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when I could have, should have, done the right thing and I fluffed it. What can I say? I promised to tell you the whole truth and here it is; uncut, unvarnished and as you see, deeply unflattering to yours truly.
    “Our human’s on the move again,” hissed Lola.
    He was making for a stall, where a woman in a filthy bonnet had various hot suet puddings for sale. “Well, it’s my little Georgie,” she said. ‘“Ow’s tricks?”
    I was still inwardly freaking at what I’d done, but I couldn’t bear to think about it, so I whipped out my notebook and scribbled frantically: Our human’s name is George .
    Georgie produced a coin from an inside pocket. “I’ll have a ha’porth of the plum,” he shivered. “I want it pipin’ hot, mind.”
    “I don’t blame you, dear! Perishin’ today, ain’t it?” The pudding lady gave him a toothless grin. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You run and fetch me a drop of what does your ‘eart good!” She gave him a conspiratorial wink. “And I’ll give you a bit of plum duff for nuffin’.”
    “Is that some kind of code?” whispered Lola.
    Brice grinned. “She’s sending him to buy gin. Gin is the poor man’s tipple,” he explained. “Life doesn’t seem quite so bad if you can see it through a boozy blur.”
    The gin shop was in the most desolate street I have ever seen. The houses all looked to be on the verge of falling down. People had stuffed old rags and newspapers into the cracks in an attempt to keep out the cold. I couldn’t believe anyone really lived here, but if you listened you could hear families inside, clattering cooking pots and soothing crying babies just as if it was a real home and not something out of a nightmare.
    In these surroundings, the gin shop, with its fancy sign and plate-glass windows, stood out like a glittering palace. Inside everything was bright and gleaming: the polished mahogany of the bar, the brass rails, the giant gin casks painted glossy green and gold. The barrels were labelled with enticing names, like Real Knock-me-down, and Celebrated Butter Gin.
    It seemed a bit early to be knocking back the hard stuff, but some of the customers already smelled of drink. One half-starved woman was shushing a toddler.
    “Never mind, dearie,” cackled an old lady. “A few drops of gin in ‘is bottle and ‘e’ll sleep good as gold.”
    Georgie bought something that was called Regular Flare-up. As soon as he was outside the shop, he took a furtive swig. He shuddered, wiped his mouth then raced back to claim his free plum duff.
    I was starting to feel as if I was trapped in the opening chapters of Oliver Twist as Georgie ran about the streets running errands, taking messages, carrying parcels for toffs, doing anything he could to earn a couple of pence.
    Wherever we went, people were talking about the Whitechapel murders. It got to I could tell when people were going to bring it up. They all had this same expression on their faces, a kind of sick fascination. They were like Jack the Ripper addicts, swapping the latest lurid rumour, endlessly rehashing horrific details. You could see they were scaring themselves, yet they couldn’t seem to stop talking about it.
    Georgie had to stand around in the barber’s for ages, waiting to deliver one of his messages. He kept clearing his throat, waiting for someone to notice him, but everyone was too busy speculating about the Ripper’s true identity.
    Someone’s cousin had seen a suspicious figure with a doctor’s bag, fleeing the murder scene. Someone else had heard of a foreigner with a gold-topped cane in which he concealed his deadly weapon. One customer swore it was the killer’s perfume that marked him out. “Sweet, like lily of the valley. It’s to cover the smell of the blood,” he explained with relish. “It’s that scent what’ll give him away, mark my words.”
    “Nuffin’ won’t give ‘im away,” the barber chipped in. “Our Jack’s too clever for ‘em.”
    “I