‘Aye, not so free with your mouth now, are you, Mr Raven?’
The Weasel produced a knife from his pocket and held it up in what little light was to be found in the alley, making sure Raven could see it. It was about four inches long, the blade thin, a bloodstained rag wrapped around the wooden handle for a surer grip.
Raven silently prayed for a quick end to his ordeal. Perhaps a stab upwards under his ribs. His pericardium would fill with blood, his heart would stop beating and it would all be over.
‘So now that I have your attention, let us properly address the issue of your debt to Mr Flint.’
Raven could barely find the breath to speak, with the weight of the monster crushing him and the pain still gripping his trunk. The Weasel seemed to notice and ordered the hulk to raise himself just enough for Raven to be able to issue a whisper.
‘See, it seems you were keeping your light under a bushel. Since lending you the sum, we have learned that you are the son of a well-to-do lawyer in St Andrews. So having re-evaluated your status, Mr Flint has brought forward the expected date of redemption.’
Raven felt a new weight upon him, though Gargantua had eased himself off. It was the burden of a lie returned to its teller, in accordance with the law of unforeseen consequences.
‘My father is long dead,’ he wheezed out. ‘Do you think if I could have borrowed from him, I would be seeking out cut-throat usurers?’
‘That’s as may be, but the son of a lawyer must have other connections, in time of need.’
‘I don’t. But as I told Flint when he lent me, I have prospects. When I begin to earn, I will be able to pay, with interest.’
The Weasel leaned closer, the stink from his mouth worse than anything in the gutter.
‘Oh, there will be interest. But for an educated man, you don’t seem to understand this very well. Mr Flint doesn’t wait for prospects. When you owe him money, you find a way to get it.’
The Weasel pressed the knife against Raven’s left cheek.
‘And just so you know, us usurers don’t only cut throats.’
He drew the blade across, slow and deep, all the time looking Raven in the eye.
‘A wee something to remind you of your new priorities,’ he said.
The Weasel slapped Gargantua on the shoulder by way of telling him they were done. He climbed to his feet, freeing Raven to put a hand to his face. Blood was welling through his fingers as they tenderly probed the wound.
The Weasel then pivoted on a heel and kicked Raven in the stomach where he lay.
‘You find the money,’ he said. ‘Or next time it’s an eye.’
THREE
He put the image from his mind. All that mattered was that he was still breathing, for now, and while that remained true, his prospects were good.
He put his hand to his cheek again. It was wet with blood and mushy, like a bruised peach. The wound was deep and wide. There was no option to return to Mrs Cherry’s without this being seen to.
Raven dragged himself to Infirmary Street, where he decided it would be best to avoid the porter’s lodge and the stern questions his appearance would surely prompt. Instead he made his way along the wall to the section most favoured by the house surgeons for climbing over. Henry and his peers used this means of ingress when they did not wish to draw attention to late-night excursions, as such behaviour might see them called in front of the hospital board. It took several attempts in his enfeebled state, but Raven eventually hauled himself over the wall before climbing in through a low window that was always left unlatched for this specific purpose.
He shambled along the corridor, leaning against the wall when his breathing became too laboured and painful. He crept past the surgical ward without incident, hearing loud snoring emanating from just behind the door. The noise was likely coming from the night nurses, who frequently imbibed the wines and spirits supplied for the benefit of the patients in order to ensure for themselves a good night’s sleep.
Raven made it to Henry’s door and knocked repeatedly on it, every second it remained unanswered adding to the fear that his friend was in a post-tavern stupor. Eventually, the door swung inward and Henry’s bleary and tousled visage appeared around it. His initial response was one of horror at what creature had visited him in the night, then came recognition.
‘Gods, Raven. What the bloody hell has happened to you?’
‘Someone took exception to the fact that I had nothing worth stealing.’
‘We’d better get you downstairs. That’s going to need stitching.’
‘I diagnosed that much myself,’ Raven said. ‘Do you know a competent surgeon?’
Henry fixed him with a look. ‘Don’t test me.’
Raven lay back on the bed and attempted to relax, but this was not easy given that Henry was approaching his lacerated face with a large suture needle. He was trying to recount just how many times Henry’s tankard had been refilled, calculating the implications for how neatly he would be capable of stitching. Drunk or sober, no quality of needlework was going to spare him a scar, which would be the first thing anyone noticed about him in the future. This was likely to have ramifications for his career, but he could not afford to think about that right then. Most immediately his priority was to remain still, but the pains wracking him and the prospect of Henry’s needle were militating against that.
‘I realise that it’s difficult, but I must ask you to refrain from writhing, and when I commence, from flinching. Part of the wound is close to your eye and if I get the stitching wrong it will droop.’
‘Then I will have to be rechristened Isaiah,’ he replied.
‘Why?’ Henry asked; then it came to him. ‘Mother of God, Raven.’
Henry’s expression was funnier than the joke, but any relief it gave Raven came at a sharp cost to his ribs.
Raven lay still and attempted to transport himself from the here and now, so that he was less conscious of the procedure. Unfortunately, his first destination, quite involuntarily, was Evie’s room, the sight of her twisted body appearing in his mind just as Henry’s needle first penetrated his cheek. He felt it push through the skin and into the soft layer below, could not but picture the curve of it bridging the sides of the wound before re-emerging, which was when he felt the tug of the cat-gut through his already ravaged face. It hurt far more than the Weasel’s knife, that being over in a couple of seconds.
He put up a hand as Henry was about to commence the second stitch.
‘Have you any ether?’ he asked.
Henry looked at him disapprovingly. ‘No. You’ll just need to tolerate it. It’s not as though you’re having a leg off.’
‘That’s easy for you to say. Have you ever had your face stitched?’
‘No, and that good fortune might be related to the fact that nor do I have an inclination to bark at the moon and pick fights with Old Town ne’er-do-wells.’
‘I did not pick any— ow!’
‘Stop