48 Oliver Twist - Read By Stephanie Poppins

"Oliver Twist," written by Charles Dickens in the 19th century, tells the story of an orphan boy and his adventures in London's slums. In this episode, there is a shock in the night that disrupts the fragile peace of the darkened city streets, propelling Oliver into unforeseen challenges and encounters.

Warning: This episode features the death of Nancy (edited to remove intricate detail)

In this episode, Sikes goes on the run

Performed by Stephanie Poppins
Published by Neworld Books

Transcript

Hello. Welcome to Sleep Stories with Steph, Your go-to romantic podcast that guarantees you a calm and entertaining transition into a great night's sleep. Come with me as we immerse ourselves in a romantic journey to a time long since forgotten. But before we begin, Let's take a moment to focus on where we are now. Take a deep breath in through your nose and let it out with a long sigh. Now close your eyes and feel yourself sink deeper into the support beneath you. It is time to relax and fully let go. There is nothing you need to be doing now and nowhere you need to go. So, Happy listening. Chapter 48 Of all bad deeds that had under cover of the darkness been committed within wide London's bounds since night hung over it, That was the worst. Of all the horrors that rose with an ill scent upon the morning air, That was the foulest and most cruel. The sun, The bright sun that brings back not light alone but new life and hope and freshness to man, Burst upon the crowded city in clear and radiant glory. Through costly coloured glass and paper-mended window, Through cathedral dome and rotten crevice, It shed its equal ray. It lighted up the room where the murdered woman lay. It did. It tried to shut it out but it would stream in. If the sight had been a ghastly one in the dull morning, What was it now in all that brilliant light? Bill Sykes had not moved. He had been afraid to stir. There had been a moan and motion of the hand and, With terror added to rage, He had struck and struck again. Once he threw a rug over it, But it was worse to fancy the eyes and imagine them moving towards him than to see them glaring upward as if watching the reflection of the pool of gore that quivered and danced in the sunlight on the ceiling. He had plucked it off again and there was the body, Mere flesh and blood no more, But such flesh and so much blood. He struck a light, Kindled a fire and thrust the club into it. There was hair upon the end which blazed and shrunk into a light cinder and, Caught by the air, Whirled up the chimney. Even that frightened him, Sturdy as he was. But he held the weapon till it broke, Then piled it onto the coals to burn away and smoulder into ashes. He washed himself and rubbed his clothes. There were the spots that would not be removed, But he cut the pieces out and burned them. How those stains were dispersed about the room. The very feet of the dog were bloody. All this time, He had never once turned his back upon the corpse. Not for a moment. Such preparations completed, He moved backwards towards the door, Dragging the dog with him, Lest he should soil his feet anew and carry out new evidence of the crime into the streets. He shut the door softly, Locked it, Took the key and left the house. Crossing over, He glanced up at the window, To be sure nothing was visible from the outside. There was the curtain still drawn, Which he would have opened to admit the light she never saw again. It lay nearly under there. He knew that. God, How the sun poured down upon the very spot. The glance was instantaneous. It was a relief to have got free of the room. He whistled on the dog and walked rapidly away. He went through Islington, Strode up the hill at Highgate, On which stands the stone in honour of Whittington. Turned down to Highgate Hill, Unsteady of purpose and uncertain where to go. Struck off to the right again, Almost as soon as he began to descend it, And taking the footpath across the fields, Skirted Canewood, And so came upon Hampstead Heath. Traversing the hollow by the Vale of Heath, He mounted the opposite bank, And crossing the road which joins the villages of Hampstead and Highgate, Made along the remaining portion of the Heath to the fields at North End, In one of which he laid himself down under a hedge and slept. Soon he was up again in a way, Not far into the country, But back towards London by the High Road, Then back again, And over another part of the same ground that he had already traversed, Then wandering up and down in fields and lying on ditches, Brinks to rest, And starting up to make for some other spot, And do the same and ramble on again. Where could he go that was near and not too public? To get some meat and drink? Hendon, That was a good place, Not far off and out on most people's way. Lither, He directed his steps, Running sometimes and sometimes with strange perversity, Loitering at a snail's pace, Or stopping altogether and idly breaking the hedges with a stick. But when he got there, All the people he met seemed to view him with suspicion. Back he turned again without the courage to purchase bit or drop, Though he had tasted no food for many hours, And once more he lingered on the heath uncertain where to go. He wandered over miles and miles of ground and still came back to the old place. Morning and noon had passed, And the day was on the wane, And still he rambled to and fro, Up and down, Round and round, And still he lingered about the same spot. At last he got away and shaped his course for Hatfield. It was nine o'clock at night when the man, Quite tired