A Watch in the Rain

"It was not the rain that marked me that day, but the weight of a watch I should never have held."

I let my mind drift back to the day it had all begun, though each recollection cut like a blade twisting deeper into my chest. The market had been its usual cacophony of noise and motion, a living tide of voices, cart wheels, and haggling cries. The cobblestones gleamed slick beneath my boots, polished to a treacherous shine by the sudden spring shower that had swept through only moments before. Rainwater lingered in shallow pools, filling the cracks between stones, and in their still surfaces the dull pewter of the sky was reflected back at me.

The air had carried its own dense mixture, thick and unmistakable—the briny tang of the Solent drifting in with the tide, the sharper bite of fish hauled fresh from the boats and slapped down upon wooden slabs, mingled with the sweet, cloying rot of fruit piled high on vendors’ carts, skins split and soft from the damp. It was Portsmouth in all its rawness: salt, sweat, and commerce, pressing in from every side.

I had meant only to linger a moment, perhaps exchange a few words with the dock workers loitering by the quay before returning to Harrison’s counting house. But that was when I saw him—Jack Hawley. He leaned indolently against a rain-streaked wall, his figure blurred at first in the drizzle but sharpened as I drew nearer. His grin was there before his words, a crooked slash of amusement that gleamed as sharp and dangerous as the edge of a sailor’s knife.

Beneath the brim of his shapeless cap, a shock of red hair caught the dull light, glinting like copper left to rust in the rain. His eyes narrowed as he looked me over, a glimmer of mischief—or malice—playing in them, though his manner seemed easy enough.

“You’re looking for a bit of coin, aren’t you?” he said, his tone smooth and unhurried, the kind of voice that might slip unnoticed through the clamour of a crowded room. As he spoke, tobacco smoke curled lazily from the short clay pipe clamped between his teeth, winding into the damp air like some pale serpent. “A clever lad like you, working in a counting house—you must know how to turn a profit.”

The words had hung there, glistening like bait on a hook.

I should have walked away. God help me, I should have turned my back and gone about my business, just as Father had always warned me when it came to men like Jack. “Them as speaks of easy money,” he’d say, his voice rough with certainty earned through hard years, “usually means to make it easy for themselves and hard for you.” I could almost hear him then, his words striking as true as any hammer blow.

But desperation makes fools of us all. Jack’s easy grin, his smooth talk, the way his words slid into the cracks of a man’s mind—they worked their way under my skin like a barbed hook that would not be shaken loose. I tried to steady myself, but images came unbidden, gnawing at my resolve.

I thought of Mother’s shoes, the leather worn so thin it was scarcely more than cloth, patched and stitched until the needle had nothing left to bite. They kept little of the damp from her feet, and yet she smiled through it, pretending they served her still. I thought of Father’s cough, that dreadful bark that rattled in his chest each night, tearing at him until he bent double, his face drawn tight with pain. Every spasm seemed to wrench another measure of life from him, and still he rose each morning to the docks, for there was no other choice. The medicine that might have eased him lay always beyond our reach, locked behind counters and coin we did not possess.

And so, I had listened. God forgive me, I had listened.

The memory of that day was carved into me, every detail etched sharp as though it had happened but moments ago. I could still feel the weight of the pocket watch in my hand, its presence undeniable. The cold metal pressed into my palm with an unforgiving certainty, smooth as river stone yet heavy with a guilt that seemed to seep into my very skin. Jack had called it gold-plated, his crooked smile daring me to believe the lie. But I knew better. Years spent poring over ledgers and weighing trinkets in Mr Harrison’s counting house had taught me the truth of such things. It was no cheap imitation. It was genuine—solid, valuable, gleaming with a promise I had let myself believe could ease my family’s burden, if only for a time.

But the relief I had imagined never came. Instead came the panic, sharp and merciless. The memory of it still quickened my pulse—the sound of Constable Greaves’ boots striking wet cobbles, each step a thunderous drumbeat pounding in my chest. Louder and louder they grew, echoing through the narrow market lane until they drowned out every other noise. I had looked up and found his eyes fixed upon me, cold and narrow, suspicion flashing like steel. In that instant I knew—knew with a certainty that crushed all hope—that it was over.

