Printer's Devil (9780316167826) Read online

  “I’ve been making a poster,” I told Tassie as she cut me some rich pink ham off a waxy joint, “about a Cockburn.”

  “Lovely,” she said, “only what if I was to tell you, Maaster Mog, I ain’t sure as I know what a Cockburn might be.”

  “Cockburn’s a —“ I lowered my voice in case the empty room might be harboring unwanted ears. “Cockburn’s the name of a convict!” I hissed, feeling pleased with myself. “Fellow’s escaped from the New Prison and he’s on the loose. Horrible ugly man! Eyes like — like a rat,” I said, watching a pink little nose push its way into the taproom through a hole near a chair-leg, take one look at Lash, and promptly whisk itself back into the dark again.

  “I’ll know ’im,” said Tassie, “everyone says Tassie’s the best judge of character in Clerkenwell. If he comes into this ‘stablishment he’ll soon know he’s made a mistake.” The flour from the bread she was wrapping up made her sneeze, and a cloud of flour-dust flew up and settled gradually on her polished taps, causing her to swear under her breath and reach for the cloth to wipe them. “What’s he done anyway, to get himself in jail to start with?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, “but he’s Very Dangerous. It says so on the poster. It’s got a picture of his face on, all ugly and mean. Mr. Cramplock reckons he’s murderous.”

  “Well, I hope he don’t murder us,” Tassie said through a mouthful of ham, “or who’ll keep the Doll’s Head noddin’ and the print shop printin’? It’s more work the pair of us do, Maaster Mog, than any other body in this city, and if we was to go there’d be a fair ewe and cry.” She popped another wedge of ham into her mouth.

  “Here, don’t eat our ham,” I told her.

  “‘Taint your ham yet, it’s mine, till you’ve paid for it,” she countered, “and I’ll do what I likes with me own ham, Maaster Mog. I ain’t no thief, Maaster Mog, and you’ll never catch me in the New Prison, not this year nor any other. More likely to be in there yourself afore you’ve growed up, barrel of mischief that you are.” I didn’t feel it was quite fair of her to call me a barrel. Most of the time she was going on about how I was all skin and bone, and how no one could see me when I turned sideways. “Here,” she said, “seen as you’re a growin’ lad, you drink this here and then take some back with you for old Clamprock.”

  “Cramplock,” I corrected her, taking the glass she passed me.

  “Oh, full of argument you are tonight,” she said. “Too big for your little boots, some might say, Maaster Mog. Oh, he’s terrible clever, that printer’s lad. Well he’d better pipe down because there’s plenty cleverer than he is, and if he don’t watch out —“

  I stopped listening to her and lowered my head to the glass, full to the brim with cool frothy ale the color of strong tea. I took a long sip, then licked my lips and opened my eyes wide as the sour aftertaste welled forward over my tongue. I’d sometimes heard men making unkind remarks about Tassie’s ale behind her back, but it always seemed all right to me; and anyone who ever tried to taste the water that came out of the pump in the square, straight from the murky depths of the Fleet, would soon agree that even the poorest ale was a better bet.

  Tassie was wiping her taps vigorously, and still mumbling on, as I put my empty glass back up on the counter.

  “Thank you, Tassie,” I said, and I must have looked suitably humble because she stopped moaning and produced a big parcel she’d made up. “Do you good, that will,” she said. “And I’ve put some bone in there, wrapped up separate, just for Lash. Now, that’s fourpence ha’penny, and don’t go getting murdered on your way back to Clamprock.” I said I wouldn’t, and picked up the tempting brown parcel full of fat slices of bread, good ham, and thick brown bottles of ale. I heard the chink of coins as she tipped my money into a sack under the bar. And Lash and I were out of the door.

  The houses veered into my path and fell back again, as I rounded the wobbly little corners on the way back to the shop. Someone gave a low laugh as I passed by a window, and I took hold of Lash’s collar nervously. The beer I’d drunk so quickly had made me feel a bit unsteady, and the lane looked narrower than usual. Flies buzzed up suddenly from a lump a dog had left on the cobbles, and I had to pull Lash hard to stop him going over to investigate it.

