loonylove @ TDA.
***
June, 1872.
London, England.
The crowd was silent as the noose was tightened around his neck. He stayed there, looking bored, as the executioner stood back and the judge read out his charges.
"Jacob Smith, you are hereby charged with adultery, thievery, murder of the first degree and treason. Your sentence is death by hanging. Any last words?"
He rubbed at the rope bound around his wrists, itching him, and looked up to the judge and smirked lazily. "I guess I'm just a greedy boy."
The crowd stared in stunned silence, both at his indifference to the fact he was going to die and his answer. The judge only nodded once to the executioner.
He laughed as the lever was pulled and he dropped. He didn't move or try to fight. His eyes were glued to the judge standing across from him, until, finally, they closed slowly and his head dropped.
***
His body was cut down and dragged away to the door leading to the prison doctor an hour later and they carried him to the table, ready to bury his body in the shallow grave they had made earlier. They dropped him on to the table and left.
"He's definitely dead," one shouted. "He ain't breathing!"
He waited until he heard the door slam shut again, then grinned and opened his eyes, sitting up quickly. "Idiots," he muttered gleefully, shaking his head. He jumped off of the table, walked across the cell and glanced out the door; the place was empty. He strolled to the front door, unafraid, ignoring the consequence of being caught.
The door shut just as he saw the man who had brought him entered his cell from the other direction. "Where's he gone? Find Smith! This isn't possible!"
He laughed all the way down the cobbled street and turned the corner. It was late and the town was empty; it was so easy to leave. He couldn't have timed it better. The alarm sounded and he ran to the next corner. "Time to go," he said to no one. He was gone before the officials could reach the street corner.
***
He stuffed what he needed into a bag; clothes, money, food, and changed his clothes, leaving his discarded garments on the floor. They'd come here looking for him first anyway; he wanted them to know that they were too late. Throwing his bed to the floor, he stuck his finger into the small hole in the corner of the wooden floor board and pulled it back to reveal what he had come back for.
He heard shouts from below and grabbed his bag, shrinking it and putting it into his pocket. He opened the window as he heard them charge up the stairs.
"Now or never," he murmured.
He jumped, landing onto his feet to the ground and ran into the direction of the river. He had a few minutes at most.
He sped up when he saw the boat leave and leapt across the dock, just missing the water. He leant against the boat and watched as England disappeared from view. America would be in his sights soon enough and his work would begin again.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small red jewel and held it up. "All this trouble just for you," he whispered. "I almost exposed myself."
He slept with the Judge's wife and mistress, he stole the jewel and drained the blood of the man who kept it safe. "Worth it."
"What are you doin' back here?"
He put it back in his pocket and turned around quickly, his mind coming up with a plan; he couldn't come all this way just to lose his chance to get to America now. What he needed what there. "I need to get to America." His voice sounded frantic.
The old man limped to his side, his face stern. "An' who gave you permission to come aboard me boat."
He breathed deeply in and out, his voice ragged. "P-please, my dad, he tried to kill me. I had to leave. Please help me. I just need the ride to America, then you'll never see me again."
It worked. The old man's face fell slightly and he nodded stiffly. "You'll pay your way."
He nodded enthusiastically. "Don't worry, I'll make sure of it."
"What's your name, boy?"
He looked across the water. England was a speck in the darkness and his name was gone forever. He was ready for a new world with a new identity. "It's Chase," he said, a ghost of a smirk on his lips, one he kept hidden from the old man. "Tristan Chase."
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