Jack stood on the narrow, worn path at the edge of the canal, looking across.
The Throat wasn’t like one of the Fingers. For one thing, it was much wider. The water moved differently here, not the sluggish drift of the smaller canals but something with weight behind it—something that carried things. Barges. Cargo. Coin. Everything passed through here.
The fog sat low over it, dragging across the surface in long, thin sheets. Through it, he could make out the far side—shapes more than buildings at first. Taller. Closer together. Less broken.
The Southside.
He’d only been there once. Finnegan had brought him across, not long after he’d started running errands. They’d met a man near the docks—Jack still didn’t know who—and left again almost immediately.
He remembered the noise more than anything. And the smell.
A barge drifted in close beside him, low in the water under the weight of its load. Thick ropes creaked as the boatman worked them loose, moving with slow, practised motions. The hull bumped lightly against the stone.
The man glanced up.
“What you staring at?”
Jack didn’t answer straight away. His eyes were still on the far bank.
“Thinking about what comes next,” he said.
The boatman gave a short breath of amusement.
“Thinking, is it? Won’t get you across.”
Jack looked at him.
“Two coppers will.” The man jerked his chin toward the deck.
Jack hesitated for a fraction. Not because of the price. Because once he stepped on, that was it.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out two coins, and flicked them across. The boatman caught them cleanly, already turning away.
Jack stepped down onto the barge. It shifted under his weight, just enough to throw him off balance. He adjusted quickly, jaw tightening as a sharp line of pain ran through his shoulder.
That got him a brief glance from the boatman before he pushed them off with a long pole. The barge drifted free, the gap widening slowly between them and the bank.
Jack turned, looking back.
The Northside began to drift away behind him. The graveyard. The low roofs. The narrow lanes.He didn’t look at them for long.
The barge moved steadily out into the canal. Water lapped softly against the sides, wood creaking as the boatman guided them with slow, practised movements of the pole. He began to whistle under his breath, a tune Jack didn’t recognise.
Shapes moved in the fog around them—barges passing, others sitting low in the water, half-hidden.
The further they went, the less distinct the
Northside became, until it was little more than a smear of shadow behind them.
“You from over there?” the boatman asked after a while, nodding back.
“I am.”
“Thought so.”
Jack glanced at him.
The man shrugged. “Can tell.”
Jack said nothing.
They drifted in silence.
By the time they reached the middle of the canal, the fog had thickened enough that the Northside had all but disappeared.
Ahead, shapes sharpened. Warehouses lined the bank, dark and solid, their walls running straight down to the water. Movement everywhere—men hauling, loading, shouting to one another across the docks. Further along, bursts of orange light flared and died, flared again. Forges. Even at this distance, he could see the sparks. And now he could smell it.Not the damp rot of the slums.Oil. Hot metal. Burnt timber.
Same canal.
Different world.
The boat creaked steadily beneath him as it moved across the Throat.
The boatman leaned on the pole, steering them in a slow, deliberate line.
“First time over?” he asked.
“No.”
The man glanced at him.
“Doesn’t look like it.”
Jack didn’t reply.
The boatman watched him a moment longer,
then spat over the side.
“Southside’s its own place,” he said. “Don’t mix it up with yours.”
Jack shifted his weight slightly, steadying himself as the barge rolled.
“I’m not planning on staying.”
The man gave a short laugh.
“No one ever is.”
He turned back to the water.
Jack looked ahead. The docks were close now. Too late to turn back.
He didn’t check behind him again.
***
The barge bumped against the dock with a dull, hollow knock.
“Off you go,” the boatman said.
Jack stepped up onto the timber.
It felt different straight away.
Not stone. Wood. Dark with oil, worn smooth in places, slick in others. The air hit him next—warmer, thicker. It carried heat with it, not just smell.
Metal. Smoke. Something burning. Noise pressed in from all sides. Men shouting. Chains dragging. Wood slamming against wood. Somewhere close, a hammer rang out in sharp, steady blows.
Jack stepped clear as the barge settled against the mooring.
No one greeted him.
But he was seen.
A group of men stood near a stack of crates, thick-armed, leather vests streaked with sweat and soot. One of them glanced over, then another. A quiet word passed between them.
One stepped away from the group and moved into Jack’s path.
Jack slowed half a step, then kept going. The man didn’t move.
Up close, he was broader than Jack had thought. Older too. A scar ran from his ear down into his collar.
“Lost, are you?” he said.
Jack met his eyes.
“No.”
The man looked him over again, slower this time.
“You’re a pretty one. So clean.”
Jack shifted slightly, angling his shoulder.
“I noticed you staring,” he said. “Not my type.”
