The crowd roared. The two boxers were well-matched, and both around the same weight. Even though Freedom was five inches taller, Taffy had the extra inches in muscle, his solid body straining and sweating as he threw punch after punch. Freedom was up to his old dancing tricks, as light on his feet as a woman. He seemed to be running rings round Taffy.
‘Git the bugger to sit still, Taffy lad!’
They were already into five rounds, with neither boxer giving points away. They were even and both looked strong enough to go to the distance. The bell clanged and they split up, heading back to their corners. They were both filthy from the earth and coal dust they kicked up as they fought. Taffy panted and gulped at the water, spat it out and looked at Roberts.
‘He’s the toughest I’ve had yet, you buggers, he’s like a ruddy fly dancing around me.’
Roberts rubbed Taffy down and he kept up a steady flow of instructions. ‘Tire him, let him dance his feet off, he’ll soon slow down, but don’t stop the punches hitting home.’
‘What d’ye mean, don’t stop ‘em, I’m trying hard enough and can’t get at him, he’s clobbered me twice.’
Roberts could see that Freedom’s punch had caught Taffy’s right eye, which was swelling up like a tangerine.
Throughout the break the crowd yelled, ‘Tafffyyyyy-yyyy … Taffyyyyyy …’ No one shouted for Freedom, the gypsies sat silent and watchful. They were acutely aware of the growing drunkenness on the far side of the ring, and the echo of the men’s voices combined with the gurgle of the waterfall made a horrible, rumbling, guttural noise. Like animals they were baying for blood.
Sir Charles sipped from his brandy flask, gazing at the black-haired gypsy through half-closed eyes. He watched the lean body swerving, dodging, the strong legs keeping up the strange dance steps, and wondered how long the man could keep up such a movement. He didn’t seem to tire in the least, but one look at his opponent told him the big Taffy Brown was starting to tire. Sir Charles knew that the lad was waiting for an opening — knew Freedom was merely toying with the Welshman — and he was excited, grinding his teeth, a habit he had had since childhood. The lad was even better than he had been told, like a wild animal. But the most important thing about him was his intelligence. He was playing for time … an intelligent boxer? Unheard of!
Trying to predict when Freedom would knock Taffy out, Sir Charles turned to Ed and saw the same dazzled look on his friend’s face. ‘What do you think of him?’
‘Gawd help us, he’s beautiful, just beautiful, what I wouldn’t do to get me ‘ands on ‘im, work wiv ‘im. ‘E’s world-class material guv, look at ‘im, dancing round like ‘e was fresh as a daisy.’
Evelyne raced up the path, her breath heaving in her chest. She cut her hand on the brambles as she jumped the stream, but kept on running.
Rawnie was washing out Jesse’s clothes. There was no visible sign of anyone but she could hear the sound of running footsteps. She straightened up, her hackles rising. It was clearer now, someone running, and running fast … there was fear, and Rawnie’s dark eyes flashed around the dark mountainside.
Evelyne gasped for breath and rounded the curved pathway, with still a good mile to go. She paused as another massive roar echoed down from Devil’s Pit. The next moment her heart lurched as a scrawny hand gripped her hair from behind and a razor-sharp knife pricked her throat. Her legs went from under her as a hard kick from hobnailed boots cut into the backs of her knees. She fell forward, and felt her hair torn out by the roots. Screaming with agony and fear, she rolled over and found herself looking straight into Rawnie’s face.
Rawnie’s eyes blazed, the knife held high, and Evelyne shouted ‘Rawnie! Rawnie!’ As if a cloud had lifted from her face, Rawnie relaxed and backed away from Evelyne.
‘Remember me, Rawnie, it’s Evelyne … Rawnie, it’s me, the girl with the red hair, look, I wear your earring, see?’
She pushed back her hair and showed Rawnie the gold hoop earring. Rawnie stared, and Evelyne saw the small, clenched hand loosen its grip on the knife, and then Rawnie sat back on her heels and smiled.
‘O lelled thee for a jal a moskeying, an you as almost mullo mas.’
Evelyne didn’t understand and Rawnie explained, ‘I thought you were a spy, you were almost dead meat.’
