Free The Lazarus Gate by Mark Latham

street, not far from home. I was craving a good fire and a glass of Scotch, but realised that it was too late, and resolved instead to go straight to bed. Then I heard something—the scuff of a boot on cobblestones, from somewhere behind me. It was hard to determine the direction or distance; the streets were so empty that the noise echoed faintly before dying away. I glanced around but saw nothing, and again coloured myself a fool for my sudden bout of nervousness.
    I reached the alleyway that ran across to Gower Street, so close to home, and realised I had done myself no favours—the way ahead was dark, illuminated only by meagre streaks of pale moonlight as it filtered between the gaps in the house roofs, with the low walls of terraces flanking each side of the uneven path. I gripped my cane and pressed on, knowing that I was less than five minutes from the boarding house. That is when I heard again the scuffing sound, this time certainly behind me, and certainly closer. I glanced over my shoulder and again saw nothing, so I quickened my step towards the wan light at the end of the alley. And there they stood.
    Two men blocked my way at the end of the alleyway, causing me to check my step. It was hard to discern their silhouettes, but I could not take them for gentlemen. I took a few paces tentatively forward, and they did likewise, confirming that their intentions were not friendly. I turned round, and the sound of footfalls heralded the arrival of another man at the end of the alleyway that I had entered by. If these were footpads then I was trapped. But, strangely, whatever fear I had previously felt began to dissipate with the arrival of these flesh-and-blood foes, for I had faced worse than these overseas. I swallowed my fear and felt better for it, before calling out to the men.
    ‘I say, who is that? I warn you, I mean to come by.’
    I did not know why I made a threat, but I surprised myself with the strength of my tone. I sounded like my father, for a moment. The men did not respond, but steadily advanced. I stood stock still, uncertain of a course of action, looking left then right along the dark, narrow passage. The two men ahead of me were closest, and as they drew within a dozen yards or so, I saw an object in the hands of one of them—a cudgel. They meant me harm, and I would not wait for them to come to me. I sprang to action, racing headlong towards the two foes before me, cane gripped tightly in my left hand. The men prepared to receive my charge. The smaller of the two attempted to strike low at me as I bore down on him, and I saw a faint flash of steel in his hand, but I skipped aside and swung my cane at the back of his head, causing him to cry out in pain as it connected with a wet thud. The bigger man—bigger than I had realised—was upon me immediately, reaching for me with one massive arm and brandishing his cudgel in the other. I ducked low and pushed him away with no small effort, before kicking him in the midriff. He staggered a few paces backwards, enough for me to aim a good swing with my cane.
    The swing never connected, as someone grabbed my cane from behind, and tried to wrestle it from my grasp. The third man had reached us more quickly than I had anticipated. I twisted around under the cane to face him, and dragged him in close ready to drive my knee into his midriff, but he was spritely and wise to my ploy, using my own force against me as he stepped aside. As I stumbled forwards, I saw his shadowed face, and realised that he was a celestial—at least, I assumed he was one of the many London Chinese. But a niggling voice in the back of my mind questioned whether he was Burmese, and that thought made me sick as the fear returned.
    The first man, a scrawny rogue in a flat cap and rough work-clothes, struck out at me again with his knife, and I dispatched him once again with my cane, never once taking my eyes off the celestial. And then the big man came again, the two of them together