Terry Pratchett - Dodger

Contents

About the Book

Dodger is a tosher a sewer scavenger
living in the squalor of Dickensian London.

Everyone who is nobody knows him.
Anyone who is anybody doesnt.

He used to know his future; it involved a lot of
brick-lined tunnels and plenty of filth.
But when he rescues a young girl from a beating,
things start to get really messy.

Now everyone who is anyone
wants to get their hands on Dodger.

About the Author

Terry Pratchett is the acclaimed creator of the global bestselling Discworld series, the first of which, The Colour of Magic, was published in 1983. His novels have been widely adapted for stage and screen, and he is the winner of multiple prizes, including the Carnegie Medal, as well as being awarded a knighthood for services to literature. Worldwide sales of his books now stand at 70 million, and they have been translated into thirty-seven languages.

For more information about Terry Pratchett and his books, please visit www.terrypratchett.co.uk

To Henry Mayhew for writing his book,

and to Lyn for absolutely

everything else

CHAPTER 1

In which we meet our hero, and the hero meets an orphan of the storm and comes face to face with Mister Charlie, a gentleman known as a bit of a scribbler

THE RAIN POURED down on London so hard that it seemed that it was dancing spray, every raindrop contending with its fellow for supremacy in the air and waiting to splash down. It was a deluge. The drains and sewers were overflowing, throwing up regurgitating, as it were the debris of muck, slime and filth, the dead dogs, the dead rats, cats and worse; bringing back up to the world of men all those things that they thought they had left behind them; jostling and gurgling and hurrying towards the overflowing and always hospitable river Thames; bursting its banks, bubbling and churning like some nameless soup boiling in a dreadful cauldron; the river itself gasping like a dying fish. But those in the know always said about the London rain that, try as it might, it would never, ever clean that noisome city, because all it did was show you another layer of dirt. And on this dirty night there were appropriately dirty deeds that not even the rain could wash away.

A fancy two-horse coach wallowed its way along the street, some piece of metal stuck near an axle causing it to be heralded by a scream. And indeed there was a scream, a human scream this time, as the coach door was flung open and a figure tumbled out into the gushing gutter, which tonight was doing the job of a fountain. Two other figures sprang from the coach, cursing in language that was as colourful as the night was dark and even dirtier. In the downpour, fitfully lit by the lightning, the first figure tried to escape but tripped, fell and was leaped upon, with a cry that was hardly to be heard in all the racket, but which was almost supernaturally counterpointed by the grinding of iron, as a drain cover nearby was pushed open to reveal a struggling and skinny young man who moved with the speed of a snake.

You let that girl alone! he shouted.

There was a curse in the dark and one of the assailants fell backwards with his legs kicked from under him. The youth was no heavyweight but somehow he was everywhere, throwing blows blows which were augmented by a pair of brass knuckles, always a helpmeet for the outnumbered. Outnumbered one to two as it were, the assailants took to their heels while the youth followed, raining blows. But it was London and it was raining and it was dark, and they were dodging into alleys and side streets, frantically trying to catch up with their coach, so that he lost them, and the apparition from the depths of the sewers turned round and headed back to the stricken girl at greyhound speed.

He knelt down, and to his surprise she grabbed him by the collar and whispered in what he considered to be foreigner English, They want to take me back, please help me... The lad sprang to his feet, his eyes all suspicion.

On this stormy night of stormy nights, it was opportune then that two men who themselves knew something about the dirt of London were walking, or rather, wading, along this street, hurrying home with hats pulled down which was a nice try, but simply didnt work, because in this torrent it seemed that the bouncing water was coming as much from below as it was from above. Lightning struck again, and one of them said, Is that someone lying in the gutter there? The lightning presumably heard, because it sliced down again and revealed a shape, a mound a person, as far as these men could see.

Good heavens, Charlie, its a girl! Soaked to the skin and thrown into the gutter, I imagine, said one of them. Come on...

Hey, you, what are you a-doing, mister?!

By the light of a pub window which could barely show you the darkness, the aforesaid Charlie and his friend saw the face of a boy who looked like a young lad no more than seventeen years old but who seemed to have the voice of a man. A man, moreover, who was prepared to take on both of them, to the death. Anger steamed off him in the rain and he wielded a long piece of metal. He carried on, I know your sort, oh yes I do! Coming down here chasing the skirt, making a mockery of decent girls. Blimey! Desperate, werent you, to be out on a night such as this!

The man who wasnt called Charlie straightened up. Now see here, you. I object most strongly to your wretched allegation. We are respectable gentlemen who, I might add, work quite hard to better the fortunes of such poor wretched girls and, indeed, by the look of it, those such as yourself!

The scream of rage from the boy was sufficiently loud that the doors of the nearby pub swung open, causing smoky orange light to illuminate the ever-present rain. So thats what you call it, is it, you smarmy old gits!

The boy swung his home-made weapon but the man called Charlie caught it and dropped it behind him, then grabbed the boy and held him by the scruff of his neck. Mister Mayhew and myself are decent citizens, young man, and as such we surely feel it is our duty to take this young lady somewhere away from harm. Over his shoulder he said, Your place is closest, Henry. Do you think your wife would object to receiving a needy soul for one night? I wouldnt like to see a dog out on a night such as this.

Henry, now clutching the young woman, nodded. Do you mean two dogs, by any chance?

The struggling boy took immediate offence at this, and with a snake-like movement was out of the grip of Charlie, and once again spoiling for a fight. I aint no dog, you nobby sticks, nor aint she! We have our pride, you know. I make my own way, I does, all kosher, straight up!

The man called Charlie lifted the boy up by the scruff of his neck so that they were face to face. My, I admire your attitude, young man, but not your common sense! he said quietly. And mark you, this young lady is in a bad way. Surely you can see that. My friends house is not too far away from here, and since you have set yourself up as her champion and protector, why then, I invite you to follow us there and witness that she will have the very best of treatment that we can afford, do you hear me? What is your name, mister? And before you tell it to me, I invite you to believe that you are not the only person who cares about a young lady in dire trouble on this dreadful night. So, my boy, what is your name?

The boy must have picked up a tone in Charlies voice, because he said, Im Dodger thats what they call me, on account Im never there, if you see what I mean? Everybody in all the boroughs knows Dodger.