BlackShanglan
Silver-Tongued Papist
- Joined
- Jul 7, 2004
- Posts
- 16,888
Apologies for posting without hearing from Pure, but there doesn't seem to be anything in process. I thought I would kick this one in and then yield to ScarlettWings next week.
Any and all comments appreciated; specific questions at the end. This is the current opening to a longer work.
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Sunlight was always Julian’s element. Edward looked up wearily from the desk, watching the white mid-morning rays spill over him from the eastern windows. They lit him up like an angel. Sometimes it still made him forget himself.
“Really, Edward, it’s a trifle,” said Julian, his coaxing, languid pose shaping in his every word.
“Forty pounds is hardly a trifle,” Edward replied.
“Well, it’s a trifle compared to what earned it.” Julian smiled, a sensual, radiant curve of his lips like a debauched cherub’s, and let a languorous purr slip into his voice. There was a time when that had charmed him, Edward recalled, with a bleak sense of distance. Back before he knew how lightly Julian used it.
“I will not continue to pay this sort of extortion,” said Edward. “It is wrong to give this man a living from the misery of others.”
Julian let his head loll back, lounging against the doorframe in one of those ridiculously flagrant poses that still, damnit, stirred him beyond all expression. Edward stared down at the blank surface of the desk and strove to put curling gold hair and a delicate arch of limbs from his mind. Playful as a kitten, yes, and with all the charm, beautiful Julian. And all the conscience as well.
“Edward, you are so very serious, and life is so very simple. We pay them, they give us that little missive, and they go away.” Julian smiled at him, darting a coy glance from under his lashes. Edward met it for a long moment. Serious. Yes. More serious than you will ever know, Julian St. Clare.
When he answered his voice was level and empty of pain.
“It seems simple to you, Julian, because you leave me to resolve all of your difficulties.”
“But you do it so awfully well.”
Edward took his chequebook from the desk drawer.
“This is the last time,” he said, without lifting his gaze.
Julian flitted gracefully behind him as he wrote. A moment later his lips pressed to Edward’s neck. He stopped in mid-stroke and closed his eyes. He still smelled like Julian. Perfumed. Delicate. Beautiful.
“I’m terribly grateful,” Julian murmured. God. Help me, thought Edward, with the fervent instinct of a prayer. Every vow, every resolution, shot out like chaff when his lips brush my ear. Edward signed the cheque with a shaking hand, then held the slip up without turning.
“Your cheque, Julian.”
“Is that all you can offer me?” Julian’s lips closed on his ear, and a moment later his tongue licked softly out. There was no use disguising it; Edward felt the sheer cry of his body shake through him. He stood and crossed the room.
“That’s all,” he said. “And that’s the last.”
Julian sat on the desk’s edge, golden in the light, giving Edward a pouting look calculated to shake him. It did. He held himself near rigid and tried not to linger over Julian’s sweet form wrapped in his decadent little assemblage of damask and lace. Julian fanned himself coyly with the cheque, then offered a graceful moue to Edward’s grave regard.
“Can’t you at least see the delicious irony of it?” he asked. “All my happy debauch thrown over for one sentimental little note you simply had to write? Really, it would be too ridiculous to play the good host to half the sweet young things at Oxford only to end up in a scandal over a Romantic pastiche from an undersecretary.”
“I’ve had ample time to regret writing it,” said Edward quietly.
Julian glanced up at him. He sighed, and a moment’s sympathy came over even his laughing, taunting features. He slid off the desk and walked over to Edward, stepping in close until their bodies brushed and his hands slid easily along his shirtfront.
“Really, Edward,” he said, high-handed still but perhaps just a little sad. “What did you imagine? That we’d run away to a little cottage in the Lakes?” Julian offered a wry half-smile. Edward looked away. Julian sought his lips, though he turned from him; at last Edward simply stood, impassive, as Julian’s soft kiss and tongue stroked and teased at his silent response. Nothing in him could answer any more – nothing but the flesh. But even that began to die with Julian’s cool, laughing manner. Julian broke the kiss and smiled, as if everything was now arranged.
