Ruby stands, hands on her hips, examining Billy. He’s wet through to the skin. There’s a cut over his right eyebrow that’s leaked blood down his cheek. His eye socket is swollen already, and there’s a filthy-looking bruise on his head just above the right ear, where he’s clearly been hit with something sharp and heavy. A belt buckle, probably. They always pull their belts off and fight with them.

‘You’ve come from Frank Parsons’, yeah? The fight? Who was there?’

‘Never mind that, Ruby.’ Solly is filling a bowl with tepid water from the kettle and adding a splash of brandy. ‘Sort this fire. The man’s soaking wet and injured. Come on, Billy boy, let’s have a look at it. Take your coat off and sit near the warmth.’ He presses Billy to sit on the stool next to the range while he soaks a cloth in the water and begins to clean the wounds. ‘Is this it? Any more gashes or bruises on you? Take your shirt off.’

Billy shakes his head and throws his jacket on the table. The shirt, although damp, is not torn or bloodied. ‘Nah. I’m good. Apart from the black eye that’s coming and the bash on the head. Jesus, Sol–’ He pulls away as the cloth touches his head. ‘That fuckin’ hurts more than the buckle did.’

‘Keep still, you fool,’ Solly chides him. ‘Or I’ll let Ruby do it.’

‘Oi, what are you saying?’ Ruby laughs, poking vigorously at the glowing embers, sending up sparks of fire.

‘That you’re more interested in finding out what happened in a fight than tending to a boy’s injuries,’ Solly says. ‘And I’ve got the gentler touch. Years of practice setting stones.’

Ruby snorts. ‘Listen to you. La-di-da. I know Billy – he’ll want a drink and a smoke and a chance to tell us what’s happened.’

‘I want both,’ Billy cuts in, still wincing at Solly’s ministrations. ‘You’re no match for Sol as a nurse, but you’ve got your uses, sweetheart. Pour me a drink, eh?’

She opens the cupboard to find Solly’s whisky and pours several fingers of liquor into a glass. Billy knocks it back and hands her the glass again, wanting another. Ruby pours obligingly.

‘Hey, this had better be a good story,’ Solly says, rinsing the bloody cloth in the bowl. ‘That’s my only bottle.’

Billy gulps half of the second glass and hisses through his teeth.

‘Alright.’ His voice is rough with whisky, pain and running. ‘There was a match at Frank Parsons’ place, Solly. Boxing. Ruby knew of it. The Clerkenwell boys were there, MacCarthy’s lot. Mad MacCarthy was fighting. But we heard that some of their lads had destroyed our honour board, so decided we should sort them out.’

‘You went up against the Clerkenwell boys on their own turf?’