The Devil in the Marshalsea - [6]

A sharp breeze blew down the alley, and a butcher’s sign creaked on its hinges. I stopped, startled, then cursed softly. I didn’t recognise this street. There was a scent of turpentine in the air – the sharp tang of a nearby gin still. A burst of drunken laughter sounded in the distance. St Giles. We had reached St Giles.

I spun about wildly, panic flaring in my chest. Somehow, instead of heading west for Soho, we’d blundered into the most infamous slum in London. Only a fool walked alone here at night. I pulled my dagger from my belt; thank God I’d had the sense not to pawn it.

The link boy had run on ahead but now he stuttered to a halt, and shot me a curious look.

‘What’s your name, boy?’ I called.

He cupped his hand over the torch, shielding it from the wind. ‘Sam.’

‘You a moon-curser, Sam?’ Moll had warned me about them when I’d first arrived in town – link boys who lured their victims away from the safe streets to be set upon in the shadows.

He smiled. ‘Do I look like one?’ he mimicked.

The little bastard. I strode towards him, footsteps loud in my ears, a thousand eyes on my back.

‘We must leave here. At once.’

I was just five paces from him now. He was standing quite still and silent; a stone cherub on a tomb. And then he glanced over my shoulder – a quick, furtive look.

The light tread of footsteps close behind me. Too close – much too close. An arm around my neck. My dagger was ripped from my hand and pressed to my throat.

‘Don’t move.’

My gambler’s mind whirled and raced. Should I fight? Run?

The blade bit deeper. ‘Your purse.’

Sam held up his torch, illuminating the scene as if we were on the stage.

I should do as I was bid. Hand him the purse. My fingers slipped to the leather bag tied below my waist.

No.

Before I even knew what I was doing I reached up and shoved his arm from my throat, pushing him off balance. I spun round to face him, backing away slowly. Let him stab me if he must. But I would look him in the eye as he did it.

We circled each other warily. He wore his hat low across his face, and he’d wrapped a black cloth about his nose and mouth. Only his eyes were visible, dark and steady.

I took another step back, gaze fixed on the long, keen dagger in his right hand. My own dagger, damn it, sharpened by my own hand. One quick slash would be enough to rip me open.

‘Come, sir, don’t be a fool,’ he said, in a calm, reasonable tone. And then, under his breath, ‘I’m not alone.’

He stretched out his free hand for the purse. The blood pounded in my ears.

I ran.

The world spun as I fled past the boy who was grinning now, thrilled by the action and his part in it. The street began to narrow even further, and a high brick wall loomed up ahead. It was too dark to see if there was another way out. I would have to clamber over it. I lengthened my stride, ready to spring at it when a black figure flew out of the shadows and knocked me to the ground.

For a moment I lay dazed. He began to grope for my pockets, hunting for my purse. With a loud curse I pushed him from me, kicking and punching my way free and back on to my feet, but there were others now, scurrying down from the roofs and balconies and dropping softly to the ground, calling out to one another in low voices. I fumbled in the darkness, searching for a brick or a piece of wood to defend myself, but I knew what was coming. I had gambled, and I had lost.

A hand grabbed my shoulder and I whirled about, frantic. And then another, and another, tearing and snatching, pulling me down like devils dragging me to hell. I fought them off, terrified now, but there were too many of them. I fell heavily to the ground again.

‘Hold him there, lads!’ their chief called out.

They pulled me to my knees and pinned my arms behind my back as he strode towards us. He ruffled the link boy’s hair as he passed and somehow I realised – strange! the clarity that comes to you in such a moment – this was the boy’s father. And I thought there was more affection and pride in that gesture than my father had shown me in a lifetime.

He came closer, crouching down in front of me, dark eyes skimming my face. ‘I told you not to run,’ he said, his voice muffled by the cloth.

I glared at him.

He signalled to one of his men.

‘Wait…’

Too late. I felt a sharp blow on the back of my head. The world flashed white, and then it was gone.

Chapter Two

I woke. For a moment I thought I was home, in my little garret room on Greek Street. Then I tried to move. Pain shrieked through my head and I almost passed out again.

Slow, Tom. Careful.

Gently, this time, I sat up. The world pitched about me then settled, enough for me to raise a trembling hand to the back of my head. A large, tender bump. The warm, sticky feel of blood on my fingers. Memories flashed like sparks from a tinderbox: hands grabbing; laughter and shouts; the press of my own blade at my throat.

I reached for my purse, though I knew what I would find. Cut. Gone.

My stomach lurched. I was lost. Ruined. I lay back and closed my eyes. Then let me rest here. What use was fighting now? Let the spirit leak from my bones into the cold street; flow away with the filth and rubbish and leave my body in peace.