William Monk 08 - The Silent Cry

we’ll askelsewhere. I understand you are not the only woman to be beaten.” He turned for the door, leaving Vida to come after him. He heard her swear at Nellie carefully and viciously, without repeating herself.
    The second woman to whom Vida led him was very different. They met her trudging home after a long day in the sweatshop. It was still snowing, although the cobbles were too wet for it to stick. The woman was perhaps thirty-five, although from the stoop of her shoulders she could have been fifty. Her face was puffy and her skin pale, but she had pretty eyes and her hair had a thick, natural curl. With a little spirit, a little laughter, she would still be attractive. She stopped when she recognized Vida. Her expression was not fearful or unfriendly. It said much of Vida’s character that as the wife of the sweatshop owner she could still command a certain friendship in such a woman.
    “ ’Ello, Betty,” Vida said briskly. “This ’ere’s Monk. ’E’s gonner ’elp us with them bastards wot’ve bin beatin’ up women ’round ’ere.”
    There was a flicker of hope in Betty’s eyes so brief it could have been no more than imagined.
    “Yeah?” she said without interest. “Then wot? The rozzers is gonna arrest ’em, an’ the judge is gonna bang ’em up in the Coldbath Fields? Or maybe they’re goin’ ter Newgate an’ the rope, eh?” She gave a dry, almost soundless laugh.
    Vida fell into step beside her, leaving Monk to walk a couple of paces behind. They turned the corner, passing a gin mill with drunken women on the doorstep, insensible of the cold.
    “ ’Ow’s Bert?” Vida asked.
    “Drunk,” Betty answered. “ ’Ow else?”
    “An’ yer kids?”
    “Billy ’as the croup, Maisie coughs summink terrible. Others is a’right.” They had reached her door and she went to push it open just as two small boys came running around the corner of the alley from the opposite direction, shouting and laughing. They both had sticks which they slashed around as if they were swords. One of the boys lunged and the other oneyelled out, then crumpled up and pretended to be dying in agony, rolling around on the wet cobbles, his face alight with glee. The other one hopped up and down, crowing his victory. Seemingly, it was his turn, and he was going to savor every ounce of it.
    Betty smiled patiently. The rags they wore, a mixture of hand-me-downs and clothes unpicked and restitched from others, could hardly get any filthier.
    Monk found his shoulders relaxing a little at the sound of children’s laughter. It was a touch of humanity in the gray drudgery around him.
    Betty led the way into a tenement very like the one in which Nellie West lived. Betty apparently occupied two rooms at the back. A middle-aged man lay in a stupor half in a chair, half on the floor. She ignored him. The room was cluttered with the furniture of living, a lopsided table, the stuffed chair in which the man lay, two wooden chairs, one with a patched seat, a whisk broom and half a dozen assorted rags. The sound of children’s voices, and someone coughing, came through the thin walls from the other room. The two boys were still fighting in the corridor.
    Vida ignored them all and concentrated on Betty.
    “Tell ’im wot ’appened to yer.” She jerked her head at Monk to indicate who she meant. The other man was apparently too deep in his stupor to be aware of them.
    “I’nt nuffink much ter tell,” Betty said resignedly. “I got beat. It still ’urts, but nobody can’t do nothin’ about it. Thought o’ carryin’ a shiv meself, but in’t worth it. If I stick the bastards, I’ll only get topped fer murder. Anyway, don’t s’pose they’ll come ’ere again.”
    “Yeah?” Vida said, her voice thick with derision. “Count on that, would yer? Don’ mind goin’ out in the streets again, takin’ yer chances? ’Appy about that, are yer? Yer din’t ’ear wot ’appened ter Nellie West, ner Clarrie Drover, ner Dot MacRae? Ner them others wot got raped or beat? Some o’ them’s only kids. They damn near killed ’Etty Barker, poor little cow.”
    Betty looked shaken. “I thought that were ’er man wot done that. ’E drinks rotten, an’ ’e don’ know wot ’e does ’alfthe time.” She glanced towards the recumbent figure in the corner, and Monk guessed she was only too familiar with the predicament.
    “No, it weren’t ’im,” Vida said bleakly. “George in’t that bad. ’E’s all wind