15 July 1863

The rat’s pink nose twitches, its teeth sharp and red eyes gleaming, as it sniffs the prone body of Johanna Callaghan. Her blood mixes with the entrails of pigs recently slaughtered down an alley south of Little Lonsdale Street. When Johanna startles, the rat darts up the side of a crumbling wall and along the fence that marks the end of the butcher’s and the start of the motley lanes of Little Lon. A hunting ground for rats and men.

With shaking hands, she traces the swelling around her cheeks and eyes, running her tongue along a row of cracked teeth. She presses her ribs, feeling again the butcher’s blows, smiling because she’s sure she shattered the bastard’s nose. Her gaze on the butcher’s door, she mouths the well-known words of one of Granny Flannery’s curses.

Bad cess to you.
May you never prosper.
May you fade into nothing, like snow in summer.

A southerly moans and Little Lon shivers. Closing her eyes, Johanna succumbs. Dying is not so bad. Nineteen years old. One dead babe, lying forgotten in a faraway place. At least there will be no more pain when she enters His heavenly gates. No more shame. No more burning ambition.

How did she fall so far?

A distant bell strikes twice. She opens her eyes. The stars still shine, and shouts and cries emanate from another raucous night in the back slums. She could call for help. But then she has become part of the filthy fabric of this lane: the mud and entrails her cushion, the wide sky her blanket, the stench her perfume, and the flickering stars her entertainment.

A bubble of laughter expands and she releases it. She feels at home in this alley, cradled, its running water failing to wash away the rot and waste. She laughs again, before a sharp pain in her abdomen cuts it short. Breathing slowly through her nose, she hears a pair of boots squelch at the rear of the alley.

Johanna twists her neck and squints. A figure approaches, slipping in the dark, muddy lane, cursing while regaining his balance. Sliding towards her, the man nudges her body with the tip of his pointed leather boot.

‘Alive, thank Heavens. But what a filthy, pitiful creature,’ he says through the silk handkerchief he holds to his mouth. His navy-blue frockcoat and pink waistcoat are unmarred by dirt or dust. While his voice is familiar, she cannot place him, and the darkness and the handkerchief conceal his face. The gentleman lifts his trousers and squats, seeking a better assessment. ‘I shall help you, my dear. What is your name?’

‘Who goes there?’ a voice cries.

‘Constable!’ The gentleman nods to Johanna. ‘I’m relieved you are here. I just happened upon this poor creature who is in need of your attention.’

Johanna groans. If she survives her injuries, she will surely be arrested for vagrancy.

The constable peers into the gentleman’s face and smiles, though it’s restrained. ‘You shall return home this instant, sir, or I’ll be informing your brother you’re up to no good.’

‘Certainly, Constable. Would not wish for that.’ The gentleman mock-salutes before dropping a silver coin and a white marble near Johanna’s hand. Her fingers curl around them.

The constable, head shaking, watches the gentleman simper away. Heavy boots stomp the mud behind Johanna’s head. Hands grip her shoulders and, as she is dragged upright, pain again severs her lower abdomen.

‘Who left you in this terrible state?’ A large ruddy face peers down at her, and, this close, she realises the constable is a woman. The constable’s eyes soften as she traces Johanna’s swollen face, before eyeing the butcher’s shop. ‘You’re Cornwell’s new girl.’

Johanna manages a nod while studying the woman’s navy police uniform, mouthing the words on her badge declaring her to be Constable Jenkins. ‘I didn’t know there were any lady Joes.’ Johanna’s mouth feels numb.

‘There aren’t,’ the constable says drily.

Johanna blinks, her head spinning. ‘Then what are you?’

The woman sighs. ‘This is my husband’s uniform, but I personate him when … well, when he’s indisposed. In the dark, from afar, no one can really tell the difference. But of course, folk around these parts know me well. They call me Constable Mary.’

Johanna’s eyes brighten. ‘I’m not under arrest?’

‘No.’ She frowns. ‘I’ll help you.’

She shakes her head. ‘I don’t need helping.’

Constable Mary snorts. ‘You need a lot of helping, my dear. You’re not the first young woman I’ve found in this situation, and you won’t be the last. What will you do with these NINA notices going up all over the place?’

No Irish Need Apply. Johanna can read those letters well enough. She was so excited when the butcher took her, a freshly arrived Irishwoman, that she did not even blink at the measly salary.

‘I’ve decided I’ll be dying instead,’ Johanna sighs.

Constable Mary’s laughter is bright. It’s almost sweet and completely at odds with her stoutness.

‘You sailed halfway across the world to die alone in this filth? You’re not dying tonight, my dear.’

Cursing the prick of tears, Johanna massages the thumping ache between her eyes.

‘You’ll survive,’ the woman says, huffing, as she pulls up her trousers and squats to face Johanna. ‘Do you have family? A place you can stay?’

‘No,’ she says, glaring, swiping her nose with the back of her hand.

She shudders, the stench of the alley returning, the sky and the mud no longer so inviting.

‘I happen to know a lady who’s looking for some help.’

Johanna leans forward. ‘Who…’