London, my city.
It was a monstrous place.
Commerce and trade had made it that way
and filled its ever expanding streets with the rural poor.
It had also spawned organised criminal gangs looking to stake a claim.
The most notorious of these rejoiced in the title of the "Royal Family".
Our Bow Street runners had arrested their leader, Mr Jones,
and flung him in jail believing this would leave his gang decapitated.
THE WESTMINSTER GATEHOUSE
Who the devil is that?
You want a girl? She's pretty.
- She a virgin? - Do you think I'd offer her to you if she was a virgin?
But she's a good lass. Come on, sir, unless you'd rather be fucking your own prisoners.
- Can she go around seven? - She's been known to provide for a whole platoon.
Why didn't you say?
Come on, give me your keys.
Come on. Come on, lads.
Shit.
This war had begun after I had made my proposal to Parliament to remedy this growing evil.
I had turned my attention from my celebrated works of fiction and accepted the post of magistrate of Westminster.
And with my brother John, blind since youth, I had resolved to create a new organisation that would bring law and order.
London was in need of a police force.
- Episodio 4 - Transcript by Evarin - Synchro: supermauri
Traduzione: Bally Revisione: AlexandraD
The Royal Family performed their most audacious jail break from the Westminster Gatehouse on January 20th,
and reclaimed their leader, the infamous Mr Jones.
Just strolled in and took him.
- Two of my men are serious wounded. - Fatally, by any chance?
And then disappeared into thin air?
- We were overwhelmed, sir. - And is it your custom to open the Gatehouse to any fuckster
who passes by and requests it? - As I said, Mr Fielding, they forced the gates.
I'll look to my men. - Yes, cretin!
- Every arse wipe will be laughing at us. - Let us be discreet. We have to find him before Lord Newcastle
and Parliament find out we've lost him. - It were a difficult enough task to find him last time.
We had previously lured Mr Jones into our trap in Mayfair,
but he wouldn't be so easy to fool again.
Back in Seven Dials, he would think himself impregnable.
Now, gentlemen, to the rats' nest.
They won't surrender him easily.
So, unlike those bastard prison guards, let us not underestimate them.
Vigilance and co-ordination will be essential. - Hence the costumes.
I didn't know this work would involve me acting, Mr Fielding. - No, no, that's very good, Mr Pentlow, you've got the part.
Oh, and we scuff our shoes and abandon our wigs.
- We? Henry? - Well, Mr Pentlow will protect me.
- No, don't be absurd, it's too dangerous. - I need Mr Pentlow for the work itself, sir.
Mr Welch, I cannot command you to do something I would not do myself.
- Henry, be sensible, Henry. - There!
Complete transformation!
Most of London's criminal gangs retreated to this unchartered labyrinth
around Seven Dials on the frontier of Covent Garden.
SEVEN DIALS
They called it "the Rookeries" presumably in reference to its network of thieves' nests.
Watch out for yourselves.
It was certainly filled to bursting.
When Saunders Welch had attempted to perform a census here,
he found in two small houses no less than 70 people
abandoned by society and with little respect for the law.
Move away. Move away.
See, Mr Fielding, why you must stay here.
Or your brother will boil my cods for supper.
The ad hoc housing did not follow the grand plans initiated since the Great Fire.
There was no building code here.
It was a far cry from the stout colonnades of the Covent Garden piazza.
Mr Fielding, I must insist.
You can insist all you like.
Fucking hell!
Look out!
Stay here, it's dangerous.
- My safety is not the issue. - Please just stay there. I'll help.
I can't hold it, man.
Where's Fielding?
Mr Fielding! Mr Fielding!
Sir! Mr Fielding!
Mr Magistrate himself!
We were all so distracted, Mr Fielding.
I saw at least two dead.
Like a battlefield from some godforsaken foreign war.
My fault. I shouldn't have took my eyes off him.
We searched for him in the rubble, but...
We must assume they have him, gentlemen.
They're well known, this Royal Family.
Scour the Dials for informants. Every footpad, every beggar.
Someone will know where they nest. Go, go.
On my life, we will find your brother, sir.
His pig head is to blame.
He shouldn't have been there.
He was always a hopeless actor.
What will they do to him, Mr Welch?
Will they send him back to us one limb at a time, to demonstrate our impotence?
Seven Dials was a place forsaken by God and the law.
Few in the judiciary knew or cared what went on here...
