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- Herausgeber: Orenda Books
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
Set in the buried streets of Georgian London and the outrageous underworld of the molly houses, a carpenter hiding a double life searches for a traitor who is betraying the secrets of the mollies. The visceral, raucous, tender and utterly enchanting historical thriller by the award-winning author of The Spirit Engineer. `Heartbreaking, beautiful, lyrical. I was captivated from the start … you won't want to put it down´ Catriona Ward `A thriller and a vivid exploration of a largely forgotten aspect of London's past, this is as compelling as West's debut´ The Times `This deeply affecting novel is an unforgettable combination of historical thriller, love story and heartbreaking tragedy´ Heat magazine `Stunning and powerful – an atmospheric thriller that is both heartfelt and meticulously researched. You'll never forget Thomas True´ Janice Hallett ***WINNER OF THE HWA DEBUT CROWN*** _________________ The only sin is betrayal… It is the year 1715, and Thomas True has arrived on old London Bridge with a dangerous secret. One night, lost amongst the squalor of London's hidden back streets, he finds himself drawn into the outrageous underworld of the molly houses. Meanwhile, carpenter Gabriel Griffin struggles to hide his double life as Lotty, the molly's stoic guard. When a young man is found murdered, he realises there is a rat amongst them, betraying their secrets to a pair of murderous Justices. Can Gabriel unmask the traitor before they hang? Can he save hapless Thomas from peril, and their own forbidden love? Set amidst the buried streets of Georgian London, The Betrayal of Thomas True is a brutal and devastating thriller, where love must overcome evil, and the only true sin is betrayal… _______________________ `A rare gem of a novel … a darkly thrilling romp in 18th century London that simmers with sinister menace and illicit temptation´ Susan Stokes-Chapman `Electric … West's talent as a writer – Dickensian-style vivacious characterisation and fast paced action – make this an unputdownable read´ Attitude Magazine `Really very, very good´ Stephen Fry `Quite simply divine – historical, a thriller, comedic, fantastical and, above all, a love story that had me in all sorts of tears´ Jennie Godfrey `A clever mystery, a powerful love story … affected me more than anything I've read in a long time´ Gareth Brown `Plunges readers into the dark, treacherous streets of Georgian London in this epic adventure of love in a time of danger – a must-read for lovers of gritty, thrilling, historical fiction´ Hallie Rubenhold `An exuberant, moving story of double lives, forbidden love and personal identity´ Rosie Andrews `Vivid, impressive and utterly immersive … I was weeping by the final pages. Masterful´ D.V. Bishop `Researched to the gills, but with so fluidly compelling a narrative that you are instantly immersed in the perilous, hot, exciting, plot-swirling world of Mollies´ Felice Picano `You'll smile, you'll gasp, you'll cry at this Georgian-era thriller awash with mystery and mayhem … and magnificent mollies´ Essie Fox `There has never been a book that made me cry … until today. It chewed me up hard more than once, but it was also funny, colourful and decadent´ Suzie Edge `Fierce, funny, and fabulous; this is an important and deeply moving story´ Jonathan Harvey
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PRAISE FOR THE BETRAYAL OF THOMAS TRUE
‘A rare gem of a novel. Gorgeously gritty and compellingly constructed with the pungent, evocative vernacular of the era, it’s a darkly thrilling romp in eighteenth-century London that simmers with sinister menace and illicit temptation’ Susan Stokes-Chapman
‘A.J. West has a rare ability to bring voices from the past so vividly to life, they whisper in your ear and send shivers down your spine … stunning and powerful – an atmospheric thriller that’s both heartfelt and meticulously researched … a romance, an adventure and a vivid insight into a secret world. You’ll never forget Thomas True’ Janice Hallett
‘The Betrayal of Thomas True is quite simply divine. Genre-defying, it is historical, a thriller, comedic, fantastical and above all a love story that had me in all sorts of tears’ Jennie Godfrey
‘I’ve rarely been so transported, moved and gripped by a story from the first page … heartbreaking, beautiful, lyrical. You won’t want to put it down’ Catriona Ward
‘Really very, very good’ Stephen Fry
‘A clever mystery, a powerful love story, and chock-full of atmosphere and historical detail. One scene near the end affected me more than anything I’ve read in a long time. Essential reading’ Gareth Brown
‘Plunges readers into the dark, treacherous streets of Georgian London in this epic adventure of love in a time of danger – a must-read for lovers of gritty, thrilling, historical fiction. An absolute page-turner!’ Hallie Rubenhold
‘With echoes of C.J. Sansom’s Shardlake series (though very different in other respects), this is an exuberant, moving story of double lives, forbidden love and personal identity. It also has great insults’ Rosie Andrews
‘Vivid, impressive and utterly immersive, The Betrayal of Thomas True is a timely tale for everyone who fights to live and love as they wish. I was weeping by the final pages. A masterful work of historical fiction’ D.V. Bishop iii
‘What a ride of mystery, murder, mayhem – and molly houses, as we follow Thomas True encountering new friends and pleasures, but also violent persecution as experienced by gay men in the days of Georgian London. A big-hearted novel. You will gasp, and smile, and cry’ Essie Fox
‘Fierce, funny, and fabulous; this is an important and deeply moving story. Highly recommend’ Jonathan Harvey
‘Both a roaring Georgian romp and a moving story of injustice and discrimination. This is an original and hugely entertaining read’ Anna Mazzola
‘Bursting with memorable characters and stunning imagery, this pacy novel brings alive the smells and sounds of the city and its “molly houses” – places of safety, but for how long? A thriller, a tragedy and a love story all in one, lit by humour and pathos, this novel faces the shocking persecution of the times head on’ Sean Lusk
‘Suspense, adventure and romance combine in a thrilling historical mystery, brilliantly researched and lavishly written. Congratulations, A.J.: your passion shines through on every page’ Emma Stonex
‘Writing like a modern Fielding … A.J. West packs humour, horror and a raging sense of justice. Camp, complex and heartbreaking, don’t miss this gloriously authentic romp through the molly houses and culture of eighteenth-century London’ Kate Griffin
‘A beautiful, dark love story set in the foetid streets of Georgian London. Somewhere between a romance and a thriller, it is unputdownable historical fiction. Perfect for fans of Philippa Gregory or Niklas Natt och Dag’ Gareth Russell
‘A beautifully told story that broke my heart and energised my soul in equal measure … A cunningly plotted, twisty and twisted tale of love, betrayal, and the human spirit, Thomas True is a timely reminder of the heavy cost of freedom and the work still to be done. The world truly needs this book’ Tracy King
‘There has never been a book that made me cry … until today. It chewed me up hard more than once, but it was also funny, colourful, decadent. Truly extraordinary’ Suzie Edge iv
‘Very droll – the wit of Wilde still lives!’ Gyles Brandreth
