‘Martha, my dear’ – Charles Ambrose had maintained fine manners against far worse, and besides, he knew well enough when he’d been found out – ‘we all know your point, and admire it. I’ve seen enough, and if you let me return to my natural habitat I’ll do what I can to carry out your every command.’ Seeing that his ironic bow would do nothing for her temper, he said, as if confiding state secrets: ‘The Bill has been passed, you know. The policies are in place. It’s only a question of next steps.’
Martha smiled as well as she could, because Spencer had withdrawn a little, as if suddenly uncertain of his attachment to a woman who’d bellow at her betters in the street, and because Luke had gone impish again, and had never looked more delighted. ‘Next steps! Oh – Charles: I am sorry. They tell me I should count to ten – wait, but can you hear that? What is it – what can I hear?’
They all turned, and heard from deep within a narrow alley the sound of an organ playing. An uneven melody gained speed as someone turned the handle, then became a rousing martial tune. The child ran to meet the music with her wings shivering behind her, and as the organ-player emerged others joined her as if seeping out of the bricks and mortar around them; some were barefoot, and others wore hobnailed boots that struck sparks as they ran; two fair-haired boys carried a kitten each; a girl in a white dress trailed behind, feigning indifference. Charles, keeping to the corners, saw a man of about his own age dressed in the remnants of a soldier’s tunic. Stitched on the breast was the green and crimson ribbon of the Afghan War Medal and his empty left sleeve was pinned at the elbow. With his right hand he turned the organ’s handle faster and faster, and began a jig of his own. The girl in the white dress spun, and laughed, and reached for Garrett’s hand; one boy held his kitten high and sang to it words of his own. Martha looked at Spencer, and saw he was appalled, and despised him for it: perhaps he imagined they ought to be decently miserable in their lot, and not snatch pleasure wherever they saw it. ‘Take partners,’ bellowed the soldier: ‘Try this one for size,’ and it wasn’t a military melody he played then, but with something in it of sailors on deck sighting land. Martha held out her hands to a passing lad who’d discarded his kitten on a doorstep and with great strength in his thin forearms flung her round, so that Spencer saw all her hair fan out, wheat-coloured against the grimy brickwork. ‘Heave me away, my bully bully boys,’ sang the girl in white, ‘I’m bound for South Australia,’ and as she passed Charles she dipped her head, as though accepting a compliment he hadn’t thought to give.
A little distance away, unseen in an alley, Edward Burton’s enemy was watching. Addled with beer and loathing Samuel Hall woke each morning with hatred sharpening in his belly as keenly as any knife. Daily vigils outside Burton’s home had given glimpses of the enemy himself, and of frequent visitors so obviously wealthy it was as if Burton had entered the wards of the Royal Borough a pauper and left them a king. What could they know of his cruelty – of how he’d soured Hall’s sole hope of happiness? Worse, there’d been mention in the Standard of the operation that had cheated Hall of justice: two columns and a photograph in praise of a surgeon who looked like nothing so much as a glowering demon. His hatred for Burton doubled, and spent itself on this other man – what right did he have, to meddle in the ways of God? The knife went in – it had struck the heart – that ought to have been the end of it, and he might have had peace!
And here he was, that same man – black-browed, a little hunched, and with him three companions: a woman he recognised for her thick hair braided at the crown, and two men he did not. Hall had watched them greeted at Burton’s door, and seen them framed in Burton’s window; they’d passed plates of food between them, while Hall himself could not bear to eat – they’d laughed, when he’d forgotten anything but misery! He’d followed them all the way, and seen them dancing, when he himself had lost all joy – Hall put his hand in his pocket, and pricked his thumb on the blade hidden there. If Edward Burton were to remain always just beyond his reach, here at least might be a chance at retribution.
The soldier paused – his arm was tired – in the silence the dancers grew suddenly ashamed. The tenements and gutters seemed all at once more sordid and more bleak; Luke took his arm from the girl’s waist and bowed as if with apology. ‘They brush their hair with codfish bones,’ she sang to the soldier invitingly, but he was tired and wouldn’t play more.
Charles glanced at his watch. It had been a charming display in its way, though perhaps a detail to be omitted from his report to the department; but he wanted his dinner, and before he could reach that happy conclusion to the day he’d need to bathe for an hour at least. And possibly, he thought, only a little ashamed of himself, burn my clothes.
‘Spencer – Martha – have we seen enough? Have we done our duty? – but look here, who’s this? Dr Garrett, he seems to want you: is this a friend of yours?’ He gestured away to his right, and at first Luke saw nothing beside the children dispersing and the soldier counting out the coppers in his cap. Then the child in the fairy wings yelped and swore: she’d been pushed aside in a sudden jostling and tumbled wailing onto the stones. ‘What’s going on?’ said Charles, drawing his coat closer – was it pick-pockets? Katherine had warned him to take care! – ‘Spencer? Can you see what’s going on?’ The group of children parted, a kitten broke loose and yowled from a windowsill, and Charles saw a short man in a brown coat come at them with his head held low and one hand thrust in his pocket. Thinking the man was in distress Martha stepped forward, and held out her hands: ‘What is it?’ she said: ‘What’s happened – can we help?’
Samuel Hall did not reply, only went on running, and they saw it was Luke he wanted; he reached the surgeon, who at first was a little amused, and fended the man off with a jovial shove – ‘Do I know you? Have we met?’
Hall began to mutter beneath breath sour with beer, all the while putting his hand in his pocket and drawing it out again, as if he couldn’t decide what to do next: ‘You shouldn’t’ve gone and interfered with my business – it wasn’t fair – I’ll show you what’s coming to him!’
Luke grew troubled then, but for all his strength could not push the man away: he found himself pressed against the wall, scrabbling at the brick. He cast about for help, and found it – for there was Spencer, who with his hands on the man’s shoulder wrenched him away from his friend. Then the man fell to a kind of drunken sobbing that was also a little like laughter; raising his eyes upward he said, ‘Again, would you believe it! Cheated again of all I’m due!’
‘Poor chap’s quite mad,’ said Charles, watching the man in the gutter. Then he saw him put his hand in his pocket and take out a blade. ‘Watch out,’ he said, coming forward, feeling each hair lift on the nape of his neck: ‘Watch out – he has a knife – Spencer, stay back!’
But Spencer had turned away from the fallen man, and was slow with the shock of the fight; he looked dumbly at Charles, and at his friend. ‘Luke?’ he said: ‘Are you hurt?’
‘Winded,’ said Luke, ‘that’s all.’ Then he saw Hall scrabble to his feet, and how light gleamed on the blade; saw how he raised his arm and lunged at his friend with an animal’s cry. In the long moment that followed he saw also Spencer laid out upon a mortuary table, his fine fair hair falling back against the wood, and it was unbearable: he’d never felt so appalling a surge of terror. Luke hurled himself forward with hands outstretched – he reached the man – he reached the knife – they tumbled to the pavement. Samuel Hall fell first, and fell heavily: his head struck a kerbstone with a sound like that of a nut being cracked.