  I was taking Tassie’s advice seriously. Carrying a parcel of food through streets like these could have made me a target for any hungry villain who might be lurking on my route, and there were some who’d think nothing of murdering a child of twelve in return for a decent meal. It was reassuring to have Lash with me but, deep down, I knew there were desperate characters around who wouldn’t have found Lash much of an obstacle to getting what they wanted. I ran the rest of the way to the shop and, with Lash scampering alongside, I could treat it like a game; but I was thankful when we reached the little door crouching in the shadow of the big old priory gate.

  Cramplock was still there, busily working the squeaky press on which he was doing the theatre bills. He looked up as he heard me opening the door. “Ah, Mog,” he said, letting go of the lever and coming towards me rubbing his cheek, “bringer of good things!” I handed him the parcel, which he placed on the table on top of my Cockburn poster. “Ham!” he said, unwrapping the brown paper, “and lots of bread!” He chuckled to himself, wedging some of the ham between two slices of bread. Lash’s muzzle snuffled expectantly up over the edge of the table and Cramplock indulgently slipped him a small slice of ham. “Did you spot any murderers on your journey, eh?” He cackled, thinking he’d made a splendid joke. I didn’t laugh.

  “Mmm,” he said, chewing the bread and ham vigorously, “this handbill’s almost finished. But then …” he swallowed, “I have to go and see someone.” He swallowed some beer from the neck of his bottle, and blinked and coughed several times. “I’d like you to run a quick errand for me,” he said, and took another large bite of bread and ham. “I’ve got a bill for Mister Flethick at Corporation Row,” he mumbled; only it was so muffled by his mouthful of food it came out as “Mff ffrff bngg, mff-tff Flfff-Corff-ffrmmmm.”

  “What?” I said.

  He swallowed, and coughed. Damp pieces of bread sailed out of his mouth and landed on a freshly-inked roller. He closed his eyes, swallowed again, and then opened them in relief as though he’d been afraid he might not survive the effort of swallowing. “Mr. Flethick,” he said again, “at Corporation Row. But before you go —“ he pointed at me with a greasy middle finger “—you can finish those.” And, although he was gesturing down at the ham on the table, I knew he meant the poster which lay beneath it.

  A hundred posters I had to make. After we’d finished eating, I sent Lash back to his basket and set to work. A hundred Cockburns. Every time I pulled a fresh poster out of the press I was shocked by the convict’s face and the stark black legend of his name. The face seemed to get uglier and more muscly every time. The duplicate Cockburns mounted on top of one another on the table.

  The Public is ADVISED that this Man IS VERY

  DANGEROUS!

  The exclamation marks got bigger and blacker. I wiped my brow. The mechanical grind and squeak of my press, and the rustling of the paper I was slipping in and out, were making my head ache. My arm ached too, from pulling the heavy platen down so many times. The air was heavy with ink, and my head was light with beer. I glanced at the window and saw it had grown almost dark outside.

  Mr. Cramplock emerged from the back room where’d he’d been busy with something else. I saw he was reaching for his hat. Some of the printers we knew around here lived in the rooms above their shops, but Cramplock’s was so small there wasn’t room for anyone to live here comfortably, apart from me and Lash in our simple little room above the presses. So Cramplock rented lodgings a few minutes’ walk away. I think he used to have arguments with the landlord quite often, because at around the same time each month he used to get terribly grumpy and babble on about how much profit we had or hadn’t taken.

  “I’m off, Mog,” he said, peering over at the
posters I was piling up. “Looks like you’re doing a good job. Just leave them on the bench and I’ll sort them out in the morning.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Make sure you ink up again before long,” he said, peering some more at my handiwork as he opened the door. “In fact — do it now.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Don’t forget Flethick’s bill.”

  “No,” I said, between gritted teeth.

  “And don’t go out without locking the doors properly.”

  “Are you going, or not?,” I asked him. He opened his mouth, plainly intending to tell me not to be so impertinent; but he was probably so bored of telling me not to be impertinent that on this occasion he decided it wasn’t worth the effort. The door rattled shut behind him.

