A/N: Aw, how could I not do an Oliver Twist fic? Especially when I have 'Reviewing the Situation' stuck in my head. So yes, I have decided to write a story which will probably go on for decades and decades until I am an old woman with sixty eight cats.
Even thoughI like dogs better.
But anyway, I am going to start this fic. Because I love Oliver. And Dodger. And Charlie. And everyone esle.
You know what to do. Read, review and all that jazz.
Disclaimer: Oliver Twist belongs to Charles Dickens, who is dead, and I don't think knows how to operate a computer. So, no, Oliver Twist doesn't belong to me. Oliver! belongs to Carol Reed and Lionel Bart. I'm not either one of these people. Therefore, none of this stuff belongs to me. I'm just having fun with it. Lettie, however, does belong to me. You can borrow her. Just be nice. She bites.
In the Three Cripples, a pub of risqué standards, low morals, and cheap gin, you got a lot of…unsavoury characters. Mister Fagin, residence of An Old Abandoned Warehouse Just Down The Road, religion; Jew, occupation; crook, pickpocket, assistant to breaking and entering, was one such character. And right now he was currently in said pub, drinking said gin, and pondering said occupation and its success.
Or rather, lack of.
Could he be blamed for the lack of willing pickpockets in the area? Children these days had such high morals, but that was hardly his fault, was it? And honestly, was he to be blamed for the public's habit of wearing coats which, coincidentally, in case you didn't know, had tighter pockets to guard against pickpockets (really, who would wish do to such a thing?)? And was he to have foreseen that policeman spotting Barney just withdrawing his hand from a particularly prime plant, and chasing him halfway round London?
Evidently not. But Bill Sikes, former protégé and now present employer of Fagin, seemed to think so.
"You get me some more cash, Fagin," He had snarled, "Or I'll find myself a new buyer."
"Get a new buyer, get a new buyer," Fagin muttered, rubbing his neck from where the man's fingers had pressed, "No-one would put up with 'im for so long."
But he was wrong, and he knew it. So the only solution was to get some more money.
Question was, from where?
Sighing, the old Jew adjusted his rather large hat, and looked around the pub. Were there any extremely rich patrons here, perhaps second cousin to the Queen or fifteenth in line to the throne, who might need their pocket's lightened a few bob?
No. Just the usual rakes that hardly had a shilling amongst them.
There was an unknown face amongst the singing crowd, though. A grave-faced woman, with straw-liked hair that greyed slightly at the temple of her uncovered head. She was short, but held herself upright so she gave the appearance of being tall, and had large, deep blue eyes that seemed to be permanently watery.
Humming along to the song being belted out around him, Fagin made his way gingerly to where the woman (who, he realised with a shock, could only be in her mid-thirties, though her lined face showed other-wise) was crouching, peering under the table.
"Now, Lettie," The woman was pleading as he neared, in a cracked, hoarse voice "You gotta do this. You gotta be a big girl for me. You'll make more money than me or your father, you hear me? But from now on you're goin' alone, you understand?"
"I won't be able to see you again, will I," A higher, smaller voice replied. It was not so much a question as a statement.
The woman shook her head, her straw-like curls bouncing limply, "No….no…you won't."
There was a small sniff from under the table, and then a pair of small, white hands came out from under the table and latched themselves around the woman's neck. The woman stayed still for a fraction of a second, and then straightened up rapidly and walked briskly out to the door. As she passed him, Fagin could see her eyes were red.
The small hands had withdrawn themselves back under the table.
Two, three steps were taken, and Fagin was standing in the exact same place as the woman. His boots were large, stomping and creaking, so it was no surprise that the little shadow cast upon the floor was smaller, curling into itself. He bent down, wincing as his knees scraped the uneven floor, and blinked under the table.
The little girl sat under the table screamed shrilly.
In two seconds Fagin's hand was firmly clamped around her mouth, "What are you playin' at, girl?" He hissed, grimacing comically at the staring couple at the next table, "S' only old Fagin. Nothin' to be afraid of."
The girl looked like she was having serious doubts about this last statement, but she nodded suspiciously as Fagin took his hand back. The old man knelt down on the floor opposite her, "Are you goin' to stay there forever?" He asked.
The girl bobbed her head, "Might do."
"You like sitting under dirty tables in pubs of ill repute, my dear?"
"Mama said stay here until someone with food came," The girl fixed him with a beady stare, "Do you have food?"
Fagin began to feel like he was being cross-examined, "Of course I 'ave food," He retorted, "Can't live without it, can yer? Basic fact of life, m'dear, that man cannot live without the four basic elements; food, water, air, and money."
The girl blinked, "You can survive without money."
"Of course you can't."
"Yes you can."
"No you ca –" Fagin stopped in mid 'can't', and reminded himself that he was not Dodger, neither was he Dodger's age, and therefore he was excused from squabbling with little girls, "Look here, that was your Mama there, wasn't it?"
"Yeah."
"She wants you to survive, doesn't she?"
The girl shrugged, "S'pose."
"Course she does. And she said that you'd make more money than her. She wants you to have money, she wants you to survive, ergo, you need money to survive."
The little snub nose wrinkled up, "That doesn't make sense."
"Life hardly does," Fagin told her.
"You talk too fast," The girl complained, "Do you really need money to survive?"
"Yes. See, you learn a little something with Fagin every day," Mostly when to duck, Fagin added silently, "So, do you fancy coming out any time soon?"
