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.
… No, no, I would not be food for the rats of St Giles. I was lucky to be alive. Didn’t feel lucky. Didn’t feel alive, for that matter. But damn every one of those cutpurses to the deepest pits of hell – I would get to my feet.
Or to my knees, at least.
I was lying in a dank, deserted side passage that stank of piss and vomit and other fluids, as all such places do and no doubt always will to the end of time. The ground was littered with broken gin bottles, bloody rags, spent pipes. They must have dragged me here through the filth in order to rob me the better, the link boy holding his torch high and proud as they worked. My jacket was gone, my wig and tricorn dashed from my head in the struggle. My breeches were torn; my knees and fists scraped raw. They’d cut the gold buttons from my waistcoat, emptied every pocket. I pulled myself to my knees, groaning softly with the effort. I couldn’t risk being heard – couldn’t risk calling the alarm. There were gangs in St Giles that would do far worse to a gentleman than merely beat and rob him, if he were foolish enough to stumble on to their patch. I was not out of danger yet.
I crawled back towards the alley, inch by inch, feeling my way blindly in the darkness, fingers flinching as they touched broken glass or the slip and slither of foul, stinking mud. When I reached the alley I collapsed in the shadows of the nearest porch, back pressed hard against the wall, panting with exhaustion. Each breath drew a fresh throb of pain. I ran my fingers beneath my shirt, prodded each rib. Bruised but not broken.
