Prologue

When we finally brung the Twist boy in off the streets it was nearing midnight and Charlie, drunk himself to uselessness, were no help in dragging the shoddy little thing upstairs. I'd come across it on my way to the Red Pony--on first sight he might have been dead--a lad maybe Charlie's age but half his height, with a shock of yellow hair that covered up his face. He was curled against the gutter, asleep.

"Hullo," I says, and then "Hullo," again, because I've just realized it's not asleep at all; I can hear it making sounds like it's muttering to itself. Lost, maybe, or drunk. Or loony. I give it a sound kick. "Hullo!"

A whimper like it's been crying. I soften up a bit, though I don't let on. Then, Ah, I suppose, what harm would it do?

"Hullo, my covey," I says, easier this time, and I perch on the gutter beside it. "What's the row?"

I finally see one of its eyes open up, the color of hazelnuts, shot around the edges. "Er--wha?"

"What's the row?"

The boy scrubs at his eyes; there's tears on its face, sweat too. Sort of green-looking, I notice. And before I can so much as blink an eye it's got its face on the cobbles, whole body heaving and gagging fit to wake the dead. Coughs up what seems like the whole capacity of its stomach, 'til finally it's empty and nearly falls face-forward in the whole bloody mess. I grab hold of its collar and drag him upright.

"I--I don't quite know where I am," says he, blinking those pink-rimmed eyes, and I wonder if it's about to lapse into another fit. Stays quiet, though.

"First tot o' gin, eh?" I says, smiling big. "Don't worry, I know the feeling. T'will pass once you've got accustomed."

But the boy is shaking his head, slowly and sickly, hair flapping in its face again. "I don't...think..."

Nodding, the pink eyes close and he collapses a bit, leaning into the folds of my coat.

"Now, see here--" I give it a shove, but he's dead cold. I check my pockets once or twice, anyway--no harm in being safe. Fagin'll have my hide for his handkerchiefs if I don't turn out a tidy sum tonight. I may be the favorite, but one has to stay on top of things.

Everything's still there. I sigh heavily and wonder what to do with this runt on my lap. It just ain't a fitting sight: me, the artfullest criminal in London, with this little sewer rat--a stray from the workhouse, maybe--all cozied up in my coat. I glance shiftily down the street. There's no one about, fortunately. But I can't sit here much longer.

I slip my hand into the rumpled vest pocket underneath his curled arm. Empty. I try his other pockets, too, only to come up dry. Poor sot's drunk himself to destitution, I says to myself, and not yet ten years old.

"Come on, now," I call, trying to rouse him. "No good lying here. You're liable to fall down the drain."

I stand up and pull him to his feet, an easier task than I would have supposed. Little thing is lighter than a penny.

He makes a groan like he's about to dispose of his insides again.

"None of that," I warn, hoisting him up straight. "The only thing's gonna cure a bite like that is the hair of the dog. Why don't you come with me? Me an' my associate was headed to the Pony for a few drops, anyway." I can't think to leave him lying there. Maybe Charlie will have a better idea of what to do with it.

"I...uh...ugh."

That's enough of a nod for me. "Come along, then. We ain't a minute's walk away."

I'm lying a bit, of course, but the Pony isn't considerable far. Along the way the little blighter is stumbling fit to trip me, and he leans into my coat so much it makes me jumpy. I have to hold him up so he stays in the right direction, but I keep a hand in my pocket all the same.

By the time we reach the Pony Charlie's already emptied his mug, and he finds the boy to be quite a funny sight.

"Where'd you catch the little bugger, Dodge?" he giggles, ale spewing out the side of his mouth.

"Fished 'im out o' the sewer." I plop down across the table from Charlie, letting the boy finally sink down beside me. "Give me your mug, Charlie. I daresay you don't need it."

"Say, what now? Give it here!" Charlie reaches out a frantic waving hand, but I've already got the mug and I'm holding it to the boy's lips.

"Here, have a bit o' this." The lad groans into the cup while I try to administer the last few drops of Charlie's ale to his closed mouth. After a moment he swallows and starts coughing up a racket. Charlie whoops with laughter.

"Can't hold a mouthful of it!" he hollers, already much too loud, even for Charlie. "You've got to bring this one back to Fagin, Dodge! 'E's a gem!"

I give my head a jerk to keep my hat from falling over my eyes. It's a twitch that comes on when I'm nervous. The boy's coughing is much too hard. I smack him on the back a couple of times.