"What's it to yer?"
"Your Mama left you here to make your fortune then, eh?"
"What if she did?"
Fagin raised his eyes to the ceiling, "You can't make your fortune by sitting under a table, my dear."
"Might do."
"Look, come here," Fagin grabbed the girl by the elbows and pulled her out from under the table and to her feet, "Now you can see better, and you have as much chance of making your fortune in this world as any other human being."
The girl folded her arms and stuck her chin out determinedly, "Well maybe I do and maybe I don't," She told him, and sauntered off.
Fagin's hand shot out and grabbed the girl by the shoulder, "But before you do go, my dear, perhaps you would be so good as to give me back my wallet?"
The stuck her hands into her coat pockets and glowered at the floor, "How'd you guess?"
"My dear, I have had a lot of experience with pickpockets. I know tha –" He cut himself off sharply as the girl began to fumble through the wallet.
"Shillin'……shillin'…..half a crown…..ha'penny….shillin'…..Hardly nuffin' worth stealin' in 'ere," She grumbled, calmly pocketing the half crown.
Fagin looked down at her, "You're used to making bigger pickings?" He asked, ignoring the half-crown.
The girl shrugged lazily, "If I want to."
The old man bent down so he was eye-level with her, "Are you any good at thievin', my dear?"
"I could be."
"Try it out on that gentleman over there," He ordered, pointing to a tall, beefy looking man with a bright pink face, lounging over a pint of beer.
"Why should I?"
"Think of it as an audition, my dear," Fagin smiled toothily at her, "For the stage. They have auditions in the theatre, don't they? Wouldn't you like to be on the stage, my dear?"
The girl tried to look nonchalant, but her eyes had brightened slightly, "Might do. I played an angel in church once. I had two lines."
"And a wonderful angel you'd make, my girl! But you go up to that gentleman there now, and see if you can't bring his wallet over here without him noticing."
"Alright," The girl shrugged, withdrawing her hands and wriggling her fingers about. Fagin was reminded irresistibly of Dodger, "Do I get to keep it?"
"Not if you want to keep that half crown."
She scowled, but shrugged, and made her way smoothly over to the large man, her eyes darting about the pub. Fagin held his breath as she neared him, one hand slightly outstretched, and then….
"Here!" She exclaimed, waving the wallet about in front of his face, "Got it, didn't I?"
"You certainly did," Fagin muttered, examining the large, leather-bound wallet, "Well, that was a prime plant. You're a clever girl, my dear!" He exclaimed, saying the same words he did to every new pickpocket, "I never saw a sharper lass than you! I don't suppose you would like to make more money out of that now, would you?"
The girl inclined her head, "Sure," She stuck her hands back into the large grey overcoat that was over a torn scarlet dress, and purple-and-black striped stockings.
Fagin grinned, "Good girl, clever girl. Well, let's have a look at you," He bent down and looked at the girl properly.
The child was pretty, in a mournful, half-starved sort of way. She was short, and an extremely scrawny, scraggly-looking child, with blanched ivory skin. Dark, chestnut-brown hair came down to her shoulders in unruly curls, tied up with a large crimson bow, and her eyes were dark blue, almost black, and narrowed.
"What you starin' at anyways?" She demanded, folding her arms angrily. Fagin noticed how the light blue veins stuck out from her wrists.
"Seeing whether you would be good for business, my dear," The old Jew answered, "You would be no suspect in any pickpocketing, mark my words, with a face like that. A pretty girl like you could make a lot of money."
The girl shifted, obviously interested, "….Really?"
Fagin took her by the shoulders and turned her around to look at the girls next to the bar, Nancy at the front, who were performing some kind of risqué song, "You see those girls over there. They're…dancers," He hastily corrected himself, "And they're successful. They make money, my dear, more than you could dream of," Fagin smiled, lying coolly through his teeth, "How would you like to be one of them, eh?"
The girl turned back and smiled, the first proper smile that Fagin had seen from her, "I'd like that very much sir!"
"Well then! I shall have to do all I can to help you become a dancer then, won't I? But for now, you can come and stay with me, and some acquaintances of mine, alright? And you shall take wallets and 'kerchiefs from others, because if you don't, then someone else will, and that person who takes it might as well be you. Would you like that?"
"Yeah."
"You're a smart girl for taking my offer, I can see that right now," Fagin told her, "How old are you?"
"Seven."
"Well then, a fine time for you to start making a living for yourself then, eh? Do you have a name?"
The girl wrinkled up her nose, "Lettie Hackdown."
Fagin stuck his hand out, "Fagin is my name, and that's what you'll call me in the future. Pleased to meet you, Miss Hackdown."
The girl stuck her own hand out and shook his hand firmly, which Fagin noticed was clad in a purple-and-black striped fingerless glove which went up past her sleeve, "It's Lettie or nothin'."
"Lettie it is then. Would you like to come and see your new home then, Lettie?"
Lettie bent down under the table and brought out a little bundle of clothes wrapped in a colourless sheet. Fagin could see the title of a book 'EAST OF THE SUN, WEST OF THE MOON, and other stories' quite visibly, "Yeah, ok."
The old man let the girl take his hand, "Come with me then, my dear, into a bright new future."
Do I need to tell everyone what to do? REVIEW. The ickle review button is calling to you. It says 'REVIEW, REVIEW!' in a little squeaky voice. Listen, you can hear it!
Ok, I'm gonna go now before I get locked up for hearing voices.