  I carried on, nearing the hundred. The Cockburns grew higher and higher on their pile, and I was glad to cover up the awful face with a new sheet of paper — except that each new sheet also featured his awful face. Repeat after repeat!

  DANGEROUS!

  I was so impatient for the job to be over, so sick of seeing endless Cockburns, that I was no longer taking care to keep the paper straight. Some of the Cockburns were coming out crooked, though I was so tired I could barely tell the difference any more. On some of the sheets the word “DANGEROUS!” was slipping off the edge of the paper as I shoved them in in my haste. The posters were nearly as big as I was, and in carrying the big heavy sheets of paper over to the bench I was getting my clothes and my face covered in the fresh ink. Cockburns spun around my head, their eyes boring into my brain like woodworm eating through the cover of a book to begin devouring its contents. I started laying the newly printed posters face down so I wouldn’t have to look at them.

  But I’d lost count, and I had to go back to the pile and count how many I’d done, which irritated me. Cramplock would never have made that mistake; he’d always have stacked them in a rack in piles of ten so he could see at a glance how many more were still needed. Instead I had to flip through all the Cockburns, counting how many times that hideous face glared up at me.

  A hundred and six. I’d done too many; but at least it meant some of the most crooked ones could be thrown out. I was so relieved as I began to dismantle the type that I completely forgot about the errand I’d been asked to run until, when I was washing my hands, I noticed the little envelope sitting by the door, marked “Mr. Flethick” in Cramplock’s appalling handwriting. It was a good job Cramplock was a printer, otherwise no one would be able to read a word he wrote. Maybe that was why he’d become one in the first place.

  There was a tiny drop of ale left in the bottom of one of the bottles, and I drained it thankfully before picking up the bill, whistling for Lash, and venturing out into the darkness.

  For some reason I couldn’t resist another glance up at the blackened windows of the big house next door; with my head full of the eyes of convicts, there was something particularly chilling about them tonight. I clutched Lash’s lead and rushed on. The streets were poorly lit, and I wasn’t looking forward to walking past the prison gate, which was very close to where Flethick lived. I kept hearing low whistles in the darkness, and the sound of running feet echoing in the alleyways, and I shivered, thankful that I looked like a boy in baggy clothes and not a rich gentleman in a top hat with a watch on a chain and money to be knifed out of him.

  Flethick lived in a dark court, accessible only through a narrow brick archway which looked from the street like a doorway into oblivion. Tugging at Lash’s lead, I tried to drag him through, but he wouldn’t come. He sat whimpering quietly, looking first at the dark archway and then up at me, refusing to budge. I had no choice: I couldn’t neglect Mr. Cramplock’s errand. So I tied him to a lamppost and, taking a deep breath, I squared up to the forbidding darkness of the archway and plunged through.

  I was surrounded by darkness on all sides. Somewhere close by, a baby cried, and a long way off a church clock struck the half-hour. I was suddenly gripped by panic, by the sensation of being hemmed in by walls. I was on the point of abandoning my mission completely, turning instead to flee back out through the archway; but, as my eyes grew accustomed to the murk of the courtyard, I noticed that in the far corner there was a second-story window which was glowing dully, like the moon sometimes does when it’s covered by a fine cloud. It was the only sign of light and life in any of the buildings which surrounded me; and, mustering up my courage, I headed for the little doorway.

  It was far too dark to read any name on the doorpost; but I pushed the door and it swung open with a dry scrape, to reveal a dim staircase rising immediately in front of me. I thought I could hear low voices from above; and as I got to the top of the stairs I could see the orangey outline of a door with a light shining behind it. Now that I stood at the stairhead, I heard the voices more clearly: deep and sporadic, a broken series of mumbles rather than a conversation.

  I had approached the door, and lifted my hand to knock, when suddenly my nostrils caught an extraordinary smell. For a moment it quite disoriented me. I looked up at the ceiling, down at the stairs, and felt dizzy, as though I were in danger of falling back down the way I had come. I clutched at the banister, or at least where I thought the banister would be. It wasn’t there, and I fell forward against the door, pushing it open and entering the room more suddenly and rudely than I’d intended.

