The moon escaped from behind a cloud and the world turned a soft silver in its light. I gazed up at the maze of ramshackle galleries and balconies above my head, planks slung from roof to roof, ladders and ropes connecting one mean hovel to the next. A secret city in the rooftops, mapped out by thieves. Rooks, they called themselves, and St Giles was the greatest rookery of them all. Were they back in their nests above me, laughing to themselves as I dragged myself through the filthy streets, battered and bloody? I searched every roof, every shadow, with an anxious eye. No – long gone, surely. Busy emptying my purse in the nearest brothel.
I staggered to my feet, almost welcoming the pain that stabbed the back of my head. Pain kept me sharp, kept me alert. I pressed my shoulder to the nearest wall and scraped my way slowly down the alley.
You have the luck of the devil, Tom Hawkins. Is that right, Charles? I couldn’t go home, not without money. Benjamin Fletcher, my landlord, would have me clamped in irons in a flash. No point asking friends for help – I’d used up every remaining favour. Charles had no money left to lend – I had taken his last last penny. And family… I cut the thought dead.
As I reached the end of the alley I heard the unmistakeable hiss of hot piss plattering into the mud ahead. I turned the corner to find an old whore squatting in the middle of the street, illuminated in the moonlight, a small puddle spreading about her feet. The street was still and empty – and it felt in that moment that we might be the only two living souls in the city, God help us. As she saw me she raised her skirts higher, a thin trickle of piss still rolling down her leg.
‘Farthing for a fuck,’ she said, weaving a little on the spot.
A farthing to catch the pox? It was a bargain, I suppose – men have paid finer whores a great deal more for the privilege. I shook my head, then winced as the pain smacked against my skull. ‘Which way to the Garden?’
She took in my tattered clothes; the blood stains on my shirt… and held out her hand. ‘A penny and I’ll show you.’
‘I was set upon. They took my purse.’ I opened my arms wide. ‘Have pity, madam.’
‘Pity?’ She chuckled, and wiped herself dry with her dirt-streaked petticoat. ‘Can’t afford it.’
She stumbled away, back towards the dark heart of St Giles.
I found my own way back to Covent Garden in the end. I kept to the shadows, hiding in porches when other men strode by. Perhaps someone would have helped me, if I’d dared to ask. One hears of good Samaritans, even in London. But I couldn’t risk it. I limped slowly through the streets alone, no doubt turning in circles half the time. Sometimes I felt eyes upon my back, and swore I heard the soft tread of footsteps behind me – but when I turned and peered into the darkness, there was no one there.