‘A gripping epic tale set in the stinking back streets of Georgian London, complete with tragedy, humour and heartbreak. The writing is visceral and the atmosphere taut. This is only the second novel from A.J. West, but it proves he’s a powerful new voice in historical fiction’ Gill Paul
‘A.J. West gives us a picaresque gay romp through an eighteenth-century London with a dark and troubling heart. A salutary reminder of a bleak history we shouldn’t forget and still seems regretfully close’ Annie Garthwaite
‘Decadent, gritty, deliciously seductive and absolutely beautiful’ Dan Bassett
‘Easily the best book I have read in a very long time. Funny, sad and beautifully written. A story that you can truly get lost in. Everyone needs to read it!’ Graham Sillars
‘Heartbreaking, gut-wrenching and eye-opening. A.J. West truly has created a beautiful masterpiece with the world of Thomas and Gabriel … A winner in the historical fiction genre!’ Grace McGuire
‘The story is so fast-paced and immersive … The plot twists are shocking … so cleverly done’ Cassie Steward
‘There’s such an immediacy to A.J.’s writing that it pulls you into the world he creates … pulses with authenticity and a wonderful sense of time and place. loved it!’ Michael J. Malone
PRAISE FOR A.J. WEST
‘A fiendishly clever tale of ambition, deception, and power’ Derren Brown
‘Haunting, witty and deeply moving’ Jodie Whittaker
‘Such a deliciously creepy, unsettling read … a melancholic gothic triumph’ Jennifer Saint v
‘A work of true invention and drama that moves at a cracking pace from the very first page and keeps you guessing’ Jeremy Vine
‘Set in a historical moment where science and spiritualism meet, The Spirit Engineer is an ingeniously plotted debut novel’ Sarah Burton
‘Dark, powerful and twisting – The Spirit Engineer will leave you wondering what is real and what is illusion’ W.C. Ryan
‘A delight of a debut, an atmospheric and entirely gripping chiller that calls to mind the best of M.R. James and E.F. Benson’ Billy O’Callaghan
‘Based on an absolutely astonishing true story, it kept me guessing right till the end’ Frances Quinn
‘Is Goligher a fraud? Is Crawford himself a reliable narrator? … West answers these questions with ingenuity and invention’ Sunday Timesvi
vii
The Betrayal of Thomas True
A.J. West
viiiix
To the mollies of old London. Not forgotten.
CONTENTS
THE MOLLIES
Mister Gabriel Griffin ~ Lotty Lump
Mister Thomas True ~ Verity True-tongue
Mister Nelson Fump ~ Nelly Fump
Mister Frank Vivian ~ Vivian Guzzle
Mister Jack Huffins ~ Sweet Jacky
Mister George Lavender ~ Lavender Long-legs
Mister Timothy Rettipence ~ The Duchess of Camomile (née Prune)
Mister Daniel Godolphin ~ Daisy Dandy-shanks
Mister Martin Lightbody ~ Martha Moggs
Old Bob Buckleburn ~ Polly Piefacexii
Part One
2
CHAPTER ONE
Thomas True sat upon the roof of the postal coach as it trundled over divots and bumps, descending the North Road to London. Piles of boxes and trunks bounced beside him, straining their lashings as the wheels screeched against the ancient track. The hills were behind them now, so too the dappled groves and leafy thickets, for the countryside was growing sparse and thin, devoured by the rapacious city.
The coach turned a gentle corner then mounted a bridge spanning a brook – and there was London rolling up on the horizon, grim and grand, the freshly budded dome of St Paul’s Cathedral gleaming amidst a morass of timber and brick. Far below, the distant spires rang with happy bells, calling God’s children to prayer.
My new home, thought Thomas as they descended the cleft of the valley. My new life.
He watched in wonder, hardly noticing as the fields folded in around them and the crops blackened. A chill was growing through him despite the sweltering weather, and he wondered whether he shouldn’t turn back.
‘Driver,’ he said with a gulp, ‘perhaps I might climb down and make my way home?’
His request was cowardly, he knew as much, yet if the coachman heard his feeble voice above the din of the ungreased axles, he gave no sign of it and whipped the horses on.
Thomas had made the decision to escape his father’s rectory the night before, yet now he saw the danger of it: after a lifetime of imprisonment, might he find himself lost and lonely amongst so many people?
Surely there was no need to worry about that: his cousin Abigail was waiting for him in the candle shop on the bridge, and besides, London had to be friendly, or why should so many people choose to live there?
He held on to his hat and gripped his trunk as they dropped down a steep slope into a tunnel of trees.
‘Are we nearly there?’ he called to the coachman, ducking under a low-hanging branch as they burst back into the sunshine. Thomas let out a startled cry, for the magnificent city had grown three times the size. ‘By the saints!’ he laughed. ‘Will you look at that?’ 4
Glory, oh blessed glory to be away from home. Farewell Highgate with its grey rectory and its gloomy little taverns and paltry expectations. Goodbye sermons and sins, goodbye graveyard, goodbye dry food, farewell pretence and piety, good riddance to misery, tearfulness, and waiting. No more waiting for Thomas True, only beginning!
He was overcome with excitement, his every nerve tingling as the horses charged towards the City gates.
Ever since boyhood, he had dreamed of this. For how many hours had he stood on tiptoes with his nose on the sill of his attic window, peering down at the sinful stew? Countless thousands of hours, every day and every night for all his twenty years. Unable to contain himself, he twisted with a triumphant cheer and waved goodbye to the receding countryside.
He turned back and hunched his shoulders, realising the buildings were almost upon him, and he had a premonition that the second he passed through those gates he would somehow cease to be Thomas True at all – which perhaps was the point of his journey. Yet while he relished – yes he really did relish the thought of disappearing amongst so many strangers – he hardly fancied being a stranger to himself. At least he would have his smart new clothes to wear. He looked over his shoulder and gave a squeak.
‘Driver,’ he said, pulling on the horse’s reins. ‘You must take me back; I have forgotten my trunk!’
The coachman ignored him, and soon the wheels were grinding across cobbles, the unbearable noise blending with a gathering roar so furious that Thomas thought he heard his father amidst the din. He shut his eyes and covered his ears.
Instantly, he was a boy again. Cowering beneath a Bible to the incantation of a sermon. He was a foul sinner, a devil child, a demon fit for nothing but flame. His ribs contracted to the memory of a snapping belt, and with tears in his eyes he was hiding in a burrow dug into the side of a graveyard wall…
There came an almighty bang, jarring Thomas’s bones, and when he opened his eyes he found himself surrounded by tottering homes six storeys high, and everywhere so many people of all shapes and sizes, with every style of gown and wig, a din of jostling men in tall hats, broad hats, tricorn hats, buckled frock coats and silver-topped canes, rubbing shoulders with sailors, lobstermen, cockle sellers and thieves. It was a 5wonder any of them could hear amidst the din, for there wasn’t a moment of peace, and oh! Thomas clapped his hands across his mouth and nose. The rivers of piss that flowed down the dusty kennels and rose up in clouds of steam. He couldn’t breathe.
