What Am I?

By Xanpet

HISTORICAL NOTES: There was no workhouse at Ratcliff. The description of the workhouse comes from the amalgamation of the Mile End and the Poplar workhouses. I would like to praise Peter Higginbotham for his excellent website on the history of the workhouse. It is brilliant and well worth a visit. The stuff about the rules, punishments and education is all historically accurate.

The Spike in my stories will use a great deal of London slang. Cockney rhyming slang first appeared in the 1860s as a way for the working class of London to hide what they were saying from the bosses and police. There is much other slang that Londoners also use. Spike uses Pig Latin, Back Slang and Thieves Cant. Sometimes he will use a combination.

Chapter One: I Am River Shit.

Yeah, so I'm Brahms, who gives a rat's arse? What? Every time I have a problem I hit the sauce, go on the piss, get slaughtered? Huh, re arrange this well-known phrase 'what so fucking?'

No you don't understand. You're not me. You never can be me. Who am I? I'm the Big Bad, the big I Am, and no one messes with me. You don't understand - how could you? You want to be me? Well listen to this.

I don't know where I was born but I know where I was found: in the river. I'm probably the waste product of a whore's business transaction. Dozy mare wouldn't go to an abortionist 'cos that would 'ave risked 'er kicking the bucket, though I reckon she tried a fair old bit of the gin. No, she gives birth in an alley somewhere in Rotherhithe, bites the cord with 'er teeth, and throws the unwanted shit in the River Thames, along with the rest of the city's waste. 'Spect she was back on the game by teatime. I hope she died of massive internal bleeding. Yeah? Well what do I care? Rivershit. That's what I am.

This wasn't the London of today. This was the largest city in the world, teaming and heaving. This was the Calcutta of Europe, so many bodies in the river that Tower Bridge was built with a morgue at the bottom of it. Stinking and retched, a place of TB and cholera, death and despair. Into this I was given life.

The lighterman, who pulled me from the river, naked and small, brought me to the Ratcliff Workhouse. Ratcliff, not there now, unless you count the Highway, but then it was one of the largest of the Tower Hamlets. The workhouse was a great complex of two, three and four storey buildings. It was like the village of the poor. It had offices, male and female wards and even a town hall for the trustees. There were separate blocks for the infirmary, refectory and a three-storey school with its own workshops. Us kids were housed near the school and kitchen garden, and had our own recreation yard. The ward for the casual inmates was next to the stone-breaking yard and had large storerooms for the stones. Yes! We really did break stones. To make smaller stones of course. Really not enough small stones in the world. God made them all way too big - how the fuck would I know? Ours is not to reason why. Now there's a good Victorian saying.

When you entered the workhouse as a child you were given a name. Your first was that of the clerk, what checked you in, the middle one was always an apostle and the last was chosen from an alphabetical list. What? NO, not like bleeding Oliver Twist. Well, okay likes Oliver Twist but that's just penny paper, jumped up, romantic bollocks. Welcome to the real world pal.

I was William John Hayter. It would do. Only used it for about the first twenty-three years of my existence anyway, and for most of that I was plain Wil' Hayter. It wasn't all gruel and beatings. We learned our letters and the Bible. In fact the poor 'ad compulsory education well before you lot did. I did gym, history, arithmetic, grammar, (yes, really!), writing, reading and geography. Not to mention the fact that we had school from seven in the morning 'til five at night. 'S'why I won't say I'm a cockney. I'm better educated than that, the parish saw to it. Our schoolmaster, Mr. Whittaker, was a slimy piece of work who always stunk of sweat and dripping. Dripping? Meat fat, good on bread, bet he used it to grease his pole though. Don't say yarg. You want to hear this story or not?

I learned quick I did, 'cos I've always been good at anything I really try. Did you know I can sing?

"The boy I love is up in the gallery
The boy I love is looking down at me
There he is can't you see
A waving of his hankerchee
As chirpy as a robin that sits in a tree."

It was always one of Dru's favourites that.

I 'ad friends too. Well, one. His name was William an' all, William Thomas Cunningham. That's right, same clerk but arrived before me, probably only by hours mind. Do you know how many unwanted kids there was in that city. Fair clogging ups the drainage they was.

Disgusting? Yeah, well, I'd have to agree with you there.

Anyway, Billy Cunningham and Wil' Hayter, almost inseparable we were. We'd get up to all sorts mostly to relieve the boredom. Six out of seven days were the same, but on Sundays, after church, and on hi'dys and holid'ys, we could go out. We went fishing in the Channelsea and the Lea or mud-larking down by the Thames near Woolwich. I suppose we'd steal an' all and chat up the whores in Wapping. There was never a dull moment, so what happened one evening, in June 1867, came as a complete shock for both of us. My world was no longer safe. Everything I had held to be true was removed in one act and replaced with treachery.

That day Billy decided that he just couldn't face Whittaker for afternoon lessons. The smell in the morning had been bad enough, by two o'clock he was going to pen worse than the residents of the workhouse piggery. So we joined the work line after prayers, and then ducked out, over the stone yard wall, into the kitchen garden. No one took a blind bit of notice of us. We spent the rest of the afternoon by the pond. Then returned with the work detail in the evening. By which time I had acquired a frog in me pocket.

