The Ribbajack

Upsetting chairs and tables, Eric pounded on, his face the colour of a beetroot. Sailor skipped nimbly ahead of him, always just out of reach. Miggy, seeing the mongoose coming her way, held out her arms to it. “Here, Sailor, come on, boy!”

He leaped into her arms. Holding her pet close, Miggy ran to the door, grappled with the latch, then sped free, out into the fog. Eric booted a table aside and went after her. Like a flash, Atty Lok was blocking the doorway in front of him.

“Leave girl alone, beast not rat, only mongoose, not harm you!”

Eric charged him, flooring the smaller man with windmilling fists and hefty boot kicks. He stepped over the cook’s crumpled form, snarling at him, “I’m goin’ to kill that rat, then I’m goin’ to give that brat the beltin’ she deserves, before I drag ’er off to the parish work’ouse. An’ you, huh, you’re finished round my place. Pack yer bags, an’ be gone afore I gets back!”

Miggy was not sure which way to run, the fog was so dense out on the quayside. Clutching Sailor to her, she hurried about in the cocooning whiteness. Completely lost, the girl ran straight into an iron bollard. A yelp of pain escaped her lips as she staggered to one side, holding her bleeding kneecap. Miggy fell right into her uncle Eric’s bulging stomach. He was standing with his belt off, holding up his trousers with one hand.

His face was livid with rage as he swung the broad, brass-buckled belt at her. “Gimme that dirty rat, or I’ll skin the hide off yer!”

Miggy crouched and covered her head with one arm, protecting Sailor with her body, crying out as the belt struck her.

The force of the blow knocked Miggy off balance. The mongoose jumped from the girl’s shoulders just as Miggy fell backward, hitting her head on the cobbles. The last thing she saw before she blacked out was her uncle Eric. He was gurgling horribly, grabbing at the mongoose, which had him tight by the throat.

Atty Lok heard the splash and limped forward, his bacon knife in one hand, the other holding down a swelling on his forehead. Ice-cold dock water sprayed into his face, causing him to stop right on the edge of the quay. The Siamese cook peered dazedly about him. He saw Miggy lying on the damp cobbles to his left. There was no sign of Eric McGrail, nor the mongoose.

A tall, gaunt man wearing a battered top hat and carrying a sack over one shoulder materialised through the swathes of fog. He saw Atty trying to pick Miggy up, and went to help. “What’s been goin’ on round ’ere? I’m Tommy Dyer, the rat catcher. Where’s big Eric from the boardin’ouse? I’ve got business t’do with him.”

Atty nodded urgently toward the Mersey Star. “Help me get girl inside, I tell you all about it.”

Three minutes later, Tommy Dyer was at the top of the avenue, shouting around the Dock Road, “Man in the dock! Man in the dock! Help, help!”

In a short time, several folk emerged from the fog. One of them, a constable, took charge of the situation. “Right, someone get ropes and hooks, lanterns, too. Quick as you can. Now, sir, where did the man fall in? Take us there. You stop here, sonny, show the men with the ropes which way we’ve gone. Move sharp now, the tide’s on the ebb!”

Miggy lay on the dining room counter. Atty was dabbing her knee with a solution of salt stirred into boiled water. She tried to rise, but he pushed her back, whispering instructions. “You not speak, hear nothing, see nothing. If anyone ask you, stay quiet, Miggs, let Atty do all talkin’.”

It was quite a while before anyone came into the boardinghouse. Sounds of ropes and grappling hooks splashing could be heard amid the shouts from the quay as the constable entered. He was accompanied by Tommy Dyer, two Lock Gate Keepers, an overweight washerwoman, and a well-dressed old gentleman with a carriage driver attending him. Miggy closed her eyes, feigning unconsciousness. She listened to what was going on. The constable spoke first.

“No sign or trace of a body out there, did either of you witness what happened?”

The well-dressed gentleman nodded politely to Atty. “This chap may know something. I hardly think the little girl would, though. She’s completely unconscious.”

Miggy felt like a baby as the washerwoman picked her up. “Pore liddle thing! I’ll make ’er a nice cuppa tea, with lots of sugar in it. Come on, queen, let’s get ye in a comfy armchair wid a warm shawl about yeh. Is there any vinegar an’ a clean towel round ’ere? This child’s got a nasty lump, an’ a bruise on the back of ’er skull.”