Occasionally, the clown spouted popular rhyme or coaxed music out of the small pipe which he kept in his coat. Most of the time, he made money by juggling. He’d had enough time to practice. Seven oranges, lemons or whatever he could put his hands to. Once he hung a bag of mice around his neck and threw the beasties into the air, their legs and tails flailing as they flew and fell. He earned good money that way. Then one evening in the great depression that followed the Napoleonic wars, he was attacked by three drunken soldiers, a bearded private sinking a knife up to the shaft in his chest and the clown grinning at him, the man losing his mettle as has everyone since. Now it’s just another trick. Off the main drag is the best place; it doesn’t do to have spectators. Outside the door of Ryde House, a few men loiter, some smoking, some talking on mobile phones. Most work at city banks where messages are passed in secret, whispered in corridors and elevators but never written down. This adventure isn’t in the guide books; participation by invitation only and entry isn’t cheap – four crisp red banknotes bearing the face of Sir John Houblon. The clown looks at today’s adversaries; one of them can’t be more than nineteen, bravado bringing him here. That and the promise of a kick you can’t get anywhere else in this city, at least not without getting banged up for thirty years. An ample bellied man in Ralph Lauren chinos and blue Charles Truitt shirt produces a blade and tests it with his thumb, drawing blood. Light brown hair slicked back, confident; he seems like the alpha. The man grimaces, baring his teeth and the youth flinches; his first rodeo. Stainless steel flashes as it reflects the white sky and business begins. A man’s got to live. The same rules as usual; anywhere in the torso, up to the hilt. Heart, lungs, stomach. Cash up front, no refunds if – he grins at each of them – you can’t stomach it. The clown collects a thousand pounds in notes from hands that try not to shake and the big man licks his lips, grips the knife handle and adjusts his stance, as if there’s a proper way to do this. The others form a semicircle around him, staring at the clown who pockets the cash and dreams of the sex he’ll be having later under a railway arch, a last hurrah before the drop. He opens his coat and waits for the pain; brief, clean, and sanctifying; the breath drawing out of him, the noise of the city momentarily dissipating, a gasp as the blade is retracted quickly, dripping with gore before being handed to the next assailant, a balding man in a dark suit who purses dry lips and stares at the bloody weapon in his hand before plunging it into the clown’s stomach. It beats feeding pigs or shooting rabbits; the men’s faces a picture. The bald one so pale, it's like he's the one who’s bleeding out. The clown falls to his knees for added theatre as two more men plunge the blade into his abdomen until it’s the turn of the novice to finish him off. He takes the knife and his hand shakes as if he has the palsy. Blood bubbles from the clown’s mouth and he gurgles, almost a death rattle. Immediately the young man soils himself, drops the knife and stumbles back to the road. As the clown lies in a pool of his own blood, the fat man takes a cloth from leather pouch, cleans the blade and places it back in his backpack. Only a knife in his flesh can punish him, only this can offer him the faintest sense of a debt being paid. Even then, he always gets up, walks away and lives another day. While the men change into fresh shirts, the clown feels strength returning. Staggering to his feet, he clicks his bones and walks back out onto the High Road, money in his pockets that he no longer needs, wounds healing like they always do because a deal is a deal, a curse is a curse and death only comes at its appointed time.