‘The rest of my life is a long time to keep silent. I am the very linchpin of this career you wish to build, I am the key to your lasting fame—’
‘You’re a brazen villain, Cat, to threaten me like this—’
‘You threatened me first, remember? More fool you if you thought I would take it lying down.’
‘Ten pounds, and not a shilling more. I mean it, Cat. Don’t push me,’ he says, standing so close that she must tip back her head to look at him. She can almost hear his heart beating, loud with outrage.
‘Up front. Soon. Before we take any more pictures.’
‘Half now. You’ll have it when I’ve been to the bank tomorrow. Half when we take the next set of pictures.’
‘When will that be?’
‘I can’t say. They will dither some more and take their time to find the right kind of expert to send down to me, I’m sure, once I have suggested the plan. Two weeks, perhaps three.’
‘Agreed.’ Cat smiles. ‘I look forward to receiving my back pay, for services already rendered.’ She turns to go but Robin’s hand strikes out, fast as a snake, and grips her arm to prevent her.
‘If you run off with your fancy man before I have taken more pictures then I warn you, Cat Morley, I will find you and make you pay for it,’ he says, so calmly and assuredly that Cat goes cold. She holds her breath to hide a shiver, and refuses to flinch even though his fingernails are gouging into her skin. After a silent struggle she pulls her arm free, and glares at him.
‘Be careful, theosophist. Karma might catch you up if you did. And my betrothed has twice your weight and reach.’ She fights to keep her voice even when she wants to shriek at him. Her legs feel weak and unreliable. As she turns to go inside, she sees Hester at the window on the stairs overlooking the courtyard. She has seen them talking, stands watching with her face close to the glass to cut out the reflection of the bright lights behind her. Talking is no crime, nor smoking; and yet Cat shivers again, and pretends not to see her, turning her face to her feet as she walks quickly through the door. Again the breeze comes, and lifts the black lengths of her hair, running curious fingers over her scalp, examining, questioning, making her conspicuous.
The next night, Cat knows where to find George. He has a bet to make, though he has a shipment to take west, early the next day – gravel to be moved to Bedwyn for the building of new houses. A few fine spots of rain are falling, hitting her face as she pedals hard, the bicycle clattering along the towpath, skidding here and there on loose stones. Cat squints into the darkness. With the heavy cloud, with no moon or stars, she can hardly see the way. She is upon the bridge before she knows it, the sudden hunched black shape of it looming in front of her, and behind it the weak glow of Thatcham’s street lights. Braking hard, Cat slides to a halt. She dismounts, carefully stashes the bicycle in the bushes at the foot of the bridge, where nobody would see it without first stepping on it; and runs steadily the rest of the way to The Ploughman.
The doorman and the publican know her now, and instead of barring her way they nod, mutter a good evening. A few people inside turn to look at her, to gawk at the girl with the shorn-off hair, who wears no corsets and is rumoured to have slit the throat of her lover, her employer, her father; to have set fire to a church in London; to have robbed a shop, a bank, the mail train; to have done things so awful that the vicar’s wife is too scared to mention them. Cat’s blouse is damp, and sticking to the skin of her back. Catching her breath, she goes straight through to the back room, into the familiar, claustrophobic stink and roaring din, where bodies cram and press all around and her nostrils fill at once with the pervasive reek of liquor and humankind. It is familiar now, almost dear to her; so far removed from the quiet sounds and cooking smells of The Rectory, from the soapy aroma of clean laundry, the gentle souring of milk in the kitchen, the hot fusty smell of the hallway rugs where the long ticking clock marks the passing of life with the slow swing of its pendulum.
It’s no boxing match tonight, but a fight of another kind. Behind the curses and shouts of the audience, shrill shrieks and cackles can be heard, ugly and enraged. Cat crouches slightly, her face at the height of the men’s hips, and through their jostling bodies she can see the cocks, their feathers fluffed, combs bright red and droplets of blood flying from the spurs on their legs. Bright eyes, flat with hate; their beaks open and panting. They thrust and parry and crane their necks, dancing and stabbing at one another. Across the ring, Cat sees George watching the fight, his face serious. She makes her way around to him, touches his arm to greet him.