William Monk 17 - Acceptable Loss

CHAPTER
1
    H ESTER WAS HALF-ASLEEP when she heard the slight sound, as if someone were taking in a sharp breath and then letting out a soft, desperate gasp. Monk was motionless beside her, his hand loose on the pillow, his hair falling over his face.
    It was not the first time in the last two weeks that Hester had heard Scuff crying in the night. It was a delicate relationship she had with the boy she and Monk had befriended. He had lived on the streets by the river and had largely provided for himself, which had made him wise beyond his age, and fiercely independent. He considered he was looking after Monk, who in Scuff’s opinion lacked the knowledge and the fierce survival instincts required for his job as head of the Thames River Police at Wapping, in the heart of the London docks.
    Until last month Scuff had come and gone as he’d pleased, spending only the occasional night at Monk’s house in Paradise Place. However, since his kidnapping, and the atrocity on the boat at ExecutionDock, he had come to live with them, going out only for short periods during the day, and tossing and turning at night, plagued by nightmares. He would not talk about them, and his pride would not let him admit to Hester that he was frightened of the dark, of closed doors, and, above all, of sleep.
    Of course she knew why. Once the tight control he kept over himself in his waking hours slipped from him, he was back on the boat again, curled up on his side beneath the trapdoor to the bilges, nailed in with the half-rotted corpse of the missing boy, fighting the swirling water and the rats, the stench of it making him gag.
    In his nightmares it did not seem to matter that he was now free, or that Jericho Phillips was dead; Scuff had seen the man’s body himself, imprisoned in the iron cage in the river, his mouth gaping open as the rising tide trapped him, choking off his voice forever.
    Hester heard the gasping sound again, and slipped out of bed. She pulled on a wrap, not so much for warmth in the late September night, but for modesty so as not to embarrass Scuff if he was awake. She crept across the room and along the passage. His bedroom door was open just wide enough for him to pass through. The gas lamp was on low, maintaining the fiction that she had forgotten and left it on, as she did every night. Neither of them ever mentioned this.
    Scuff was lying tangled in the sheets, the blankets slipped halfway to the floor. He was curled up in just the same position as they had found him in when she and the rat-catcher, Sutton, had pried open the trapdoor.
    Without debating with herself anymore, Hester went into the room and picked up the blankets, placing them over him and tucking them in lightly. Then she stood watching him. He whimpered again, and pulled at the sheet as if he were cold. She could see in the faint glow of the gaslight that he was still dreaming. His face was tight, eyes closed hard, jaw so clenched he must have been grinding his teeth. Every now and again his body moved, his hands coming up as if to reach for something.
    How could she wake him without robbing him of his pride? He would never forgive her for treating him like a child. And yet his cheeks were smooth, his neck so slender and his shoulders so narrowthat there was nothing of the man in him yet. He said he was eleven, but he looked about nine.
    What lie would he not see through? She could not waken him without tacitly admitting that she had heard him crying in his dream. She turned and walked back to the door and went a little way along the passage. Then a better idea came to her. She tiptoed downstairs to the kitchen and poured a glass of milk. Then she took four cookies and put them on a plate. She went back upstairs, careful not to trip over her nightgown. Just before she reached his room, she deliberately banged the door of the linen cupboard. She knew it might waken Monk as well, but that could not be helped.
    When she reached Scuff’s room, he was lying in bed with the blankets up to his chin, fingers gripping them, eyes wide open.
    “You awake too?” she said, as if mildly surprised. “So am I. I’ve got some milk and cookies. Would you like half?” She held up the plate.
    He nodded. He could see there was only one glass, but the milk did not matter. It was the chance to be awake and not alone that he wanted.
    She came in, leaving the door ajar, and sat on the edge of the bed. She put the glass on the table beside him and the plate on the