A rabble of women are kicking up their feet to the racket. I spot the pair who embraced us earlier, laughing raucously and swishing their skirts up to the knee as they scissor their feet in and out. They flick their eyes about the whole time, calling to any man who catches their attention, beckoning to him, calling out 'dearie', and 'husband', and enticing him with lewd gestures at their private parts.

'You had your free kiss!' the pale-haired one bawls at me. 'Come and get the full works!'

'You and your mate!'

'We can take two in hand, no trouble!'

Alfred shakes his head. They shrug and turn to seeking out more interested parties.

'Did you want to ...' he starts.

I think of the Lion-Faced Woman. She piques my interest far more.

'No,' I say.

'No. Not to my taste, neither.'

We watch a while longer.

'Do you dance?' he asks, nostrils twitching.

'I do not know.'

'Oh.'

'I mean, I don't remember.'

'Perhaps it is another of your hidden skills, Abel.'

The tune flourishes, finishes; ragged bows are made. A large man peels away from the dancers and approaches me, his arms broad enough to heft beer barrels with ease. He bows very neatly and makes a show of doffing his cap, at which the women applaud.

'Charlie's the name,' he says, his voice oddly sweet for such a huge frame. 'I'll have this dance, if you're not taken.'

I glance at Alfred, but this drayman grabs my hand and hauls me away to join the throng, beaming at me cheerfully. My breath catches and all at once my feet remember what to do: I find myself rising up on my toes, drawing first my left boot and then my right in a curve across the dirt, hands on my hips. I know how to dance, I think. Is there anything I don't know, anything I've not done?

I spin Charlie beneath my raised arm, my other hand pressing lightly into the small of his back; for less than the s.p.a.ce of a breath he hovers close to my body, then I swing him out to the end of my reach, steering his steps with confidence.

My heels spark fire from the stones. I hurl myself into lively twistings, skipping and hopping like a child; each time we circle each other I leap a little higher. I hear cheers that seem timed to my cavorting, and I realise the crowd's approval is for my efforts. It spurs me to greater feats, and by the time the dance finishes I am breathless with delight at this discovery. I bend forward with my palms splayed on my knees. Charlie pounds my shoulder and I wheeze.

'I'll have you as a partner any time!' he crows. 'Never had a finer!'

Without thinking, I drop into a curtsey, to the great amus.e.m.e.nt of the onlookers. I stiffen, waiting for the taunts, but they are good-natured, clapping me on the back.

'What a frisky dancer your pal is!' grins Charlie at Alfred.

'I'd curtsey to him and all!' laughs the red-cheeked woman, snapping her kerchief across my b.u.t.tocks.

'He's a good pal,' says Alfred, very quietly.

The cry goes up: 'Let's have another!' and coins are thrown into the organ-grinder's hat. The pipes squeal, and I take Alfred's hand and pull him towards me. For an instant he hugs himself into my arms; then he pushes me away.

'Get off me!' he declares. 'What do you think I am, some kind of molly?'

The music stutters, the laughter stops, and the air is suddenly cold.

'You got a problem with mollies?' sneers the fair-haired female.

Alfred shifts from foot to foot. 'What, me? Got the wrong man.'

'Nah. I heard you.'

'Seems to me he doesn't like our Charlie.'

She jabs his shoulder with a sharp talon. The other women cl.u.s.ter around Alfred, joining in the poking.

'Charlie's all right.'

'Looks after us judies, he does.'

'We look after our own.'

'Hey, Charlie!' one shouts. 'Someone here's got a problem with your new dancing partner.'

Charlie lumbers towards us.

'He needs sorting out, seems to me.'

It is as though I am seeing Alfred for the first time: the sunken cheeks, hungry eyes, shrivelled frame. He chews his moustache nervously.

I step forward. 'Alfred,' I declare. 'We should go, dear boy. We have a long walk ahead of us.'

All heads turn in the direction of my voice.

'My dear boy,' I repeat. 'It is late.'

I link my arm through his, carefully. They look from me to Alfred, and back again. Charlie is the first to laugh. He grabs Alfred's hand and shakes it energetically.

'It's all right, mate,' he purrs. 'I won't steal your boyfriend away. Just let me have a little polka with him every now and then.'

The women hoot with merriment.

'They're together!'

'He's jealous!'

'That's what it is!'

One of them pats Alfred on the cheek.

'Aw, my pet. You should of said!'