out, And the dog, Limping and lame, Turned down the hill by the church of the quiet village. He plodded along the little street and crept into a small public house whose scanty light had guided them to the spot. There was a fire in the taproom and some country labourers were drinking before it. They made room for the stranger, But he sat down in the furthest corner and ate and drank alone, Or rather with his dog, To whom he cast a morsel of food from time to time. The conversation of the men assembled here turned upon the neighbouring land and farmers, And when those topics were exhausted, Upon the age of some old man who'd been buried on the previous Sunday. They declared him to have been quite young, Within ten or fifteen year of life in him at least, If he'd taken care. If he had taken care. There was nothing to attract attention or excite alarm in this. The robber, After paying his reckoning, Sat alight and unnoticed in his corner and had almost dropped to sleep when he was half-wakened by the noisy entrance of a newcomer. This was an antic fellow, Half-peddler and half-mount bank, Who travelled about the country on foot to vend homes, Drops, Razors, Washballs, Harness paste, Medicine for dogs and horses, Cheap perfumery, Cosmetics and such like. He carried these in a case slung to his back. His entrance was the signal for various homely jokes with the countrymen, Which slackened not until he'd made his supper and opened his box of treasures, When he ingeniously contrived to unite business with amusement. What that be, Stove? Good to eat, Harry? Asked a grinning countryman, Pointing to some composition cakes in one corner. This, Said the fellow, Is the infallible and invaluable composition for removing all sorts of stain, Rust, Dirt, Mildew, Spick, Speck, Spot or spatter, From silk, Satin, Linen, Cambric, Cloth, Crepe, Stuff, Carpet, Merino, Muslin, Bombazine, All woollen stuff. Wine stains, Fruit stains, Beer stains, Water stains, Paint stains, Peach stains, Any stains, All come out to one rub with the infallible and invaluable composition. If a lady stains her honour, She has only need to swallow one cake and she's cured at once, For it's poison. If a gentleman wants to prove this, He has only need to bolt one little square and he's put it beyond question, For it's quite as satisfactory as a pistol bullet and a great deal nastier in the flavour. Consequently, They're more credit in taking it. One penny a square, With all these virtues, One penny a square. There were two buyers directly and more of the listeners plainly hesitated. The vendor observing this increased in loquacity. It's all bought up as fast as it can be made, He said. There are 14 water mills, Six steam engines and a galvanic battery always a-working upon it and they can't make it fast enough. Though the men work so hard they die off and the widow's is pensioned directly with 20 pound a year for each of the children and a premium of 50 for twins. One penny a square. Two aprons is all the same and four fathers is received with joy. One penny a square. Wine stains, Fruit stains, Beer stains, Water stains, Paint stains, Pitch stains, Mud stains, Blood stains. Here is a stain upon the hat of a gentleman in company that I'll clean take out before he can order me a pint of ale. Ha! Christ's sake, Starting up, Give that back. I'll take it clean out, Sir, Replied the man, Winking to the company, Before you can come across a room to get it. Gentlemen all, Observe the dark stain upon this gentleman's hat, No wider than a shilling but thicker than a half crown. Whether it's a wine stain, Fruit stain, Beer stain, Water stain, Paint stain, Pitch stain, Mud stain or blood stain. The man got no further. For sakes, With a hideous imprecation, Overthrew the table and tearing the hat from him, Burst out of the house. Then he turned back up the town and getting out of the glare of the lamps of a stagecoach that was standing in the street, Was walking past when he recognised the mail from London and saw that it was standing at the little post office. He almost knew what was to come. But he crossed over and listened. The guard was standing at the door, Waiting for the letter bag. A man dressed like a gamekeeper came up at the moment and he handed him a basket which lay on the pavement. That's for your people, Said the guard. Now look alive in there, Will you? Damn that airbag. The one ready night of all last. This won't do, You know. Anything new up in town, Ben? Asked the gamekeeper, Drawing back to the window shutters. They're better to admire the horses. No, Nothing that I know's on. Corn's up a little. I heard talk of a murder too down Spitalfields Way. But I don't reckon much upon it. That's quite true, Said a gentleman inside who was looking out of the window. And a dreadful murder it was. Was it, Sir? Rejoined the guard, Touching his hat. Man or woman, Pray, Sir? A woman, Replied the gentleman. It is supposed. Now, Ben, Replied the coachman impatiently. Damn that airbag, Said the guard. Are you going to sleep in there? Come in, Cried the office keeper, Running out. Then the horn sounded a few cheerful notes and the coach was gone. Sykes remained standing in the street, Apparently unmoved by what he had just heard and agitated by no stronger feeling than a doubt where to go. At length he went back again and took the road which leads from Hatfield to St Albans. On he went doggedly, But as he left the town behind him and plunged into the solitude and darkness of the road, He felt a dread and awe creeping upon him, Which shook him to the core. Every object before him, Substance or