..where infant mortality was among the highest in England.
Where 20 people a week died of starvation...
and where those children who did survive
could only do so by mimicking the villains who bred them.
Sit down.
Sit down!
Slice the fucking head off, slow.
Hello.
If I'm harmed, Mr Jones...
hell will break loose!
I'm already sentenced to be hanged.
Have you some greater hell than that?
Well, kill me if that's your plan.
Don't we want us to kill him?
Who are we to argue?
Maybe he doesn't deserve it...
..yet.
What do you think, Patrick?
Dunno, Tom. What's the right punishment for a magistrate?
That's a good question.
That is a very good question.
Oh, God!
See, Your Worship, what happens to people when you've done with them.
This is the third house this week to come down.
I'll get something for the pain.
Shall I go and see how much the good magistrate's brother will pay?
Come on, Tom.
I showed I can take care of myself.
Yeah.
Look at you, you big dangerous criminal.
Be quick.
And while we wait, Mr Fielding, for your brother to name your price...
..let's see if...you deserve to do it.
A little trial for the Magistrate of Westminster and Middlesex.
What do you say?
You can speak up for yourself, and I'll be your prosecutor.
Aye aye! Anything?
Right, check yourself back down there and you go down there, and we keep looking, yes?
Saunders Welch had been high constable of Holborn for six years
and had an extensive network of informants.
To be beyond this long reach was truly to be lost.
How much money do you suppose they'll want?
Surely your friends in Parliament will give assistance if...
if the request is unreasonable.
He was always the boy adventurer...
..looking for the next quaff of excitement.
Leaving others to worry for his safety.
You know I was always more conscious of the dangers around us.
Funny really.
Mr Welch?
So far, no word of any kind, sir.
You must be exhausted.
Would you like me to arrange for some supper?
Thank you, Mrs Fielding.
A little food might assist me.
You've got to appreciate the irony, Mr Fielding, even if you can't, right now, enjoy it.
Irony?
I'm Tom Jones.
Your most celebrated creation.
My creation was neither rapist, nor murderer.
Happily enough, I'm not a foundling.
Loved my father very much, so I did.
He was hanged for thieving a pig.
And I won't find that I'm the nephew of some rich Squire,
nor marry his daughter, nor inherit acres of his land.
I see someone has recounted you the plot.
No...he reads fucking voraciously.
Like a fucking priest!
"Is it that some natures delight in evil, as others are thought to delight in virtue?"
That's you. Book one, chapter ten.
Why is it you're good and I'm evil?
Perhaps your father, the thief, was spawned by the Devil.
He taught me to read, my father.
Maybe I could have been a scholar.
It's a waste of breath, Tom, your little game.
So...
..case for the prosecution.
You have a world of misfortune to describe...
..a veil of bloody tears to walk through,
and it doesn't matter to you that what you say is the truth?
That's not true.
Your compters...
..your sponging houses, your jails, your gallows, your runners.
All in the service of justice?
The truth is, Mr Fielding,
that your profession is keeping the rich safe from the rest of us.
And you should be at liberty to enter people's houses,
plunder their property, violate their children...unimpeached?
Justice! Is this justice?
A sick girl is not a counter-argument to cupidity.
Damn your fine words, Mr Magistrate.
This girl is my sister.
And she has a name.
Magistrate, Mr Fielding.
What would you want with Mr Fielding?
I'm here to make terms for his brother.
Is my brother safe?
For now, sir.
What ransom do you demand?
Nice place.
Let's say a hundred guineas.
Well...
that may take some time.
We can wait.
Good.
Well, patience is a virtue.
At least you have one.
Don't be thinking you can fuck us, Mr Fielding.
We're the fucking Royal Family.
Am I making myself understood?
You are.
Mr Welch. Manacle him, put him in the courtroom. In the courtroom!
You let go of me, you prick!
Hurt me in any way, Mr Fielding, and your damned brother will have his throat slit!
This court session is now adjourned.
John!
The boy will talk.
What if he doesn't?!
It's the principle, Mrs Fielding.
If we surrendered to this demand neither you, nor your children,
would be safe from every vagabond willing to chance his luck.
Kindly leave the premises as fast as you can.
Don't be afraid.
This one will talk...
very quickly. I promise you.
She was like this when she came out of Bridewell.
She'd been there for over a year, I took her what coin I could.
Enough for bread, bit of gin.
But the jailers, they hurt her.