Evelyne got to her feet, still panting for breath. She had to find Freedom, had to speak to him. Rawnie pointed up to the mountain. Freedom was still fighting, the roars of the crowd echoed down.
It was very difficult to explain to Rawnie, but Evelyne told her of the newspaper cuttings and how they were discovered in her pocket. She didn’t mention the possibility that her father could cause trouble, just that the men might turn nasty. She wanted to warn Freedom — warn the whole camp that they should leave. Rawnie laughed and asked what the papers said about the killings.
‘This is hardly the time to discuss it — the fact is the villagers will believe Freedom guilty.’
Rawnie looked closely at Evelyne and then turned away, her voice soft and quiet, strange. ‘Thee don’t believe this to be true, but the gav mush do, is that so?’
Evelyne looked puzzled, and Rawnie told her that gav mush was the law, then she spat on the ground. She had changed so much, there was something chilling about her. Still as beautiful, but there was a nasty, sarcastic edge to everything she said. Her eyes were expressionless, then mocking, and she waded into the stream to prevent Jesse’s shirt from floating away. She slapped it on to the bank, and lifted her skirts high.
‘Thee washed me down that night, thee saw the marks on my body, what you say should be done to those that had their way with me? What you say, paleface? Let the gav mush smack their filthy hands that pawed and prodded into my body? Smack their hands and say, “She was only a gyppo whore”?’
Evelyne shook her head as the cheers carried down from Devil’s Pit, and they could have been back in Cardiff inside that nightmare tent. Rawnie rolled Jesse’s shirt and laid it on a rock, banged it, twisted it. She seemed in no hurry to help Freedom.
‘I’m Jesse’s manushi now, he made me romms him to show he didn’t care what those vermin had done to my body. I wear his ring now, I’m Jesse’s woman.’
Satisfied the shirt was clean, Rawnie shook the wet material and then in a strange movement wrapped the wet shirtsleeves round her waist and gave Evelyne a slant-eyed look. Rawnie moved closer and closer to Evelyne, her eyes hypnotic, just like the time she had read Evelyne’s palm.
‘I’ll tell you the tatcho, paleface, only you’ll know, and I can see in your yocks ye’ll not betray me, mande mui.’
Closer and closer she came until her hands traced Evelyne’s face. ‘We done each one — one by one — an’ Jesse let me have their throats, look into their eyes before the blade was drawn across.’
Evelyne stepped back, afraid of her.
‘The best was the last, sucking on his toffee-apple, and I was right behind him, just a small move and …’
Rawnie flicked open the razor-sharp knife and cut through the air. She laughed delightedly at Evelyne’s shocked face, then she turned in one sweeping move, her voice trilled ‘Kushti rardi, Evelyne’, and she was gone.
Evelyne called after her, but the girl didn’t turn back. She heard another roar of men’s voices, cheering in unison and ran towards Devil’s Pit, hoping to God she could get there before her father.
Gladys hammered on the post office door, looking up at the windows and calling for Ben Rees, the postman. His wife opened a window and called down that they were all at the fair, Gladys shouted that she had to use their telephone to call the police. Hysterical, she screamed that the killer, Freedom Stubbs, was up at Devil’s Pit.
By the time Gladys had got through to the police a group of women had gathered outside the post office. In murmurs and whispers they passed the name of Freedom Stubbs among them. Lizzie-Ann, always one to be in on anything going on, came rushing up. The garbled story gained detail. Evelyne Jones knew the killer, he was one of the gyppos, and he was boxing up at Devil’s Pit.
‘Let’s get up there and warn the menfolk. We’ll get the bugger even if the law can’t.’
Rolling pins were hastily collected, and one woman who had armed herself with a heavy frying pan swung it around, saying she’d take first crack at the vermin. Lizzie-Ann fuelled their rising tempers, telling them that Evelyne Jones knew more than she let on. Schoolmistress she may be, but why hadn’t she shown anyone what the newspapers said? She’d concealed evidence, that’s what she’d done. Half the women were illiterate and would never have read the papers anyway, but, egged on by Lizzie-Ann’s bitterness towards Evelyne, they went on the
