on board ships while tornadoes whipped around, but this fine wall of water, this ‘Drych’ as his father had called it, seemed unique to Britain, and it was distinctly unpleasant.

He was well travelled indeed, but still marvelled at the London Underground, it was noisome, but to the conjuror it was futuristic and exciting. He descended the steps, and hoped the boy would follow.

He had been aware of the boy whilst sat in the park, he was sat smoking on the bench exchanging pleasantries with passers-by when he first noticed him. On the bench opposite was a young couple, and behind them, amongst the bushes and trees had been the boy. His dirty hair had stained his jacket collar, unsurprisingly the jacket was at least two sizes too small to have been comfortable, the conjuror had pulled a coin from his pocket at that point, anticipating a story and a request for help. But interestingly it had not come like that. The boy had some independence about him, he could not have been over ten, and the conjuror had watched, bemused, as the child’s nimble fingers had taken something from the young man’s pocket. Not too difficult, he thought, as the young man as smitten, and barely noticing his surroundings.

Relying on his ivory cane, the conjuror had felt the rain in the wind, rose and started to walk towards the exit. His watch chain had glistened in what sunlight there was, and the Conjuror knew that the boy would follow. Stopping at the gate to bid good morning to some acquaintances he had been unable to see the boy, but he was there, it was inevitable.

Leaning heavily on his stick he crossed between the carts and horses, avoiding the dung in the road and passed the fruit stall and newspaper boys on his way to the station, he stopped again, bought a paper, with no intention of reading its scurrilous pages, merely to check that he was being followed. He was, and he smiled.

The urchin paid his penny to follow the white cane man through the turnstile. It was an investment he hoped would be worthwhile. At the corner there was a bottle neck, and as the people pressed together, he made his move. Best not to tarry, there were few exits, and everyone around knew that he, and his odd boots and unwashed face had no business up west.

The Conjuror smiled again, the boy was there, he could smell him, he reached down, jostled somewhat by the crowd and sensed his watch chain moving, without looking he knew that the boy was there. He stroked the back of the boys hand as he felt the weight of his shiny gold watch being taken, the briefest of caress, and he uttered an old incantation, older than London itself, that he had studied many years before on the East bank of the Nile.

That was uncomfortable...

The urchin felt strange straightaway, tucked into his sleeve now he had a gold watch, its weight an indicator of its value, this would be his way out, this, he might not even share with the Scotsman, this may be his escape, but to where? He had felt something, like someone had touched his hand as he stole the watch, and he had heard something, that no one else seemed to, a guttural sibilance is what he heard, but to the boy it sounded like snakes, in his ears. He had been transfixed by pictures of snakes at the Bible class he was once made to attend to claim the soup and bread that came afterwards, and serpents had filled his imagination ever since.

The Urchin peeled away, unsure of how he felt, left the crowd, and ascended the stairs into the daylight once more. One of the railway workers cuffed his ear and sent him on his way, and within minutes he was breathless, and back in the park. He ran all the way back to the bushes, and sat, unseen.

The Conjuror reached into his pocket, checked his actual watch, and boarded the train, would not do to be late for Roast Beef.

The Urchin’s hands were shaking as he looked down at his prizes, First, a heavy Green fountain Pen, from the young couple in the park, worth money he thought. Then he reached into his pocket, and drew out the watch with the long chain, he felt its ticking, its rhythm, like it had a life of its own. He didn’t feel well.

Turning his hand over to examine his booty, the urchin blinked, before him was not a watch after all, now, coiled around his wrist and sat on his palm was an asp, a hideous snake, not huge, but big enough, unable to utter a sound the boy whimpered as the snake bit his wrist then slithered off into the tall grass.

There was a quick sharp pain, the urchin stood up, not comprehending. And immediately sat down again, he understood that if he called for help, that no one would come. He blinked again, slowly, and when he opened his eyes he felt sick, he stood again, stumbled behind the bush, his mouth dry and his head pounding, silently he fell to the ground, and his eyes never closed again. His fingers released the cylinder and it rolled under the undergrowth, he clawed at his shirt button, unable to breathe.

Under the bush here there was no rain, the boy looked up and into nothingness, his tongue swollen and black. It was days before his body was found.