Jonah was trotting up the steps. Ben followed, tipping the doorman one of his last, precious shillings for the privilege of entry. He couldn’t lose Jonah now.
Inside, the evening was only just underway. The room was lit with gas and candles, hung with glittering gilt-framed mirrors. It was all men in here, some in evening dress, a couple in bright uniforms they might or might not have been entitled to wear. And in the middle, Jonah, heading for the bar.
Ben waited while he ordered his drink, watching the barman laugh at something he’d said with what looked like more than professional interest, and stepped forward as Jonah turned, holding a glass of gin. He still wore the remains of his smile to the barman. His gaze fell on Ben, and for a bright, glorious second that smile widened into pure joy. It dropped away as soon as it had come, and Jonah stood with parted lips, quite still.
“Good evening, Jonah.” Ben took another step forward.
Jonah’s eyes darted from side to side, as though looking for escape. His lips drew into a hesitant smile. “Ben.”
He looked different, somehow. Maybe that was because Ben’s infatuation was over, or an effect of the light, but he seemed to have lost some of that brilliant sparkle. He seemed tired. And his hair—
“What happened to your hair?” Ben demanded, and cursed himself. Of all the things he’d meant to say, that was not one.
Jonah’s hand went up to the thick white streak that zigzagged through his black locks on one side. That had not been there before. “God, isn’t it awful.” He sounded distracted, like an actor playing the part of Jonah Pastern, and not well. “It wasn’t my idea. I had the most appalling winter—”
“No,” Ben said. “You didn’t.”
Jonah stared at him, and Ben could imagine what he saw. The new scar on his temple, a ragged crescent shape scored by broken glass, sewn up with rough stitches. His body marked by hard, forced physical labour, and made leaner by living hand to mouth, husbanding his meagre savings and earnings. His cheap clothing stained by London dust and grime, already worn and fraying thin. The shabby, gaol-marked shadow of a decent man.
Jonah raised the glass of gin to his lips with a hand that shook, and spilled the clear liquor down his chin. He didn’t wipe it off. A single viscous droplet hung from the fingers that held the glass, ignored. All the while his deep blue eyes were locked on Ben’s gaze.
“Upstairs,” Ben told him. “Now.”
Jonah put down his glass and went without a word, walking quickly, then almost running, speaking urgently to a doorman who allowed them entrance to the back half of the house, and pointed with a murmur. Ben came after, feeling the blood rising.
Jonah led them up three flights of stairs, into a small room and lit the gas as Ben shut the door. A large metal-framed bed, with a worn sheet spread over it, stains evident in the dim light. A table bearing a ewer, a towel and a half-full bottle of oil. Nothing else but the smell of sweat and semen from previous customers.
Jonah turned to face him, eyes wide and dark in the dim light. “It’s not very gracious, but—” he began, and Ben punched him in the mouth.
Jonah went down hard, stumbling backwards, and fell onto the bed, clutching his face. Ben was on him at once. He planted his fist in Jonah’s stomach, punching down viciously, and as his target doubled over, Ben grabbed his wrist and dragged it to the bedframe. He had been carrying a set of iron cuffs on his belt since he started looking, just for this. He had planned it.
The cuff snapped on to Jonah’s wrist, the other clicked over the iron rail of the bedframe, and that was him caught.
Jonah looked up, gasping for breath, mouth wet and red and open, making no effort to move or fight. He was sprawled half on the bed, knees on the floor, and Ben stood over him, and felt the slow burn of something dark and needy rise within.
“You shit. You bastard. But I’ve got you now.”
“Ben.” Jonah’s tongue darted over his split lip. “Please.”
“Please what? Please what?” Ben’s fingers were clenching. “You destroyed me. You ruined me. I did ten weeks, you fucking coward, while you ran away.”
“Oh God.” It was a whimper. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
“Ten weeks’ gaol, with hard labour. Dishonourably discharged from the force. My parents—” He bent and grabbed Jonah’s collar, twisting the cloth tight as he pulled the man up by the neck. “I’m going to make you pay for what you did, you treacherous shit. Give you to the Met, watch them hobble you and gaol you. I hope every minute you serve is as bad as my time was. Oh, but you’re a murderer now, aren’t you? I hope you hang.”
Jonah wheezed, trying to speak, turning red. Ben let go, and he thumped back on the bed, sucking in air. “Not,” he managed. “I didn’t kill anyone, I swear.”
“Shut up. I don’t care. No more lies.”
Jonah swallowed. “Ben—”