At last, the driver was forced to steady the coach behind a clot of tumbrils and chairs. He gave his horse an impatient flick of the reins before looking over at his passenger with a dry chuckle. ‘You’ll grow used to the stench, young sir,’ he said. ‘Just have to take it in a few times, see?’ He pursed his lips and sucked a deep breath as though smoking a hookah pipe. He turned a nasty shade of green until his fourth gulp, when he smacked his lips and shook his jowls, hearty as a king.
Thomas frowned at him, holding his breath with his cheeks puffed out. He could feel the acrid air pressing its fingers up his nose. He could not do it, he would have to choke, yet just as his vision went blurry the coach bounced over a loose cobblestone and tipped him to the ground with a hard thump, rolling across the road like a baker’s pin.
‘Wait!’ he coughed, climbing to his feet, yet before he could push his way through the crowd, he was lost amidst the tumultuous racket of the packed street. ‘Come back!’ he said, turning in circles, clasping his face. ‘Oh my saints, what shall I do? What shall I do?’ He searched his coat pocket and found his purse with all his money, wiping his brow with relief as he looked about.
He bit his lip, tracing his eyes across the high stones of a building by his shoulder. It was very large indeed, with blank slits for windows. A prison, surely, and a forbidding one at that, while on the other side of the street the houses and inns were busy with so many hoardings and swinging signs he could hardly see the bricks behind them. He stopped still, catching sight of some movement at the rooftops, and craned his neck. He could hear a bell tolling, faint and ethereal. At first, he took what he saw for birds, then for black cats, yet they couldn’t be, for they moved with skinny limbs and jutting knees. It was a gang of twenty soot-black children, he was sure of it, skittering over the brickwork below the eaves. He shielded his eyes for a better look, yet he found himself blinded by the sun.
‘By your leave, sir!’ came a bellowing voice as a pair of charging chairmen hurtled by, and with a yelp, Thomas tripped over his heels and fell face first into a narrow alleyway. 6
‘For the sake of angels,’ he said, brushing himself down. ‘What a clumsy oaf you are.’
‘Clumsy but handsome, I’d say.’
Thomas rolled over to see a young, attractive man leaning against the bricks. He was slender with a long nose, freckles all over his face and a twisted periwig. He had his foot cocked against the bricks, and he was smoking a pipe.
‘Good day to you,’ said Thomas. ‘Is this your alleyway?’
The man raised his pale eyebrows, looking around. ‘It’s anybody’s if they want it.’
‘Ah,’ said Thomas, nodding sagely, for London seemed to suit such things. ‘I only arrived a few minutes ago and I’m already lost. I said to myself this morning: “Now Thomas, don’t get lost and don’t forget your trunk,” and what did I do? I forgot my trunk, and here I am lost.’ He looked at the man with a hopeful smile. ‘Where am I exactly? It hardly matters; I’m lost no matter where I am, even in my own brain, and I forget to remember things, no matter how hard I try, and doesn’t it annoy my mother and father, who don’t even know I’ve left, and well, if they had known my plan to run away I don’t doubt for a second… ’ He caught sight of the man’s eyes glazing over and gave a nervous laugh. ‘Forgive me, I do prattle; it’s only that I feel sometimes, or rather I do wonder sometimes… ’ He shrugged. ‘What use I am to anybody?’
The man pulled his pipe from his lips, revealing a jumble of wonky teeth. ‘Funny, I was just thinking the same thing.’ He folded his arms, the muscles stretching the faded sleeves of his patched coat. ‘Where you supposed to be then, if not by Newgate?’
‘Is that where we are? Newgate? Saints, that can’t be near the bridge. I was on my way there when the coach took a swerve and tossed me into this alleyway… ’ Thomas fiddled with his coat buttons ‘…with you.’
‘Right you are,’ said the man with a quick smile. He flicked his eyes over Thomas’s shoulder. ‘The bridge, is it?’
‘That’s right, I must get there as soon as possible, or I’ll be missed, you see, and then—’
The man placed a finger on his lips. ‘Not such a nasty walk on a day like today. We’ll cut through St Paul’s Churchyard I reckon then along Watling to Budge and maybe Cannon to Eastcheap and down Fishy Street.’ He 7stepped towards the mouth of the alleyway, turning back with his hand outstretched. ‘That’s if you fancy a dander?’
‘I do, and I’m most grateful to you, Mister…?’
The man grinned and gave a little bow, his wig falling from his crown to reveal thick curls of red hair. ‘Jack Huffins,’ he said, before adding with a wink: ‘Most of the time.’
CHAPTER TWO
High against the shining stones of the new cathedral, men were climbing through the scaffolding, dismantling the platforms one by one in slow and steady measures. On the loftiest of all the gantries stood Henry Sylva, watching his friend with concern. He knew that dismal look too well. He swung himself on a rope to the nearest ladder.
‘Reckon we’ve done a morning’s work, don’t you, Gabe?’
‘Ay.’
‘My neck’s roasted.’
‘Looks it.’
Henry rested his heel against a standard and tugged at his breeches. ‘I need a piss. Probably quicker to jump off than take the ladder.’
‘Reckon so.’
Henry tutted. ‘Might as well talk to the wall as you these days.’
Far below them, London spread out like one of Wren’s scale models of the City, the churchyard stretching out to miniature streets of stone and old timber. Henry kicked a chip of Portland stone from the gangway and watched it skitter over the edge.
Gabriel’s throat rumbled. ‘You’ll have us in trouble.’
‘He wakes!’ said Henry, throwing his hands out in mock celebration. ‘Won’t do any harm, we’ll be out of work in a fortnight anyway, once the scaffolding’s down. All them years our fathers spent building these gangways, never thought the day’d come we took ’em down.’
‘We’ll find new work.’
Henry pushed back from the beam, stowing his mallet in his belt. ‘We’d better, or my good wife will have words. Time for a beer; should get an extra flagon in this heat.’
‘I ain’t thirsty.’
Henry laughed. ‘Not thirsty, he says.’ He rapped his knuckles on the foot of a stone apostle. ‘Did you hear that? Must be the end of days at last, and just when we’ve finished the church.’
Gabriel huffed. ‘Get away.’ He rubbed his face with a shovel-sized hand, feeling the prickle of hot water rising behind his eyes. ‘Leave me be.’ 9
Henry went to speak but thought better of it. ‘Ho then,’ he said, passing his friend with a slap on the back. ‘Enjoy the view.’
