said, he’s a bad ’un.”
“You’re a good boy, Bat.”
“Thank you, miss.”
“You stay away from them fellas.”
“Oh, I will, miss. Less they wants the crossing, cos that’s me job, that is.”
“Yeah, I know. All right, Bat.” She felt an odd impulse to say, “Be good,” but being good had never done her any favours, not when she was out on the streets. There was one other thing she could do for him, though. “Here, Bat. One of them boys comes after your broom again, I can show you something to put ’em off, you want to see?”
“What?” He was wary again, clutching his broom close to his chest.
She put her hands over his. They looked very clean by comparison, and she felt that sense of dislocation again. “You hold it like this, so they can’t grab it so easy. Then, one of ’em comes at you, you jab it like this – see? That’ll wind ’em proper, and you can get away. Or give ’em a bit more to remember you by, if you’ve a mind – but getting away’s usually better.”
“That’s smart, that is. Show me again?”
She showed him twice more. She remembered that much from her Bartitsu lessons, and a broom was as good a weapon as any. “You could see if you can find someone to shave a coupla feet off the end, and you’ll get by easier, and you can still jab with it – better, even.”
“I dunno about that, miss. It makes the ladies go a bit soft, seeing me with this broom.”
He gave her that gappy grin again and she grinned back, feeling a little better and glad to give him something more than a few coins – the move would last him longer than they would, especially if he had a chance to grow a bit.
She made her way to the miserable collapsing heap of a house.
J UICY P EG PROVED to be at home, if you could call her room ‘home.’ She flung open the door of a tiny little cupboard of a place, which Juicy Peg filled like a bunch of big, blowsy flowers jammed into a small, ugly vase. She was a full-figured woman, wearing a pink sateen wrap thrown over scarlet corsets. With her bright ginger hair, the combination was startling, but cheerful.
Peg looked Evvie up and down. “You ain’t my usual sort of customer,” she said, “but I’m accomodatin’. Come in.”
“I ain’t here for wapping, love,” Evvie said. She felt perfectly at home, instantly; the room was crammed with cheap colourful junk – brightly painted fairground china, luridly dyed shawls and artificial flowers. A scrapbook and a pot of glue lay on the small rickety table. Red-cheeked cherubs frolicked over its pages among finely-dressed children. More cherubs were paused in flight across the table top, ready to be pasted in. A boy doll in a sailor suit perched on a chair, the crisp whiteness of his jacket startling against the grimy cushions. Crammed among the gimcrackery were dozens of brightly-tinted picture postcards of elaborately dressed children. There were damp stockings and undergarments hanging off the furniture. It smelled of sausages and Dr Mackenzie’s Arsenical Soap and cheap Mille Fleurs perfume and sex, and, of course, of sewage. Everywhere around here smelled of sewage.
“What you want then?” said Juicy Peg. “I’m about to have me breakfast.”
“Don’t mind me.”
“If Viper sent you...”
“He didn’t. I wanta ask you about him.”
The sausages were steaming in a greasy wrapper. Peg unfolded it and picked a sausage out, delicately, with the tips of her fingers. “What about him?”
“He’s the landlord, right?”
“So?”
“So... I heard maybe he isn’t on the up and up.”
Peg opened her mouth, closed it on a big bite of sausage, and chewed, eyeing Evvie thoughtfully. Eventually she swallowed. “This room,” she said, gesturing with the remaining sausage, “it en’t much, but it’s what I got, and it’s no worse than some. Better’n others, ’cos I got it to meself, and my customers likes a bit of privacy. I can charge more. So I can’t afford to
“You’re a good boy, Bat.”
“Thank you, miss.”
“You stay away from them fellas.”
“Oh, I will, miss. Less they wants the crossing, cos that’s me job, that is.”
“Yeah, I know. All right, Bat.” She felt an odd impulse to say, “Be good,” but being good had never done her any favours, not when she was out on the streets. There was one other thing she could do for him, though. “Here, Bat. One of them boys comes after your broom again, I can show you something to put ’em off, you want to see?”
“What?” He was wary again, clutching his broom close to his chest.
She put her hands over his. They looked very clean by comparison, and she felt that sense of dislocation again. “You hold it like this, so they can’t grab it so easy. Then, one of ’em comes at you, you jab it like this – see? That’ll wind ’em proper, and you can get away. Or give ’em a bit more to remember you by, if you’ve a mind – but getting away’s usually better.”
“That’s smart, that is. Show me again?”
She showed him twice more. She remembered that much from her Bartitsu lessons, and a broom was as good a weapon as any. “You could see if you can find someone to shave a coupla feet off the end, and you’ll get by easier, and you can still jab with it – better, even.”
“I dunno about that, miss. It makes the ladies go a bit soft, seeing me with this broom.”
He gave her that gappy grin again and she grinned back, feeling a little better and glad to give him something more than a few coins – the move would last him longer than they would, especially if he had a chance to grow a bit.
She made her way to the miserable collapsing heap of a house.
J UICY P EG PROVED to be at home, if you could call her room ‘home.’ She flung open the door of a tiny little cupboard of a place, which Juicy Peg filled like a bunch of big, blowsy flowers jammed into a small, ugly vase. She was a full-figured woman, wearing a pink sateen wrap thrown over scarlet corsets. With her bright ginger hair, the combination was startling, but cheerful.
Peg looked Evvie up and down. “You ain’t my usual sort of customer,” she said, “but I’m accomodatin’. Come in.”
“I ain’t here for wapping, love,” Evvie said. She felt perfectly at home, instantly; the room was crammed with cheap colourful junk – brightly painted fairground china, luridly dyed shawls and artificial flowers. A scrapbook and a pot of glue lay on the small rickety table. Red-cheeked cherubs frolicked over its pages among finely-dressed children. More cherubs were paused in flight across the table top, ready to be pasted in. A boy doll in a sailor suit perched on a chair, the crisp whiteness of his jacket startling against the grimy cushions. Crammed among the gimcrackery were dozens of brightly-tinted picture postcards of elaborately dressed children. There were damp stockings and undergarments hanging off the furniture. It smelled of sausages and Dr Mackenzie’s Arsenical Soap and cheap Mille Fleurs perfume and sex, and, of course, of sewage. Everywhere around here smelled of sewage.
“What you want then?” said Juicy Peg. “I’m about to have me breakfast.”
“Don’t mind me.”
“If Viper sent you...”
“He didn’t. I wanta ask you about him.”
The sausages were steaming in a greasy wrapper. Peg unfolded it and picked a sausage out, delicately, with the tips of her fingers. “What about him?”
“He’s the landlord, right?”
“So?”
“So... I heard maybe he isn’t on the up and up.”
Peg opened her mouth, closed it on a big bite of sausage, and chewed, eyeing Evvie thoughtfully. Eventually she swallowed. “This room,” she said, gesturing with the remaining sausage, “it en’t much, but it’s what I got, and it’s no worse than some. Better’n others, ’cos I got it to meself, and my customers likes a bit of privacy. I can charge more. So I can’t afford to
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