In the dimly lit back room of a rough pub, located in the filthiest part of Little Saffron Hill, sat a man in a velvet coat and sturdy boots. This dark and gloomy den was the kind of place where a flickering gaslight burned all day during the winter, and where a ray of sunshine never reached in the summer. Even in that faint light, any experienced police officer would have immediately recognised the man as Mr. William Sikes. At his feet sat a white, red-eyed dog, which spent its time either blinking at its master or licking a large, fresh cut on its mouth—the clear result of a recent fight.
“Keep quiet, you beast! Keep quiet!” Mr. Sikes suddenly shouted, breaking the silence. Whether his thoughts were so deep that the dog’s blinking disturbed him, or whether he simply felt the need to release his frustration by kicking a helpless animal, is a matter for debate. Whatever the reason, the result was a violent kick and a curse, delivered to the dog at the same time.
Dogs do not usually seek revenge on their masters, but Sikes’s dog shared many of its owner’s personality flaws. Feeling a strong sense of injustice, the animal did not hesitate to sink its teeth into one of Sikes’s boots. After giving it a vigorous shake, the dog retreated, growling, under a bench, just narrowly escaping a heavy metal cup that Sikes threw at its head.
“You would, would you?” Sikes growled, grabbing a metal poker in one hand and opening a large folding knife with the other. “Come here, you devil! Come here! Do you hear me?”
The dog certainly heard him, as Sikes spoke in the harshest tone imaginable. However, appearing to have a reasonable objection to having its throat cut, the animal stayed where it was. It growled even more fiercely than before, biting the end of the poker like a wild beast.
This resistance only made Sikes more furious. Dropping to his knees, he began to attack the animal. The dog jumped from side to side, snapping and barking, while the man struck at it and swore violently. The struggle was reaching a dangerous point for both of them when the door suddenly opened. The dog seized the opportunity to bolt out of the room, leaving Bill Sikes standing there with the poker and the knife in his hands.
As the old saying goes, it takes two people to start a fight. Since the dog had left, Sikes immediately turned his anger toward the newcomer.
“What the devil are you doing, coming between me and my dog?” Sikes demanded with a threatening gesture.
“I didn't know, my dear, I didn't know,” Fagin replied humbly, for it was indeed the old man who had entered.
“Didn't know, you cowardly thief!” Sikes growled. “Couldn’t you hear the noise?”
“Not a sound of it, Bill, as I’m a living man,” Fagin replied.
“Oh, of course! You never hear anything, do you?” Sikes sneered. “Always sneaking in and out so quietly that nobody knows when you’re there! I wish you had been the dog, Fagin, half a minute ago.”
“Why?” the old man asked with a forced smile.
“Because the law cares about the lives of men like you, who have less courage than a stray dog, but it lets a man kill a dog however he likes,” Sikes replied, closing his knife with a meaningful look.
Fagin rubbed his hands together and sat down at the table, pretending to laugh at his friend’s joke. However, he was clearly very uncomfortable.
“Laugh all you want,” Sikes said, putting the poker away and looking at him with contempt. “But you’ll never get the better of me. I have the upper hand, Fagin, and I intend to keep it. If I go down, you go down with me, so you’d better take care of me.”
“Well, well, my dear,” said Fagin. “I know all that. We share a mutual interest, Bill—a mutual interest.”
“Humph,” Sikes grunted, as if he suspected the interest favoured Fagin more than himself. “Well, what do you have to say to me?”
“Everything has been melted down safely,” Fagin replied, “and this is your share. It’s actually more than you are owed, my dear, but I know you’ll return the favour another time.”
“Stop that nonsense,” the robber interrupted impatiently. “Where is it? Hand it over!”
“Yes, yes, Bill; give me a moment,” Fagin replied soothingly. He pulled an old cotton handkerchief from his pocket and, untying a knot in the corner, produced a small paper packet. Sikes snatched it from him and began to count the gold coins inside.
“Is this all?” Sikes asked.
“Every bit,” Fagin replied.
“You haven’t swallowed a couple on the way here, have you?” Sikes asked suspiciously. “Don’t look so offended; you’ve done it before. Ring the bell.”
A younger man, who looked just as unpleasant as Fagin, answered the bell. Sikes pointed to his empty glass, and the man went to refill it. Before leaving, he exchanged a quick, secret look with Fagin, which Sikes missed because he was busy tying a shoelace the dog had torn. If Sikes had noticed this silent communication, he might have realised that trouble was brewing.