Gabriel waited for Henry to climb down before he took the locket from his neck and allowed the tears to come. High on the scaffolding surrounding the new St Paul’s, he could cry for a while. Up there, far away from noise and grime, it was only him and the birds. He clicked open the locket and wiped his nose. ‘Ay,’ he said to himself, ‘another year.’
How he hated the sound of his own voice, especially when he was sad: too soft for a man of his size, so feeble he could tear out his own tongue. He looked along the side of the cathedral, past the smooth columns of white stone, and buried his face in his arms. It had been three years to the day. He gripped the lintel, levering his nails from their beds. ‘You never loved them well enough,’ he said. ‘Never knew what love was.’
He felt the shudder of the wooden frame far below his boots and quickly pushed the locket back into his shirt. He wiped his eyes and stood back from the ladder, accidentally knocking a hammer with his elbow, watching in horror as it toppled over the edge.
The hard crack came three seconds later, a distant paving slab spitting a puff of dust where it took the blow. Gabriel gripped his heart and caught sight of two young men staring back up at him, their hands shielding their eyes from the sun.
‘Christ!’ said Henry, hoisting himself into view. ‘What are you doing, man, chucking hammers about?’ He was slapped away. ‘Ay Gabe, you’ll be the one dangling at Tyburn, damned idiot. You think your wife and daughter would thank you for that?’
Gabriel threw him across the gangway, pushing him against a standard pole as the scaffolding shook. ‘You mention my daughter today of all days?’
Henry kicked his feet in the air and was about to fight back, when he saw Gabriel’s eyes. He let himself hang like a puppet and grinned. ‘Hush now, Gabe, be calm, be calm. I could thump you into next week if I wanted to, no matter how big you are. Always could.’
Gabriel dropped him and stood back. ‘Ay, and carts can pull horses.’
They worked on in awkward silence after that, sweat trickling down their shirtless backs. They made smart progress, pulling down a full storey of scaffolding and lowering the poles with ropes on pulleys to the men waiting below. In turns, Gabriel felt his temper cool. It was good to feel 10the weight of the timber in his arms, and though his mind was still heavy with memories, the repetition of the simple task at hand – cutting ties, loosening joints, wrenching struts, ripping up planks – felt like sweet comfort. After a few hours, he rested a while, looking down to where the hammer had landed. The two men were long gone, yet the memory of them had been following him around ever since he’d spotted them. One was Jack Huffins from Mother Clap’s Molly House, but the other he didn’t know. Gabriel picked splinters from his fingers, thinking about him. He’d been too far away to see clearly, yet – to Gabriel’s excitement and shame – there was some unidentifiable quality in the way he was standing, some character in his distant face, that was pleasing to him.
Gabriel huffed, returning to work. Whoever Jack’s friend was, he’d be one of those popular, strutting men, no doubt: effortlessly handsome with a wealth of friends and barrels of confidence. He rested his hammer and twisted his mouth. Will Jack bring him to Clap’s? he wondered, his heart squeezing with a pang of jealousy. And are they in love?
CHAPTER THREE
Thomas hadn’t had any friends as a child. He wasn’t like the other boys in the rectory schoolroom in Highgate, though he admired them greatly for their daring and the way they threw themselves into the world without a care. He would hide himself away in a small den behind a crumbling patch of wall at the back of the graveyard and wait to be scared out like a rabbit, then he would run from the mob as fast as he could, to the front of the rectory, only to find the door locked, and there he would have his ribs dug or his skin twisted, depending on the boys’ mood, the pain growing ordinary to him over the years. As a very young child he would call for his parents, yet they were agreed that it was best to leave their son alone until he stopped crying and learned to be a proper boy.
Alas, they had waited in vain for such a blessing, for in spite of his love of nature and talent for artistic pursuits, boyhood was a skill Thomas could never master. ‘Stand up for yourself,’ his father would shout through the locked door of his attic room. ‘Fight back or I shall throw you in the stocks so everyone can see what a womanish little demon you are, and then you can cry while they pelt your face with eggs.’
It was not an empty threat, for one day, when Thomas had been caught making chains of flowers, the good rector of Highgate had dragged his son by the ankles to the green and locked him in the stocks by his neck and wrists, encouraging three local boys and girls to play at pillorying him. Reverend True and his wife found it difficult to bear this necessary kindness, but bear it they did, knowing it was to the boy’s benefit.
Thomas knew his humiliation was merely another horror to suffer with patience and resignation, for he could no more escape himself than he could the stocks, and at the age of twelve, the mystery of Thomas True had finally revealed itself.
It was a dark Sunday afternoon in the depths of an unlit winter, when the village was cloaked in grey snow, and the older boys were plunging into the black ponds with hoots of delight. Thomas had moved to the attic window, curious to see what the noise was about. Might they let him play with them? It was not to be, for while he watched the naked lads cavorting, rubbing their pimpled skin in the shivering cold, he felt his own body grow hot. 12
That was when Thomas True first understood what he was. He had remained at the window for many hours, transfixed, long after the boys had finished collecting their clothes and gone home. Shame. Deepest shame. Impossible, burning horror. No finger moved, nor toe, not even a blink, until the snow-caked valley turned blue and the moon rose beyond the distant city. ‘Demon,’ Thomas had said to himself. ‘Demon.’ He watched his breath blow against the glass and turn to tears. ‘Demon.’
He had never in all his isolation felt so lonely. The stocks winked at him between the black branches of the bare trees: a pair of manacled posts casting a long shadow across the snow.
Yes. The boys had been right to hurt him. Their violence had not saved his soul. And his father was justified in all he’d tried to do for the sake of his boy’s perverted mind. He belonged in those stocks. He belonged in Hell.
‘Look out!’
Thomas felt a thump on his shoulder as a missile whistled past his ear and struck the ground with an almighty smack. His skeleton nearly jumped from his skin. ‘What was that?’ he said.
‘It’s a bloody hammer, that’s what it is.’ Jack stood back and jabbed his finger at the scaffolding far above their heads. ‘Blasted idiot, you!’
‘A hammer?’ Thomas wrenched it from the hole. ‘Who’d throw a hammer off a cathedral?’
Jack tutted. ‘The so-called molly guard, that’s who. Big laugh, that is.’ He cupped his hands to his mouth and bellowed, ‘Lotty, you clumsy great ox!’
Thomas held up the hammer. The handle was split, the neck twisted. ‘Do you think he’ll want it back?’
Jack snorted, shaking his fist. ‘Who knows what he wants, the great pig. Come on, let’s get you to the bridge.’
Thomas allowed himself to be tugged away as Jack elbowed through the crowd. What did a forgotten trunk mean to him now? Or anything else for that matter? All those dark memories from his childhood were forgotten. So was Highgate. So was he. Nothing could hurt him, nothing shame him. He took a deep breath, sucking in the foul air like honey.