At supper, I found myself sitting next to a boy called Christopher Harle. His dad had been a debtor and had left the family to the mercy of the parish. Well, he was going on and on about his dad being in France and how he was coming back all filthy rich. He was a complete fucking fantasist if you ask me. So, anyway, I said, "Here have something French," and tossed the frog into his dinner. His face was a delight and so was the wail.

"Hayter, Harle, Cunningham tell me rule four," bellowed Whittaker, who was on duty that evening.

We jumped up and chanted, "The poor shall have their provisions in a clean and wholesome manner, Sir."

"Are frogs clean?"

"No, Sir."

"Are they wholesome?"

"No, Sir."

"What happens if you break the rules?"

"We shall be punished with the utmost severity of the law, Sir."

"Right one, two, three, outside the Master's office now."

Harle muttered under his breath, "I'll get you, Hayter."

Well we each went in and were tanned good for that incident, but when Billy came out of the office, he seemed different. He was tearful and quiet. Like he'd been really scared. We were deprived of meat and cheese for a week. It almost made frogs seem wholesome!

After lights out, Billy came sneaking into my cot. He was shaking even though it was a warm summer's night and I asked him what was wrong. He began to sob. Huge body shakers and I held him 'cos there was nothing else I could do until it passed and the racket he made was going to wake the whole dorm.

When he was calmer I asked him again and he said, " 'Old me Wil' jus' 'old me tight 'cos otherwise I thinks I might break." Well I thought that was a little over dramatic but we was all fans of the penny papers and picked up crap like that all the time. It's what makes me such a good bloody poet.

Am I a poet? 'Course I am, brilliant too. Don't you call me a liar. Or what? Yeah? Well I might just lick you to death. I digress.

I held him all night. In the morning I woke him gently. I realised that the bed was damp and I thought he'd pissed it, but when I looked at my hand it was covered in blood. There was blood everywhere and this was before I thought it a good meal. It was on his nightshirt and mine and the bed sheets.

He just had to tell me what, in the name of everything holy, was going on. The story he told made my stomach heave. Rape. Whittaker had taken him to the school storeroom that evening and buggered him good. I comforted Billy the best I could. It would be all right. I would sort it. Me, see the big bad even then at ten years old. We put our nightclothes and the bed sheets into the stove. Not to cook them, dumb arse, not that sort of stove, to burn them!

Then I washed him down and meself, got dressed and made out as if we 'ad lit the stove and had an accident. Didn't wash mind, still got tarred - beaten! God what do I need subtitles? I got the strap for destruction of parish property and telling lies. We spent the rest of the day in the 'refectory cell'. Good
job really as neither of could sit down and it meant that no one noticed Billy's gait.

It was cool and dark there beneath the dining hall. No one came down. We could hear the rhythm of the day playing out above our heads. Not that Billy noticed nothing. He was in a world of his own, traumatised and cut off. He was my friend, me best mate. I hated seeing him in pain. I'd have taken his place if I could…and that's when it struck me, the plan.

The following day I blotted my copybook. No, literally not metaphorically. Not unusual in itself as I'm a southpaw and we all 'ad to write with our right hand but I made jolly sure it was huge.

"You're a disgrace, Hayter," said Whittaker. "Stand in the corner, no one wants to look upon the face of a kak handed idler like yourself."

When all the other kids had gone, he called me over to his desk. "What has gotten into you?" He said, actually sounding concerned. "You're a little tyke at times I'll grant you that but I thought you liked your lessons. I noticed you absent the day before yesterday and what with the frog, the fire and now this. Boys like you have nothing. Pulled from the river weren't you? No family, no name? You need your letters and an apprenticeship, testimonials and the like or you're nothing too." He stopped and eyed me carefully. Shaking his head he said again, "What has gotten into you?"

"Nothing got into me, but you got into my friend. Oh don't deny it and don't get your knickers in a bundle he ain't told no-one else and I won't say nuffink." He looked frightened and confused. He must have wondered what was coming next.

"If you leave him alone, I'll let you do me."

The offer was simple, well considered and calm. He just blinked at me like some wretched bloody owl. "Look I know what I'm saying, I know about your little games and I'm willing to play, but you got to leave 'im alone. You got to. He's had enough."

The bloke almost wept. Willing, he had someone willing. He took me by the hand and led me to the storeroom. There amongst the copybooks, slates and chalk he kissed me. Just like that. I think I was more revolted than I was by the thought of taking it anally, but I didn't squeal or squawk. He held me by the shoulders and looked hard into my baby blue minces. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah," I lied. "But just me, just you and me. You gotta promise."

"I promise."

The deal was struck, my first deal with the Devil. I was on my way, on the frog to 'ell. Why did I do it? I don't fucking know. Maybe it was just misplaced loyalty or a warped sense of camaraderie. It's always been a failing of mine, in'it, that need to be loved - and if you tell that to anyone I'll eat your eyeballs with a spoon.

