They called him the Tormentor. No one was really sure how the name had been started, but for as long as they could remember he'd been called by that nickname. The older children said they'd heard it from those before them and so no one knew who could claim credit for it, though many tried. The name was rightfully given, though. Out of all the adults, he was the worst. When a child was caught making trouble they would take any punishment without complaint as long as they weren't reported to him.
That was all Win was praying for.
She'd never been religious but the nuns on the street talked about God looking out for his children and Jesus Christ dying for them. She wasn't sure if she was included in those under God's protection, but as Miss Agatha loomed over her, Win didn't even remotely care. All she could do was hope Miss Agatha wouldn't think the punishment required the Tormentor. Hope and pray.
"It really wasn't Win's fault," Louis said, stepping behind Miss Agatha and talking faster than he usually did. The heavy-set woman tapped her rolling pin against her opposite palm and smiled coldly. Win cringed as the woman proudly flashed the gaps between her crooked and yellow teeth. Her gray, stringy, greasy hair had never been released from its small, tight bun and her dress was just a little too tight for a woman of her frame.
"Oh, Louis," she said cruelly. Win shrank back a little. If the employers knew the name of one of their children, it was considered a death sentence. Louis was one of the kids who'd actually seen the Tormentor and felt the sting of his punishments. Not for any particular reason, but trouble seemed to find Louis at every turn. For that reason, most of the orphans had shied away from the boy, knowing they would be better off as far from him and his ideas as they could get. Miss Agatha continued, "I know Win didn't start it. Unfortunately, she finished it, and that is what crosses me the most." Like a flash of lightning, the woman's hand shot out and closed around Win's wrist. She sharply pulled her along toward a dark, looming passageway. "Let's see what Mr. John says about this," she laughed, a harsh sound like rocks scraping together. "You call him the Tormentor. Louis knows he lives up to his name."
Win tried to wiggle out of Miss Agatha's grip, noting the surprisingly strong grip from the fleshy hand and arm. She looked over her shoulder at Louis, who stood helplessly beside the broken dish and spilled food. A crowd began to gather, most of the children younger than Win's eleven years. The older kids who remained at the inn had learned to bow their heads and go about their own business. Miss Jane barked at them to go about their work and ordered Louis to clean up the mess. He stood tall and defiant for a moment than sighed and ducked to pick up the pieces. A new woman, a younger one named Ashley, talked softly as she started to help him. Miss Agatha tugged on Win's collar again and seemed content to drag Win if needs be. Win tripped a little over her own feet before she could gather them beneath her and keep up with Miss Agatha's marching pace. Casting her gaze anywhere but up at the woman's face, Win took in the gray stonewalls that built up the structure. Long ago, a group of terminated factory workers found an exceptional way to earn money. They fixed up a building in a square surrounded by many workplaces in central London and charged for a cheap meal. Surprisingly, hundreds of employees flocked to eat at the meal house, enough that the owners had to hire people. Children they found off the street. Orphans and runaways. No child would dare leave for fear of the punishments they would receive if they were to be caught by the sweatshop. The children could only count down the days until they were old enough to leave without fear. Or when some older kids helped them escape, which they sometimes did.
"You're not a talker, are you?" Miss Agatha said, suddenly, "Going to apologize? Swear against the evidence?"
"No ma'am." Win could barely speak through her dry mouth. "I-I did break that dish. And that wouldn't help much, would it?"
YOU ARE READING
First Step: A Short Story
Short Story"They called him the Tormentor. No one was really sure how the name had been started, but for as long as they could remember he'd been called by that nickname."