Free, he thought, as a smile ripened on his face. Free and safe at last.
CHAPTER FOUR
Down a tight warren of bewildering streets they went, all the noise bouncing from slab to brick.
Jack charged ahead, calling back over his shoulder. ‘Why you in London then?’
‘I must learn a trade since the Church won’t have me.’
‘The Church doesn’t like sinners; can’t take the competition.’
They turned up a dark passageway and onto a street lined with elm trees, jumping over stray dogs, dipping under shop signs, dancing around hurtling chairs as buckets of filth splashed around their shoes.
‘Is it very far to the bridge?’ said Thomas. ‘My uncle and aunt are very kind people, and my cousin will be worried about me, I am sure.’
Jack spun around with a twinkling eye. ‘Your cousin, eh? Tall? Pretty?’
‘Abigail isn’t particularly tall I shouldn’t imagine,’ shrugged Thomas, ‘and it’s been so many years since I saw her, I can’t say whether she’s pretty… ’
Jack waved his hand impatiently. ‘Oh, what do I care about Abigails?’ And with that he was off again, rounding a corner past an endless scramble of taverns.
‘So what trade will your uncle teach you?’
‘I’m to be an apprentice candlemaker.’
‘A chandler! You’ll enjoy dipping a few wicks, I’m sure. Stinking trade, mind you, but there’s worse I suppose. Could be a soil man.’
Thomas felt himself bridle. This new friend seemed rather too sure of himself for a frowzy-looking fellow wearing torn breeches and a rumpled shirt. He was about to speak when a hue and cry blew up at the far end of the street as a boy came pelting towards them, pursued by a gang of baying apprentices. His eyes were wide with terror as the brutes closed in.
‘Christ,’ hissed Jack, ‘it’s them.’
‘Who?’
The boy drew near, his eyes streaming with tears. ‘Help me!’ he begged as Jack yanked Thomas to the wall.
‘Don’t look.’
Thomas could not help himself, for the young man looked like he’d 14been in a dog fight. He was wearing a pale-yellow shirt torn to the stomach, while his breeches were ripped up both legs to the crotch. He had downy blonde hair on his upper lip and his legs were thin as scantlings. He cannot have been much more than fifteen years old.
‘They’re going to cut my throat, Jacky,’ he yelped. ‘Save me!’
Jack tugged his hat low, refusing to turn from the wall. ‘Don’t know who you are,’ he hissed. ‘Get away.’
The boy stared. ‘I’m Martin. We’re friends from Clap’s.’
‘I said get away, Martha, or I’ll cut you myself. Whatever mistake you made, I hope you don’t have to pay for it, but I can’t help you now.’
The boy caught Thomas’s eye. ‘Help me, please? I didn’t know. I didn’t think … I had no choice … The rat! Beware the rat!’
The mob was almost upon him, and with a look of hopeless panic, he sprinted away.
‘Come here, vermin,’ cried the hounds, throwing their clubs under his feet. ‘Nasty little pup, we’ll catch you by the tail and chuck you in the ditch!’
Jack pulled Thomas into an alleyway. ‘Quickly,’ he said. ‘Before you’re spotted.’
The high walls towered above them as they picked their way through arches and pressed sideways past piles of crates overflowing with rotten vegetables.
‘Where are you taking me?’ said Thomas. ‘Is this the way to the bridge?’
Suddenly, he found himself yanked behind a wall and pressed up against the bricks. Jack kissed him on the mouth, and Thomas could taste sour wine on his tongue, could feel the man’s fingers pressing inside his waistcoat, under his shirt.
He pushed away. ‘What are you doing?’
‘What do you think?’
Thomas couldn’t think. He pulled at his breeches as a woman appeared at the far end of the alleyway carrying a screaming baby in her shawl. She passed them with suspicious eyes, before disappearing through a concealed doorway. Thomas had never been kissed by a man before, nor by anyone for that matter, not even his own mother. He covered his face as Jack’s voice brushed his neck.
‘You’re one of us.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ 15
‘Yes you do.’
‘You didn’t help that poor lad.’
‘Barely knew him.’
Thomas opened his eyes to see Jack leaning against the wall, his lips flushed.
‘Martha’s just another sod from the streets. Another careless molly.’
‘They’ll kill him.’
‘Not if he runs quick enough.’
‘Who were they?’
Jack looked back to the street, his eyelashes glowing red in a slice of light from above.
‘Hounds,’ he said. ‘In the pay of the Society I’d wager.’ He tutted, seeing Thomas’s innocent frown. ‘The Society for the Reformation of Manners. Don’t say you never heard of ’em?’
‘I haven’t.’
‘Count yourself lucky.’ Jack laughed then glanced both ways, checking they were alone. ‘It’s a gang of bloodthirsty murderers by another name. Gentlemen and ladies of fine morals: a glorious institution, loved by the king himself.’ He blew a raspberry as he bowed low, straightening up with his hands clenched together in prayer. ‘All of them Hell-bent on hunting us sinners down. Stringing up the likes of us while they romp with whores and steal and kill and covet like the good book tells ’em to.’
‘Sins,’ whispered Thomas to himself, hearing the word in his father’s voice.
Jack laughed, cupping Thomas between the legs. ‘Ay, and here’s one for a start.’ He shook his head and pointed back to the street. ‘Go that way for your uncle and aunt. Straight on to Fishy Street – you’ll smell it before you see it – then left. And don’t tell nobody a thing about your new friend Jack, you hear?’
‘But where are you going?’ said Thomas.
The young man was already dashing up the alleyway and around a corner. ‘To Clap’s,’ he called back. ‘Meet me there tonight.’
‘Clap’s?’ shouted Thomas. ‘What is it?’
‘Everything you ever dreamed of; everything you ever feared. You’ll see, you’ll see. Field Lane over Fleet Ditch after dark. Look for the ivy door by the Bunch o’ Grapes.’
‘But I’ll be alone.’
‘Nah you won’t, Thomas True. Together, always together. You’ll see!’
CHAPTER FIVE
‘Have a care you don’t fall from your pediment, you bird-witted old termagant. I wouldn’t want you to bump that potato face of yours against the wall. Blasted trollop, you. Blasted crow!’
So bellowed Thomas’s Uncle Squink, poking his wife with a spindly finger.
‘Ha!’ replied Aunt Squink. ‘I would hit my face against a thousand walls sooner than take a promise from you, lousy, bent-backed, bracket-faced old stoat!’
Aunt Squink stamped her boot while the folds of her neck gobbled up what ought to have been her chin. She flicked her husband’s finger to his face. ‘Get that filthy claw off me. I’m not one of your poisonous candles. You told me you’d have it fixed. Zoods! I shouldn’t wonder you want all of us to drown in that stinking river.’
