Mister Creecher by Chris Priestley Page B

for so long before the pain became unbearable.
    Other times he thought about the sweep and the beatings he took at his hands, and the memory filled him with shame and anger.
    But today he thought mostly about Fletcher. The vision of his crushed head flashed with unwelcome vividness into Billy’s imagination. He replayed the events of the night he first met Creecher over and over again, so dreamlike did they seem now.
    Who, or what, was Creecher? Why did he look the way he did? Some wrong had been committed, of that he was certain. But what and to whom? And if he was right and some wrong had been done, was he helping the victim or the perpetrator?
    He thought of Gratz screeching about the Golem and then he thought of Fletcher again. What the hell had he got himself into? He should just walk down to the docks and sign himself up on a ship bound for the Americas and be done with it all.
    But Billy could not let go. He rattled the coins in his pocket. The giant might not be the most enthusiastic of robbers but his presence was better than a pistol – hell, it was better than a canon! One sight of Creecher and the hapless victims were only too eager to hand over their valuables. Billy was already richer than he had ever been.
    And he had a protector. Sticking around the giant had paid off so far. Fletcher might be gone, but his sidekick, Skinner, was still out there somewhere and he wasn’t the kind to let bygones be bygones.
    But then Billy thought of old Wicks, who used to live down by the Fleet Ditch and who had a fearsome bulldog that terrified the living daylights out of everyone who saw it. And then one day the dog had leapt at Wicks and bitten half his face off.
    Frankenstein and Clerval finally emerged and, after a moment, Billy followed in their wake. He had followed many people in his time. It was all part and parcel of being a thief. Just as the wolf or the lion picks a target from the herd, so too does the thief learn to spot a potential victim in the crowd.
    Life as a pickpocket had made Billy a keen observer of people – and he could tell that Frankenstein walked with the hunched gait of a guilty man. But what was the source of that guilt? Was it for something he had done or for something he was about to do? And how did Creecher fit in?
    Whatever it was, it was clear that Clerval knew nothing about it and that Frankenstein had another secret life, hidden from his friend.
    Billy had come to like Clerval over the few days of following him. As guilty and world-weary as Frankenstein seemed, by contrast Clerval seemed carefree and full of life and hope. Billy had been amazed to find that he had noticed things in London that he must have walked past a thousand times and not seen, simply because he was now allowed to share in Clerval’s excitement and enthusiasm for the city.
    But seeing the city through Frankenstein’s eyes was a different matter altogether. As soon as he was apart from Clerval, he had the air of an escaped convict.
    Not far from Charterhouse Square, the two men separated. Billy dropped Clerval and stayed with Frankenstein, keeping far enough back from his quarry to avoid any suspicion, given that Frankenstein turned around frequently as he walked.
    The crowds slowly began to thin and following him became more difficult. But Billy knew these streets by heart and took shortcuts and detours, confident that he would not lose this foreigner on his home turf.
    The more they walked, the more Billy began to wonder where on earth the Swiss was taking them. Indeed, he began to wonder if the man was lost. The area they were entering was a long way from the tourist trail.
    But Frankenstein appeared to know exactly what he was doing, and occasionally took out a piece of paper – a map, Billy supposed – and consulted it, making sure of his bearings before proceeding.
    Frankenstein paused at the intersection of a crossroads and walked diagonally across, so intent on where he was going that he was almost hit by a