Free Perry Scrimshaw's Rite of Passage by Chris Hannon Page B

and eggs eaten, he had the strength to stand. In
the hallway, he found a black mound of old coats hanging from a
peg. He unhooked it and the pile collapsed to the ground, landing
with a whoomph, kicking up soot and dust, making him cough. The outer layers
were brittle and disintegrated easily, but in the core, he found
something familiar and unscathed by the fire, protected by the
outer coats that hung over it.
    It was one of Mrs Donnegan’s
cardigans, dark blue and woollen. He remembered she used to wear it
sometimes when she did her knitting in the kitchen of a morning,
thread wheels sagging her pockets down. He sniffed the musty thing
and slipped his arms through the holes. It felt warm and snug
around him.
    What was left of the front door
hung open and Perry fell out into the street.
    ‘ Look Mum!’ a
boy was pointing at him. A woman was leading a horse a little
further down the street.
    ‘ What day is
it?’ Perry asked him.
    ‘ What you
say?’
    Perry realised his voice came
out in a croak.
    ‘ What day is
it?’ he managed, a little louder.
    The mother stopped and took
Perry in.
    ‘ Simon! Get
away from him!’ she cried. ‘Simon, quick, come ‘ere! Now!’ she
beckoned her son over, but the boy was looking at Perry like he was
some freak unloaded at the docks for the London shows.
    ‘ It’s
Saturday,’ the boy said.
    Of course it was, Perry
thought, the boy wasn’t at school and the horse was laden. It must
be market day. He had been gone for six days.
     
    In the Ward he stopped at the
bakery.
    ‘ Spare some
grub miss?’
    ‘ Get out of it!
You lot think we’re-’ she trailed off when she saw him.
    ‘ Flamin’ heck,
here take this,’ she threw him a cob.
    Perry caught it and sunk his
teeth in. With each bite, a smidgen of life returned to him. It
seemed like he’d beaten The Sick, but he was too weary to feel any
joy.
    Perry staggered through the
Ward to Ma’s alley. He leant on the wall for support and banged
twice.
    Joel opened, ‘Perry! I thought
you was dead,’ his voice was strained.
    They threw their arms around
one another.
    ‘ So did
I.’
     

9
     
    A week later and Perry was
nearly back to full strength. While he had been recovering, things
with Ma had deteriorated considerably. Joel had failed to bring her
a punter for five days running. Their value to Ma was dwindling by
the hour. A miserable wretch of a woman she most certainly was, but
she was all that stood between them and a life on the street.
    It was early evening, Joel was
out and Perry was resting in his room. Ma had taken to occupying
the kitchen and was singing old sailor songs. She had no sweet
voice, but Perry guessed it might keep the rats away. A few minutes
later he heard snoring and took it as his cue to see if there was
any food to swipe. Ma’s forehead was planted squarely on the
kitchen table, an empty bottle of gin in her lap. Her wiry bunch of
hair rose and fell with irregular snores. He felt a pang of sorrow
for her. Any future he could imagine for her was only an ugly
one.
    The Ward was full of more of
the same; the man with boils on his face who pushed the cabbage
cart down French Street or the shoeless urchins of Blue Anchor
Lane. Ma, Joel and him…their ugly futures were all intertwining,
infecting one another, spreading like The Sick. The sooner he could
untie his fortunes with this place, the better. He had survived The
Sick, been given the chance to make something of himself and he
intended to take it.
    ‘ Cursed
boy!’
    He jumped. Bloodshot eyes took
him in. She tipped the bottle and a few drops landed on her tongue.
She shook the bottle like it might magic up some more.
    ‘ Useless, the
pair of you!’ she pointed a shaky finger at him. ‘If you’re not
bringing me punters what use are you?’
    Perry didn’t know what to say,
he supposed she was right, but his silence only made her
angrier.
    ‘ And you! I
take you in and look after you and what do I get? An empty bottle
of gin!’ She gazed