  I tried not to sprawl on the carpet for any longer than necessary, seeing as I’d dimly noticed several men in the room who might want an explanation for my bursting in on them. But as I got to my feet I realized I’d caused only a minor stir.

  I blinked through an orange mist at a room so smoky and ill-lit I could barely see the other side. There were six men. Four of them were half-sitting, half-lying in large chairs, making almost no movement and seeming to see nothing, as though they were stuffed. The other two men were seated on the floor close to where I now stood, and were looking up at me in incomprehension.

  “I’ve, ah — a bill for Mr. Flethick,” I said, trying to sound as businesslike as possible. I coughed. The air was revolting in here.

  “Er — Mr. Flethick?” I said again. There was a silence.

  Then, “I’m Mr. Flethick,” one of the men on the floor said, speaking curiously slowly as though his words had to fight through the murky air to reach me.

  I held out the bill, and as I did so I noticed the long pipe in his hand. He didn’t make any attempt to take the envelope from me. Perhaps he was crippled.

  “Don’t get up,” I said, and crouched down beside him.

  His eyes were glassy and unseeing. Was he blind?

  “Who’s this?” one of the other men in the room murmured — I couldn’t be sure which.

  “Cramplock’s boy, sir,” I said nervously. Mr. Flethick twisted his body around on the floor to look at me better.

  “Cramplock’s boy?” he queried. An expression of amusement crossed his face slowly. “The printer’s devil, eh? Come to drag us down to Hell, I’ll wager.” His hand waved at me, uncoordinated, trying to make contact with my arm. “Siddown, Cramplock’s boy,” he continued in his slurred voice. “Wha’they call you, mmm?”

  “Winter, sir. Mog Winter.”

  “Well, Mog Winter,” he said, and as he turned to me I caught his breath full in my face, “you tell Cramplock …” He seemed to struggle for the words. He paused for a long time, and put the long pipe to his lips. The candles around the room sent the men’s huge shadows shaking up to the ceiling. As I waited for him to speak, I felt dizzy again.

  “You tell Cramplock,” Flethick slurred at length, “I don’t want his bill. Will you tell him that?”

  “But Mr. Cramplock asked me to give you the bill, sir,” I said.

  “So he did, boy, so he did.” Flethick nodded.

  “If I know him aright, sir,” I continued, “I don’t believe he’ll be best pleased if I come back with the bill undelivered.”

  “Well now,” said Flethick, “since you put it that
way. Cramplock not best pleased. That would never do.” The smile that still played over his face was no longer a smile of amusement but had taken on a sinister aspect. I suddenly felt frightened of him. “Give me the bill then,” he said. And, with a deliberate motion of his entire upper body, he took the unopened bill out of my outstretched hand and swung it directly into the nearest candle flame, where it took light and was eaten by fire in seconds. The thin black flakes of what had been the bill fell around the candle, as slowly as the plume of smoke rose into the air.

  Everything about this room was slow My brain felt as if it, too, was gripped in a sinking stillness, like a fly struggling in a beaker of molasses. My eyes were watering and, every time I blinked, the men seemed further away, the four in the chairs having receded so far they were almost out of sight over the horizon.

  I heard an echo and realized I’d been asked a question.

  “What?” I said.

  “Is there anyone outside?” Flethick was asking.

  “I didn’t see no one,” I said, rubbing my eyes.

  “He won’t come here tonight,” another of the men said in a low voice. “It’ll be the three friends for him.”

  “Not good enough, aren’t we?” another growled from the horizon.

  “He’ll bide his time. The three friends ain’t suspicious.”

  “So long as nothing’s amiss.” The man on the far side of the room seemed very concerned that nothing should be amiss. Flethick was sucking on his pipe and watching me, intently — rather too intently, with eyes which seemed to gaze way beyond my physical being and into some other realm. Looking at my ghost, I thought, with a sudden awful shiver.

  “The Sun of Calcutta,” one of the men was chanting softly. “The Sun of Calcutta! What riches!” He began to laugh, but not because of anything funny. Nobody laughed with him, and he made no noise. His body shook, as if it was in pain.