Thorns And Roses

Chapter Thirty Two

The first night out on the streets was the beginning of hell for Sweeney.

On the second night, the cold became unbearable and all Sweeney could do was muster what little dignity he had left to crawl back to the pie shop and plead to be let back in. He felt like a desperate little street rat or a common beggar. But he simply needed to go back, he didn't have an ounce of money on him and his clothes were beginning to smell.

He approached the shop cautiously from across the street, the rainy London night cloaking him in shadow as he observed the light of an oil lamp through the frosted glass of one of the pie shop windows. As he drew closer he became aware that Nellie was sitting at one of the booths, her head in her hands and the orange glow of the lamp illuminating her tired face.

When he reached five feet of the shop, he knew she'd caught his eye by the way she recoiled back from the window. He approached the glass and pressed a wet hand against it, wishing for a moment that the barrier was not in place so he could reach through and touch her.

"Nellie." He shivered, the rain pouring from the gutter above the shop soaking his feet.

She came out of her state of shock and stood from the booth. For a moment his heart soared that she might actually open the shop door and let him in but instead, she moved to pull the thin curtain across the window to hide him from her view, her lip quivering but her eyes cold like two dark pebbles.

"Nellie please!" He begged for the first time in his life.

The light of the oil lamp moved behind the curtain and he watched with despair as it disappeared out of the shop and into the parlour away from him. Sweeney closed his eyes and lay his head against the window. He had expected a cold reception, but he did not think that she would leave him outside to rot. Couldn't she see he was freezing and on the streets? Had he really taken any ounce of kindness away from her?

He pictured her eyes beneath his lids. He'd only ever seen her eyes filled with life and playfulness, now they were detached and harsh. He'd sucked the warmth out of them.

Admitting defeat he ascended the stairs to his shop and tried the door but was unsurprised to find it locked too. Soon enough he was wandering London again, searching for somewhere to sleep. At the east end he managed to find an inn serving customers drinks, he deposited himself by the fire and rested there until it was closing, then he slept in the alleyways once more.

The hunger was crushingly painful by day three.

He hadn't remembered feeling this hungry in his life. Not even in prison had he gone this long without a scrap of anything. How to stop hunger was the number one obsession in Botany Bay. He saw things that were still burned into his brain. Men ate things that weren't even food, not caring if it killed them, only that it ended the gnawing pain. There was something about hunger that robbed the spirit as well as the body, as if in such a state the mind is incapable of feeling joy at all. In the throes of severe hunger, all emotions that could hinder the person's ability to fight and be selfish were switched off. That was how he'd felt when he'd gone to the shop, that was how he felt now.

The water he drank was foul bilge water from the gutters and puddles of the cobbles and by day four he was beginning to get sick with fever. He worried he'd caught something but he pressed on through the alleyways and began searching bins and shops where any leftovers may have been thrown.

On approaching the south end, he found a small restaurant where some of the rich folks liked to dine. At the back of the building, some of the staff had been throwing out scraps to the stray cats and dogs. Seizing his chance he managed to salvage some pieces of meat and a few crusts of bread.