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an unsightly film of
scar tissue, and his eyes are agony in sunlight without the
protection of dark glasses.

    'True
for you, sir,' says Weeks. 'Especially us last remaining of the 2nd
Infantry what has been dealt so poor a hand. We are not in the
running for respectable work. Yet it is not healthy for the mind, an
English girl being taken.'

    'You
have seen and done worse, Mr Weeks.'

    'It
is not the same, is it? Not after the 'orrors o' Bibi–Gar . .
.' The smaller man's eyes become distant; his voice starts as a
whisper but rapidly gains volume. 'English woman and children in
pieces . . . a ghastly puzzle of flesh the well full of it, white
women and children, hang the sepoy swine . . .'

    'Fall
to for heaven's sake, keep your voice down and your mind on the
business at hand!' Robin swiftly produces a flask from an inside
pocket. 'Hazar, corporal, there's a tot for you.'

    Weeks
drinks deep. 'Thank you, sir. Hazar yourself, sir.'

    'What
you need is a bit of the chemical before lights–out. One sniff
and you sleep like a haba. It is pukka for the bowels as well.' 'That
is not the trouble, sir. It is to crush the slavers only to become
slavers ourselves – and of an English girl. I know not how to
properly confess it at church.'

    'It
is not a sin, corporal. As in Bombay, it is an industry.'

    'When
in Rome, I suppose, sir.'

    'Precisely.
Being foreign–born, not England–born, we must adapt to
the terrain, learn to think with the mind of one's fellow Britons.
And no more of this confession business, please.'

    WHITECHAPEL,
1858

    Weeks
glances down at the delicate, inert form in his lap, heaves a sigh
and takes another swig from the flask. 'You 'ave a tactical mind, Mr
Robin. It is no wonder you reached the elite ranks and not I.' Thus,
the two surviving members of the 2nd Infantry Division, 3rd Infantry
Brigade, rekindle their esprit de corps.

    As
India–born Englishmen, Robin and Weeks arrived in London as
destitute, unarmed and disoriented as Punjabis. For weeks, they
wandered the Embankment as in a wilderness, near starvation, with no
more understanding of the ways of London and how to survive here than
if they had landed in Timbuktu – less, for in Africa they would
at least have known how to deal with the inhabitants, to forage, to
plunder, to butcher and bolt.

    Eventually
they found themselves in the cadaver business – stealing,
digging up and, in a slow period, creating corpses for private
medical schools unconnected with the Royal College, for dissection by
apprentice apothecary–surgeons. Week after week, they loitered
on the Embankment, amid the army of unemployed men who gather in
front of the warehouses of the East India Company, available for hire
by aggrieved men–about–town as man–bashers for a
few shillings.

    Then,
as chance would have it, along came Mr Lush, acting on behalf of a
member of the quality, who offered them an opportunity to expand
their custom by furnishing a young female subject for 'artistic pur–
poses'. The remuneration was more than encouraging.

    The
requirement was of a highly specific nature. The creature to be
obtained was described in minute detail – gender, features,
colouring, stature – as though for a part in the theatre. After
several days, the search took them to a gambling establishment in
Houndsditch, where they located the perfect specimen, and for a
breathtaking stipend. Robin removes the handkerchief from the girl's
mouth and nose. His damaged features soften as he regards her face –
the smooth English brow, the pert, pointed English chin. For a moment
the two soldiers grow sad together: on the passage from Calcutta they
imagined London as a garden, blooming with lovely faces such as this.

    'She
is ready, corporal, and will easily last the trip.'

    Being
the more muscular and better–sighted, Weeks lifts the small,
limp form in his arms so that Robin may open the lid of the wicker
hamper. 'Put her in the basket, Mr Weeks. She has a half–hour
to