It was a long alleyway, dark and about three metres wide, with light spilling in from the far end, and there were three, no, four figures, fighting. Three to one and the one was backed up against the angle of wall with a sword in his hand. A sword? Surely not. It was three feet of “bladed instrument within the meaning of the Act” whatever it was, and the man seemed to know what he was doing with it, which was a good thing because his opponents had knives and clubs and an attitude that signalled grievous bodily harm, if not murder.
I was off duty, unarmed and without so much as a CS spray, and I hadn’t a clue where the hell I was, but there wasn’t much choice, so I pitched in. A kick to the elbow made the nearest man drop his club and spin round, leaving himself open to a follow-up foot right in the groin. I’d done it in practice plenty of times, always pulling the kick, now I let it go and felt it land with satisfying force into probably the only soft bits on the man facing me. I winced in sympathy as he reeled away clutching himself, but I grabbed for his club as he dropped it and brought it down on the collarbone of the next man who came for me, snarling.
There was a faint but nasty crack as the bone broke, and he swore but stayed on his feet, shifting a long, wicked knife into his left hand. That was the point where I realised that this wasn’t some drunken brawl after pub closing time. These thugs knew what they were doing. I backed up, cold caution slithering down my spine at the sight of the blade. Yes, I’d done this in practice but not faced with the real thing, sharp and glittering in the hands of a hardened, very angry, street fighter.
Moving at least drew him away from the swordsman and his remaining attacker, giving him space to shift away from the wall. I still wasn’t too sure how to handle the infuriated thug with the knife. I might have broken his collarbone but it seemed fury, or perhaps sheer nastiness, was overcoming the pain and he kept coming at me.
So I kept retreating, avoiding the other man who was now throwing up, adding his own delightful contribution to the stench in the alleyway. There was a broken plank leaning against the wall and I grabbed for it, swung it at the knifeman who dodged, jeering. Behind him there was rapid movement, a shriek, cut short, and he turned to come face to face with the swordsman. Finally routed he swore and ran straight past me so I fetched him a parting blow with the plank. Behind the man with the sword two figures ran in the opposite direction, holding each other up.
I dragged down a deep breath and wished I hadn’t. It stank. I stank. And I hurt – my shoulder, my hip, my ribs all protested at the crash landing in the alleyway and, now the crisis was over, I was seriously thinking about throwing up myself. I had never hit anyone for real before and I didn’t like the way it felt.
‘I must thank you.’ The swordsman gave himself a shake, slid the blade home in its scabbard and bent to pick up the lantern that had fallen on its side, the candle still, by some miracle, burning. ‘Are you hurt?’
His accent was strange. Educated, definitely upper, but exaggerated with a drawl to it. My linguist’s ear pricked up, despite the situation.
‘Just scrapes and bruises,’ I managed, my voice rasping as I got my breath back. And terminal confusion – I am certainly suffering from that.
‘You had best come back with me, sir. We must check you are indeed unharmed and do something about your clothes. I have rooms in Albany.’ He picked up his hat, shook his head at the state of it and tossed it back down.
Sir? Albany? Albany was the place off Piccadilly in London where aristocratic single gentlemen had suites of rooms in the Georgian period. I’d read about it in a Georgette Heyer novel, looked it up and been intrigued to discover it still existed.
‘Where are we?’
The man, who had turned and begun to walk along the alleyway towards the light at the end, stopped and looked back. ‘Where? Have you had a blow to the head? Allow me to take your arm.’
‘No. No, I haven’t hit my head. Where are we?’
‘London. Crown Passage between Pall Mall and King Street.’
Pall Mall I knew. King Street, I thought, ran parallel to the north of it. That was where Almack’s Assembly Rooms had been. ‘When?’
He tipped his head to one side, his face unreadable in the semi-darkness. ‘The third of April. Possibly the fourth, I was too preoccupied to listen for the clocks.’
‘No, I mean When? Which year?’
‘You have had a blow to the head.’ He walked back towards me. ‘Eighteen seven.’
Eighteen seven. I let him take my arm and went with him, stumbling over my own feet a little, as he walked towards the end of the alleyway. Two hundred years ago, but the same date. This was a dream, obviously. Or I was hallucinating, although it felt like a very firm hand under my arm… Against my side, through the soft cashmere, his body was solid and warm. Had I hit my head during the training session without realising it and now had concussion?
I found my voice. ‘No, it can’t be. That is two centuries ago.’
I felt rather than saw him shake his head. ‘You may or may not be concussed but you are certainly considerably adrift in your mind. We must send for a doctor to look you over.’ His fingers shifted on my arm. ‘Interesting cloth. Did you lose your coat back there? I will go back for it.’
‘No, I had no coat. It was warm when I… came out. It’s cashmere,’ I added, bizarrely feeling I needed to make conversation.
‘You are a stranger in Town?’
‘Yes, I’m from Hertfordshire.’ And the future. My accent must sound strange to him. Then I realised I was trying to put thoughts into the head of a figment of my imagination.
We emerged into a street lit by flaming torches set in holders beside doors and by lads with torches or lanterns in their hands guiding pedestrians. Link boys, my memory provided. They were supposed to be symbols of sex, for some reason I couldn’t recall. There were no street lights. It was busy and carriages were creating a log-jam in front of a building to our right. ‘Almack’s?’ I ventured.
‘Indeed. Best to avoid it under the circumstances.’ He cut across the street and took the one opposite, sloping up to Jermyn Street, I thought, although I was increasingly confused. My companion was keeping to the inside of the pavement, the deeper shadows, and occasionally turned to look behind.
‘Are we being followed? Who were they?’
‘I believe they have given up, although it is always wise to check. Footpads, probably. No cause for alarm.’
I don’t believe you, not about the footpads. That had looked personal, somehow, not a random mugging. We had turned into Jermyn Street and my feet were dragging now as we crossed and took another alleyway. Dream, hallucination. Am I feverish?