“We are what we must be,” he said. His eyes laughed still. He was hardly the man to regret it. “A delightful, nasty little secret.”
“No more, Julian.”
Julian shrugged. “Well, you know that my door is never shut. But really, you might thank me for taking up this note for you.” He picked up his gloves and slid the cheque into his inner pocket. “Innocent young undergraduate ... older man of the world ... if that little extravagance ever came out, you know who they’d blame.”
“Yes,” said Edward, the words sliding numbly past his lips. “Yes, I know.”
Julian winked as he turned toward the door. “How little they know me, hmm?”
And he was gone.
The sounds of his departure echoed fainter through the house with every step. Long after the street door shut and the house lay in silence, Edward sat staring blankly down at the polished surface of the desk.
It wasn’t fear. It ought to be. That letter was beyond explanation. He tried to imagine himself fumbling for a defense – fatherly fondness, brotherly affection, mentoring a young man in whom he saw something of himself. But how could he say it? It was a lie, more monstrous in its cold repudiation than even, agony of guilt though they were, those warm nights when he’d felt curling gold hair brush his lips and a scented body touch his own. Whatever men might think honor meant when nature tore him so viciously asunder, the words could not pass his lips. He would not stand before the world and say that those lines meant nothing.
To him. Julian would have not the slightest trouble. Where had they found that letter, he wondered bitterly. On his desk? Surely he wasn’t so careless. No, the waste basket. Or thrown amid his papers, with some lines to a dusky undergraduate scrawled across the back. Torn into firelighters, or whatever it was Julian did with his toys when he’d had enough of them.
Edward drew a deep breath and let it out, trying to feel the irony and not the pain. Man of the world. Julian was more that now than he would be if he lived to a hundred. It wasn’t years that made a man taunting, jaded, surfeited with pleasures and wise in their ways. It was something he was born with. It was something he was.
Or wasn’t. Edward drew a ledger wearily over the desk and opened it, trying to resolve the symbols into letters and words. They offered no meaning, only a dancing blur in the trouble of his mind. Julian’s words came back to him, and he felt that helpless, falling sensation again, harder.
“What did you imagine?”
Something high. Something fine. Something ridiculous, Julian would say. But something better than this.
He sat on into the chill noon, the cold winter light shining bare through the chamber. Gone, all hope of that. Gone, and the dream gone with it. And nothing in its place but a long, bitter waking, torn with mocking laughter and the riot of joyless debauch.
Tom slid his lips down the withered and rather unappealing cock with a vigorous swirl of his tongue, sucking hard. A moment later he was rewarded with a hot if somewhat sluggish surge as Hec stiffened and shot into his mouth. Tom stifled a sigh of relief, finished off with a long lick and suck, and got wearily to his feet as Sir Hector plucked at the trousers puddled around his ankles.
“Three shillings, was it, lad?”
Tom straightened his jacket and answered with thin good humor.
“Five, sir, same as last week.” Hec always tried this. He was good for the fee; five shillings was nothing to him, not with the plush hangings of the dim room and the gilt and silver gleaming on the dresser. Certainly not enough to keep him from his Saturday evening habit. But he always tried. Tom ran his fingers through his hair with a quick glance to the mirror, trying to get street-tidy enough to have no trouble on the way home. There was no harm in the old boy. Like as not three had been generous, back when Hec was still fit to go out hunting it.
“Five it is then,” said Hec with a dry little chuckle, still sitting on the bed with his trousers half-mast as he dug in the drawer of the nightstand. Depressing, thought Tom, tracing the vines and cupidons of the carven legs as he waited for Hector to find his coinpurse. Depressing that I’d know that damned nightstand blindfolded. Just like I’d know the sixpence spoiler that’s coming with this rent.
