Fleet stopped sharp. He turned towards the man who’d cursed him and studied him silently. There was no anger in his eyes, only the cool, deadly concentration of a snake about to strike. The threat hung heavily in the air between them. In a moment there would be knives drawn – I could feel it.
‘Harry,’ the younger man hissed, breaking the spell. He put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. ‘Come away for God’s sake.’ They left together, pushing their way through the crowds. Harry looked back once, over his shoulder. He was a head taller than Fleet and almost twice as broad – but there was fear in his eyes.
Fleet watched them go. Then he turned his gaze on me. ‘Do you wish to join them, Mr Hawkins?’ His lips curled into a smile, baring his teeth.
My mouth turned dry. My mind screamed run! run while you have the chance! But my feet stubbornly refused to move. He was dangerous company; that much was clear. But I knew in my bones that running from him would be a mistake. Turn your back on a man like Fleet and you could find a knife in it. I swallowed hard. ‘You promised me a drink, sir.’
Fleet laughed, pleased. He slapped me on the arm. ‘So I did.’
The other men fell back, relieved to return to their drinks without any trouble. As I passed them I heard one mutter, ‘Harry’s a fool. The devil’s killed a man for less.’
All the tables were filled bar one, positioned next to a narrow balcony overlooking the yard. It seemed odd that no one had taken it when the Tap Room was so full. Fleet settled into his chair with a proprietorial air.
‘They call it the Park,’ he said, tilting his chin towards the window. ‘The yard and these rooms by the Lodge. The gaol’s known as the Castle.’ He waved his pipe in a circle, as if taking in the whole prison. ‘Weak men often give foolish names to the things they fear. Makes them feel safe, I suppose.’ He smirked at me as if to say, but you and I, we are above such nonsense, are we not? He lit his pipe and took a deep draw. ‘They’ve given me a name,’ he muttered, smoke trailing from his lips. He had a strange, conspiratorial way of speaking, like a villain coming front of stage to let the audience in on his schemes.
I barely heard him. I should have been listening more carefully; I should have paid a lot more attention to Samuel Fleet that first day. But I was too busy peering out of the window. ‘I can see over the wall from here,’ I said, opening the window and slipping out on to the balcony to get a better view.
