Текст книги "A Place Called Freedom"

Автор книги: Ken Follett

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Jay said quickly: “I don’t care about that.”

Alicia put in: “But you’d have to pay the interest on Lady Hallim’s mortgages—otherwise she could lose High Glen.”

“I can do that out of the income from the coal.” Father went on thinking out the details. “They’ll have to leave for Virginia immediately, within a few weeks.”

“They can’t do that,” Alicia protested. “They have to make preparations. Give them three months, at least.”

He shook his head. “I need the coal sooner than that.”

“That’s all right. Lizzie won’t want to make the journey back to Scotland—she’ll be too busy preparing for her new life.”

All this talk of deceiving Lizzie filled Jay with trepidation. He was the one who would suffer her wrath if she found out. “What if someone writes to her?” he said.

Alicia looked thoughtful. “We need to know which of the servants at High Glen House might do that—you can find that out, Jay.”

“How will we stop them?”

“We’ll send someone up there to dismiss them.”

Sir George said: “That could work. All right—we’ll do it.”

Alicia turned to Jay and smiled triumphantly. She had got him his patrimony after all. She put her arms around him and kissed him. “Bless you, my dear son,” she said. “Now go to her and tell her that you and your family are desperately sorry about this mistake, and that your father has given you Mockjack Hall as a wedding present.”

Jay hugged her and whispered: “Well done, Mother—thank you.”

He went out. As he walked across the garden he felt jubilant and apprehensive at the same time. He had got what he had always wanted. He wished it could have been done without deceiving his bride—but there was no other way. If he had refused he would have lost the property and he might have lost her as well.

He went into the little guest house adjoining the stables. Lady Hallim and Lizzie were in the modest drawing room sitting by a smoky coal fire. They had both been crying.

Jay felt a sudden dangerous impulse to tell Lizzie the truth. If he revealed the deception planned by the parents, and asked her to marry him and live in poverty, she might say yes.

But the risk scared him. And their dream of going to a new country would die. Sometimes, he told himself, a lie was kinder.

But would she believe it?

He knelt in front of her. Her wedding dress smelled of lavender. “My father is very sorry,” he said. “He sent in the surveyors as a surprise for me—he thought we’d be pleased to know if there was coal on your land. He didn’t know how strongly you felt about mining.”

She looked skeptical. “Why didn’t you tell him?”

He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “He never asked.” She still looked stubborn, but he had another card up his sleeve. “And there’s something else. Our wedding present.”

She frowned. “What is it?”

“Mockjack Hall—a tobacco plantation in Virginia. We can go there as soon as we like.”

She stared at him in surprise.

“It’s what we always wanted, isn’t it?” he said. “A fresh start in a new country—an adventure!”

Slowly her face broke into a smile. “Really? Virginia? Can it really be true?”

He could hardly believe she would consent. “Will you accept it, then?” he said fearfully.

She smiled. Tears came to her eyes and she could not speak. She nodded dumbly.

Jay realized he had won. He had got everything he wanted. The feeling was like winning a big hand at cards. It was time to rake in his profits.

He stood up. He drew her out of her chair and gave her his arm. “Come with me, then,” he said. “Let’s get married.”

17

AT NOON ON THE THIRD DAY, THE HOLD OF THE DURHAM Primrose was empty of coal.

Mack looked around, hardly able to believe it had really happened. They had done it all without an undertaker.

They had watched the riverside and picked out a coal ship that arrived in the middle of the day, when the other gangs were already working. While the men waited on the riverbank, Mack and Charlie rowed out to the ship as it anchored and offered their services, starting immediately. The captain knew that if he held out for a regular gang he would have to wait until the following day, and time was money to ships’ captains, so he hired them.

The men seemed to work faster knowing they would be paid in full. They still drank beer all day, but paying for it jar by jar they took only what they needed. And they uncoaied the ship in forty-eight hours.

Mack shouldered his shovel and went on deck. The weather was cold and misty, but Mack was hot from the hold. As the last sack of coal was thrown down onto the boat a great cheer went up from the coal heavers.

Mack conferred with the first mate. The boat carried five hundred sacks and they had both kept count of the number of round trips it had made. Now they counted the odd sacks left for the last trip and agreed on the total. Then they went to the captain’s cabin.

Mack hoped there would be no last-minute snags. They had done the work: they had to be paid now, didn’t they?