“Is anyone else here, Barney?” Fagin asked, keeping his eyes on the ground.
“Not a soul,” Barney replied in a thick, nasal voice.
“Nobody?” Fagin asked with feigned surprise.
“Nobody but Miss Nancy,” Barney added.
“Nancy!” Sikes exclaimed. “Where? I truly admire that girl for her natural talents.”
“She’s having some beef at the bar,” Barney explained.
“Send her in,” Sikes ordered, pouring himself a drink.
Nancy soon entered, still dressed in the disguise she had prepared earlier: the apron, the basket, and the large door key.
“Are you still searching, Nancy?” Sikes asked, offering her a glass.
“I am, Bill,” she replied, finishing the drink in one go. “And I’m tired of it, too. The young brat has been ill and kept inside the house.”
“Ah, Nancy, dear!” Fagin interrupted, looking up suddenly.
Perhaps a slight movement of Fagin’s eyebrows warned Nancy that she was saying too much. Whatever the reason, she immediately stopped herself and changed the subject. After about ten minutes, Fagin began to cough loudly—a signal that it was time to leave. Nancy put on her shawl and declared she had to go. Sikes decided to walk part of the way with her, followed at a distance by his dog, which had been hiding in the yard.
Once they were gone, Fagin watched them from the door, shook his fist at Sikes, and muttered a curse. Then, with a hideous grin, he sat back down to read a newspaper that listed wanted criminals.
Meanwhile, Oliver Twist, who had no idea how close he was to his old enemies, was making his way toward the bookshop. In the Clerkenwell district, he accidentally turned down a side street. Realising it was a shortcut, he continued walking quickly with the books under his arm.
He was reflecting on how fortunate he was, and how much he wished he could help his poor friend Dick, when he was startled by a young woman’s scream.
“Oh, my dear brother!” she cried. Before Oliver could even look up, a pair of arms was thrown tightly around his neck.
“Stop!” Oliver cried, struggling to get free. “Let go of me! Who are you? Why are you stopping me?”
The young woman only responded with loud cries of distress. “Oh, thank goodness! I’ve found him! Oliver, you naughty boy, how could you cause us so much worry? Come home, dear, come home!”
She began to cry hysterically. A small crowd began to gather, including a butcher’s boy and a couple of local women.
“I’m better now,” the young woman said, clutching Oliver’s hand. “Come home immediately, you cruel boy!”
“What’s the matter, miss?” one of the women asked.
“Oh, ma’am,” Nancy replied (for it was she), “he ran away a month ago from his hard-working parents and joined a gang of thieves. He’s almost broken his mother’s heart!”
“You little monster!” one woman shouted at Oliver.
“Go home to your family, you little brute,” added the other.
“I’m not her brother!” Oliver cried, terrified. “I don’t know her! I’m an orphan; I live in Pentonville!”
“Listen to him lie!” Nancy cried out to the crowd.
“Wait, it’s Nancy!” Oliver exclaimed, finally seeing her face. He backed away in shock.
“You see! He knows me!” Nancy appealed to the bystanders. “He can’t deny it. Help me get him home, or he’ll be the death of his parents!”
At that moment, a man burst out of a nearby beer shop, followed by a white dog. “What’s all this?” he shouted. “Young Oliver! Come home to your mother, you young rascal!”
“I don’t belong to them! Help!” Oliver screamed as the man seized him with a powerful grip.
“Help?” Sikes repeated. “I’ll help you, you little thief! What are these books? You stole them, didn't you?” He snatched the books from Oliver and struck him on the head.
“That’s the way to treat him!” someone shouted from a window above.
“It’ll do him good!” the women agreed.
Weak from his recent illness and stunned by the blows, Oliver was overwhelmed. The bystanders were convinced he was a hardened criminal, and in the growing darkness of the rough neighbourhood, no one was willing to help him. Resistance was useless. Within moments, he was dragged into a maze of narrow, dark alleys. His cries were ignored; in that part of the city, nobody cared about the screams of a child.
Back at the house, the gas lamps were lit. Mrs. Bedwin was waiting anxiously at the door, and the servant had checked the street dozens of times for any sign of the boy. Yet, despite the late hour, the two old gentlemen continued to sit stubbornly in the dark parlour, with the watch between them on the table.