The Lights of London by Gilda O'Neill

Even sold my old dad’s watch and my grandma’s wedding ring – all they’d left me – because I wanted a different life. Denied myself the comfort of having a wife and family; condemned myself to loneliness. All so I could wind up here.’
    He poured the last drop of rum into his glass. ‘Why should I be surprised when things go wrong, eh, Archie? Success wasn’t meant for the likes of me, Jack Fisher, the son of a poor pitman.’
    ‘I think if you could just find some different turns, boss.
    Jack spun round. ‘That’s what I thought. But what sort of turns? And where do I get them?’
    ‘Anywhere except where you got this mob, boss.’ Archie winced as he looked up at the stage where the Amazing Aerial Adventurer had just failed, for the fourth time, to launch himself across the remaining punters’ heads on a rope suspended from the wings. ‘Because, in my humble opinion, this lot stink.’
    Of the handful of people left in the room the only one who seemed to be enjoying himself was Teezer. He was beside himself with laughter. It hadn’t turned out to be such a bad night after all.
    Kitty’s night, however, had taken a distinctly sharp turn for the worse.
    ‘I know it’s not much.’ Tibs smiled as she led Kitty under the dripping railway arch, past huddled piles of stinking rags, ‘but this little spot in the Minories is one of the few that ain’t crowded out by this time of night.’
    Tibs squatted down on the ground and held out herhand to Kitty, indicating that she should do the same.
    With a resigned, shuddering sigh, she joined her. The pile of rags next to her suddenly shifted and Kitty gasped with alarm.
    ‘You must have woke her up,’ said Tibs, craning her neck to get a look at the human ragheap, then winking encouragingly at Kitty. ‘Could be worse, eh, girl, we could be in the workhouse.’ And, Tibs thought to herself, we could be alone out there in the dark, where girls like me get murdered and no one gives a shit.

Chapter 3
    Kitty woke with a start as an icy drip of water found its way down her collar.
    ‘You all right, sweetheart?’ asked Tibs with a shudder – she wasn’t only freezing, she’d been thinking again about that poor murdered girl and how, in a few days, when some other tragedy had happened or a bit of scandal had hit the streets, she’d be no more than a vague memory. That’s what it was like being a tart. You counted for very little.
    Kitty shook herself, then shrugged uncertainly. She’d been right to be wary about bedding down under the railway arches: it was every bit as bad as she’d feared. She couldn’t imagine how she’d managed to fall asleep. She just wished she hadn’t woken up. The cold was slicing right through her and her nostrils were filled with the stench of the unwashed, rag-clad humanity that surrounded her.
    ‘I know it ain’t exactly home, Kit, but like I said, it’s better than going in the spike for the night. You don’t even wanna know what goes on in that casual ward down the workhouse. And look, the rain started a little while ago and it’s cleared all the fog away.’
    Kitty held out her hands, trying to catch some heat from the dying embers of their fire.
    When she and Tibs had arrived there had been fires dotted all around, but it seemed that few had managed to keep them going as long as Tibs had hers. She had kept it burning brightly until Kitty’s hair – if not much else – wasalmost dry. But now her small blaze too had faded to little more than a heap of grey ashes. But at least it was something to look at; far better than having to make eye contact with the pitiful creatures lining the wall on either side of her.
    Kitty knew about such people, of course, she had seen them in the countryside. They slept in ditches and outbuildings, and there were always a few eggs or vegetables to be had and fresh water to be drawn from a stream or a village pump. But here, in London, the streets seemed to teem with people who not only