The captain was a thin, middle-aged man with a big red nose. He smelled of rum. “Finished?” he said. “You’re quicker than the usual gangs. What’s the tally?”

“Six hundred score, all but ninety-three,” the first mate said, and Mack nodded. They counted in scores, or twenties, because each man was paid a penny per score.

He beckoned them inside and sat down with an abacus. “Six hundred score less ninety-three, at sixteen pence per score …” It was a complicated sum, but Mack was used to being paid by the weight of coal he produced, and he could do mental arithmetic when his wages depended on it.

The captain had a key on a chain attached to his belt. He used it to open a chest that stood in the corner. Mack stared as he took out a smaller box, put it on the table, and opened it. “If we call the odd seven sacks a half score, I owe you thirty-nine pounds fourteen shillings exactly.” And he counted out the money.

The captain gave him a linen bag to carry it in and included plenty of pennies so that he could share it out exactly among the men. Mack felt a tremendous sense of triumph as he held the money in his hands. Each man had earned almost two pounds and ten shillings—more in two days than they got for two weeks with Lennox. But more important, they had proved they could stand up for their rights and win justice.

He sat cross-legged on the deck of the ship to pay the men out. The first in line, Amos Tipe, said: “Thank you, Mack, and God bless you, boy.”

“Don’t thank me, you earned it,” Mack protested.

Despite his protest the next man thanked him in the same way, as if he were a prince dispensing favors.

“It’s not just the money,” Mack said as a third man, Slash Harley, stepped forward. “We’ve won our dignity, too.”

“You can have the dignity, Mack,” said Slash. “Just give me the money.” The others laughed.

Mack felt a little angry with them as he continued to count out the coins. Why could they not see that this was more than a matter of today’s wages? When they were so stupid about their own interests he felt they deserved to be abused by undertakers.

However, nothing could mar his victory. As they were all rowed to shore the men began lustily to sing a very obscene song called “The Mayor of Bayswater,” and Mack joined in at the top of his voice.

He and Dermot walked to Spitalfields. The morning fog was lifting. Mack had a tune on his lips and a spring in his step. When he entered his room a pleasant surprise was waiting for him. Sitting on a three-legged stool, smelling of sandalwood and swinging a shapely leg, was Peg’s red-haired friend Cora, in a chestnut-colored coat and a jaunty hat.

She had picked up his cloak, which normally lay on the straw mattress that was his bed, and she was stroking the fur. “Where did you get this?” she said.

“It was a gift from a fine lady,” he said with a grin. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you,” she said. “If you wash your face you can walk out with me—that is, if you don’t have to go to tea with any fine ladies.”

He must have appeared doubtful, for she added: “Don’t look so startled. You probably think I’m a whore, but I’m not, except in desperation.”

He took his sliver of soap and went down to the standpipe in the yard. Cora followed him and watched as he stripped to the waist and washed the coal dust from his skin and hair. He borrowed a clean shirt from Dermot, put on his coat and hat, and took Cora’s arm.

They walked west, through the heart of the city. In London, Mack had learned, people walked the streets for recreation the way they walked the hills in Scotland. He enjoyed having Cora on his arm. He liked the way her hips swayed so that she touched him every now and again. Because of her striking coloring and her dashing clothes she attracted a lot of attention, and Mack got envious looks from other men.

They went into a tavern and ordered oysters, bread and the strong beer called porter. Cora ate with gusto, swallowing the oysters whole and washing them down with drafts of dark ale.

When they went out again the weather had changed. It was still cool, but there was a little weak sunshine. They strolled into the rich residential district called Mayfair.

In his first twenty-two years Mack had seen only two palatial homes, Jamisson Castle and High Glen House. In this neighborhood there were two such houses on every street, and another fifty only a little less magnificent. London’s wealth never ceased to astonish him.

Outside one of the very grandest a series of carriages was drawing up and depositing guests as if for a party. On the pavement either side was a small crowd of passersby and servants from neighboring houses, and people were looking out from their doors and windows. The house was a blaze of light, although it was midafter noon, and the entrance was decorated with flowers. “It must be a wedding,” Cora said.

As they watched another carriage drew up and a familiar figure stepped out. Mack gave a start as he recognized Jay Jamisson. Jay handed his bride down from the carriage, and the bystanders cheered and clapped.

“She’s pretty,” Cora said.

