Several minutes passed and the only noise drifting through the parlour came from the Black Horse. Convinced that she was safe to leave, Harriet stepped out into the freezing night. She gasped at the temperature and briefly considered returning inside to sit by the fire and complete her sewing. ‘Come on,’ she rebuked herself.
She moved quickly down to the shore. The sea was calm tonight, with only the gentle slushing and dragging of shingle as the waves broke nearby. Despite the night sky’s being clear and peppered with a million tiny lights, the delicate slice of moon failed to provide sufficient light to help guide Harriet’s way; only familiarity led her safe ascension up Cuckoo Hill.
Finally, she reached the severed hulk of the Polymina. ‘Hello? Christopher? Do you be there?’ she called tentatively but she instantly knew that she was alone on the hill; somehow there was an absence: Christopher hadn’t come again. She hadn’t seen him since the night of his mother’s accident and the nagging worry that she had hurt his feelings swelled inside her. Had she been too harsh with him? Did he no longer want to continue their illicit, but harmless meetings? It was certainly the longest they had ever gone without seeing each other. He’s probably just very busy with work and his mother, she thought, trying to convince herself that she hadn’t upset him.
Harriet shuddered, her isolation entwining with the cold temperature, breaking through her skin and permeating into her veins. Hurrying down the hill, she had a sudden desire not to be alone and the idea of returning home, to what amounted to an empty house, disheartened her. Instead of taking the path directly back when she reached the shoreline, she took the passageway that led to the very heart of the Priory Ground’s iniquity.
Keeping to the shadows of a tall yard wall belonging to the rope-making Breeds family, Harriet caught a glimpse of the run of tenements whose doors, so she had heard, were never shut at night. There were five cottages in all, each in a varying state of disrepair, out of which spilled unholy sounds and raucous laughter, such as Harriet had never heard before. She drew closer, spellbound by the laughter—there was something different, something false about its tone and delivery that made Harriet shudder; she was gripped and mesmerised by fear and amazement in equal measure. The street door of the second cottage was open and the ludicrous idea that she should take a peek inside presented itself to her. She rebuked herself for the ridiculous notion, yet the desire to know the extent of the rumoured vices was too strong to ignore. She knew that she should retreat back to her warm safe home and continue with her sewing like a good young lady, yet she found herself being drawn, as if attached to a pulley, towards the flickering yellow light which spilt from the open door. The immoral sounds grew louder, then suddenly stopped.
Harriet gulped and hurriedly stepped backwards, as a man suddenly stumbled through the street door and collapsed in a heap. A silhouetted female figure subdued the light. ‘Git out, before I summons the watchmen and has you taken off to gaol.’
‘I gived you three shillings, Miss Rutherford!’ he growled, as he rolled about on the floor. ‘I be wanting more than that.’
Miss Rutherford, a name which Harriet had heard mentioned only in hushed whispers, disappeared inside the house and drew the street door shut, taking the light with her. The clanking of a bolt inside the house told Harriet that this particular house of ill fame had closed for the night; she suddenly felt alone.
‘Filthy old draggle-tail!’ the man shouted, unable to make his feet hold his body weight.
Harriet, with her eyes fixed on the drunken man, tugged her shawl tight to her chin and began to step backwards. The absolute stupidity of her decision to venture to these parts crystallised in her mind when the man finally found his feet and began lurching in her direction; the passageway was so narrow that there was no way that she could avoid detection. She gasped and increased the speed of her backward steps.
‘Who be there?’ the man slurred.
Turning to run, Harriet twisted awkwardly and her foot slipped; she crashed down onto the damp shingle below. Wasting no time in looking back, she rose and turned in the direction of home. As she set her first foot down to run, a hefty hand landed on her right shoulder and she yelped as meaty fingers pressed down under her collar bone.
‘Where you be a-going then, young girl?’ the toothless man grunted, his foul alcohol-infused breath blustering at Harriet’s face.
‘Home,’ Harriet cried. ‘I be going home, now let me go!’ She writhed and wriggled, but his grip was too powerful.
‘What be the hurry?’ the man smirked, tugging open her shawl with his free hand.
Harriet screamed and in an instant, his heavy labourer’s hand smacked down onto her mouth with such a force as to slam her whole body backwards into the brick wall. The loudest shriek she could muster was lost under the clamping weight of the hand crushing down over her mouth. With the bitter taste of warm blood from her own lips running into her mouth and the foul stench of her assailant’s breath stinging her