For a heartbeat, nothing moved.
The man’s eyes held on him, flat and unreadable. Then someone behind him let out a short laugh. Another followed.
The man in front of Jack didn’t laugh. Not at first. Then, slowly, his mouth pulled into something like a smile.
“You’re funny,” he said.
He leaned in just a fraction.
“You won’t be laughing for long.”
Then he stepped aside.
Jack walked on.
Didn’t look back
***
The streets off the dock were busier than the water.
Work was pushed out into the open here. Doors stood wide, light spilling onto the stone. Inside, men moved in tight spaces, hauling, hammering, shouting over one another.
Jack passed one doorway as sparks burst out across the threshold. Something heavy struck metal inside. A man swore. Another told him to hit it again.
He kept walking.
Carts rolled past, close enough that he had to step aside once. Wheels clattered over the uneven ground. A runner cut between them, carrying something wrapped in cloth, not looking at anyone.
It wasn’t like the Northside. No one lingered. No women talking. No queues spilling out of the opium houses onto the streets.
No kids either. That struck him more than anything. No one running between carts. No one darting through gaps where they shouldn’t. No one watching from doorways.
And no dogs. Not a single one.
He didn’t know if they were kept inside, or driven off. Maybe there was no space for them here. Too much noise. Too much movement. Too much that could go wrong.
People noticed him.
At the next corner, two young men, no older than Jack, leaned against the wall, talking low. One straightened as Jack came level with them.
“Well now,” he said. “What’s this doing down here?”
Jack walked past.
“Oi,” the other called. “We’re talking to you.”
Jack didn’t slow.
Boots following behind him.
One of them moved ahead, cutting across the street, blocking him.
The other stayed just behind.
Jack stopped.
Looked at the guy in front. He didn't have time for this.
“Move.”
The man smiled.
“Or what?”
Jack stepped in.
Fast. His hand snapped up. Fingers drove into the man’s throat. Not strength. Precision. The way Doyle had shown him.
The young man dropped where he stood, choking, hands clawing at his neck.
Jack stepped past him.
The friend backed off straight away.
“He’ll be fine,” Jack said over his shoulder. “Probably.”
***
Jack rounded the bend and approached Benny’s.
It wasn’t grand. Just a wider frontage than the buildings around it, more light spilling through the windows, more noise coming out of it. A few people stood outside, not working, not moving on.
Jack walked straight for the door, doing his best to look like he belonged there.
The door itself was solid - thick wood, iron-banded. A man stood in front of it, as broad as any Jack had seen on the docks, but cleaner. Better dressed.
As Jack reached him, the man lifted a hand.
“I don’t know you.”
Jack took two copper coins from his pocket.
“You sure you don’t recognise me?”
A pause.
Then the man took the coins.
“Now that you mention it,” he said, stepping aside, “you do look familiar.”
The sound hit Jack as soon as he crossed the threshold. Shouting. Laughter. Dice striking wood. A burst of cheering somewhere off to the side. Music too - faint under it all, but steady.
He paused just inside. Let it settle.
Lamps burned around the room, throwing light across the tables and the long bar at the back. The place was bigger than it had looked from outside.
The bar was crowded — more than one face working it, hands moving quickly, cups filled and passed without pause.
Tables filled the floor. Cards. Dice. Tiles. Money everywhere.
A staircase rose on either side of the room, leading up to a gallery that ran along the walls above. From here it was darker, but Jack knew what was up there.
Private rooms. Girls. Higher stakes.
He moved on.
Past tables where players leaned in, eyes fixed, hands tight around their coins. Crowds gathered behind them, calling outcomes, groaning, cheering as if it were their own money on the line.
Dealers stood steady at each table, voices low, hands precise.
Runners moved through gaps that weren’t there a second before, carrying drinks, collecting coin.
Others watched. Not playing. Just watching.
Jack kept his pace even. Didn’t stop at the first table. Or the second.
Then he saw it.
A game of High Queen.
The table was tighter than the others. Fewer voices. More coin. Tall stacks in front of each player.
No one there was guessing.
Jack slowed.
Watched a hand play out.
Watched the players more than the cards.One of the players swore under his breath.
Cards hit the table hard
“Again,” he said.
The dealer didn’t react. Just turned the next card. And it was over.
The man stared at the table for a moment, as if something might change if he looked long enough. It didn’t.
He pushed back his chair.
Coins scattered as his arm swept across the edge of the table.
No one looked at him.
He stood there a second longer, breathing through his nose, waiting for something that didn’t come.
Then he turned and shoved his way through the crowd.
The chair sat empty.
Jack stepped forward