Lizzie smiled and looked around, acknowledging the applause. Her eyes met Mack’s, and for a moment she froze. He smiled and waved. She averted her eyes quickly and hurried inside.

It had taken only a fraction of a second, but the sharp-eyed Cora had not missed it. “Do you know her?”

“She’s the one gave me the fur,” Mack said.

“I hope her husband doesn’t know she gives presents to coal heavers.”

“She’s throwing herself away on Jay Jamisson—he’s a handsome weakling.”

“I suppose you think she’d be better off marrying you,” Cora said sarcastically.

“She would, too,” Mack said seriously. “Shall we go to the theater?”

Late that evening Lizzie and Jay sat up in bed in the bridal chamber, wearing their nightclothes, surrounded by giggling relations and friends, all more or less drunk. The older generation had long since left the room, but custom insisted that wedding guests should hang on, tormenting the couple, who were assumed to be in a desperate hurry to consummate their marriage.

The day had passed in a whirl. Lizzie had hardly thought about Jay’s betrayal, his apology, her pardon, and their future in Virginia. There had been no time to ask herself whether she had made the right decision.

Chip Marlborough came in carrying a jug of posset. Pinned to his hat was one of Lizzie’s garters. He proceeded to fill everyone’s glasses. “A toast!” he said.

“A final toast!” said Jay, but they all laughed and jeered.

Lizzie sipped her drink, a mixture of wine, milk and egg yolk with sugar and cinnamon. She was exhausted. It had been a long day, from the morning’s terrible quarrel and its surprisingly happy ending, through the church service, the wedding dinner, music and dancing, and now the final comic ritual.

Katie Drome, a Jamisson relation, sat on the end of the bed with one of Jay’s white silk stockings in her hand and threw it backward over her head. If it hit Jay, the superstition said, then she would soon be married. She threw wildly but Jay good-humoredly reached out and caught the stocking and placed it on his head as if it had landed there, and everyone clapped.

A drunken man called Peter McKay sat on the bed beside Lizzie. “Virginia,” he said. “Hamish Drome went to Virginia, you know, after he was cheated out of his inheritance by Robert’s mother.”

Lizzie was startled. The family legend was that Robert’s mother, Olive, had nursed a bachelor cousin while he was dying, and he had changed his will in her favor out of gratitude.

Jay heard the remark. “Cheated?” he said.

“Olive forged that will, of course,” McKay said. “But Hamish could never prove it, so he had to accept it. Went to Virginia and was never heard of again.”

Jay laughed. “Ha! The saintly Olive—a forger!”

“Hush!” said McKay. “Sir George will kill us all if he hears!”

Lizzie was intrigued, but she had had enough of Jay’s relations for one day. “Get these people out!” she hissed.

All the demands of custom had now been satisfied but one. “Right,” said Jay. “If you won’t go willingly …” He threw the blankets off his side of the bed and got out. As he advanced on the crowd he lifted his nightshirt to show his knees. All the girls screamed as if terrified—it was their role to pretend that the sight of a man in his nightshirt was more than a maiden could bear—and they rushed out of the room in a mob, chased by the men.

Jay shut the door and locked it. Then he moved a heavy chest of drawers across the doorway to make sure they would not be interrupted.

Suddenly Lizzie’s mouth was dry. This was the moment she had been looking forward to ever since the day Jay had kissed her in the hall at Jamisson Castle and asked her to marry him. Since then their embraces, snatched in the few odd moments when they were left alone together, had become more and more passionate. From open-mouthed kissing they had progressed to ever more intimate caresses. They had done everything two people could do in an unlocked room with a mother or two liable to come in at any moment. Now, at last, they were allowed to lock the door.

Jay went around the room snuffing out candles. As he came to the last, Lizzie said: “Leave one burning.”

He looked surprised. “Why?”

“I want to look at you.” He seemed dubious, and she added: “Is that all right?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” he said, and he climbed into bed.

As he began to kiss and caress her she wished they were both naked, but she decided not to suggest it. She would let him do it his way, this time.

The familiar excitement made her limbs tingle as his hands ran all over her body. In a moment he parted her legs and got on top of her. She lifted her face to kiss him as he entered her, but he was concentrating too hard and he did not see. She felt a sudden sharp pain, and she almost cried out, then it was gone.

He moved inside her, and she moved with him. She was not sure if it was the thing to do but it felt right. She was just starting to enjoy it when Jay stopped, gasped, thrust again, and collapsed on her, breathing hard.

