‘At him, man! Go for him, sir!’ he shouted, failing miserably to keep in character. Fortunately, everyone was too engrossed in the fight to notice.
With sweat pouring from his brow, the Crusher struck out with another of the right hooks for which he was famed, but Syd leapt back, out of harm’s way. The Crusher lost his balance and, before he could right himself, Syd came in with a blow to his jaw that sent the champion staggering. The Crusher collapsed to his knees, hands on the floor, breathing hard.
‘One! Two! Three!’ the crowd began to chant again.
‘Get up, you lazy oaf!’ screamed the Crusher’s second. ‘Get up, you good-for-nothing girl!’
But the Crusher swayed and then fell forward, the side of his face pressed against the floor, eyes glassy, a dribble of saliva trailing from his half-open mouth. He didn’t move. The second kicked him with his foot, trying to make him stir.
‘Twenty-eight! Twenty-nine! Thirty!’ bellowed the crowd.
The Crusher hadn’t moved.
A huge cheer went up. Even those who had lost their bets threw their hats in the air to applaud the plucky newcomer. Nick, Pedro, Lord Francis and I jumped up and down together and cheered with the best of them. Syd, bowing to each corner in turn, gave us a two-handed victory signal when he faced us. The Crusher’s second was not looking after his man. He was in a huddle with Syd’s father at the side of the stage. As they broke apart, he thrust a purse into the butcher’s fist and they gave each other a businesslike nod. Behind them, some friends of the Crusher had rushed into the ring to help the defeated boy to his feet. He did not look badly injured but he missed his stool completely when he went to sit down, ending up on the floor again.
The referee bounded over the prostrate body of the Crusher and raised Syd’s fist in the air.
‘Gents, we have a new champion. I give you the Bow Street Butcher!’
SCENE 4 . . . BILLY ‘BOIL’ SHEPHERD
‘Come on, let’s go and congratulate Syd,’ said Pedro eagerly as he launched himself against the tide of people now flowing away from the boxing ring.
Nick and Lord Francis ran after him. Being the last in line, I tried to follow but a party of gentlemen jumped from the ringside into my path, blocking my way.
‘Splendid fight!’ enthused a man in a black silk hat as he leapt heavily down, practically flattening me as he did so.
‘A rare talent, that butcher,’ commented his friend. ‘Perhaps I should ask cook to get the meat from him in future . . . show some support.’
‘Or perhaps not,’ said the other, already laughing in anticipation of his own witticism. ‘You don’t know what he does with the ones he knocks out cold. Chop, chop! Meat pies, sir?’
The gentlemen both laughed raucously. I glared at them and tried to push past, annoyed that they could imply anything so cruel about Syd. The grey-haired man must have noticed me trying to squeeze between them for he looked down and automatically clapped his hand to his watch chain.
‘We’d better get back to the club,’ he murmured to his companion. ‘This place is rife with pickpockets, they say.’
The pair pushed past me, knocking me backwards into another bystander. I had no time to be offended for I now found myself buffeted to the ground by the person I had been thrown against.
‘Watch where you’re goin’, Tiddler,’ he jeered.
I knew that voice. I kept my head down, eyes trained on the steel caps of his boots, hoping he wouldn’t notice. Unfortunately for me, some of my hair had escaped from the back of my cap.
‘’Ere, wot’s this?’ he crowed with delight. I was seized by the shoulder and pulled to my feet. ‘Well, well, a little pussycat pretendin’ to be a tom.’
A hand snatched the cap from my head, letting my hair tumble over my face. I pushed it out of my eyes and looked furiously up into the face of Billy Boil. He was not looking at me now: he stood in the middle of a group of his followers, twirling my cap nonchalantly on an index finger, gazing about him to see if I was under anyone’s protection.
‘’Ere on your own? That’s very brave of you, ain’t it? Come to see lover boy fight?’
‘Give me that!’ I said in a fury, making a grab for my cap.
‘Oops!’ said Billy with a taunting smile as he sent the hat sailing over my head to a pox-faced boy on the other side. Pox-face dangled the cap just out of reach, pulling it away each time I jumped to snatch it back. Billy’s gang, simple minds all, hooted with laughter. I, however, was not amused. I felt hot with humiliation and was annoyed that I teetered so perilously close to tears.
‘Aw, look, boys! The little pussycat doesn’t like playing with us!’ jeered Billy when his sharp eye spotted me wipe away a tear of anger.
Sick of their teasing, I tried to make a run for it, determined to abandon my hat if this was the only way of escape, but Billy stepped forward to catch me by the back of my jacket. Reluctant though I am to admit this, Reader, I have to say that Billy does have his boys well trained for his gang quickly formed a ring around me, shutting me in as well as hiding me from any friends who might be looking for me.
‘Such a shame she don’t like playing with us, for I ’eard Little Miss Cat wanted to be in a gang.’ Billy pulled me towards him. ‘I’d even ’eard that the blockhead butcher didn’t want ’er, so I thought to myself, I thought, why not let ’er join me gang? Add a bit of class, she would.’ Billy grabbed my cap from Pox-face and presented it to me with a bow. ‘Wot you say to that?’
I took the hat suspiciously, expecting him to whip it away again at the last moment, but he didn’t. I quickly stuffed it back on my head and made a dash to escape. He gave another tug on my jacket, bringing me back like a fish on a line.
‘Not so fast. You ain’t given me your answer.’
‘Answer?’ I asked warily, feeling like a sheep surrounded by a pack of wolves.
‘Yeah. Do you want to join my gang?’
I stopped pulling away from him.
‘You’re joking.’