Alfred's face is crimson. The women giggle at him, their anger melted away.

The music starts up again and they caper off, leaving us alone.

'You can stay with your new friend,' he mutters, 'if you want.'

'Oh come off it, Alfred. You know that you're my friend.'

'Suppose,' he grunts in reply.

A snail of doubt uncurls from its sh.e.l.l: Without Alfred, how would I find my way? I look around at the unfamiliar sights, unfamiliar buildings.

'Also,' I add, 'you can lead me home.'

At this, he smiles. 'Same old Abel. But I think you will have to lead me! That gin was bad. My eyes are swimming like eels in a tub.'

'You are tired. Let us go.'

'Oh, I am not so tired,' he protests, staggering against me.

He attempts to straighten up, but the drink cuffs him on the jaw and he stumbles into the circle of my arms.

'You are a good dancer,' he murmurs into my shirt-front. 'Oh.' He clutches the side of his head. 'Help me, Abel,' he slurs. 'I can't hardly walk.' He topples against me, legs buckling. 'You're right. I'm more tired than I think I am. I mean, than I know I am. Oh, Abel, you'll have to be the clever one tonight.'

'I shall help you home.'

'You will?'

'Of course.'

He grasps my arm in grat.i.tude, running his fingers up the sleeve, squeezing the muscle within.

'I could end up anywhere,' he hiccoughs.

I put my shoulder in his armpit to lift him, and am buffeted by the stinking punch of his sweat. We sway in and out of the gutter, Alfred heaping drunken thanks on me at every step, breath thick with belched-out gin: he calls me 'mate' and 'pal' over and over, as though it is some urgent truth he must share. The moisture from under his arm soaks through to my shoulder. It takes a long time to get to our door, because I know only the streets close to our building and Alfred takes the wrong turn many times.

'I can't feel my feet,' he groans. 'Will you help me in?'

'Of course.'

I lift the latch and we almost fall inside, but I catch him and guide him to the empty kitchen, our shoes clattering on the tiles: the room is stifling with trapped heat and the odour of singeing tallow. I set him upon the bench, pushed up against the wall, and light one of the candle ends rattling in his pocket. He clasps his hand across his eyes, breathing heavily.

The flame hollows his cheeks and eyes, giving him a famished look. He claws at his cap, dragging it away from his glistening forehead, dropping it to the floor. I bend to retrieve it and a hand swipes the back of my thigh, curving round my hip so briefly I cannot be sure if I felt it.

'Alfred?' I say, turning quickly, but his fingers are at his throat, worrying at his neckerchief.

The tip of his tongue runs from one side of his mouth to the other; his lips appearing bruised in the uncertain light, livid against the dark graze of stubble on his chin.

'Alfred. You're ill.'

'My stomach is heaving,' he moans. 'My own fault. Too much cheap gin and no food. Look at me. What a picture I make.'

'You'll feel better if you lie down. Come now.'

I begin to lift and carry him to the cellar. He grabs my collar.

'Not yet,' he growls.

I am surprised, for Alfred is always telling me to leave off and get some sleep. I sit next to him, and his body tilts towards mine. He picks at his cuffs; then his hand finds my knee and rests there the s.p.a.ce of a long breath. It lifts away briefly, lands again, clasps the bone.

'We're pals, aren't we, Abel?'

'Of course,' I say, wondering why he needs to ask a question with such a clear answer.

He twists his face to look up at me.

'You drunk, Abel?'

I test my senses for light-headedness, but there is very little.

'No,' I say.

'I am,' he slurs. 'Can't hardly think straight.'

There is a pause. He is so still it occurs to me that he has fallen asleep.

'Alfred?' I say, quietly.

'Abel,' he blurts out. 'I am not a good man.'

He hugs my knee.

'You?'

'I lied to you.'

'When?'

He hiccoughs, and slides his fingers a few inches up my thigh.

'Do you remember,' he sighs, 'a long while ago? You asked me if I had strange thoughts?'

I frown with the effort of recollection. Then it comes to me.

'I do!' I smack my palms together. 'I do remember! I'd forgotten; but when you said the words, it came back to me.' I realise I have spoken too loudly. 'I am sorry, Alfred. I am excited. You know I can never remember anything.'

I brim with delight. I am holding on to memories. Perhaps I am not so irretrievable a dullard after all. Alfred stares into my eyes a long while, on the brink of speaking.