“Here you are, laddy, and a little something for your troubles,” said Hec, with the gleeful prodigality of the recently blown. The coins clinked into Tom’s hand – five shillings, and then that drab little tanner pressed in with as much happy pride as if Hec had tucked a sovereign into his palm. Tom forced a smile, then helped Hec back into his trousers before he scandalized the housekeeper. Not that she really seemed to believe that it was Hec’s “nephew” visiting for roughly twenty minutes at half past ten every Saturday night, but she was willing to play along so long as the old boy kept up a polite fiction.
Back out on Bury Street, Tom drew in the cold night air and checked the weather. Clear, but chill to be working the street or the gardens. Might pull something over a plate at the St. James – it was just around the corner. It was that or the theatres, this time of night. He hesitated a moment, then put his hands in his pockets, hunching against the wind, and turned east toward the Haymarket. Theatres. He wasn’t in the mood to for a long play over a late dinner; he didn’t have the patience to prattle to some toff who wanted to pretend he was charming the cultured set at his club. Rent was due, and he wanted a mark who would get down to business.
He sighed, pushing down his irritation. It wasn’t Hec, really. He was a decent enough old boy and not demanding – a lot lighter trade than the docks, and a regular you could count on was something to be thankful for, his time of life. He glanced into a darkened window, his gaze flicking automatically over face and hair. Not old, but the wrong side of twenty for this trade. He paused a moment longer, scrutinizing himself. Then he scowled, tore off the ridiculous frilled cravat and stuffed it in his pocket, and jerked his shirt sleeves up and his jacket sleeves down to cover the flaunting line of lace at the cuff. God damnit, he looked like some tarted-up little doll. He was sick of being on the tout. It wasn’t just that he was getting older; he was only twenty-two, and he could still pull well given a good stock to pull from. He was just sick of it. When he was young and wild it had looked like a good life for a man with some looks and a taste for fast living. Now it was grinding the soul out of him, even the parts that had brought him to it. Every night the drink and the raucous laughter at the Rings rang a little more hollow, and the late night riot and debauchery wore harsher on his nerves. He hated to even see a crowd of marks any more, even if they were buying. Especially if they were buying. That just meant an extra half-hour’s grind under some oily lech whose wages he’d already drunk.
Tom pulled the collar of his jacket closer, fighting the chill March breeze. He’d been right to leave Surrey. No doubt. It was no place for a man of a certain nature. But London was cramping in on him. When he’d come it had seemed vast, full of endless carouse and venture. Now it had crowded down to a narrow few miles bounded by the docks and the Rings on one side and the skating rink on the other, with theatres, Sir Hec, and a dozen hotel rooms in between. The kneeling tour of London, he thought with a curl of his lip. Cheapside to Knightsbridge, a square foot of rug at a time. Then the wall of the alley struck him so hard that for a few long seconds he thought nothing at all.
Rough hands pinned him to the stone and pawed over his clothing.
“Fuckin’ nance boy. Some fuckin’ luck.”
“Fuckin’ waster o’ a nance too. Hardly tuppence on him.”
“Hi there, Snow Queen, innit?”
A broad, fierce face glared into his, near black with the dim light of the gas lamps behind it. Wild black hair. Glittering animal eyes. Dark shapes skulking about him in the close passage.
“Black John.” Tom’s head was ringing from being cracked against the wall, but it was starting to clear. Alleyway set. Black John. Bound to be disappointed.
“You’re well off your patch, princess.”
“Private showin’,” he muttered thickly. He caught a flash of light from a calloused palm and felt at his pocket. Empty. Damnit.
“Weren’t for His Highness, were it?” sneered one of John’s men, shoving the coins up under his nose. “Havin’ a thin night, Queeny?”
“Thin enough.” He tried to bite it back – it would do no damned good – but it blurted out in desperation. “Look, it’s not your game, and I’m not who you’re lookin’ for. Let it go. My rent’s up tomorrow, and you’ll make ten times that when you get your mark.”
