The whores of Briggate were enjoying a crisp trade. By the Turk’s Head, the drinkers had spilled out into the yard. A voice close by called out, ‘Billy, you’re back in Leeds,’ and he turned.

  That was the man. Billy Harding. As soon as he saw him, he remembered the eyes. One of the pair who’d attacked him. Simon eased away, finding a spot in the gloom outside the door to wait for the man to leave.

  Almost an hour passed before Harding emerged, walking alone, wearing his high crown hat at an angle, the tails of his coat pushed back as he walked with hands thrust in his pockets. Not a care in the world, completely unaware of the man following him.

  Town was busy, but by the time they reached North Street, people had melted away. One faint echo of footsteps that faded to silence. They were alone.

  ‘Mr Harding,’ he said quietly, and Billy turned, surprised.

  ‘Who …’ he began, but Simon was already on him, holding the flat of his knife against the man’s face. ‘You can have my money. My watch—’

  ‘Don’t you remember me?’

  He smelled the man’s terror, seeing his eyes move, searching for any chance of escape.

  ‘You seemed to know who I was when you and Mr Collins met me. Or have you forgotten so quickly?’ He tapped the stick on the ground. ‘How’s his knee now? It was still bad when I talked to him the other day.’

  ‘What …’ He tried to swallow. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Just a word, Billy. Nothing more. What did you think? That you’d never have to face me? That I’d forget?’ He shook his head. ‘Life doesn’t work like that.’

  ‘I …’ he began, and hung his head. ‘We’d been drinking. Charles goaded us on.’

  ‘I’m not here for him.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He looked into Simon’s face and the repentance was there. ‘I truly am.’

  Suddenly Simon tired of the game. The idea of revenge withered. He wasn’t going to kill the man or cut him. What would be the point? Harding would remember tonight for years. That was enough.

  ‘I’ll trust you mean that.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Then I’ll wish you a good night.’

  He stood and watched the man walk off, constantly glancing over his shoulder. It was done. Let him think whatever he wished.

  THIRTY-THREE

  The children were growing restless. The young ones were fretful, a few crying and scared. The older ones tried to show nothing, but fear crackled through the air.

  Waiting for battle.

  Sally moved around the groups, with plenty of reassurance and smiles. Hannah stayed with her, looking relieved to have her to look after them all.

  Jane caught a glimpse of Wilfred in the deep shadows at the edge of the group.

  ‘What do you think about being a thief-taker after all that happened?’ she asked. He hadn’t come to see her since Fox’s death. ‘Did you decide it’s not for you?’

  The boy blinked and looked down at the ground. It was an answer. ‘I’m sorry, miss.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. You made yourself try.’

  ‘I … I don’t have the courage for it. I’m sorry, miss,’ he said again. ‘I’m going to look at the factories, miss.’

  ‘They might have a job for you.’ Twelve hours or more a day, six days a week for starvation wages was all children could expect. That took a different kind of courage. ‘That might suit you more,’ she told him. ‘If I can …’ Jane stopped and raised her head. They were coming.

  She stood with Sally, watching as they appeared from the far side of the empty ground. Four of them. No, five; one was lurking behind. They were carrying sticks and knives. In the curl of firelight she recognised one face: Henry Harrison. One of Andrew Barton’s friends, part of the group that attacked Sally.

  The girl spoke before Jane could open her mouth. Her eyes never moved from the men. ‘I’ve seen him.’ Her voice was barely more than a hiss. ‘There’s another one, too, with the fair hair. He was with them. They’re mine.’

  They stood still and silent as the men charged the fire. Drunk and stumbling, not realising nobody was there, and confused when they found no opponent.

  ‘Now,’ Sally called out, and the children screamed as they threw their bricks and stones.

  The men moved back in blind disarray. One ran off into the night. Jane glanced; Sally had slipped away.

  Everything was quiet for a minute, only the crackle of the flames and sparks rising into the night. Then a cry, and she saw one of the men bent over, clutching at his face as if it was on fire. Sally had begun her revenge.

  Jane sensed the children behind her. Wary, ready. But the attack was wavering before it could really begin. Only two left. And the other one behind, urging them on. She knew his voice. She’d last heard it when she cornered him in Rockley Hall Yard and sliced his cheek. Charles Ibbotson.

  A clash of knives, metal on metal and she dashed forward. Sally was squaring off with Harrison. The other man stood, unsure if he had the courage to join in. As soon as he saw Jane, he fled.

  Sally was carried by fury, forcing Harrison back step by step. He made the mistake of turning his head towards Jane. That was all the girl needed. She darted in with a single, lightning cut, then away again, out of reach. The man’s eyes filled with horror as his fingers moved to his cheek and came away bloody. He dropped the knife, whimpering like a child as he scurried off into the night.

  ‘It’s over,’ Jane said. So fast, so easy. No battle, not even a scrap, just young men full of drink and bravado that wilted at the first challenge. But Sally shook her head.

  ‘No, it’s not. There’s still one more.’

  ‘I cut him. I told you.’

  ‘But I haven’t.’ Her voice was iron. She began to move. ‘Are you coming?’