The pocket watch, the whispered promise of Jack’s fence, the false glimmer of escape—all of it dissolved like mist. The watch was no longer mine to weigh in my palm, no longer a symbol of desperate hope. It sat now in some constable’s box, tagged and catalogued, its gleaming face waiting patiently to condemn me.

And here I was. Portsmouth Gaol. The walls pressed close, damp and unyielding, as if to remind me of what I had traded for that moment’s folly. My life lay in tatters, my family’s name smeared and soiled, dragged through the mud for the sake of a single watch and a single foolish choice. The shame of it clung to me, heavier than the irons I would soon bear.

I thought of Mother again, her face rising unbidden before me as though conjured by the very silence of the cell. I saw her hands first—those steady, tireless hands, chapped and reddened from years of labour. They were never still, always mending, kneading, scrubbing, stitching. Even in weariness, there was a deftness to her movements, whether she was stirring the pot for our supper or repairing the frayed cuff of Father’s jacket by the firelight. Her patient smile accompanied those hands, a quiet balm, and her voice—warm and soft even in hardship—seemed to carry a promise that we could endure, so long as we endured together.

I thought too of those rare, fleeting moments when laughter had filled our home. It was never loud nor long, but brief and precious, light as a bird’s song alighting on the eaves before flying off again. Those moments lingered in memory all the brighter for their rarity, jewels set against the plain cloth of our lives.

Mother would often sing as she worked, her voice carrying through the small rooms of the house like a thread binding us together. The melodies were simple, lilting tunes of sailors gone to sea and maidens who waited faithfully on the shore. Songs of love and loss, of longing and return. When I was a boy, I would join her, my thin voice stumbling clumsily over the words. Yet she always encouraged me with that smile of hers, as though the tune mattered less than the courage to sing it.

Father, ever the pragmatist, would grumble from his seat beside the hearth, ledger or pipe in hand. “Enough of that, now,” he’d mutter, his tone more weary than stern. “The lad’s got work to do. Numbers won’t add themselves.”

But Mother would hush him with a playful wave of her flour-dusted hand, her eyes sparkling with a mischief so rare it seemed to transform her whole face. “Let him sing,” she’d say, her voice bright and firm. “The world’s hard enough as it is. Music lightens the heart, and God knows we need that more than bread sometimes.”

Those moments felt impossibly distant now, as unreachable as the stars that pricked the night sky beyond the gaol’s stone walls. They belonged to another life, another William Jeffries. A boy still rich with hope, still unbroken by disgrace, still believing the future could be his.

The man who now sat in this cell was a stranger to that boy—his hands heavy with guilt, his heart hollowed out by regret.

I rubbed my hands over my face, dragging my fingers hard against my skin as if I could scrape away the thoughts that clung to me. The coarse rasp of calloused fingertips did nothing to clear them; they lingered like cobwebs in some forgotten corner, silken yet suffocating, impossible to dislodge. They wrapped tight about my mind, insistent, inescapable. What use were memories now? What comfort could they give when the damage was already done?

I saw again the polished composure of Mr Blackwell as he gave his account—calm, measured, and damning in its every syllable. I could hear the weight of his voice, the certainty that draped over his words like a judge’s robe. Who would stand against him? What chance had I, a mere clerk, against a merchant with coin enough to purchase loyalty, influence enough to sway the scales of justice? The verdict was all but spoken, and I could see Botany Bay stretching before me—seven years, perhaps more, among cutthroats and outcasts, in that harsh and distant land at the far edge of the world.

My hand strayed towards the bread again, almost by instinct, but at the sight of it my stomach rebelled. The crust seemed harder, darker, less like food than some cruel jest. I let it fall back onto the tray, where it landed with a dull, hollow thud. The sound carried through the cell, magnified by the stillness, as though mocking me with its finality.

Leaning back, I pressed myself against the wall, the chill of the stone sinking straight through to my bones. Its unforgiving hardness dug into my spine, reminding me with every breath of where I was, of what I had become. The rough surface snagged at the fabric of my shirt, pulling threads loose with the smallest movements. Each tiny tug was an anchor, binding me to this grim reality from which there was no waking, no escape.