This was not how Thomas remembered his dear relatives. He moved his head to avoid a flying jug, then stood back as a candlestick travelled past his shoulder and into the passing traffic on the bridge.
‘Uncle?’ he said. ‘Aunt?’
They turned in unison, a scowl on every feature, even their ears.
‘Who are you?’ demanded Aunt Squink.
‘And what did you call us?’ said her husband.
‘Uncle and Aunt,’ he said. ‘I have been corresponding with Abigail; weren’t you expecting me?’
‘Expecting you?’ said Aunt Squink, exchanging an incredulous look with her husband. ‘I doubt that very much. If we were expecting you, we would have told you not to come.’
‘Oh.’
Uncle Squink shushed his wife, shaking Thomas’s hand most heartily. ‘Forgive my disgusting wife. She only means to say that we have no nephew and we do not want you here.’ He stood back quite pleased with himself, his thumbs in his buttonholes, grinning pleasantly towards the door by way of suggestion.
Thomas blinked. ‘You want me to leave?’
‘Would you mind? We are rather busy.’ Uncle Squink swung his hands around the shop, knocking a box to the floor. 17
‘Clumsy oaf,’ cried Aunt Squink, poking a candle up her husband’s left nostril. ‘I should never have married you, bringing me nothing but rotten walls and nephews.’
Uncle Squink snatched the candle from his wife’s claws and stabbed it into the massed curls of her yellow wig.
‘I ought to set you alight, nag that you are!’ He shot a pointed finger to Thomas. ‘That,’ he declared, ‘is your nephew, not mine.’
They glared at Thomas so angrily he could imagine each of their heads popping into flame. He stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him.
‘I have been writing to Abigail for weeks. She reassured me many times that I would be welcome to stay here with you on the bridge and I’ve been so looking forward to seeing you again.’ He looked around at the shelves piled high with spindles of lumpy tallow. ‘I have travelled alone to visit you and… ’ he steadied himself as the floor tilted below his feet ‘…I hope to return to Highgate a celebrated candlemaker.’
Aunt Squink scoffed, yet her husband’s eyes grew large as plates.
‘A celebrated candlemaker?’ he whispered, soft as smoke. ‘Celebrated,’ he repeated, before adding: ‘candlemaker.’
‘Yes, a chandler, just like you. I wish to be your apprentice.’
Uncle Squink gave his wife a wholesome look, his rage extinguished. ‘My darling, perhaps I was too hasty. I am this boy’s mother’s brother after all.’ He turned to Thomas, his voice a-quiver. ‘Forgive me, you are indeed my nephew, I see wax runs in your blood.’
Thomas wasn’t entirely sure what that meant but he nodded anyway. His aunt glowered at him, the candle in her wig slipping to the floor with a clunk. Still, he gave her a smile.
‘You must remember me,’ he said. ‘Your daughter and I became fast friends one summer thirteen years ago.’ He reached into his pocket, fumbling in vain for his purse. ‘You mustn’t worry about costs; I have been saving my small allowance for years with nothing to spend it on. I can pay for my keep.’
The woman melted instantly. ‘My husband is a turkey-brained doddle-head, yet I had not forgotten you, er… ’ She opened her arms, evidently waiting for a reminder.
‘…Thomas,’ said Thomas.
‘Yes, Thomas! I am your father’s much neglected sister. Come boy, you 18are our nephew twice over and double welcome you are. Now why do you stand there by the door? Will you not embrace your own family?’
Thomas stepped across the shop, feeling the floor tilt further, and with a creaking noise, so that he travelled the last distance in a slide.
‘Then I can stay?’
‘You can stay!’ said Uncle Squink, cheering, while Aunt Squink preened and prodded Thomas’s neat periwig and shallow-brimmed hat.
She shouted up the stairs, gripping Thomas by the hand: ‘Abigail, Get down here at once.’
There was a brief pause before a pair of heeled shoes appeared on the highest stair, descending to reveal a petticoat and skirts of painted cotton, the material dancing with English flowers and butterflies. Thomas could hardly believe the striking woman who lowered herself into the shop. She was tall and hearty, her yellow hair tied up in a lace cap to frame a most gentle, kindly face with blushing cheeks and a pixie’s nose. She seemed confused at first, looking Thomas up and down, but when he grinned, she leapt over the sloping floor with a cry of delight.
‘Oh Thomas, you came! I didn’t think you would.’ She stood back, drinking him in. ‘Forgive me, Father. I never dreamed he’d come to live with us, it’s been too long. Look at him. Isn’t he the handsomest man in London? Why, I’d never imagined that skinny little boy could grow so tall.’
‘Look at him indeed,’ said Uncle Squink, with a knowing glance at his spouse. ‘A man of wax is young Thomas; I can sniff a tallowman from a mile away. My nephew, my apprentice.’
‘He is most welcome,’ said Aunt Squink. ‘My darling nephew, our paying lodger.’
Darkness. A faint creaking. The soft thunder of water. Thomas lay on his bed fully clothed. The Squinks had fed him well enough on bread and cheese, yet he was desperately hungry. He climbed to his feet and made his way over the creaking floorboards to look out of the window. The river was sparkling silver in the moonlight, embroidered with ships in silhouette, while either side – Thomas stared out in wonder – a glittering 19mass of houses, piled in their many thousands like a blanket of raked embers.
His knees ached as his mind wandered. He was indeed hungry for food, yet hungrier still for adventure. What had that young man said to him in the alleyway? Field Lane, over a ditch. Something to do with an ivy door. Mother Clap’s, was it?
He opened the rotten window, which squeaked and duly fell from its hinges into the river. Waiting for the splash, he leaned out and remembered his brush with the hammer, then looked up at the moon, remembering the shirtless man perched high on the scaffolding. He smiled to himself and felt in his coat pocket; but wait – it was empty! He stuffed his fingers inside and scrabbled around for his purse, yet there was nothing there. Lord, was there anything he couldn’t lose? He ran back to the bed, knocking his head on the frame as he searched under it, then felt inside his waistcoat pockets again to be certain, his fingers finding something hard and metallic. He pulled out a single half-guinea coin, turning it in the gloom with a miserable sigh, then sat on the bed with his head in his hands. He was a sorry young man indeed, yet London was still calling. Perhaps he could find Jack at this Mother Clap’s and ask him to buy them both a cup or two of wine?
Within a minute, he was creeping through the living quarters to the shop, unbolting the door with dextrous fingers, then onto the bridge.
Even at such a late hour, carts and carriages were rumbling between the tight buildings in a steady stream, making their way to the City. Humming to himself, Thomas stepped from the bridge onto a crossroads, staring up as a star shot over the roofs, sparkling at its tail. He watched it burn and die, rolling Jack’s words on his tongue. They seemed to offer him all he had ever wished for.
