Not that there are likely to be any on us. The rat pit is a source of great excitement. You have no idea how wound up people can get.’
Clara stared him straight in the face, which was her usual technique (now that she was a harlot of some experience) with untrustworthy customers. She focused on his pock-marked nose, trying not to be swayed by the feverish, imploring eyes on either side. She made an effort to riffle through his most recent utterances in reverse order, to retrieve the one that concerned her.
‘Down the back of your trousers?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘When the … uh … performance is underway, you are to slip your hand into my clothing. I shan’t be wearing anything under my trousers. You will insert your middle finger into my rectum.’
‘Rectum, sir?’
‘My arse-hole.’
‘And then?’
‘There is no “And then”. That’s all.’ He paused. ‘Five shillings.’
Clara stared at his forehead. It was shiny and seemed to be throbbing, as if the flesh was desperate to sweat but too badly scarred to do so.
‘Blood makes me sick, sir.’
‘There’s scarcely any blood. It’s not like dogfights or cock-fights or bull-baiting. It’s efficient. It’s clean. It’s …’ He clenched his fists, frustrated by her lack of understanding. ‘It’s a privilege to behold it. Awe – that’s what it inspires. Awe. It’s a …’ He took a deep breath; the normal amount of air was not sufficient to convey the grandeur. ‘… an amazing demonstration of what happens when a superbly trained creature is pitted against a horde of vermin.’
She had never heard him sound so passionate. She didn’t care for it.
‘The thing is, next Thursday is quite a full sort of day for me, sir.’
He grabbed her gloved hands, there in the street, and squeezed them inside his own. His eyes were luminous with sincerity.
‘Please,’ he said. ‘I’ve given you a shilling a week, just to prepare for this. Don’t deny me. Everything depends on you. You’ll be finished in an hour.’
‘You frighten me, sir.’
‘Ten shillings, then.’
Clara swallowed hard.
‘All right,’ she said.
Since then, Clara had put a great deal of thought into how she might renege on her promise without suffering unpleasant consequences.
She considered spending Thursday entirely indoors, ironing her clothes, mending the seam in her camisole, and generally giving her body a rest. But there was no telling what the Rat Man might do if frustrated in this fashion. He might look for her every day afterwards.
She considered brazening it out, telling him she’d had second thoughts, and showing him a middle finger neatly clipped. If he got angry, she could simply call for assistance, couldn’t she? London was crawling with policemen lately, as well as do-gooders of all kinds. Surely one of them would come to her rescue? ‘This man is making indecent propositions to me,’ she could plead. But perhaps this was not a very wise idea after all. She was known by sight to several local policemen. If there was a complaint against her from a gentleman (however ugly or scarred he might be), they would cheerfully throw her in prison.
She considered murdering the Rat Man, just to remove him from her life. But she had to admit that this seemed an excessive response to her fear of embarrassment, more the sort of response one might expect from a man than a woman. Also, she had no means of killing anyone, not even a knife. Was she supposed to strangle Mr Heaton in the street? The whole notion was daft, and she didn’t know why she’d even thought of it, other than the thrill it offered.
She considered fleeing altogether, plying her trade in a different part of the city. Lord Jesus, one little nail grown half an inch, and here she was, planning to wrench herself away from St Giles just as she was getting the hang of it! But this, too, was mere fantasy. Her preferred lodgings were with Mrs Porter in Queen Street and there was a nice public house near the Broad Street junction where she had a growing reputation as a clean girl with not a mark on her. Also there was Dickie’s Chophouse in Seven Dials, where she could eat as much as she wanted, within reason, as long as she never spoke a word to Mr Dickie’s wife.
No, she must keep her appointment with the Rat Man.
Thursday came, and Clara rendezvoused with Mr Heaton in the usual place. Without further discussion, she fell into step with him as he limped briskly along Dudley Street. He was dressed in a voluminous, knee-length overcoat which made him look like an impresario. A down-at-heel impresario, perhaps: the coat was slightly moth-eaten. For the first time it occurred to Clara that her benefactor might not be especially wealthy. Could he ill afford the money he’d been giving her? She felt a twinge of conscience, and dealt with it the only way she knew.
‘I want my ten shillings now,’ she said.
He handed them to her even as they walked. As if he’d been expecting this moment and had the coins already enclosed in his palm.
How would they get to Southwark, she wondered? It must be quite far from here, as none of her prostitute friends knew of it. Did the Rat Man mean to take her on an exhausting march, or would they board an omnibus together, like husband and wife? She didn’t like the idea of hordes of strangers presuming that there must be an intimate relationship between herself and the Rat Man; she wished she’d fobbed him off with a simple fuck six weeks ago, instead of getting herself mixed up in this malarkey.
‘Is it far?’ she said.
His arm jerked into the air, and she flinched in fear of being struck, but he was only hailing a cab.
‘The Traveller’s Rest, Southwark,’ he said.
‘Very good, sir,’ said the cabbie. ‘Going for the special keg they keeps downstairs, are you sir?’
‘Indeed.’
‘I’m partial to a bit of that meself, sir. Very tasty.’
Clara and Mr Heaton climbed into the cabin. Mr Heaton seemed not at all surprised that the cabbie knew the reputation of The Traveller’s Rest. For a moment, Clara caught a glimpse of a London which was vastly richer in attractions than she and her cronies had any notion of, and which other folk made it their business to explore. It was not a picture she had any desire to see. Indeed, the Rat Man seemed to specialise in showing her glimpses of things she would prefer to remain ignorant of.
‘How will I get home when it’s over?’
The Rat Man smiled sadly. ‘I trust we’ll both agree when it’s over.’
‘But you don’t live where I live.’
‘I’ll take you home first.’
Clara nodded, unconvinced. If she’d learned anything since her fall into prostitution, it was not to rely on the courtesy and generosity of others. The cab seemed to be travelling a very long way, and every clack of the horse’s hooves on the cobbles emphasised that she was farther and farther from the streets she knew. The ten shillings
