The Eyeball Collector Read Free

was now. He was tired of the nomadic lifestyle and ready to enjoy fully the fruits of his dishonest labours. He wanted to settle down, and not in any average sense of the word. His sights were set much higher than that. All his ordinary cons and swindles so far had been merely the springboard to his grandest change of identity yet and the lifestyle of luxury he had always desired and believed he deserved.
    But for all this he needed even more money. To this end he had a plan, the first stage of which was to be executed tonight. It was simple, old fashioned – he found this usually proved most effective – and it would take a modicum of daring and deceit. Hardly difficult for a man such as Gulliver Truepin.
    It was that old chestnut. Blackmail.
    From his lodgings Truepin could also see the Nimble Finger Inn opposite. He had an appointment there in fifteen minutes. He went to the bed, where two sets of clothes were laid out on the coverlet. The quality and finish of each set could not have been more different. On the one side was a smart black velvet jacket and matching breeches, on the other a coarse greying shirt and threadbare waistcoat. He ran his hand over the velvet regretfully. But this was not the time to indulge his taste for quality. He pulled on the latter outfit delicately, as if he could hardly bear the feel of it on his skin. Over these clothes he threw a tatty brown cloak. He looked down at the accompanying boots, worn and scuffed, and shook his head.
    ‘Not long now,’ he thought, ‘and I can cast off these rags for the last time.’ He could endure this discomfort because he knew that the end was in sight.
    The light was fading as Gulliver crossed the road. A dark-haired young boy with piercing eyes, oddly underdressed for the weather, bumped into him halfway across. Truepin, suspecting a pickpocket, grabbed him and snarled at him menacingly before releasing him roughly and slipping into the Nimble Finger. He purchased a jug of ale (he would have preferred sparkling wine, of course, but it was not available) and took a seat in a dark corner. His dress ensured that he blended in with the crowd. Easily done too, for no one in the Nimble Finger wished to draw attention to him or herself. Truepin waited, sipping distastefully at his warm ale.
    ‘Truepin?’
    He looked up to see a stout fellow in a dark coat and hat swaying over the table. He nodded. The newcomer slid clumsily in beside him.
    ‘Ale?’ offered Truepin, though he suspected from the man’s drowsy demeanour and reddened nose that he was already gin-sozzled enough.
    ‘Aye,’ came the gruff reply. Truepin poured another cup.
    ‘So,’ said the man after a long noisy swig, ‘I believe you want a new name.’
    ‘I do.’
    ‘And a title?’
    ‘Indeed.’
    ‘It’ll cost yer, and cost good,’ the man slurred.
    Truepin nodded. ‘I have the money.’ Or I will soon, he thought.
    ‘Then it is done. Come back at midnight – it’ll be ready.’ With that the fellow swallowed the other half of his ale and disappeared into the crowd.
    Truepin sat back and allowed himself a moment to smile. And so it begins, he thought. Now for the next stage. A change of clothes and off to the dwelling of Mr Augustus Fitzbaudly.
     
Chapter Three
          
Northside
    Hector sat motionless in the butterfly house. He was hot, almost uncomfortably so, despite being in his nightshirt. His feet were sore, cut to shreds from his barefoot run home, and his nerves were still on edge. All around him flew butterflies of every size and hue alighting on the luscious plants and flowers that grew up the glass walls of their home.
    Such beauty, thought Hector, and yet only a short while ago he had been surrounded by ugliness and enjoying that too . . .
    The journey home from the south had felt interminable. Loping along, head down, trying to avoid looking anyone in the eye, Hector had still attracted plenty of unwanted attention. Not because he had lost his clothes, but