The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins by Antonia Hodgson Page B

days a week working at his side. He promised me a paid position once I’d finished my apprenticeship. And now it’s done . . .’ His voice fractured. ‘He’s ordered me to leave by the end of the week.’
    ‘My God!’ To promise a position for seven years, to benefit from Ned’s labour for all that time – and then withdraw the offer when the apprenticeship was over? It was nothing more than slavery. ‘Can he not afford to pay you?’
    ‘Ten times over! There’s no sense to it. How will he manage without me? The old fool can’t survive on his own, not at his age.’
    ‘Perhaps he expects to hand the business to Stephen?’
    ‘ Stephen? He couldn’t lift a hammer.’ Ned’s face crinkled in amusement and I was struck once again by his kind nature. I would have felt bitter and resentful in his place. Ned seemed more perplexed . As if his master had been replaced with a stranger. It was the puzzle of it all that seemed to trouble him the most. ‘What am I to do, Mr Hawkins?’
    ‘I shouldn’t worry, Ned. You’re an honest man with a good trade. Strong and healthy . . .’ I patted his arm. My God, strong was right. His muscles were hard as iron. ‘You’ll have no trouble finding a position.’
    ‘But it’s my home, sir.’ He paused, eyes filled with tears once more. ‘I thought he was proud of me. But he doesn’t care if I starve in the street. Seven years. Seven years for nothing .’
    I frowned in sympathy. Poured him another glass.
     
    By the time we’d reached the bottom of a second punch bowl – of which Ned had drunk half a glass – I had boiled myself into a drunken fury. How dare Burden use Ned in such a cruel fashion? And how dare he blacken my reputation in the neighbourhood? Leaving the coffeehouse, I stumbled out into the piazza, Ned trailing anxiously at my heels. The cold night air slapped at my face and the cobbles buckled at my feet. I had not felt this drunk for a long time. I had barely touched a drop since my fight in St James’s Park, and I had forgotten to eat supper.
    When I reached Burden’s house, I pounded my fist against the door.
    ‘Burden! Come out and face me, you son of a cunt!’ What had I just said? Son of a . . . what did that mean? I shook my head, clearing it a little.
    Ned put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Mr Hawkins, sir . . .’
    He was strong, but there is no one stronger than an outraged drunk. I wrested myself free and kicked the door, slamming my heel into the wood. When no one came, I kicked it again. I kicked and pounded at it until the blood ran from my knuckles. And then I drew my sword and slammed the pommel into the wood.
    At last the bolts swung back and Burden stood in the doorway, angry and defiant – until he saw the sword in my fist. ‘What is this?’
    I slotted the sword back in my belt – after several failed attempts. It is a hard procedure when there is more punch in one’s veins than blood. ‘You have been spreading lies. Vile, scoundralous lies.’ I paused. One of those words was not, necessarily, a word.
    ‘Ned,’ Burden called, beckoning him inside.
    Ned shouldered his way past, looking sheepish. As Burden moved to close the door I pushed back, glaring at him through the crack. ‘How dare you judge me,’ I hissed. ‘When you’re fucking Alice Dunn against her will?’
    Burden looked stunned at this – but he recovered fast enough. He grinned, baring his teeth. ‘Mr Gonson visited the Marshalsea today. One of the turnkeys swears you killed a man.’
    And of a sudden, I was sober.
    ‘They’ll hang you for it,’ he crowed. ‘That is a promise, Hawkins.’
    He closed the door in my face.
    Fear washed through me. It wasn’t true. It wasn’t possible. I was innocent. But I had made enough enemies in gaol – and I could think of several turnkeys who would be happy to perjure themselves for a price. Or worse – tell Gonson what had really happened. Oh, God – no. The ground pitched beneath my feet and I had to