From beyond the gaol’s thick walls, the faint murmur of Portsmouth stirring to life drifted in, softened by distance yet clear enough to pierce the silence of my cell. The wooden groan of cartwheels rattled over the uneven cobbles, their rhythm punctuated by the sharp calls of gulls wheeling high above the harbour, their cries as harsh and hungry as the sea itself. Fainter still, carried on the morning air, came the voices of vendors echoing through the crooked lanes—ragged shouts hawking fish, bread, and trinkets, each call overlapping, weaving into the familiar clamour of the city’s trade. Life beyond these walls was already moving forward, relentless and indifferent, blind to the fate of one dockworker’s son rotting in confinement.

I pictured Mr Harrison even then, perhaps unlocking the stout oak doors of his counting house, the iron key turning smoothly in the lock. He would step inside, his boots striking the polished boards with measured certainty, his every action deliberate. Perhaps he was already rehearsing the words he would speak before the magistrate—the same words that would weigh upon me like chains, sealing my fate with their calm certainty.

Would he think of me at all, I wondered, beyond the inconvenience I had been to him? Was I to him merely a blot in his ledger, a small loss written off against larger gains? Or would my name be spoken in that courtroom with the same detachment he might use to tally coin, to balance accounts? The thought gnawed at me: that I might be nothing more to him than a figure entered and struck through, an error corrected, a nuisance neatly removed.

The cell seemed to draw tighter around me, its air thick and stale, unmoving as though it had lain undisturbed for centuries. The closeness pressed against my chest until each breath felt like labour. I clenched my fists, driving my nails deep into my palms, the small pain a feeble anchor to steady the rising tide within me. There was no profit in wishing for what could not be. No turning back the clock, no unwinding the choices I had made. Foolish, yes. Short-sighted, undoubtedly. But they were mine, mine to own, and their weight bore down upon me with the same merciless certainty as the stones of the gaol.

With an effort that felt greater than it had any right to be, I pushed myself upright. My body moved stiffly, every joint reluctant, my legs as heavy as if iron had already been shackled to them. Yet I could not remain still—not a moment longer. The stillness was worse than the cold, worse than the hunger; it gnawed at me, threatened to devour me whole.

So I paced. Slowly, deliberately, I set one foot before the other and traced the narrow length of the cell. Seven paces from wall to wall—I had measured it a hundred times before, and still I counted, lips moving silently with each step as though the numbers themselves might hold me together. Back and forth, back and forth, the sound of my bare feet striking the stone rose into the silence, faint but steady. It became a rhythm, the only rhythm I could command, a fragile defiance against despair pressing in from all sides. For as long as I moved, I was not yet beaten.

“Mother,” I whispered, my voice trembling and hoarse in the silence. “Father.”

The names clung to the air as though reluctant to fade, unanswered, unanswered as they had always been within these walls. I closed my eyes, and the ache in my chest swelled until it seemed to fill every part of me, pressing against my ribs, rising into my throat. Would they ever forgive me? Could they? Did I even deserve such grace? The questions wound themselves around my thoughts like thorns, biting deep, and yet no answers came—only silence, thick and merciless.

Pausing, I stood there in the dim light, unmoving, while the pale beam from the narrow window shifted almost imperceptibly, marking the slow, inexorable march of the morning. It drew faint, fragile patterns across the flagstones—fleeting shapes that vanished as quickly as they appeared. That fragile light was all the world I possessed, and I let it settle on me like a benediction.

I drew in a breath, deep and steady, forcing the tremor from my chest. One thing I could resolve: I would face what was to come with such dignity as I could muster. If not for myself, then for them—my mother with her tired hands and her unyielding love, my father with his stooped back and his unbroken pride. Whatever lay ahead, I would not dishonour them further by crumbling before the eyes of Portsmouth.

The bread might have turned to ash in my mouth, the cheese to stone, yet I would endure. For their sake. For the sake of the sacrifices they had laid upon the altar of my future. And perhaps—though it seemed a fragile, desperate hope—in the years to come, in that harsh and distant land across the sea, I might find some way, however small, to atone for the shame I had brought upon their name.

A bell tolled in the distance then—low, resonant, unhurried. The sound rolled through the stone walls, filling the air like a solemn decree. I counted each strike as though they were blows struck upon my very soul.

Eight.

The hour of my judgment was at hand.