shadow, Still or moving, Took the semblance of some fearful thing. But these fears were nothing compared to the sense that haunted him of that morning's ghastly figure following at his heels. He could trace its shadow in the gloom, Supply the smallest item of the outline and know how stiff and solemn it seemed to stalk along. He could hear its garments rustling in the leaves and every breath of wind came laden with that last low cry. If he stopped, It did the same. If he ran, It followed, Not running too. That would have been a relief. But like a corpse endowed with a mere machinery of life and born on one slow melancholy wind that never rose or fell. At times he turned with desperate determination, Resolved to beat this phantom off, Though it should look him dead. But the hair rose on his head and his blood stood still, For it had turned with him and was behind him then. He had kept it before him that morning, But it was behind him now, Always. He leaned his back against a bank and felt it stood above him, Visibly out against the cold night sky. He threw himself upon the road, On his back upon the road. At his head it stood, Silent, Erect and still, A living gravestone with its epitaph in blood. Let no man talk of murderers escaping justice and hint that providence must sleep. There were twenty score of violent deaths in one long minute of that agony of fear. There was a shed in a field he passed that offered shelter for the night. Before the door were three tall poplar trees which made it very dark within and the wind moaned through them with a dismal wail. He could not walk on till daylight came again and here he stretched himself close to the wall to undergo new torture. For now a vision came before him, A constant and more terrible vision than that from which he had escaped. Those widely staring eyes, So lustreless and glassy that he had better borne to see them than think upon them, Appeared in the midst of the darkness. Light in themselves, But giving light to nothing. They were but two, But they were everywhere. If he shut out the sight, There came the room with every well-known object, Some indeed that he would have forgotten if he had gone over its contents from memory, Each in its accustomed place. The body was in its place and its eyes were as he saw them when he stole away. He got up and rushed into the field without. The figure was behind him. He re-entered the shed and shrunk down once more. The eyes were there before he laid himself alone. And there he remained, In such terror as none but he can know, Trembling in every limb and the cold sweat starting from every paw, When suddenly there arose upon the night wind the noise of distant shouting and the roar of voices mingled in alarm and wonder. Any sound of men in that lonely place, Even though it conveyed a real cause of alarm, Was something to him. He regained his strength and energy at the prospect of personal danger and springing to his feet, He rushed into the open air. The broad sky seemed on fire. Rising into the air were showers of sparks and rolling one above the other were sheets of flame lighting the atmosphere for miles around, Driving clouds of smoke in the direction where he stood. The shouts grew louder as new voices swelled the roar and he could hear the cry of fire mingled with the ringing of an alarm bell. There were people there, Men and women, Light, Bustle, It was like new life to him. As he came upon the spot there were half-dressed figures tearing to and fro, Some endeavouring to drag the frightened courses from the stables, Others driving the cattle from the yard and outhouses and others coming laden from the burning pile amidst the shower of falling sparks and the tumbling down of red-hot beams. Women and children shrieked and men encouraged each other with noisy shouts and cheers. The clanking of the engine pumps and the spurting and hissing of the water as it fell upon the blazing wood added to the tremendous roar. He looked suspiciously about him for the men were conversing in groups now and he feared to be the subject of their talk. The dog obeyed the significant beck of his finger and they drew off stealthily together. As he passed the engine where some men were seated and talking he heard them say about the murder. He's gone to Birmingham, They say, But they'll have him yet, But the scouts are out and by tomorrow night there'll be a cry all through the country. Suddenly Bill Sykes took the desperate resolution to go back to London. There's somebody to speak to me there at all event, He thought, A good hiding place too. They'll never expect to now be there after this country's sent. Why can't I lie by for a week or so and force him blunt from Fagan and get abroad to France? Oh, Whisk it. But what about the dog? If any description of him were out it would not be forgotten the dog was missing and had probably gone with him. That led to his apprehension as he passed along the streets. He resolved to drown him and walked on looking about for a pond picking up a heavy stone and tying it to his handkerchief as he went. The animal looked up into his master's face while these preparations were making. Whether his instinct apprehended something of their purpose or the robber's sidelong look at him was sterner than ordinary. He skulked a little further in the rear than usual and cowered as he came more slowly along. Then the dog advanced, Retreated, Paused an instant and scoured away at his hardest speed. The man whistled again and again and sat down and waited in the expectation he would return. But no dog appeared and at length he resumed his journey.