‘And you go unarmed?’
‘Of course.’ He stood up and emptied an assortment of knives and ugly-looking wires from his various pockets.
‘Don’t forget your boot,’ I said, remembering a particularly long night spent with him in the Bow Street lock-up.
Shepherd grinned at me and took out a long, thin blade from his boot and threw it on the table.
Frank seized Syd’s arm. ‘This is madness, Syd. You can’t let her go with him. We’ll never see her alive again!’
Shepherd looked directly at Syd. ‘I give you me word that I’ll not ’arm an ’air of ’er ’ead – not that she’s got many of those left.’
‘Why should we trust you?’ Frank asked.
Shepherd shrugged. ‘I’m not askin’ you to trust me. You’ve got me money, me boys, even me own beloved knives – that’s what you should trust, Dook.’
‘We’re not goin’ to get any more from ’im, Frank,’ said Syd. ‘Either we let Cat go or we kiss goodbye to our chance to ’elp Prince.’
None of us liked it – me least of all – but Shepherd had us over a barrel.
‘Oh, come on,’ I said irritably, doing my best to hide my fear, ‘the sooner we go, the sooner I’ll be back.’
Syd drew me aside while Shepherd donned his street clothes.
‘Cat,’ he whispered. ‘Just in case.’ And he pressed the thin blade Shepherd had removed from his boot into my hand. I nodded and slipped it inside my cloak. I prayed that I would not have to use it.
SCENE 3 – RATS’ CASTLE
‘Right then, Kitten, follow me!’ declared Shepherd in great good humour.
‘Don’t call me Kitten,’ I grumbled as I followed him down the stairs. ‘Only my friends call me that.’
Shepherd laughed. ‘But I am your friend, Kitten – for tonight anyways. We ’ave a score to settle, you and I, but it can wait for another day.’
‘You may feel in a friendly humour, fine, but just don’t call me Kitten.’
‘All right, all right . . . Moggy.’
It was breathtakingly cold on the street after the warmth of the glass room. Shepherd kept up a fast pace, forcing me to trot beside him to keep up.
‘You know, Moggy,’ he said suddenly, coming to a halt outside a brightly lit tavern, ‘I feel sorry for you.’
‘What?’ I panted.
‘On the run, no ’ome, pretendin’ to be a boy with your ’air and everythink – don’t think I don’t know why you done it. I could look after you, y’know.’
‘Look after me? Oh yes, I know your kind of tender loving care. You’d lead me a merry dance, I’ve no doubt, ending with me cutting a caper on nothing when you sell me out to the Beak.’
‘You’ve got me all wrong,’ said Shepherd with mock sorrow. ‘The last thing I want is to see you ’anged.’
‘No, but that’s only because it’s the first thing you want.’
Shepherd gave a shout of laughter. ‘You’re no fool, Cat. I bet you’ll die damned ’ard and bold as brass when your time comes on the platform. I look forward to it.’
I was too cold to have any appetite to continue this exchange. I just wanted to see Pedro. ‘Look, Billy, did you drag me out here only to bait me?’
He shook his head. ‘Nah, Moggy, we need to make a turn down ’ere.’
Shepherd led the way into a narrow alley that ran between the tavern and a warehouse. It was the kind of place I’d normally avoid like the plague as it headed into the Rookeries – the maze of crumbling houses and courtyards that had given Shepherd his start on the road to power and riches. I glanced around me before committing myself. A couple of men lounging outside the tavern were watching me, the light pouring from the window gilding their drab clothes with temporary splendour. I turned back. Shepherd’s black cloak was disappearing into the darkness – I’d lose him if I didn’t hurry.
‘In for a penny, in for a pound,’ I muttered, stealing myself to take the plunge.
I found him waiting for me at the other end of the alleyway. ‘Stick close, Cat,’ he said in a low voice, taking my elbow. ‘You’ll come to no ’arm as long as you’re with me.’
I remembered my last visit to the Rookeries – the night Shepherd tried to cut my throat. The smell was as rank, the streets as dirty, the buildings as crazed as they had been then. But there was one major change: no one approached us or tried to rob me. Instead, as we passed the beggars huddled on doorsteps, the men and women clustered in the doorways to the gin palaces and grotty taverns, they all stood to attention.
‘Evenin’, Mr Shepherd,’ said one red-nosed Irishman, tipping his hat to my companion. A street-walker in a ragged petticoat dropped a curtsey.
Shepherd acknowledged their greetings with a slight nod of his head.
‘You see, Cat, I’m all they’ve got. I’m king, judge and jury to ’em. I’m more of a ruler ’ere than King bleedin’ George on his bleedin’ throne. My word is life or death.’