They kicked her out on the street.
She was wandering round Seven Dials.
She couldn't find me.
I didn't know she was out.
She ended up in one of them houses what's got 50 to the room
till the whole place burnt down.
First time I saw her she'd been brought in here.
Her name is Jane Carter. And don't you pretend you don't know her.
I'm sorry, I don't.
Oh, yes, you do.
It was you sent her to Bridewell!
Windfall for the prosecution, I think!
Hundreds of young women come before me every year!
And do you sentence all of them to a fate like this?
I didn't send people to prison for my own amusement.
She must have broken the law.
Perhaps my actions...
saved her from the gallows.
Generous of you, that Pragmatic.
She was only young. You didn't have to send her to prison.
I don't make the law.
No, you're just its servant.
Yes.
Huh!
I didn't compel her to become a whore or a gin dependent.
Perhaps that was you.
Oh, and who was it forced you to soak yourself in port?
And nobody sent you to jail.
Why is that?
I understand the need to dull the pain.
Even escape from reality on occasion.
But it's never occurred to me to profit from it!
He thinks this is how we profit, Tom!
Well, isn't it? He's a thief. You pimp Madam Geneva to the destitute.
The world's an ugly place, Mr Fielding, when you're destitute.
Takes a drop of gin to make it pretty, and Niall keeps the gin pure.
There's others like Talbot here put acid in it.
So your actions are largely philanthropic?
Get him up.
You're a servant, all right.
But not of the law.
You've got plans. Ambitions.
You hunger to leave your mark.
My brother and I are...
beginning...
..attempting to give society some kind of moral framework.
Polite society.
We're seeking to protect those who choose to make an honest living,
against those who chose to break their heads in alleyways
and make off with their purses and their pigs!
Please don't tell me you're a tribune to the people.
You're a rapacious thief with blood on your hands, to which you may well add mine.
Be assured...
you'll hang for it.
He thinks he's better than us.
My father was a gentleman, a glove maker,
till our house burned down and we were out on the streets.
You wanna see what our life tastes of, Mr Magistrate?
The life you're too good for.
See how damnable sweet it is!
You're as guilty as sin, Mr Fielding.
You write these stories with their happy endings,
and polite society buys them, and they find them clever.
Saucy. But you're all just lifting your skirts above the shit and holding your noses.
This is the good stuff.
This is the stuff that doesn't actually burn you from the inside out.
That's enough!
You're much stupider than I expected.
You're good with words, but that's about the limit of it.
Jesus, where the fuck is Patrick?!
Should have been back by now.
What's your name, boy?
Patrick Jones.
Your coming here was very foolish, Patrick Jones.
You're Thomas Jones's brother, are you not?
Yeah. That's right.
You can do a trade.
A trade.
No trade. Just tell us where the rancid shit-sack is.
Your brother, Mr Fielding, what type of man is he?
Does he love you?
Has he some reason to welcome your death?
Quinn!
Go to Bow Street.
See what you can learn. Alone.
Stay in shadows, yeah.
My brother better be safe, and unharmed, Mr Fielding,
or you'll see a side of me that you won't much like.
John Fielding was my half-brother, the son of a Catholic mother.
As a youth, he joined the Navy, but his sight was poor,
and a quack's remedy had blinded him completely.
Do you ever get used to the dark?
It's a question I've asked myself many times.
Er...how old are you, boy?
21.
Yes, I was 19 when I lost my sight.
And I've been in darkness ever since.
The answer is no.
You never do.
You see, I still have memories of er...sunshine.
And summer.
And fair skin.
You have threatened my family, my brother.
For that, you will either rot in jail, far away from daylight,
till disease cripples you and you cough up blood till none is left, or you will swing,
and spend eternity in a darkness than burns and burns.
Darkness. Either way...
You really have nothing to lose.
Tell me where my brother is.
It's a fair trade, sir, hm?
Is it not?
To get your beloved brother, give me back to mine.
Is he jealous of you, your brother?
I mean, I'm sure he admires you.
A great writer, one of the sharpest minds of the age.
But where does that leave him?
Has he got something to prove?
If the dog's prick won't pay, what's to be gained from this?
Send his head to Bow Street!
What has that blind bastard done with my brother?
Case for the defence, Mr Jones.
This is a city of violent men and women.
The law must be swift and brutal in its response,
and its practitioners as ruthless as those who break it.
All I want for your freedom is a little fucking coin!