She frowned. “Are you all right?” she said.

“Yes,” he grunted.

Is that all, then? she thought, but she did not say it.

He rolled off her and lay looking at her. “Did you like it?” he said.

“It was a bit quick,” she said. “Can we do it again in the morning?”

Wearing only her shift, Cora lay back on the fur cloak and pulled Mack down with her. When he put his tongue in her mouth she tasted of gin. He lifted her skirt. The fine, red-blond hair did not hide the folds of her sex. He stroked it, the way he had with Annie, and Cora gasped and said: “Who taught you to do that, my virgin boy?”

He pulled down his breeches. Cora reached for her purse and took out a small box. Inside was a tube of something that looked like parchment. A pink ribbon was threaded through its open end.

“What’s that?” said Mack.

“It’s called a cundum,” she said.

“What the hell is it for?”

By way of reply she slipped it over his erect penis and tied the ribbon tightly.

He said bemusedly: “Well, I know my dick isn’t very pretty but I never thought a girl would want to cover it up.”

She started to laugh. “You ignorant peasant, it’s not for decoration, it’s to stop me getting pregnant!”

He rolled over and entered her, and she stopped laughing. Ever since he was fourteen years old he had wondered what it would feel like, but he still felt he hardly knew, for this was neither one thing nor the other. He stopped and looked down at Cora’s angelic face. She opened her eyes. “Don’t stop,” she said.

“After this, will I still be a virgin?”

“If you are, I’ll be a nun,” she said. “Now stop talking. You’re going to need all your breath.”

And he did.

18

JAY AND LIZZIE MOVED INTO THE CHAPEL STREET house on the day after the wedding. For the first time they ate supper alone, with no one present but the servants. For the first time they went upstairs hand in hand, undressed together, and got into their own bed. For the first time they woke up together in their own house.

They were naked: Lizzie had persuaded Jay to take off his nightshirt last night. Now she pressed herself against him and stroked his body, arousing him; then she rolled on top of him.

She could tell he was surprised. “Do you mind?” she said.

He did not reply, but started to move inside her.

When it was over she said: “I shock you, don’t I?”

After a pause he said: “Well, yes.”

“Why?”

“It’s not … normal for the woman to get on top.”

“I’ve no idea what people think is normal—I’ve never been in bed with a man before.”

“I should hope not!”

“But how do you know what’s normal?”

“Never you mind.”

He had probably seduced a few seamstresses and shopgirls who were overawed by him and let him take charge. Lizzie had no experience but she knew what she wanted and believed in taking it. She was not going to change her ways. She was enjoying it too much. Jay was, too, even though he was shocked: she could tell by his vigorous movements and the pleased look on his face afterward.

She got up and went naked to the window. The weather was cold but sunny. The church bells were ringing muffled because it was a hanging day: one or more criminals would be executed this morning. Half the city’s workingpeople would take an unofficial day off, and many of them would flock to Tyburn, the crossroads at the northwestern corner of London where the gallows stood, to see the spectacle. It was the kind of occasion when rioting could break out, so Jay’s regiment would be on alert all day. However, Jay had one more day’s leave.

She turned to face him and said: “Take me to the hanging.”

He looked disapproving. “A gruesome request.”

“Don’t tell me it’s no place for a lady.”

He smiled. “I wouldn’t dare.”

“I know that rich and poor women and men go to see it.”

“But why do you want to go?”

That was a good question. She had mixed feelings about it. It was shameful to make entertainment of death, and she knew she would be disgusted with herself afterward. But her curiosity was overwhelming. “I want to know what it’s like,” she said. “How do the condemned people behave? Do they weep, or pray, or gibber with fear? And what about the spectators? What is it like to watch a human life come to an end?”

She had always been this way. The first time she saw a deer shot, when she was only nine or ten years old, she had watched enthralled as the keeper gralloched it, taking out its entrails. She had been fascinated by the multiple stomachs and had insisted on touching the flesh to see what it felt like. It was warm and slimy. The beast was two or three months pregnant, and the keeper had shown her the tiny fetus in the transparent womb. None of it had revolted her: it was too interesting.

She understood perfectly why people flocked to see the spectacle. She also understood why others were revolted by the thought of watching it. But she was part of the inquisitive group.

Jay said: “Perhaps we could hire a room overlooking the gallows—that’s what a lot of people do.”

