Secret Lament by Roz Southey

time in the evening Corelli left his coat in a tavern and
couldn’t remember which.
    He was good company, even if he did ask too many questions. I started by asking “why do you want to know?” to every question and ended by giving him practically an entire history of
the town. He asked about me too – even in my hazy state at the end of the evening I had the feeling he already knew a great deal about me before he started asking. By then, it struck me as
flattering rather than odd. I was a great personage – everyone in the town knew about me.
    Corelli wanted to know about the Mazzantis too and I gave him a blow by blow account of the attack at the theatre. I even told him about the ruffians who were after me and he exclaimed in horror
at their audacity; we talked at great length about the evils of society and agreed that the country was going to the dogs, Walpole or no. He told me about the low orders in Venice and Ferrara, all
of which I promptly forgot. I told him about the last time Hugh Demsey was in Paris and was attacked by some knife-wielding thug; Hugh did a cotillion around him and got the fellow so confused he
ran off in despair.
    I wished Hugh was in town now, instead of in Houghton-le-Spring. He’d help run off the ruffians. And talking to him always clears my mind.
    We were drunk well before eleven. We were not the only ones. I saw Philip Ord at one point, on his own, distinctly the worse for wear, going into Mrs Hill’s just before midnight. Heaven
help us, even Proctor the psalm teacher was wandering the streets forlornly. And in a tavern on the Keyside, I glimpsed Ned and Richard with a fellow I did not know; they were arguing violently and
Ned stormed off on his own.
    When I heard St Nicholas’s church clock strike midnight, I decided to go home. I was not sure where I was but I was grubby and sticky with spilt beer and surprisingly hungry – I
couldn’t remember whether I had eaten or not. I remember saying goodnight to Corelli, who was lodging at Mrs Hill’s, and I remember turning for home. But then I found myself staring up
at St Nicholas’s church spires and realised that I was going the wrong way.
    I knew in some distant instinctive way that I needed to cross the High Bridge over the Lort Burn to get to the other side of town and my lodgings. I thought I knew where High Bridge was but St
Nicholas’s spires were falling over and I needed to hold them up so I was hampered somewhat. As I struggled with them, I called out for someone to give me a helping hand. A fellow came
trotting up. Or possibly two. Or more. He was filthy but seemed remarkably helpful. He patted me on the back.
    The next moment I was lying in the gutter, my head was exploding and my guts were on fire.
    There were three or four of them. I smelt the bitter reek of gin as one leant over me, leering. He seemed to be in charge. I had fought a man who looked remarkably like him two months ago, I
remembered, beaten him too. He didn’t seem to be pleased.
    I curled into a ball on the hard cobbles of the street, suddenly sober. A kick landed in my back and I screeched in pain. Then someone kicked me in the head and the world exploded in lights.
Lightning streaked across my sight. I could hear someone screaming. It was me.
    And then the sound of shouting and of running feet.
    Silence.
    Corelli propped me against the churchyard railings, forced me to drink spirits from a bottle he pulled from his pocket. I choked, spat and vomited up all the beer I had drunk
into the gutter.
    I lay back against the railings, exhausted, while Corelli squatted on his haunches in front of me. He looked none too healthy either but he grinned, despite his obvious weariness. “They
didn’t even resist – just ran away from me. Six of them!”
    Perhaps they had been frightened at the bulk of him. More like, they preferred easy prey.
    I staggered to my feet; Corelli grabbed me and pulled me upright. “I’m grateful you came