Birth of a Killer. Darren Shan
When Vur was finished with the bedpan, Larten tossed his clothes at him and hurried down the stairs to the crowded kitchen where his brothers and sisters were already making short work of breakfast.
There was never much to eat, and those who grabbed first got the most. Their father, who’d shuffled off to work three hours earlier, had generously left some strips of pig’s ears for them — he always shared what he could with his family. The older children seized upon the gristly treats with excitement. By the time Larten and Vur arrived, the strips were gone and they had to make do with stale bread and watery porridge.
Larten tore bread from the fingers of his eldest brother – they were slippery from the grease of a pig’s ear – and passed it to Vur, laughing as he bobbed out of the way of his brother’s swinging fist. Taking a couple of small, chipped bowls, he dipped them into the pot of porridge, filled them to the top and hurried to where Vur was waiting by the back door. He licked drips from the sides as he crossed the room, eager not to waste any.
They ate in silence, chewing the crust of the dry bread as if it was meat, using the rest to soak up the watery porridge. Larten was quicker than Vur and managed to refill his bowl before the pot was scraped bare. He ate half and saved the rest for his cousin.
It was cold and raining outside, but the kitchen was cosy. His mother hadn’t lit the fire – she’d do that in the evening, when she returned from work – but the tiny room was always warm, especially with so many bodies crammed into it.
“Move on!” Larten’s mother yelled, coming down the stairs. She belted those closest to her and waved a hand threateningly at the others. “Do you think I’ve nothing better to do than stand here watching you eat all day? Out!”
Still chewing and gulping, the children filed out into the yard, leaving their mother to mop up after them, before setting off for the first of the four inns where she cleaned.
There were two barrels of water in the yard, one for drinking, the other for washing. The Crepsley children rarely bothered with the latter barrel, but Vur went to it every morning to scrub the dirt from his face and neck. Larten had tried talking him out of his peculiar habit – the boy would shiver for half an hour on a bone-chilling morning like this – but Vur would only smile, nod and do it again the next day.
Larten drank thirstily, dipping his face into the barrel, ignoring the drops of rain that struck the back of his head. When he pulled away he left faint orange clouds in the water. His hair, like Vur’s, was stained a deep orange shade. The dye was caked into his scalp, and although he could never wash it out, clots came off sometimes when he dunked his head.
He watched the clouds of dye swirling around. They were pretty. He put a finger in and splashed it about, to see what other patterns he could create. He considered calling Vur over, but the clouds were already disappearing and in a few more seconds there would be nothing for his cousin to see.
“Out of it,” one of his brothers grunted, shoving Larten aside.
Larten yelled a curse and kicked out, but only hit the barrel. His brother pushed Larten again. Anger flared in the younger boy’s eyes and he stepped forward for a fight. But Vur had spotted the danger and acted quickly to avert it. He didn’t like it when Larten got into fights, even when he won, as he often did.
“If we don’t leave now, we’re going to be late,” Vur warned.
“We’ve loads of time,” Larten scowled.
“No,” Vur said. “We’ll be getting our heads daubed today. If we’re not early, Traz will beat us.”
“We got them daubed a few days ago,” Larten argued.
“Trust me,” Vur said. “Traz will do it again today.”
Larten growled, but turned away from the barrel and sloped across to where Vur was using a scrap of cloth to pat his neck dry. There was no fixed schedule for the daubing days. Traz seemed to hand them out at random. But Vur had a knack of being able to predict when one was due. He wouldn’t tell Larten how he knew, but eight times out of ten he got it right.
“Ready?” Larten asked, as if he was the one itching to leave.
“Aye,” Vur said.
“Then let’s go,” Larten sniffed, and the two boys, neither yet a teen, headed off to work.
CHAPTER TWO
Larten and Vur wound their way through the narrow, filthy streets to the factory. Though it was early, the city was already bustling with life. In these dark autumn months you had to make the most of the sunlight.
Traders had set up stalls in the gloom before dawn and were busy haggling and selling fruit, vegetables, meat, fish, shoes, clothes, rope, pots, pans and more. Larten and Vur occasionally went to one of the big Sunday markets, where animals were traded and stalls boasted exotic wares from countries that the boys had never heard of. The pair would spend their time ogling the worldly traders and their goods, dreaming of travel and adventure. Those markets were a place of magic and mystery.
These small street stalls, on the other hand, were a nuisance. It took time to detour around the crowds, and some of the traders cuffed the boys if they drew too close — they were always wary of thieves, and one dirty street urchin looked much the same as any other. Certain traders lashed out at any child who came within striking distance.
“I want to be a trader when I grow up,” Vur said, smiling as they passed a fish stall, ignoring the putrid stench.
“Aye,” Larten said. “We can hunt elephants and sell their tusks.”
“No,” Vur shivered. “I’d be afraid they’d eat me.”
“Then I’ll collect the tusks and you can sell them,” Larten decided.
They’d heard many tales of elephants, but had never even seen a picture of one. From the wild stories, they believed the mighty creatures were bigger than five houses, with twenty tusks, ten on either side of their trunk.
The two boys often discussed their plans for the future. The nineteenth century had dawned a few years earlier and the world was a place of mystery and intrigue, opening up to travellers more than it ever had before. Vur wanted to visit the great cities, climb the pyramids, sail across an ocean. Larten wanted to hunt tigers, elephants and whales. He knew that was unlikely, that both boys would probably remain at the factory, marry in their teens, have children of their own and never venture beyond the outskirts of the city where they’d been born. But he could dream. As poor as they were, even he and Vur had the right to do that.
They arrived fifteen minutes early for work, but Traz was already outside the door, buckets of dye lined up, a brush in his hand and a wicked glint in his eyes.
Traz was their foreman. He had been at the factory for a long time, part of the staff even when Larten’s father had worked there as a boy. He was a cruel master, but he produced excellent results and kept costs down, so the owners tolerated his brutality.
Traz’s eyes narrowed as the boys approached, their heads lowered and knees trembling. Part of the fun for him on daubing days was catching the children by surprise. He loved it when they turned up on time, only to find themselves at the back of a line. By the time he’d processed those ahead of them, the children at the rear would be late and Traz could legitimately beat them.
Traz disliked the Horston boy intensely. The pale weakling was too smart for his own good. He did a fine job of hiding his intelligence, but he gave himself away at times like this. Only the shrewder children were able to second-guess Traz. These two almost always turned up early on daubing days, and he was certain that the Crepsley brat wasn’t the brains of the outfit.
“You’re early!” Traz barked when the boys stopped before him, as if being early was a crime.
“Our mother had to leave earlier than usual today,” Larten muttered. “She threw us out, so we came here.”
Traz glowered at them,