Beckett hauled himself upon the drainpipe, praying to whatever god was watching over him that the rusting metal could bear his weight. It was a desperate gamble to take to the rooftops, but certain death awaited him in the maze of lanes and cobbled alleyways. The Canary Crew was after Beckett.

Not just the Canary Crew, though. Everyone in this part of the city was beholden in some way to the Canary Crew - through debts of blood, debts of honour or just plain debt. Beckett would find no allies, find no shelter to protect him from Knife-Edge Molly's wrath. The word would have gone out to all and sundry. "Beckett is a dead man. Have no truck with him, lest ye join him in the grave." And after that, even the meanest hand would be against him, even the slightest door barred.

From the darkness below came the whispers. "Beckett? Where are you? Beckett? Where are you?" It seemed to come from every door, from every window. "Beckett? THERE HE IS!"

Beckett glanced downwards. It was one of the Canary Crew's urchins: a child no more than twelve years old, dressed in faded finery of top hat, waistcoat and breeched. "Over here!" he screeched. "I found him! The shilling's mine!"

For a moment Beckett was indignant. A shilling? Is that all? The the fear returned. He grabbed at the drainpipe, hauling himself ever upwards, his hands bleeding from the flaking iron. From all around came shouts and jeers. Beckett ignored them, concentrating only on his escape.

The roof afforded a magnificent vista of the city, from the gaslit centre to the candlelit outskirts. Beckett's heart leapt. So many places he could go. But first he had to survive! He ran along the roof, tiles clattering beneath his hobnailed boots.

"Beckett!" Figures rose before him.

"Beckett!" Figures rose behind him.

"Beckett!"

He took a step and froze. The roof beneath him bowed and cracked.

"Hello, Beckett." It was Knife-Edge Molly. She smiled at her prey, the scars on her cheeks rippling in the moonlight. "Why you running, Beckett? We just want a friendly word, like?" The dark figures around them guffawed and giggled.

"No thank you, Molly." Beckett tried to sound brave. "I have to decline your kind invitation."

"But, Beckett! We insist. And you wouldn't want to disappoint us."

Beckett remembered the last poor soul who had 'disappointed' Molly. He would rather die clean than endure Molly's hospitality. Beckett took one last look at the city - his city - and committed his soul to whatever fate awaited him.

"Sorry, Molly. But you know how it is."

Then Beckett took one final step. Beneath him the roof cracked, broke and gave way. Darkness and rubble embraced him.