But Lizzie felt that would mute the experience. “Oh, no—I want to be in the crowd!” she protested.

“Women of our class don’t do that.”

“Then I’ll dress as a man.”

He looked doubtful.

“Jay, don’t make faces at me! You were glad enough to take me down the coal mine dressed as a man.”

“It is a bit different for a married woman.”

“If you tell me that all adventures are over just because we’re married, I shall run away to sea.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

She grinned at him and jumped onto the bed. “Don’t be an old curmudgeon.” She bounced up and down. “Let’s go to the hanging.”

He could not help laughing. “All right,” he said.

“Bravo!”

She performed her daily chores rapidly. She told the cook what to buy for dinner; decided which rooms the housemaids would clean; told the groom she would not be riding today; accepted an invitation for the two of them to dine with Captain Marlborough and his wife next Wednesday; postponed an appointment with a milliner; and took delivery of twelve brassbound trunks for the voyage to Virginia.

Then she put on her disguise.

* * *

The street known as Tyburn Street or Oxford Street was thronged with people. The gallows stood at the end of the street, outside Hyde Park. Houses with a view of the scaffold were crowded with wealthy spectators who had rented rooms for the day. People stood shoulder to shoulder on the stone wall of the park. Hawkers moved through the crowds selling hot sausages and tots of gin and printed copies of what they said were the dying speeches of the condemned.

Mack held Cora’s hand and pushed through the crowd. He had no desire to watch people getting killed but Cora had insisted on going. Mack just wanted to spend all his free time with Cora. He liked holding her hand, kissing her lips whenever he wanted to, and touching her body in odd moments. He liked just to look at her. He enjoyed her devil-may-care attitude and her rough language and the wicked look in her eye. So he went with her to the hanging.

A friend of hers was going to be hanged. Her name was Dolly Macaroni, and she was a brothel keeper, but her crime was forgery. “What did she forge, anyway?” Mack said as they approached the gallows.

“A bank draft. She changed the amount from eleven pounds to eighty pounds.”

“Where did she get a draft for eleven pounds?”

“From Lord Massey, She says he owed her more.”

“She ought to have been transported, not hanged.”

“They nearly always hang forgers.”

They were as close as they could get, about twenty yards away. The gallows was a crude wooden structure, just three posts with crossbeams. Five ropes hung from the beams, their ends tied in nooses ready for the condemned. A chaplain stood nearby, with a handful of official-looking men who were presumably law officers. Soldiers with muskets kept the crowd at a distance.

Gradually Mack became aware of a roaring sound from farther down Tyburn Street. “What’s that noise?” he asked Cora.

“They’re coming.”

First there was a squad of peace officers on horseback, led by a personage who was presumably the city marshal. Next were the constables, on foot and armed with clubs. Then came the tumbril, a high four-wheeled cart drawn by two plow horses. A company of javelin men brought up the rear, holding their pointed spears rigidly upright.

In the cart, sitting on what appeared to be coffins, their hands and arms bound with ropes, were five people: three men, a boy of about fifteen and a woman. “That’s Dolly,” Cora said, and she began to cry.

Mack stared in horrid fascination at the five who were to die. One of the men was drunk. The other two looked defiant. Dolly was praying aloud and the boy was crying.

The cart was driven under the scaffold. The drunk man waved to some friends, villainous-looking types, who stood at the front of the crowd. They shouted jokes and ribald comments: “Kind of the sheriff to invite you along!” and “I hope you’ve learned to dance!” and “Try that necklace on for size!” Dolly asked God’s forgiveness in a loud, clear voice. The boy cried: “Save me, Mama, save me, please!”

The two sober men were greeted by a group at the front of the crowd. After a moment Mack distinguished their accents as Irish. One of the condemned men shouted: “Don’t let the surgeons have me, boys!” There was a roar of assent from his friends.

“What are they talking about?” Mack asked Cora.

“He must be a murderer. The bodies of murderers belong to the Company of Surgeons. They cut them up to see what’s inside.”

Mack shuddered.

The hangman climbed on the cart. One by one he placed the nooses around their necks and drew them tight. None of them struggled or protested or tried to escape. It would have been useless, surrounded as they were by guards, but Mack thought he would have tried anyway.

The priest, a bald man in stained robes, got up on the cart and spoke to each of them in turn: just for a few moments to the drunk, four or five minutes with the other two men, and longer with Dolly and the boy.