  Ibbotson had waited too long. Now he was running, trying to keep himself safe.

  Sally was already moving, forcing her legs to push hard. Jane began to run; she couldn’t let the girl go alone.

  He looked over his shoulder. They were gaining on him. Thirty yards between them by the time they reached Leeds Bridge. Jane heard the lapping of water and the deep wooden creak of barges against the wharves.

  Suddenly they couldn’t see him, as if he’d somehow vanished into the night.

  At the corner, they stopped. Briggate ran on ahead of them, Swinegate trailing away to the left, the Calls going the other way.

  Sally cocked her head, raising a finger: wait.

  A few seconds, then, silently, she turned right. Four yards and right again. Down Pitfall.

  Hardly wider than a ginnel, leading to the river. As she stood, Jane could hear a rasping breath. A few more seconds as her eyes adjusted, then she made out the shape cowering against the wall of building, as if its shadow would hide him.

  He was trapped. The only way out was past them.

  Sally took a pace forward. Jane followed.

  Sally moved again.

  Ibbotson began to shuffle back, moving down Pitfall towards the water.

  A step. Then one more.

  The girl didn’t speak. She clutched her knife and stared at his face. The livid scar on his cheek that matched her own.

  The echo of her boots came back off the walls as she moved forward again. Ibbotson held up his arms, as if he could push her away. Panic flared in his eyes.

  Sally stopped. ‘Well?’ she asked. ‘What do you have to say now?’

  He shook his head. The words stumbled out: ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  Jane saw his legs tense, ready to spring, the knife coming up in his hand.

  ‘He—’

  Before she could say any more, someone rushed past them. A boy, dressed in drab clothes – Wilfred. He crashed hard against Ibbotson. The man’s blade arced loose through the air as the impact carried them both backwards. Tumbling over the bank, landing heavily in the water.

  They saw a small hand rise and fall, stabbing wildly with a knife. As the splashing finished, the ripples slowly spread to nothing remained on the oily surface of the river. Wilfred had discovered his courage.

  Jane stared until she felt the chill seeping under her skin.

  ‘Now it’s all done,’ Sally said. She sounded empty. Drained.

  ‘Yes.’ Jane’s voice was dull. ‘I …’ she began, then realised she didn’t know what to say. She had no words for the storm in her head.

  No screaming girl to haunt her rest tonight. Instead, it was a boy running.

  Jane was standing by the coffee cart outside the Bull and Mouth before Simon arrived the next morning. As he paid for his cup, he gave her a curious look. At least he knew better than to ask questions. Sally was there, too, keeping watch on the other side of Briggate.

  Jane had been listening closely to the gossip. No whisper of any bodies in the river.

  She listed the names in her head. Wilfred, Ibbotson, Porter, Fox, Andrew Barton.

  So many dead, she thought, and the only legacy was pain.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Wilfred’s body was brought ashore downstream at Knostrop. Two days to travel a mile. It was news for five minutes.

  Sally asked Simon to arrange everything with the parish church; they’d listen to a man, never to her. All the homeless children stood quietly as a curate read the burial service by the grave. Hannah tossed the first clod of earth down on to the coffin, Sally the second, then Jane.

  ‘Poor boy,’ Rosie said as they walked away. ‘Does anyone know what happened?’

  ‘No,’ Simon told her. ‘Nothing more than guesses.’

  Someone had told him about two young men with their cheeks sliced open in a knife fight. Another mentioned that Charles Ibbotson had disappeared. Rumours swirled but the truth stayed hidden. If anyone knew, they were staying silent.

  Time passed. Once or twice, he wondered about Barton. Someone said that he and his wife had gone away; nobody seemed to know where. But what would Leeds hold for them now, anyway?

  Jane returned to her tidy routines. Shopping each day, living through the books she read. Simon hadn’t asked for her help. That was fine. She had money; Barton had paid them well. She was happy with her small circle: Mrs Shields, Kate the pie-seller, Dodson the beggar, Davy Cassidy and the girl who sang with him.

  Sally arrived three times a week for her lessons, her reading improving steadily as she grew more confident in her ability.

  Rest had helped her. She moved easily now, she’d regained a little weight, she was smiling, carefree again. Still covering her hair with the shawl when she walked, but no longer covering the scar on her cheek; she seemed to have decided to wear it with pride.

  ‘That one has a purpose about her now, doesn’t she?’ Mrs Shields remarked one day after the girl left.

  Jane thought of the future Sally had told her about. Maybe she’d make it happen. ‘Yes. She does.’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  As always, my thanks go to the excellent team at Severn House, who help make these words in my head into what you read. They all do outstanding work, but I have to single out my editor, Sara Porter, whose stunning eye for detail had been a saving grace several times, and Piers Tilbury, whose cover designs always take my breath away.

  My huge thanks, too, to Lynne Patrick, a longtime friend and editor whom I’ve trusted completely for a long time now. Her work improves my writing.

  I’m also grateful to all who review these books, and to those who buy them – please don’t stop! But it always comes down to you, the readers. I value you more than you can ever know.

 

 

  Chris Nickson, A Rage of Souls

 

 

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