He put a chair in the middle of the room and told me to remove my britches. Then he disappeared and came back with some foul smelling meat fat. I started to object but he just stroked my face, his tone soothing, "There now, you don't want to bleed like your friend. There, it will be good. George will make it good for you. Now hop up on the chair. That's right." I knelt on the old, worn, wooden chair and he began fingering my hole, first one then two fingers. "Oh you're so tight, so small and tight, it will be good, I promise."

Oh sure…and the Beanstalk. This was all for me and the pleasure of my ten year old prostate and prick was it?

He took his fingers out and began pushing in with his cock. I started to whimper. He covered my mouth with his hand. Then I panicked. I thought it was the hand he'd had in me bum. I wriggled and struggled, but he held me fast and all the time he's chanting, "So tight, so small, so tight, so good." I could feel his rotund belly slapping against my arse, feel his breath, hot against my ear, his weight upon my back, compressing my chest. His hand was still stifling my cries so that my lungs burned with them. I begged to die but my pleas did no more than lie wet upon his palm. There, see - poet!

He was pounding me, reaching his climax and my knees were slipping from the chair. I barked my shin on the edge and gripped the rough, shabby back so tight that I drove splinters deep into the flesh. And then he was there. With a strangled cry he came. After that all was stillness and silence and pain.

He pulled himself from me and told me not to move. Like I could? He was gone. I roused myself just enough to wipe the tears from my face. He would never see me cry. He came back momentarily with warm water in a bowl and a cloth. He cleaned me, wiping away the grease and the blood and the semen. When he was satisfied he lifted me from the chair and pulled up my britches like I was five. "You're a good boy, William," he said, "You'll go far."

It was like a portent. Abruptly, I shivered like someone had walked over my grave. That I don't have by the way. - Have to be a damn stupid vampire to get yourself buried.

"You will be good won't you?" He asked, suddenly worried.

"Just me, right?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll be good."

Months this went on for. He found every reason under the sun to keep me behind or have me there early. I was stove monitor, coal monitor, slate monitor and pencil monitor. I was suddenly needed to fill inkwells and run errands. It always ended the same, goose grease and apologies and a renewal of our vows, "Just you and me right? Then I'll be good."

Anyone now, any half-baked social worker, could have told you I was being abused. I went from happy and sociable to nervous and sullen. I started wetting the bed and became so constipated that I had to do a week in the infirmary, where the medical officer thought the damage to my ring was from the straining! I was in continual scraps in the recreation yard and became tearful when reprimanded. I even broke out in dry eczema in my joint creases and wet eczema behind my ears. All signs of child abuse and I know I probably watch way too much Oprah.

But my studies didn't slide, quite the reverse in fact. He started giving me extra lessons. He taught me how to write neatly with my left hand and began me with French, Latin and Greek. He'd found the carrot. I drank in the learning like a vampire sucks blood. If he'd been rough and hurt me then he would teach me something new by way of an apology. What a sad sack of shit eh?

It couldn't last though. Luck doesn't like Wil' Hayter, won't look at him most oft and we was caught. Oh yeah, in flagrante delicto so to speak. That day, early, I was all of a sudden required to sharpen pencils and count copybooks. As I dawdled to the schoolroom Harle collared me. "Whittaker's pet." He
sneered.

"Leave me alone."

"Oh you're so hard. I still owe you."

"Well why don't you just carry on a family tradition and be a bad debtor."

Before he could answer he was called away by the matron and I thought no more about it.

I got to the classroom and assumed the position. We did the business without ceremony or conversation but, as he was in the act, light erupted into the stockroom and in the doorway stood the matron and the master. NO! Of the workhouse, shitface! Well, yes, 'oops' is a word ohay uckfay is better though.

I didn't quite see what happened next, having me back to the door an' all. I only just had time to pull up me trousers before I was lead away. As I left the classroom I clocked Harle in the corridor, "Debt paid in full," was all he said.

I was in trouble. I was scared and I panicked. Wriggling loose from the matron's grip, I ran through the school block and out across the recreation yard. I heard someone calling my name but I didn't stop, just kept on running, the gravel crunching under my boots, between the boys' and girls' ward blocks and out into the stone yard. I ducked into one of the stores. It was chill and gloomy, almost sinister, like a warning of things to come. I pressed my head against the granite wall, "Wil'," I heard softly from the door. It was Billy. "It's all my fault." He said simply.

"No don't say that. Don't even think it."

"But if I hadn't…" His voice trailed off. "You can't stay here - they'll go get the peelers and the dogs. Come on, I'll help you out over the garden wall, like always."

He helped me over the stone yard wall and down the kitchen garden, past the pond with the frogs from hell and up to the back gate. Then he gave me a bunk and I was sitting atop the wall with the street on the other side. I lent down to him so that our noses were almost touching, "Bye Billy."

"Bye Wil', take care." And as I jumped from the wall I thought I heard him say, "I love you."

I never saw him again. Well, what do you expect of river shit - the cities excreta that's me. Now I'm tired and, the gods help me, sober, so fuck off.

Yes, I am throwing you out, shoo, get lost, scram…JUST GO!


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