The turnkey’s face loomed in front of mine. ‘Feeling a little sick, are we, sir?’ he asked gleefully.
I fought back my fear and stood taller. ‘I’m perfectly well,’ I lied. It would not do to show weakness in here. At the end of the corridor lay another set of double doors to match the Lodge gate. One had been propped open with a barrel of ale – I could just make out the entrance to the prison yard beyond. Without thinking I began to shuffle towards the light and open air, but the guard grabbed me roughly by the arm and shoved me back towards a small, overheated room next to the Lodge gate. This was where the turnkey on gate duty would sit, waiting for the next poor devil to come along. I saw now why this one was in such a foul temper – I’d interrupted an early dinner; a bottle of sack and a bowl of greasy mutton broth balanced precariously on a stack of papers. He tipped the last of the wine down his throat, examining my arrest warrant with a sour expression. Then he slammed open a black ledger filled with names and debts and scratched a fresh line on to the page.
Thomas Hawkins, Greek St.Thurs. 21st September, 1727. 20l. 10s. 6d. Gent.
‘Soho,’ he grunted, narrowing his eyes as he wrote the address.
‘You know it well?’ I guessed.
‘Joseph Cross Wardour Street Tuesday 6th February 1725 ten pounds seven shillings Bricklayer.’
All said in one breath, as if it were his full name.
‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Cross.’
‘Oh. Pleased are you,’ he snorted. ‘Well, fuck me.’
Joseph Cross. I had never met a man more well-named; he was like the cauldron hanging over the fire at Moll’s, bubbling and roiling in a constant fury. He had the red, bloated face of a seasoned drinker and his thick brows met across the bridge of his nose, as if years of aggressive scowling had knitted them together.
‘So you’re a debtor too?’
‘Trusty,’ he corrected. ‘I work for the governor.’
‘I see.’ But you’re still a debtor, aren’t you? ‘Did you know someone’s written “butcher” under the governor’s name on the gate?’
Cross shrugged. ‘They wrote “cunt” yesterday. Well, Thomas Hawkins, Gent. What are we going to do with you, eh?’
I gazed longingly at the low chair by the fire. My chains felt so heavy now I was struggling to stand. ‘Perhaps I could wait in here until Mr Jakes returns?’
‘Oh, of course!’ Cross trilled, clapping his hands. ‘And perhaps sir would like a sugar cake and a pot of tea while he’s waiting…?’ He dragged me back out of the room. ‘No money and no warning,’ he grumbled as he led me down the corridor. ‘Mr Acton won’t like this. He won’t like