Mack had heard that sometimes executions went wrong, and he began to hope it would happen this time. Ropes could break; the crowd had been known to swarm the scaffold and release the prisoners; the hangman might cut people down before they were dead. It was too awful to think these five living human beings would in a few moments be dead.

The priest finished his work. The hangman blindfolded the five people with strips of rag then got down, leaving only the condemned on the cart. The drunk man could not keep his balance and he stumbled and fell; and the noose began to strangle him. Dolly continued to pray loudly.

The hangman whipped the horses.

Lizzie heard herself scream: “No!”

The cart jerked and moved off.

The hangman lashed the horses again and they struggled to a trot. The cart was drawn from under the condemned people and, one by one, they fell to the extent of the ropes: first the drunk, already half dead; then the two Irishmen; then the weeping boy; and at last the woman, whose prayer was cut off in midsentence.

Lizzie stared at the five bodies dangling from the ropes, and she was filled with loathing for herself and the crowd around her.

They were not all dead. The boy, mercifully, seemed to have broken his neck instantly, as did the two Irishmen; but the drunk was still moving, and the woman, whose blindfold had slipped, stared out of open, terrified eyes as she slowly choked.

Lizzie buried her face in Jay’s shoulder.

She would have been glad to leave, but she forced herself to stay. She had wanted to see this and now she should stick it out until the end.

She opened her eyes again.

The drunk had expired, but the woman’s face worked in agony. The rowdy onlookers had fallen silent, stilled by the horror in front of them. Several minutes went by.

At last her eyes closed.

The sheriff stepped up to cut down the bodies, and that was when the trouble started.

The Irish group surged forward, trying to get past the guards to the scaffold. The constables fought back, and the javelin men joined in, stabbing at the Irish. Blood began to flow.

“I was afraid of this,” Jay said. “They want to keep their friends’ bodies out of the hands of the surgeons. Let’s get clear as fast as we can.”

Many around them had the same idea, but those at the back were trying to get closer and see what was happening. As some surged one way and some the other, fistfights broke out. Jay tried to force a way through. Lizzie stuck close to him. They found themselves up against an unbroken wave of people going the other way. Everyone was shouting or screaming. They were forced back toward the gallows. The scaffold was now swarming with Irish, some of whom were beating off the guards and dodging the lunges of the javelin men while others tried to cut down the bodies of their friends.

For no apparent reason the crush around Lizzie and Jay eased suddenly. She turned around and saw a gap between two big, rough-looking men. “Jay, come on!” she shouted, and darted between them. She turned to make sure Jay was behind her. Then the gap closed. Jay stepped forward to push his way through, but one of the men raised a hand threateningly. Jay flinched and stepped back, momentarily afraid. The hesitation was fatal: he was cut off from her. She saw his blond head above the crowd and fought to get back to him but she was stopped by a wall of people. “Jay!” she screamed. “Jay!” He shouted back but the crowd forced them farther apart. He was pushed in the direction of Tyburn Street while the crowd took her the opposite way, toward the park. A moment later he was lost from sight.

She was on her own. She gritted her teeth and turned her back on the scaffold. She faced a solid pack of people. She tried to push herself between a small man and a big-bosomed matron. “Keep your hands to yourself, young man,” the woman said. Lizzie persisted in pushing and managed to squeeze through. She repeated the process. She trod on the toes of a sour-faced man and he punched her in the ribs. She gasped with pain and pressed on.

She saw a familiar face and recognized Mack McAsh. He, too, was fighting his way through the crowd. “Mack!” she yelled gratefully. He was with the red-haired woman who had been at his side in Grosvenor Square. “Over here!” Lizzie cried. “Help me!” He saw her and recognized her. Then a tall man’s elbow jabbed her eye and for a few moments she could hardly see. When her vision returned to normal Mack and the woman had vanished.

Grimly she pressed on. Inch by inch she was getting away from the fracas at the gallows. With each step she found it a little easier to move. Within five minutes she was no longer squeezing between tightly packed people but passing through gaps several inches wide. Eventually she came up against the front wall of a house. She worked her way along to the corner of the building and stepped into an alley two or three feet wide.

She leaned against the house wall, catching her breath. The alley was foul and stank of human waste. Her ribs ached where she had been punched. She touched her face gingerly and found that the flesh around her eye was swelling.

She hoped Jay was all right. She turned around to look for him, and was startled to see two men staring at her.