Patrick won't betray us.
He has a strong heart.
You see, if I'm honest with myself, my brother hasn't many years in him.
He's really not very well and he's growing old.
And this is my brother's work.
He wants to see an end to crime in this city before he is dead.
And he will die believing he succeeded.
You, and the thieving vagabonds of your family, will not stand in his way.
Tell me where he is.
Or Mr Welch will take out his knife and begin to cut you with it.
Your brother is well-known, Mr Fielding.
If we return to the place, offer some money, perhaps someone might furnish us.
But nobody has.
Your people have been asking, we're out of time.
Mr Jones is here, and he can tell us what we need to know.
Give me the knife.
Suppose this stratagem should fail, sir, your brother's life is at stake.
Everything that my brother has achieved is at stake as well.
Give me the knife.
Tell me where he is.
Where is he?
I will never tell you.
Where is he, boy? Where is he?
In the morning, I might make the journey to Twickenham with the children,
and stay there for a while.
I want you to ensure that my brother-in-law's every need is attended to.
I will never tell you.
I could cut it.
Or pop it from its socket with the blade.
Or pierce it.
Lance the eye like a boil.
Let's start with blood.
Is it loyalty to your brother, this stubborn courage?
Or fear of his revenge?
You want him to hang!
Nothing you can do will stop him from hanging, but if you co-operate, you can save yourself.
Damn you.
You have to talk!
She's dead.
I'm sorry.
You're sorry?!
You see.
There are no happy endings.
Jane doesn't find out she's the lost daughter of some aristocrat,
or marry the handsome son of the lord of the manor, and live bliss for the rest of her days.
She just dies.
Cold.
Hurting.
I'm not a stranger to misfortune, Mr Jones.
When you take all that vast knowledge, and all that richness of fucking experience...
to dishing out justice Judgment?
I think, gentleman, it's time to make a judgment of our own.
What do you think?
Is Mr Fielding guilty...
or innocent?
Guilty.
For the love of God, I will never tell you!
We're wasting time here, sir!
Believe you me, Mr Welch, he will tell us!
I will never tell.
Talk!
I will never tell you.
Yes, slit his shitty-arsed throat Leave
his stinking cadaver on the steps of his house.
That would be justice.
An eye for an eye.
He was there, Tom.
I heard him screaming.
What?
He was screaming, Tom.
Patrick's going to betray you. Tom
Kill this bastard and get out of London.
Say that again about my brother and I will kill you.
Act quickly, and we can help each other.
Release me and I can save your brother.
Assemble some men. Go to Bow Street.
Burn it down if you have to.
Bad idea.
This time it'll be the army.
Thus far, the government doesn't know of your escape.
We omitted to inform them.
Call it the sin of pride.
Setting fire to Bow Street will be seen as an act of war.
I don't imagine that's exactly what you have in mind.
Talbot.
Go to Bow Street.
Tell them we exchange his brother for mine.
Quin, you stay here.
You're all going to die in here.
Get out!
Jesus, your brother is a stupid man.
Be quick, Mr Welch.
Yes, sir.
I hope we don't learn that to pay the hundred guineas would've been quicker.
Even if your brother hands back mine, I cannot let you go.
You know that, don't you?
I'm Tom Jones, leader of the Royal Family.
And there's nothing more important than your reputation.
That's why you came looking for me.
What will people say if you just let me be?
People are terrified of Tom Jones.
But they won't be if we're made a fool of.
Sit over there.
As long as your brother refuse your ransom, you're a dead man.
It's a proper kick this, like a horse. Sulphur and acid.
This much, if you drink it quick, will kill you.
After a bit, you won't feel too much pain, you'll be too drunk.
It's kinder than a knife.
You want to soak your foot?
What?
Fuck off!
Are you in pain or not?
The water's cold.
You must be very proud of all your achievements.
I mean, I know the plays weren't meant to be so great, not Shakespeare by all accounts.
Oh, you're a Shakespeare scholar too?
And all those tracts and pamphlets.
But if I were you, it's the books that would count the most.
They're your legacy.
Making the city safe.
I'd settle for that.
How many will your brother have to hang before it's safe?
I think about getting hanged, you know.
How much it'll hurt, how long it'll take.
Will anyone cry for me?
I think there's some advantage...in a slow death.
So much life, suddenly it's gone and you never felt it.
Death, so important.
Here it is, you've waited for.
