Page 15 of The Ambiguous Enigma of the Hunted Lady
“My ear’s all hurt.” Digby lamented, his face falling. Nash sighed. The poor man was dumb as bricks, but he was loyal, and he was a friend.
None of Nash's thugs had started off as his friends, but it was hard not to form a communal bond when together they habitually committed a variety of crimes and divided the spoils, with a large cut obviously going to Riphook.
“Let's get you back to the warren, shall we?”
“I want to go home,” Digby held his head confused. “I hurt and I am hungry. Two times today I get hurt. I went to pick that man up so he couldn't get to you, but he knocked me out. I wasn't even kicking her. Why when I do good things, I get hurt?”
“I know.” Nash rubbed his back a bit, gesturing him to his feet. “But yesterday you did not get hurt at all.”
“That's true.” Digby managed a gruff smile, the gentle giant that he was.
“Come on, let's get you home, my friend. We'll find you something for that ear.”
The two climbed the rickety steps and emerged into the cool London night. The storm had mainly subsided, and now the breeze blew kindly about the blocks, gently badgering the sealed shutters of the upper floors.
It had become the fair August evening that everyone had hoped for, despite the weather blown in from the coast.
The street was dark – pitch dark – and nestled in the crook of villainous alleyways and questionable establishments. This was Riphook's part of town, and it was kept the way he liked it.
The buildings jagged up several stories and lay upon each other in a particular fashion, creating a ramshackle series of rooftops that wrapped around thousands of skinny chimneys.
As the night was a pleasant one, the thoroughfares of the boroughs were full of an assortment of people. Many were drinking in various states of merriment, and some were drinking among their own despair. Others hustled their bodies or trinkets while boasting loudly of their wares.
Nash led Digby through the wicked maze, giving out the required nods to the correct people when necessary. He was a known figure around those parts and had put the work in to be so. Riphook, gruff and brutal as he was, trusted Nash with a tremendous amount of responsibility.
After a bit of a stroll they arrived at their warren of a home. Down through a grate in the ground and a short jaunt in an old Roman sewer, they came to the abandoned cistern, deep beneath the city earth.
They were greeted by the sight of their little colony of misfit criminals, huddled by a scattering of little fires and random cookware.
“Nash's back,” a boy perked up, and everyone jumped to their feet. They hurried to greet the two newcomers, asking a slew of questions about wealth and food.
“Easy, easy now.” Nash brushed some of the children aside and gave respectful nods to the older members of his gang who were laying about the outer areas of the old cistern. “I ain't got nothin' for ya. Get on.” Nash patted a few of the children on the head and sent them back to their fires.
Nash was exhausted. It had been a hard day. He had failed in his duty to Riphook, and he had taken a bit of a beating in the scuffle.
Nash felt ashamed for how his rage had consumed him, and how he had been intent on killing Leah. He didn't truly want to kill her, he had just gotten carried away as only a violent criminal could.
“Let me see your ear.” Nash beckoned the mammoth over. He cleaned the wound carefully, as well as the new gash made by the flagon, and patched them up with what clean cotton he could find among the chests. “All right then.” He gave Digby two firm raps on his back. Then he stood, stretched his back, and made his way towards his bed.
“You gon' lie down, boss?” Digby asked.
“I'm going to sleep for a day.” Nash grunted back, flopping down on a mess of furs that made up his sleeping area.
“Will you sing that song for us, boss?” Digby asked.
“Yes, sing it Nash.” one of the children added.
“Sing it.” another child echoed.
“Alright, alright.” Nash conceded, kicking his feet up and laying his hands beneath his head. “But then I'm off to sleep.”
Nash cleared his throat a bit, shut his eyes, and began to sing in a surprisingly smooth voice. The tune floated up and bounced around the old Roman stone, filling the chamber with the simple nursery rhyme, sending orphans and crooks off to sleep.
Oranges and lemons, sing the bells of St. Clement's.
You owe me five farthings, sing by the bells of St. Martin's.
When will you pay me, sing the bells at Old Bailey.