‘Together.’ Isn’t that what his new friend had said? ‘Always together.’
CHAPTER SIX
Gabriel tried to keep his patience, drumming his fingers on his knees under the table. He picked his nails, chewed his lip, clicked his tongue, bounced his heel, anything to control his frustration. He needed to leave Red Lyon Street for Mother Clap’s to stand guard at the door, yet Henry and Bet wouldn’t let him go. Normally, they couldn’t wait for him to sleep so they could have their portion of the cramped living quarters to themselves. Yet on this night, every possible thing Gabriel had to say was instantly and unquestioningly seized upon with fascination. No matter how many times he stretched his arms for a bear’s yawn – thumping his chest so they could see how very tired he was – no matter how often he said ‘that was a long day’, no matter how many times he gave a sigh and an ‘anyhow, time for bed… ’ they would keep him there with some idle question, delivered slowly while the pair of them invented whatever nonsense they were supposed to be asking. They had been sidling nervously around something for weeks, conversations taking place without words, the pair of them giving each other knowing looks.
Two hours had passed, and for the first time that night, Gabriel yawned and meant it.
‘Best give you two peace,’ he said, standing from the table. ‘Take my night-time walk, then bed. Just fetch my boots.’
‘Boots?’ said Henry, looking down at Gabriel’s feet. ‘You’re wearing them.’
‘Right. Meant my coat.’
‘It’s warm still,’ said Bet, shifting uncomfortably. ‘Henry, don’t you want to tell Gabriel … something?’
‘Not now.’
Bet pulled her table knife from a hunk of cheese and pointed it him. ‘Then when?’
Gabriel was already through to his own quarters, closing the door on them both. He should have eaten at one of the taverns on his way home, but then he wouldn’t have spent any time with his wife and daughter. He closed the door with an apologetic smile.
‘Evening Em,’ he said. ‘Evening Dot.’
He crept to the partition wall and listened to a low rumbling of voices. 21An argument had already started between Henry and Bet. ‘I’m causing trouble again,’ he murmured.
He stood back and lowered himself into a chair by the window. ‘Clumsy oaf, getting in everybody’s way as usual.’ He took a long breath and peered across the empty floor to a pair of beds standing against the wall. He’d built them himself, one wide-framed, the other small as a crate with rails at either side. Emily stared back at him, her hair loose, bare legs covered with folds of red blankets. She seemed insensible to the rising racket from their neighbours.
Gabriel nodded at Dot in the cradle. ‘Sleeping, is she?’
The baby was lost amidst a swaddle of grey cloth, only her eyes peeping out. They had been like that for three years now, mother and daughter, always apart as though some invisible wall divided them. They created no shadows, inspired no disturbance in the dusty light. They were the dusty light. Still, what he would have given to see his wife cradling Dot in her arms. That had never been possible, not even in life, for they had spent no more than a minute together before they’d died. How quickly the aching time had raced by, and how lonely he’d felt without them. He had loved his wife and, brief though her time had been, loved his daughter too, yet when they left they seemed to take all women with them, and Gabriel had found himself all sinfulness, no love.
‘For the best,’ said Gabriel, looking back through the window as old Peter stirred in the stables below. ‘For the best. They took you as punishment for my sins. My fault.’ He gave another sigh. There was no sound in his quarters but for the faint rustling of his whiskers on the collar of his coat.
‘They want us out, Em,’ he said, after an hour’s gloomy pondering. ‘They think I don’t know, but I do. Bet’s having a baby. Nice for ’em after so long trying. Hope it goes kinder for her than you.’ He looked back at the ghost. ‘How can God ask women to bear his children and make it so hard on ’em?’ He sniffed back a tear, pretending it was a little sneeze, and hid his face. ‘I ain’t got a friend to go to for lodgings, see. No money for a place to stay. That goes on vittles and … well it goes, that’s all you need to know about that.’
Just then, a bright light flew across the rooftops towards the river. Gabriel watched it with a curious frown. ‘Shooting star, Dot,’ he said, pointing it out so his child could follow his finger. ‘That you up there, is it? Telling your silly old pa to keep hopeful?’ 22
The baby blinked.
‘Ay,’ said Gabriel. ‘Ay, that’s my Dot, that is.’
The voices had grown quiet on the other side of the wall now.
‘Have to go over to my special place tonight, Em. You knew I went there when you was alive, didn’t you? Can’t stop it. My sickness, that’s all. Potions and physics don’t work.’ He bowed his head. ‘I am a sinner.’
He moved to the bed and sat down between his wife and daughter, and for some un-clocked time they waited together in silence like a family of owls, until a triangle of light moved across the bare floorboards and Bet appeared in the doorway.
‘You sleeping, Gabe?’ she said.
‘Ay.’
She stepped into the room, casting her eyes around the bare space. She hated being there, he could tell, standing amidst the mouldy stink of a lonely widower. She hardened her throat, cradling her belly.
‘Henry says the scaffolding’s almost down.’
‘It is.’ Gabriel stood up, hands in his pockets. ‘Two weeks, then we’ll be done. More than thirty years since we started the— ’
‘We don’t have any money.’
Gabriel stopped himself from saying what he wanted to say. That they’d have plenty if it weren’t for Henry’s drinking and her fancies. He noticed the smell of rose water and the lace collar at her neck. The profusion of candles on the mantel, the table, the walls, beside the bed and everywhere she could find space. He held his tongue. ‘That’s for Henry to manage.’
‘How blessed I am. Don’t you fret about money?’
‘Ain’t no pockets in shrouds.’
She walked over and stared earnestly into his eyes. ‘You know what Henry’s trying to tell you. He won’t ask ’cos he’s afraid he’ll lose a friend. Don’t tease him.’ Her faint smile drifted away, and she gave a sad shake of her head. ‘I don’t know what we’ll do.’ She looked down at the empty mattress and cot. ‘They won’t leave you, Gabe. They’ll stay with you, wherever you go.’ She pressed a finger against Gabriel’s heart where the locket hung. ‘They live in there … not in this room.’
‘No, Bet.’
‘But… ’
‘No.’ 23
The light was cut as Henry appeared at the door.
‘What you both gossiping about?’ he said, walking sheepishly into the room and standing behind Bet, wrapping her in his arms. ‘Might as well tell you tonight as any night.’ He took a deep breath, struggling to hide his smile. ‘I’ll be a pa soon, Gabe. After so much trying.’ His expression was one of great pride, then as soon as it flashed up, it was strapped with embarrassment. He kissed Bet’s head and gave her a squeeze. ‘A son to take my name eh, good wench?’
‘Or a daughter to suffer it.’
There they stood, waiting for Gabriel to accept the inevitable. He had to. What a fool he’d been, thinking he could stay. He paused, trying to ignore the powdery eyes staring at him from the bed and cot.
‘Got nowhere.’
