She had found a good church. They would get what little she had, unlike those two ungrateful, godless daughters of hers. Isaac was a good boy. She knew he would be up there one day, and she longed to see him. The other two could rot in the other place.
But not the little girl. She needed to be saved.
She woke with a start, gasping for air before she settled. It was almost a disappointment. Death's warm embrace seemed a better option than the cold spare room at her daughter's. It was morning.
Was it? It didn't matter. The same dreams. Her mother's soft face and her anger. Those gut-wrenching screams . . .
The sheets had been changed. The window opened. Someone had been. Emma, she presumed. It was then she noticed somethingfrom the corner of her eye. On the chair, eyes wide, sat little Magg
She tried all she could to muster a smile. Bless her. Sarah stretched out her hand and with great effort beckoned the girl closer with a bony finger. The child got up and walked across the room. Sarah gestured for her to come even closer. She could hardly raise her voice beyond a hoarse whisper and she wanted her words to be heard.
'You're a good girl,' she wheeled and she clasped her clammy hand around the little girl's. She held it therefor a few seconds, perhaps longer. Time ceased to have much meaning.
She opened her eyes. Maggie was still there, eyes wide, unblinking.
Sarah felt a bolt of pain sear up from her chest. The shot the doctor had given her was wearing off. She groaned. She was so weak. The end was soon. The little girl stood back.
The pain eventually subsided. She opened her eyes and beckoned Maggie in once more.
'They will come,' she said. 'They will come for you like they came for your grandfather.' She sucked in some more air. The little girl stood transfixed. 'By my bed, there's a box. Get it.'
The girl rooted around.
In the cupboard,' she gasped.
The little girl found it.
'Put it on the bed.'
She did. Sarah fumbled with the lock and the combination. It was exhausting but eventually she opened it.
'Look at it.'
Maggie peered in.
'Pick it up,' she hissed.
She held it in her hands. The photograph the police said was on Horton's broken body when it was found crushed on the road. Killed by an omnibus, they said. She knew different. They had found him and murdered him. The police gave her his belongings and the photograph was among them. She recognised the man with the spade.
Even the burned-out buildings. She went home and cleared out their things and moved away immediately. They had not yet found her, but she knew they would never stop looking. Whether she was alive or dead they would come for her kin. The rest could take their chances but the little girl must be warned and she must be told.
Maggie's hands were shaking. She stared at the picture, appalled.
She was terrified, poor mite. But it was the only way. She would thank her later.
'Some of them were no older than you,' she said.
She closed her eyes. Another stab of pain. She groaned again.
When she reopened her eyes the little girl was still holding the picture, her face leeched of all colour. How long had she been staring at the awful picture of slaughter? Long enough, she hoped.
The and your grandfather were responsible for that,' she whispered, a rattle in her throat. 'May the Lord forgive us! It was an accident, I swear. But the kin of those poor souls burned alive will come for atonement and nothing will stop them. Nothing! Not even my passing. Save yourself my sweet. Get yourself safe.' She sucked in air. Never, ever have children. For as sure as the sun rises and sets they will keep looking and they will seek atonement; all those who stem from my loins will be killed and baptised into the faith.
Protect yourself as if from the Devil himself! When you sleep, they will scour the earth for you. All in the Lord's name. Hide yourself!
They will never relent!'
When she next came to, the girl had gone. The photo was lying on her chest, the box by her side. She placed the photo back inside and locked the box, then wrapped her arms around it and held it to her chest. She would take it with her. There was no more to be done. She had done her duty to her granddaughter.
It was now in the wounded hands of the Lord.
The sky was darkening. A light rain fell, the angry clouds pregnant with more. Foster stood on a grimy yet quiet backstreet in Bethnal Green, staring at the door of number 17. A phone call of his own to a telecommunications contact gave him the number Mrs Ashbourne had dialed -- that of her daughter's, or so the old woman had said. It was ex-directory, but belonged to this terraced house, the stone bricks still flecked with soot from the days of coal-burning, industrial grime and pea-soup fogs.
He ambled up the path. Darkness and silence. No one there. In the distance he could hear the ratde of trains on their way into Liverpool Street and the bustle and noise of Bethnal Green Road. But on this innocuous side street there was nothing.
He turned away from number 17 and went next door.
No one in. The same with number 13. At number 11, light peered out from behind the curtains and he could hear the muffled noise of a television. He knocked. The door opened almost immediately. A teenage girl, a sneer of contempt and boredom on her face, still in school uniform, stood there.'
What?' she said.
Charming, he thought. Must be the famous East End hospitality he'd read about. 'Is your mother home?'
'Mum,' she screamed, and went upstairs leaving the door open and Foster on the threshold.
What?' an impatient voice cried. A woman in a pair of slippers emerged from a room at the back -- a kitchen, presumably, given that she was wearing lurid yellow washing-up gloves. She looked angry. 'Yeah?'
'I'm fine, thank you.'
You what?'
'Never mind. Number 17, the lady who lives there.'
'Lady? Number 17? Not any more.'
'Really?'
'Yeah, old Edith passed on a few years back.'
'Edith?'
'You deaf or summat?'
'So who lives there?'
'Some posh bloke. Not in, is he? Nah, he never is. Think he must have another place somewhere else. He comes and goes but keeps himself to himself. It's changed a lot round here recently, people from the city moving in, prices going up. I can't complain because we moved in seventeen years ago, so I'll have done all right when the kids leave and I sell up. Why you interested?'
'Just a courtesy call,' he said.
He thanked her and she closed the door. A second later he heard her bawl at her daughter to get her bloody arse in gear, now.
He walked back down the street, mulling over what the woman had said. At the door of number 17 he stopped, looking up at the house, still in darkness. Nothing moved.
Then, inside, a phone rang. It continued to ring. Then stopped. Too short for an answer service to kick in. He thought he might have heard a voice but wasn't sure, given the background noise. There was a doorknocker. He grabbed it then pulled it back, letting it thud heavily against the door.
There was a thump from within. A door shutting, perhaps? It was more muffled than that. He stepped back and looked at the houses on either side. No, it had definitely come from number 17. What was it, though?
He went to the front window. It was slightly ajar, perhaps ten inches or so. Curtains blocked any view into