Black John grinned and patted his cheek, heavy, taunting slaps that rocked his head.
“You know the rules, Queeny. You’re off your patch. Now run along like a good little lad, before we take it out in trade.”
They guffawed as Tom let the hard shove stagger him into the street. Too close in there, too close by half, and the feral stink of them all around. He crossed the street and kept moving, hearing their laughter low behind him as he pulled his clothing into place and felt where they’d torn the pockets in their eager search. Bastards. They’d cost him more than they’d taken in ruining his gear. And it now it was near eleven, rent due in the morning, and his pockets empty as a whore’s promise. Fucking Black John. A moment later the humor of the phrase broke through his anger, and he laughed. Yes, fucking Black John. He would have been, too, if the evil sod wasn’t so keen to get back to the lurk. Count your blessings, he thought, hurrying down Jermyn Street. If they weren’t so keen on your pockets, they’d have been more wear and tear on your knees.
Bastards, though. It wasn’t enough living cheap and vicious all your life. You needed cunts like that to make more misery than life had already arranged. What he wouldn’t give to have his own back on that sod. Some time when he didn’t have his clutch of jackals with him. He glanced back at the alley’s mouth, deep in the nighttime shadow. Always there like a reeking dogpack, hunched around the garbage of the eastern West End.
And there, up and over the street, was some utter tosser about to get robbed. Two of them, actually. Tom watched them, drifting down Jermyn Street close in conversation and with not a care in the world. Lordships by the look of it, dressed for the clubs and about to walk straight to Black John’s tender embrace. Tom glanced back at the alley. Trodden-down anger flared up in sudden defiance, and a mad impulse shot through him. He hovered a moment, looking into the alley where black eyes glittered out of the darkness. Then a wide grin broke out over his face, and he darted across the road. Fuck it. Fuck Black John, he thought, and laughed.
“Sir!"
Edward looked up at the figure running across the street. A young man, with white-blond hair and a cheap, flashy blue jacket. Edward paused and touched Kerrington’s elbow. A beggar? A thief? One never knew this time of night, even on the open street.
The man stopped in the circle of gaslight, looking between them as he caught his breath. Not a beggar; too well dressed. But hardly reputable. No livery or uniform, only a jacket with worn linen under it. His eyes met Edward’s, and he seemed to settle on him.
“I’m sorry sir,” he panted, looking up to him. “They sent me after you. You’ve left your chequebook behind.”
Edward looked him carefully over. Absolutely not. There was not a chance that he was in any way connected with the club. And he noticed that the man didn’t mention who or where he’d come from.
“I believe you have the wrong man,” he said. Kerrington was on the alert as well now, and they stepped back instinctively to put the wall behind them. Edward glanced up and down the street. Nothing yet. But they were out of earshot from Piccadilly, back in the quiet side-streets near St. James’ Square. He gripped the handle of his stick and forced his mind level. Confederates? An ambush? He couldn’t see any sign of others yet, but who knew what the man’s game was.
“No, sir, they were very particular,” said the stranger. He looked up then, and his eyes – quite a bright blue, even in the lamplight – met Edward’s. They had a strangely intense look to them, and as he spoke the man held up his hand in the shadow of his body. Under cover of the gesture, he pointed down along Jermyn Street, cutting his eyes that way as well. Edward looked curiously at him, then glanced– just an instant – down the way he’d pointed.
An alleyway. Quite a dark alleyway. One they’d been about to pass.
“I’ve got it with me, sir,” the young man said, putting his hand into his jacket. He didn’t take anything out, though – only cut his eyes toward the alley again and then met Edward’s once more. “But if it’s not yours, I can leave it at the police station. It’s not far – just down Coventry Street. Perhaps you know the way?”
