It was only just past one o’clock but the room was already filled to the brim with drunken debtors and their guests. Most had gathered at the bar, where a young woman with butter-blonde hair was pouring drinks and holding court. The ribbons on her stomacher had come loose and she was almost spilling out of the top; artfully so, I thought. A snuff-pinch too respectable for Moll’s place, but playing the same game – just enough soft, creamy flesh on display to keep the customers happy and buying. Everyone seemed in excellent spirits; there was a great deal of laughter and singing and shouts for more punch, more wine, more of everything. How it was all paid for, I couldn’t tell.
Samuel Fleet weaved his way through the crowd, nimble as a thief. I followed him, against my better instinct – I didn’t like the ugly, hostile looks he was drawing from the other prisoners, or the suspicious glances they awarded me as his companion. As he neared one group, two of the men – clearly brothers – gave him a black look, as if they would like to reach over and rip his head from his shoulders. The older one – a big man, solid as a prison wall – muttered a curse, and spat at his feet.
Fleet stopped sharp. He turned towards the man who’d cursed him and studied him silently. There was no anger in his eyes, only the cool, deadly concentration of a snake about to strike. The threat hung heavily in the air between them. In a moment there would be knives drawn – I could feel it.
‘Harry,’ the younger man hissed, breaking the spell. He put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. ‘Come away for God’s sake.’ They left together, pushing their way through the crowds. Harry looked back once, over his shoulder. He was a head taller than Fleet and almost twice as broad – but there was fear in his eyes.
Fleet watched them go. Then he turned his gaze on me. ‘Do you wish to join them, Mr Hawkins?’ His lips curled into a smile, baring his teeth.
My mouth turned dry. My mind screamed run! run while you have the chance! But my feet stubbornly refused to move. He was dangerous company; that much was clear. But I knew in my bones that running from him would be a mistake. Turn your back on a man like Fleet and you could find a knife in it. I swallowed hard. ‘You promised me a drink, sir.’
Fleet laughed, pleased. He slapped me on the arm. ‘So I did.’
The other men fell back, relieved to return to their drinks without any trouble. As I passed them I heard one mutter, ‘Harry’s a fool. The devil’s killed a man for less.’
All the tables were filled bar one, positioned next to a narrow balcony overlooking the yard. It seemed odd that no one had taken it when the Tap Room was so full. Fleet settled into his chair with a proprietorial air.
‘They call it the Park,’ he said, tilting his chin towards the window. ‘The yard and these rooms by the Lodge. The gaol’s known as the Castle.’ He waved his pipe in a circle, as if taking in the whole prison. ‘Weak men often give foolish names to the things they fear. Makes them feel safe, I suppose.’ He smirked at me as if to say, but you and I, we are above such nonsense, are we not? He lit his pipe and took a deep draw. ‘They’ve given me a name,’ he muttered, smoke trailing from his lips. He had a strange, conspiratorial way of speaking, like a villain coming front of stage to let the audience in on his schemes.
I barely heard him. I should have been listening more carefully; I should have paid a lot more attention to Samuel Fleet that first day. But I was too busy peering out of the window. ‘I can see over the wall from here,’ I said, opening the window and slipping out on to the balcony to get a better view.
‘That,’ murmured Fleet, ‘is why no one sits here.’
On the other side of the wall was another yard and more buildings. More iron spikes, too – and bars at the windows. A prison within a prison. The yard was long and narrow – scarcely a quarter the width of the Park – and packed tight with prisoners, thin, tattered souls stumbling slowly round and round as if in a stupor. More still peered out of the windows or lay stretched out in the dirt.
A gust of wind blew up and I caught the sweet, sickly smell of rotting meat again. And then I realised why. Some of the figures laid out in the far corner were wrapped in sheets. Corpses, left out in the autumn sun. I counted four in total. One was half the size the rest. A child.
Behind me, at the bar, they were singing a drinking song. Someone had brought out a fiddle. They all had their backs to the window.
‘The Common Side,’ Fleet called from his seat, making me start and draw back. ‘Hell in epitome. Does it interest you, Mr Hawkins?’
I closed the window with a firm click. I thought I could still smell the corpse stink on my clothes – but it was just my imagination. ‘How can they live in such a foul way?’
‘They don’t. Not for long.’
‘Do you not care, sir?’
‘Not if I can possibly help it.’ He yawned and removed his cap, running his fingers across the short bristle of his scalp. I noticed with surprise that he was wearing what seemed to be a gold poesy ring on his left hand. Did this man have a wife? A family? Somehow this did not seem possible. ‘I’ll tell you what interests me, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ve been trapped in this…’ he drummed his fingers, searching for the right word ‘… cesspit for eight months. I’ve seen a man flogged to death for sport. I’ve seen bodies left to rot for days in the heat of summer. And I’ve sat on that bench by the Lodge and I’ve watched every new prisoner arrive on the Master’s Side. Not one of them walked up to the wall on the first day. Not one. Most of them never go near it. So what I’m wondering…’ He leaned forward, his eyes fixed on mine. ‘Are you brave? Foolish? Or just curious? Because any one of those can get you killed in here…’
‘Here you are, gentlemen.’ The barmaid placed a large bowl of punch on the table and smiled down at me. ‘I hope it’s to your taste, sir.’
‘Well, well.’ Fleet leaned back. ‘Served by the lady of the Castle herself. What an honour.’
They exchanged a look. It was not friendly.
I introduced myself quickly, hoping she would not judge me by my company. Our hostess was not quite as young nor as beautiful as Mrs Roberts, but she was a fine-looking woman and her ribbons seemed to have come loose still further since I last checked.
‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.’ She had a high, girlish voice and an accent that seemed to be at war with itself: part lady, part fishwife. She poured herself a glass and looked me up and down, cheeks dimpling as she smiled. ‘Tell me, Mr Hawkins, do you like to dance?’
‘I do, madam. When the mood takes me.’
‘Well, then.’ She gazed at me wantonly over the rim of her glass. ‘You must come and find me, sir. When the mood takes you.’ She sucked a drop of punch from her bottom lip.
Fleet cleared his throat. ‘Mr Hawkins has been asking of the Common Side.’ He gestured to an empty chair. ‘Perhaps you’d like to join us? Tell us a tale of life on the other side of the wall? You must have heard a few.’ He paused, savouring the taste of the next words before he said them. ‘From your father.’
Her expression changed so fast I could scarce believe it. It was as if we were at a masquerade, and she had whipped off her mask to reveal a Medusa, cold-eyed and dangerous. Fleet – quite unruffled – flashed her a wide, triumphant grin and poured himself another glass of punch. She glared at him so hard I thought, surely he will turn to stone in front of my eyes. When he stubbornly refused to do so, she rounded on me.
‘You should choose your friends more wisely, sir,’ she hissed. Then she gathered her skirts and skipped towards the bar with a smile, the mask neatly back in its place. ‘I’ll hold you to that dance, Mr Hawkins,’ she called gaily over her shoulder, loud enough for the whole room to hear. A few of the drinkers nudged one another and laughed.