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Thump approached the two furious gang leaders. There was a smile on his lips, but I noticed the vicious glint in his eyes as he leaned towards them.
    ‘Not now, lads,’ he said quietly. ‘Not today. Have you forgotten about the truce?’ The smile grew broader, even as his eyes narrowed. ‘I want you to be nice to one another.’ He raised his two great hams of hands and placed them on the back of the two leaders’ heads.
    Then, with a grunt of exertion – and maintaining that sinister smile of his – he shoved the two heads hard together. There was a loud
crack
! and, with a muffled groan, the two gang leaders crumpled to the ground. ‘And show some respect!’ Thump snarled.
    Back at the front of the line once more, the drum now silent, Thump McConnell and five other Ratcatcher gang members chosen to be pallbearers, stood on one side of the carriage, while six enormous Sumpside Boys stood on the other. Two emaciated-looking young lads provided by
Frimley’s Funereal Supplies
– their pale faces set with the solemnity of the occasion – stood beside them. The rest of us stood behind, with the other gangs of Gatling Quays, in ordered ranks. The cellist, trumpeter and bagpipes player fell silent. The drummer raised his arms, the creamy felt-covered heads of his drumsticks quivering in the air for a moment, then …
    B-bang!
    He struck the two sides of the drum once more, a resounding thud that brought everyone to attention. The trumpet and pipes started up a new tune; the carriage driver cracked his whip and the whole dismal parade lurched forwards. As we marched through the shadowy streets, windows were flung open all about us, and scrawny children and grey-haired matrons leaned out, their heads bowed in respect. Crowds of people gushed from the front doors, their hands filled with flowers, which they tossed at the passing carriage – carnations, gladioli, garlands of Michaelmas daisies …
    Thump turned to me as we rounded the corner onto the Belvedere Mile, the broadest avenue of Gatling Quays, thicker crowds than ever greeting our passing by. The carriage, already half-hidden beneath a mountain of blooms, clattered softly over a carpet of still more flowers that littered our route.
    ‘A good turn out,’ he said, his eyes moist with emotion.
    ‘He was a well-respected man,’ I said, choosing my words carefully.
    Thump nodded, satisfied, and turned back again.
    At the end of the avenue, the road divided into two narrower roads. The left-hand fork led down to the mudflats and jetties; the right, along to Riverhythe. Between the two, the dark green of its gnarled yew trees speckled with waxy blood-red berries, was Adelaide Graveyard, black cast-iron railings separating it from the roads on either side. We marched on between the throngs of bystanders towards the arched entrance, its tall and ornately forged gates decorated with lions and lambs, and came to a halt.
    I glanced up at the deserted Adelaide Mansions opposite. There was no sign of Ada Gussage at any of its many windows.
    At Thump McConnell’s signal, the fiveother pallbearers – each one as tall as him, though none quite as bulky – pulled off their flat caps and seized the edge of the coffin. On the other side of the carriage, the Sumpside Boys did the same. Then, having lifted it off the bier, they gripped a gold handle each with a great fist and hefted the coffin up onto their shoulders. From their grunts and sighs, it was clear that the coffin was as heavy as it looked. The music grew quieter till all that was left was the slow rhythmic
thump-thump-thump
of the drum.
    All round, the bystanders fell still. Then, guided by the sombre beat, we fell into step once more, passed beneath the archway and on into the graveyard.
    It was a mournful place, without a doubt. There was a low, swirling mist snaking its way around our legs, and the bottle-green yew trees rustled softly, muffling the air and shutting out the sun – and making the hairs at the