He said the last carefully, looking Edward steadily in the eye. Kerrington was about to speak, and Edward had a hunch that he knew what he would say. He had a rough way about him with a domestic who stepped outside of his sphere, and he could feel the indignation building. He’d bluster the lad off and then walk right past that alley mouth. Where, for all Edward knew, absolutely nothing lay in wait. When it was just as likely that this smooth-faced lad had been sent to decoy them in the opposite direction, holding out the hope that they were moving toward help.
But he stood there quietly, looking Edward in the eye. Edward felt a moment’s strange, half-tangible connection – an instant where he knew that the man saw exactly what he was thinking. In that moment he knew too, as if he’d been the man himself, that he’d done what he could, and that if he and Kerrington walked on past that alley, the lad would step away and leave them to whatever fate he’d tried to warn them of. But he’d rather he didn’t have to.
Edward nodded slowly.
“Yes. I know the station. We’ll go with you, and see if we can’t tell you the owner when we see it in plainer light.”
Their walk was brisk, and the man silent save for a brief muttered direction – “Keep walkin’, and don’t look back.” Edward eyed him as they went. The man glanced back twice himself, swift and anxious, his eyes toward the alley. Once they turned the corner into Regent Street he picked up his pace, drawing them hastily with him as he kept watch behind. He whispered a terse explanation – “Set in the alleyway. You don’t want tangling with that lot.” – and hurried on toward Coventry Street.
In a minute they were there, and in a quirky show of deference the man darted ahead to open the door for them. Kerrington raised an eyebrow in amusement; Edward gave a careful half-bow. Whatever Kerrington might think of the man’s manner or style, they were safe in the station and there seemed to be no mischief afoot. In fact the man was already rattling off his story to the surprised sergeant at the duty desk.
“Ambush laid, sir. You might catch ‘em if you’re fast. Black John and his gang, right by the churchyard in Jermyn Street. Layin’ for these gentlemen, or whoever else came by.”
The sergeant sent a pair of squaddies running while Kerrington watched with cool amusement. Then several swift bows were made to him and to Edward, with chairs hastily brought for their lordships. A few questions were thrown to them, to which they could answer very little, and not long after a young bobby was sent out to Regent Circus to fetch a hansom.
Edward took a seat, still unsettled, and stole a glance over at the man who was giving his statement to the desk sergeant. Older than he’d taken him for in the street – hardly mid-twenties he’d guess, but not in his boyhood either. It was odd. Strange that he should put himself out of his way, then not ask for a farthing. He’d expected, at least, some hovering and fawning of a nudgingly monetary nature; Kerrington had been feeling through his pockets with a cynical look about him as they closed the last yards to the station. But the stranger had split himself from them the moment they’d entered and kept the room between them ever since. Leaning back in his chair, Edward watched the gas-lit street and mulled it over, trying not to take an ungentlemanly interest in what he could overhear of the talk behind him.
“Name.”
“Tom Hart.” Tom stole a quick glance at their Lordships. They were in a hurry to be out of here, no doubt. Well, they’d vouch that this was no rabbit game. He hadn’t asked a penny of them, and he’d been careful to stand well away when they got to the station so he wouldn’t be thought to be hanging on for a spoiler. That’s all he needed, to be taken for a cadge. Bad enough he’d just made a twat of himself and an enemy of Black John for the sake of sparing some toff a head-bashing – although it had been worth it for the thought of Black John legging it up Jermyn Street with couple of bobbies behind him. Tom grinned. Then he looked up at the desk sergeant and began to regret it.
“Occupation.”
“Gentleman’s man. Out of place.” It was the all-purpose answer. You didn’t need many skills – there was always the excuse that the last master had had peculiar ways, or was low in the world – and you didn’t need to be in hire. Besides, it never hurt to have the world “gentleman” in there.
“Address?”
Tom shot a look to the Lordships. They weren’t talking, which was a problem. But they didn’t seem to be making a regular study of him either. He dropped his voice and mumbled it.
“Three Rings, Cheapside.”
The sergeant’s knowing smirk bit at him. He pushed it off. He could sneer all he liked. It was living in places like the Three Rings that taught a man to recognize a Black John special in the offing.
