William Monk 16 - Execution Dock

letting him skip to keep up. “For knowledge and brains, not for fighting, and this could become very unpleasant. If I have to get out very quickly, I don't want to have to stop to make sure you are all right. Have you ever heard the expression, ‘hostage to fortune’?”
    “No, I in't,” Scuff said dubiously, but there was a spark of hope in his eyes.
    “It means caring enough about something that you can't afford to lose it, so people can make you do what they want,” Monk explained. “Because you think it's worth a lot, or it's bad that it should be destroyed,” he added, in case Scuff should be embarrassed.
    Scuff turned the idea over in his mind, examining it. “Oh,” he said at last. “So you wouldn't want Phillips ter drown me, take a fr'instance, or cut me throat, like? So you might leave ‘im alone. But if it don't bother yer, yer'd tell ‘im ter get on with it, an’ yer'd nab ‘im?”
    “Something like that,” Monk agreed, thinking that he had made his point rather well.
    “I see.” Scuff nodded very slightly. “Well, if we get someone as is daft enough ter get caught, we'll ‘ave ter make sure it's someone we don't care about … not too much. I s'pose Mrs. Monk is one o’ them‘ostages, in't she? Yer'd let pretty well the devil ‘isself go ter save ‘er, wouldn't yer?”
    There was no way out of the conclusion. “Yes,” he admitted. “That's why she's staying away from Phillips, and the bad places on the river. I'm going there, and—before you argue anymore—you aren't.”
    “Yer can mebbe tell ‘er wot ter do, ‘cause she's a woman,” Scuff observed, stopping, and standing very stiffly, feet slightly apart. “I in't.” He took a deep breath. “An’ you in't me pa. But I'll look after yer, anyway. Where are yer gonna start? I know—wi’ fishin Fig's body out o’ the river. We better get on wi’ it. Don just stand there like yer grow-in’ out o’ the ground.” And without waiting for a reply, he started to walk nonchalantly towards the edge of the embankment and the nearest steps where they might catch a ferry. He did not look back over his shoulder to see if Monk was following him.
    Monk was irritated at being outmaneuvered, and yet underneath the surface, aware that Scuff was also trying to stay with him, without sacrificing his own dignity. He wanted desperately to belong, and he thought his only way was to be of use. What was the risk, really, compared with those he ran every day living on the river edge, cadging his food and shelter by picking up bits of coal or dropped brass screws from the mud when the tide went down?
    He caught up with Scuff. “All right,” he said, mock grudgingly. “You might help me find the lighterman. You're right; that's where I was going to start.”
    “‘Course,” Scuff said casually, as if he did not really care, but he shrugged his shoulders and then walked a little taller, avoiding Monk's eyes. He did not wish to be read, at this particular moment; he was too vulnerable. “We can get a ferry down a bit,” he added. “Find the lightermen ‘avin’ a cup o’ tea, like as not, at this hour.”
    Monk was uncertain whether to thank him. He decided against it; it might sound a little patronizing. “Hope so,” he said instead. “I could do with one too.”
    Scuff grimaced. Monk knew he had great hopes of being given one himself, if he were lucky; possibly even a sandwich. It was unlikely that he had eaten today.
    They took the ferry downstream, as suggested, and asked specificallyafter the lighterman they wanted. It took them more than an hour to find him, because he was already at work, first loading and then getting his lighter out into the traffic. They made some of their inquiries of a group of men standing around a brazier with boiling water, and Monk purchased a mug of tea and a thick slice of bread. He offered the same to Scuff, who thought about it as long as he dared, then said with practiced indifference that he didn't mind if he did. All the while he watched Monk out of the corner of his eye to make sure he did not miss his chance.
    Monk affected not to notice.
    “I already told yer,” the lighterman said wearily. “Yer let the bastard orff! There in't no more I can say!”
    They were sitting on the canvas bales as the flat-bottomed craft made its slow, heavy way downstream towards Greenwich.
    “I know what you said,” Monk assured him. “And all the evidence bears it out. But we didn't ask you what