‘You have money,’ said Henry. ‘Money’s as good as a home, no matter where you are.’
‘Got none.’
‘Where’s it gone?’
‘Where’s yours?’ snapped Gabriel. ‘And what friends cast a man and his wife onto the streets with a new baby?’
‘They’re dead, Gabe.’
‘Not to me.’
In a sudden fit, he lifted the chair to the ceiling, meaning to fling it through the window, but Bet and Henry managed to grip it by the legs.
‘God damn it,’ said Henry, ‘I told Bet it was a bad day to ask, but we don’t have time.’
All Gabriel wanted to hear was the smash of glass, to be given that much of his rage, just for a moment of release.
Bet stood in front of him, her hands raised. ‘The baby’s coming soon. A few short weeks, maybe less.’ She waited for Gabriel’s arm to soften, for the chair to dip from the ceiling. ‘We need you to leave. I don’t want my child to live with ghosts.’ She took Henry’s hand. ‘You will always be our family, Gabe. So will Emily and Dot. But not here, not together.’
Gabriel lowered the chair to the floor. He had known this day would come. When your family dies, your essence dies too, and nobody wants to suffer it. Bet and Henry had been kinder than most, forbearing his gloom and strange habits, and it occurred to Gabriel in that moment – 24looking at the sincere faces of his two friends – that it wasn’t fair to impose himself on them any longer, nor anybody else for that matter, nor himself, nor the world…
Bet raised onto her tiptoes and kissed Gabriel’s cheek. ‘Good man. You’ll find somewhere to live.’
‘Ay,’ said Henry, ‘you will.’
Gabriel tried to smile, yet it came out like a grimace. ‘Can’t stand the crying anyhow,’ he said.
Henry clapped his friend’s shoulder. ‘It’ll be me doing the crying. You’re good to give us space, Gabe. See?’ He pulled Bet close. ‘Told you he’d understand. All these weeks worrying.’
Bet closed her eyes and shook her head with a weary yawn, leading Henry back to their quarters.
Alone once more, Gabriel sat heavily in his chair. ‘Would you, Em? Come with me if I left? Would ye bring Dot?’
The ghost tilted her head and gazed at him with passive eyes, her lips parted.
Gabriel sniffed. ‘I won’t ask you to.’
Already, Henry and Bet were snoring on the other side of the partition. He waited for the sound to deepen as the last thread of the evening turned black and the rooms of the houses opposite snuffed out their candles. As they did so, he caught sight of his sinful face, silver in the glass. There was still time to get to Mother Clap’s – and what might Lotty Lump do then? More than just guard the door? Would Jack be there with his new friend?
Careful not to tread on any of the creaking floorboards, he opened the partition door, padding past Henry and Bet, then down a flight of stone stairs to the stable yard.
Hooves shuffled in one of the stalls and a long nose appeared above the stable door. ‘Hello, Peter,’ said Gabriel, stroking the horse with a gentle hand. ‘Don’t look at me like that, old friend. Get enough of them looks from Em.’ He glanced up at the window to their quarters.
‘Night night,’ he said, stepping to the gates. ‘Time to go.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Field Lane above the Fleet Ditch couldn’t be so difficult to find, could it? Besides, if London was to be his home, then Thomas had better acquaint himself with it. He stopped halfway up a cobbled rise and turned in a circle, already lost.
He scratched his head through his periwig and decided to turn left along a wide, bow-bellied street, then slowed down to admire a grand building with a soaring tower. The Royal Exchange declared a legend above its double doors. He passed alongside it, tracing a shallow arcade, then darted inside, expecting silence beneath the arches, yet there was an urgent rush of hot breathing and whispers, his face brushed by the swish of anonymous clothes. He stopped to gather himself against a wall, stretching his fingers into the blind darkness and touched a moving limb.
‘Who goes there?’ said a voice from beside his ear. Thomas saw the outline of a woman in a tall wig.
‘Thomas True.’
The woman snorted. ‘Sweet Thomas True, are you seeking the lips of a soft and supple virgin t’night?’
Thomas thought about that. ‘What for?’
The woman drew closer, smelling sweet and sickly as boiled jam. ‘Ah, the discerning fellow seeks a woman of experience to bring him to Paradise.’
Thomas moved his hands about, finding a soft shoulder. ‘Are you a whore?’
The shoulder stiffened. ‘I am whatever a gentleman asks me to be, pert thing.’
‘Then be my guide. I seek Mother Clap’s on Field Lane.’
A torch passed by, flashing the woman’s face: a nose pressed flat against a cheek, one eye white as a boiled egg, her skin pocked and plastered with flour. As quick as she was there, she was gone again with a flap of her tail into the dark water.
‘Lavender,’ she cackled, ‘this one’s for you.’
Thomas felt his way through the arches, bumping his head on an unexpected wall as his way was blocked by a giant leaping frog. 26
‘Where are you off to?’ said a high, lisping voice. ‘Not good enough, am I?’
The young man had the most singular expression of indifferent curiosity. Lit up by the crackling flame of a torch, Thomas could make out his flat nose and broad face with bright-pink cheeks, while his clothes were covered in ribbons from his ankles to his collar.
Thomas looked around, assuming the man was talking to someone else. ‘Good enough?’
‘If you’re looking for a kiss and a cudgel, I ain’t pricey. Who set you against me? Huffins, was it, I’ll bet?’
‘You know Jack Huffins?’ said Thomas. ‘I met him earlier today after falling off my coach, well not my coach, a mail coach, and forgetting my trunk. He saved me really, and showed me where to go, then told me to meet him at a place called Clap’s, whatever that is, and isn’t he funny the way he speaks? I could hardly keep up with him, but I’m pretty sure it was on somewhere called Field Lane by some grapes and something about ivy, though I couldn’t tell you what it was, I don’t know, but I only have a little money so I’m hoping to get a drink or two, not that I’m much of a drinker usually, you understand, but do you know where I’m supposed to be going?’
The man waited for him to finish with a flat stare then spoke in a wafting sigh.
‘Yes, I know where it is, I am the most popular molly there.’He checked his fingernails. ‘I suppose Jack told you about Lavender Long-legs?’
‘Not that I remember.’
The man pursed his lips and looked Thomas up and down, wiping every inch of his clothes with his eyelashes. ‘Like I thought,’ he said. ‘Jack wants all the fresh blades for himself, greedy bitch. Clap’s place is up that way… ’ He was about to say more when a flying stone struck him on the temple and he folded instantly to the ground.
A dry laugh came from behind a column and Thomas caught a glimpse of a face deep within the arcade. It was pale as bone, the skin slightly translucent, as though the eyes were peering out from bloodless flesh.
‘Well then,’ said a man, stepping out from the arcade, wrenching a bald dog on a chain. ‘What do we have here?’
