The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins - [11]

At the top of the house we pulled ourselves through a trapdoor onto the roof, wind gusting fresh air on our faces. From up here we could see the city stretching into the distance, the dome of St Paul’s far away to the east. Even Sam couldn’t resist. He paused to look out over his father’s estate, balancing lightly on a damp board that ran between two of the houses. A look settled upon his face that I recognised well – the joy and anxiety of coming home.

‘Your father will be pleased to see you,’ I called out.

He spun nimbly on the beam. ‘Stephen. He denied seeing the thief?’

Good God, it was bad enough that he barely spoke. Even worse when he hodge-podged conversations in such an eccentric fashion. ‘He said it was too dark to be sure.’

Sam smiled. Then he padded over the beam onto the next roof.

The gambler in me found all of this exhilarating – slipping across rooftops through the deadliest part of the city. Was this not life? Was this not something to make the heart beat faster? A quieter voice counselled that such risks may be exhilarating, but were not conducive to a long life. Oh, and for God’s sake – don’t look down.

Sam was a few paces ahead of me, perched at the edge of the roof, staring down at a courtyard below. The houses huddled together to create a tiny, secret square in the middle. Sam rolled his shoulders. Stepped on to the ledge. And jumped.

I gave a shout of alarm and scrambled to the edge. Beneath me, about ten feet down, Sam had landed neatly on the balcony of a modest wooden house built in the heart of the square. Being two stories shorter than the houses surrounding it, there was no way of seeing it until you leaned right over the roof.

‘What am I to do?’ I called down.

Sam tipped back his hat. Crooked his finger.

‘Don’t jump for fuck’s sake,’ a voice growled through a window. A moment later, Sam’s father swung out onto the balcony. A short, strong man, he was dressed in a plain shirt and waistcoat, sleeves rolled. His head was bare, scalp dark with bristle. ‘You’ll break your neck. Or tear a hole in my roof. Then I’ll break your neck.’ He grinned and pushed a ladder out until it lodged firmly against the roof where I stood.

I tested it anxiously with my foot. ‘Will it take my weight?’

‘Takes mine.’

I considered the iron muscles of his arms and chest. He was a head shorter than me, but still at least a stone heavier. I took a deep breath and climbed down slowly, conscious that I was crossing the threshold arse first. Now there’s a way to make a man feel vulnerable. Intentional, no doubt.

Fleet’s den was the most curious place I had ever visited – so unlike a normal home that at first I could make no sense of it. The rooms at the top of the house had been knocked into one – or had been built that way. This one large, square room stretched right up to the pitched roof, with beams left open to crack your head upon. The balcony wrapped all the way around this top floor. From here one could throw a ladder onto any roof in the square or clamber down to the street by rope. It was a building designed for escape.

I presumed that this room served as a well-guarded meeting place for Fleet’s gang, but there were also hammocks slung from the beams and a grate in one corner with a leg of mutton roasting on a spit. My mouth watered at the smell of it.

Sam dropped his hat on a hammock and pushed a hand through his curls, watching his father from the corner of his eyes. Something unspoken hung in the air between them – a question or a threat. But then Fleet chuckled, and pulled Sam into a brief hug. He kissed the top of his son’s head, then shoved him away.

‘Gah! You smell like a whore. What do they wash you with, fucking rose water?’

‘Lavender,’ Sam replied, glaring at me as if I had spent the last month flogging him with razors.

I turned up my palms. ‘You wish your son to pass for a gentleman. That includes smelling like one.’

‘True enough,’ Fleet conceded. He gave Sam a friendly shove. ‘Run and see your mother.’

Sam hesitated. ‘Pa-’ He caught his father’s sharp look and left at once, scrambling out onto the balcony and climbing down a rope to the next floor rather than use the stairs.

Fleet waved me over to a seat by the fire. The smell of roast meat was almost too good to bear, but I knew better than to ask for a slice. It was not wise to be indebted to James Fleet – not even for a bite of mutton. I lit a pipe to stave off the hunger while he poured us both a mug of beer and settled down in the chair opposite. He was a handsome bull of a man, with a wide forehead and a sharp jaw line. He had the same striking black eyes as his son, but Sam’s features were almost delicate, set in a lean face with high cheekbones. There was nothing delicate about James Fleet. His face and hands were traced with scars – a map of old battles fought and won.

‘How’s Kitty?’ he asked, taking a swig of beer.

‘She’s well.’ My voice sounded thin.

He chuckled over his beer. ‘Don’t look so worried, Hawkins. I’m not going to eat her.’

I forced a smile. ‘You have a proposal for me?’