"There, don't fight it so..."

For a second I glimpse the reddened eyes glancing up at me through a film of tears, the yellow hair nearly obscuring the round face, and a line of red stuff creeping down the boy's chin. And then I know that something's wrong.

Charlie's laughter is uproarious, so loud that I can barely hear the wheezing breaths beside me.

"Charlie, shut up and give me a hand. Something's wrong with him."

"You think I'm about to touch the rat?" He's still giggling a bit, though his eyes are wide. "What if it's catching?"

"I'm taking him to Fagin's. Come on and get the door for me, at least."

By this time I'm headed out of the tavern with the boy draped over my arm, and Charlie goes ahead of us, making the way clear, though he's still tipsy and utterly worthless when it comes to manpower. We manage, somehow. All the while clouds are gathering in the dark gray skies, and before long thunder grumbles, and the rain begins to splatter on the cobblestone streets. We're soaked through in minutes.

The boy is shivering as he leans into my coat, his dripping wet hair now a pale brown color, and the traces of blood running pink out of his mouth. I take off my oversized hat, something I rarely do, and set it on the boy's head, pulling the brim down over his eyes. I can feel the rain drenching my thick brown hair and rolling down the back of my neck.

"On your way to London, were you?" I ask loudly over the noise of the rain. The boy's head is drooping and I've got to keep him awake.

"Y--yes..." Barely audible.

"Don't suppose you've got any lodgings, 'sides the gutter?"

A shake of his head.

"Money?" I already know this one. Another shake. He's starting to lag; his legs are getting stiff.

"Suppose you'd like a nice bed to sleep in tonight, eh?" I ask. "With a roof over your head and a warm fire?"

A more vigorous nod this time. "Yes...please."

"Well, you're in luck, my lad. It just so happens that I know a respectable gentleman what will give you lodgings for no price at all." I glance up at the driving rain, the sky growing darker and darker. "All you have to do is leave it up to me an' your friend Charlie to introduce you."

Charlie, increasingly unaware of his surroundings, is at the moment trying to walk through a brick wall.

"Charlie! You great useless dolt! Keep your wits and get us home!"

I look down at the boy again. His pace has quickened somewhat and he's wiping the blood from his mouth.

"What's your name, friend?" I ask.

He gazes up for a moment as though he's never been called that by another living soul. "Oliver," he says. "Oliver Twist."

Another pang of nervousness goes through my body when I hear the name. But I give him a lopsided smile and cheerily offer him my free hand to shake.

"My name is Jack Dawkins," says I, "but among my closest friends I'm known as the Artful Dodger." I wink briskly. "And you, too, if you like."

The boy called Oliver smiles back, weak but full of gratitude. As the rain drums loudly on the rooftops and doorsteps around us--three small, dark shadows in the alleys and tunnels and the backsides of buildings--we finally come to the leaning house on Field Lane, and all three stumble into the front passageway, dripping and shuddering with cold. By this time it's late and the boy called Oliver is faint, leaning almost full weight on my shoulder. I give a loud whistle, and, not waiting for a reply, I start up the creaking staircase, shoving Charlie aside.

"Hey! Now, then!" comes a voice from under the stairs.

"Plummy and slam!" I holler back.

"'Oo's that? I see three of you."

"A new pal. Oliver Twist." I turn to face the man with the candle, holding Oliver as much upright as I can. I'm practically dragging him now. "Where's Fagin?" I ask.

"'E's upstairs, sortin' the wipes. Up with you, then!"

Charlie staggers after us, and I'm finally forced to lift the boy off the ground completely, carrying him the rest of the way up the old staircase. The door swings open at the back room and I let him slide to the floor, shaking the rain from my hair.

"Fagin," I say, exhausted, "I need help."

A brief disclaimer: As you've probably noticed, this is a story set in Charles Dickens' novel Oliver Twist, from the viewpoint of the character Jack Dawkins. I don't intend to breach any copyright laws so I'll go ahead and tell you what you already know: I don't own any of these characters or the story they belong to. This is an entirely separate story from the one that Dickens wrote, although I will make use of his settings and character names. I also will apologize in advance for the poor colloquialisms and such. I am an American and have never so much as set foot in London, so I'm not well versed in the speech patterns or the land itself. All the same I hope you enjoy the story.