Run!
Come this way!
Looking back on your life, do you think it was worth it...
..if I end up in hell?
I've committed many sins.
There's no certainty my soul won't burn.
Drink up, Mr Fielding.
Quick!
Tom!
Get up!
Fuckin'...back me up!
Fuck!
Get over here, get over here.
I'll kill him!
In here!
Where's my brother?
Downstairs.
Led us right to you, you damned Boglander.
Was he hurt?
He'll live.
This is your lucky man, Mr Fielding.
I'd rather have my day on the gallows.
Are you all right, Mr Fielding?
Fucking foot!
I am so sorry, Mr Fielding, Sir.
It's not your fault.
No, no. Not your fault.
You're a stupid man, Henry Fielding.
Though, apparently, not bad with words.
I'll bid you good day, Mr Welch.
I trust your affairs are in order, Henry.
Your debts cleared.
The security of your wife and children attended to for when you're dead.
The popular press was full of stories of the escapades of the Royal Family.
They reported that Tom Quin, Tom Talbot and the rest of the gang were in custody once more,
but excitedly speculated that there might be one more daring escape.
Fetch him water to clean himself, and to drink. Take off the manacles.
Sorry, Mr Fielding.
This dog-meat's escaped once already.
He's in manacles till we take him to hang.
But I can fetch you a pitcher of water.
Find a clean cloth.
How's the foot?
Agony.
Will there be anything else, Mr Fielding?
Just try and keep the front gate locked.
You remind me of my father.
The pig thief.
The man who taught me how to read.
He'd be very disappointed to see me now.
Following his bad example.
My father only committed the one crime in his life.
I thought I might as well die for 100.
There was nothing to stop you making an honest living.
Fielding, for most of us, this is a foul, stinking shithouse city we live in.
Question is how you're gonna eat, if you're gonna eat today.
If it tastes of something, celebrate.
If we manage not to steal someone's purse, or kill them,
to survive the night, then we've acted like holy men.
You should've been a writer.
You're preparing for martyrdom.
What would you know about it?
"Oh, the world is so unjust.
The plight of the poor, how terrible "The indifference of the rich"
How dreadful. You're a thief, a common thief. Nothing more.
Then why did you come here?
Why are you washing me face?
No point in spitting in a dirty face.
Won't be the first time I've been spat on.
Or the last.
Men like me die to make sense of your life.
I couldn't agree with that because that would make sense of yours.
And your little life had no meaning.
No more will your little death.
Your choice, Tom.
You're denied the luxury of blaming me.
And your law says everybody's got to hang.
Fielding, what is gonna happen to my little brother?
We'll hang him, too.
Tom...
We mean to destroy you.
You and your ilk.
Christ, Tom...
Highwaymen, footpads, pickpockets, pimps, cheats...
Gangs of you who turn London into a...
..city of vice.
We will destroy you.
In years to come, people will marvel there were such as you.
Fielding.
My brother didn't choose this life.
I'm his only family.
He doesn't deserve to die, like that little girl you sent to the Bridewell didn't deserve to die.
That is a death that you wish you could atone for!
Goodbye, Mr Jones.
You fucking...
You bastard, Fielding!
He doesn't deserve... Let him go!
Mr Fielding. Mr Fielding.
My Lord.
I'm told you encountered some difficulty in this affair, Fielding.
Little beyond the call of duty, my Lord.
Good.
A job well done, then.
Sir.
Parliament has decided to keep your runners on their feet for another year, at least.
Thank you, my Lord!
That's marvellous news.
We'll seek to build on that.
In 1752, there were nine hanging days at Tiburn,
where 43 men and three women were hanged.
Justice had to be seen to be done.
And so Tom Jones got his day on the gallows.
It would be, as requested, a slow death.
At least five minutes of asphyxiation.
He and his colleagues would urinate, defecate and ejaculate before they expired.
That's what drew the crowds.
If Patrick Jones had not submitted to you, his brother would have killed me.
Well, he did submit.
You could have just found the 100 guineas.
Henry...
I thank God...
with all my soul that you are safe.
I had said to Mr Jones that it was not by my career as a novelist
that I would choose to be remembered.
But by my work as a magistrate.
And this was a mission that my brother and I would continue.
We'll gain a police force.
incorruptible, unimpeachable, detempting to keep peace without wanton city,
as she spread herself across the landscape,
a terrible but awesome mistress:
London.