“You’re a long way from home, lad.” The sergeant’s lip curled as he raked his gaze up and down Tom’s figure, no doubt taking in what he’d missed before. Brass buttons on the jacket. Lace at the cuff that was sliding down his right wrist as he spoke. No hat. Tight breeches, tight linen. Tom scowled as he hitched at his shirt, yanking the cuffs back under his jacket.
“So I’m not an angel,” he muttered, glaring at the desk sergeant. “I spared those Lordships a bashing, and I haven’t asked them for a penny. I’m happy to go my way and no one the wiser.”
The sergeant shook his head, grumbling something that ended with “fit to mix with honest folk.” He finished taking down the details and shoved the form across the desk to Tom.
“Put yer chop there,” he said, jabbing a heavy finger at the line at the bottom. “If they’re taken in, you’ll be called to testify.”
Tom scrawled the line. Brilliant. Fucking brilliant. His real name and the lot. Those drinks to start the night must have been damned strong. He shoved the form back as a uniformed bobby passed with a snicker.
“Hey, pretty darlin’,” he said, patting Thomas’s cheek with a heavy slap as the sergeant gave a contemptuous bark of laughter. “Didn’t we take you in down by the docks last Tuesday? Be a good little boy now, mind you.” He laughed at Thomas’s glaring challenge and left swinging his stick. Fucking pig. This was the last time he’d try to do some wanking Lordship a favor. Thomas growled his question.
“You done with me?” The Lordships were having some sort of squabble with each other now, and he was ready to be out of there. The sergeant waved him off as the hansom pulled up outside in a clatter of wheels and hoofbeats.
“Aye, you’re done. Try to find your way back to your own bed.”
Thomas stalked to the door. He didn’t need this. Not tonight. Half an hour gone, and a week’s rent due in the morning. He’d lost five shillings clear fucking about with this lot, and Black John would be happy to take that and more out of his hide when he found him. He brushed past the bickering Lordships toward the door.
“Mr. Hart?”
Mister who? Tom turned back, half-ready to go for that fucking joker of a desk sergeant. But it wasn’t him.
It was the Lordship, the taller one. Thirty-five or -six, he’d say, brown-haired, mournful sort of face on him. Never make it in this business, but then he didn’t look like he’d need to. Serious. Some sort of a thinker.
“Aye, that’s me,” said Tom slowly. He waited, with a glance back to the desk sergeant. Not a word. Not a fucking word about money. Just so they could see.
“We’re grateful for your help.” And the Lordship offered him his hand. Just like that. Tom took it, a little leery still, and eyed the man as his grasp closed. Strong. Not hasty. Nothing shrinking about it. Brown eyes with lines around them. Thoughtful. Almost sincere, which wasn’t something you looked for in that class of person, in Tom’s experience.
“Thank you, sir,” said Tom carefully. He glanced again at Sergeant Peeler over at the desk. Bein’ a good boy here, sergeant. Best behavior. Hope you’re bloody watchin’, you fat sneering pig.
“I hear that you’re a man out of position.”
“Really, Falkirk –“ cut in the other, a tight, dapper little man with one of those neatly trimmed mustaches that made a man look an absolute prick. The first Lordship didn’t give him any heed.
“You’ve done us a great service tonight, and as it happens, my house is short of a man. If you call tomorrow with a character, I’ll consider you for the position.”
“Your Lordship,” cut in Sergeant Peeler, starting up from the desk in alarm. “I really wouldn’t advise – “
“Thank you, your Lordship,” said Tom, with humble deference and a sly grin directed straight to the sergeant. “I’d be very grateful.”
“My card,” said the Lordship, passing a cream-colored sliver of paper with a gloved hand. “Ten o’clock, if you will. Kerrington,” he added, turning to the other Lordship, “the hansom.”
“But sir – “ protested the sergeant.
Tom managed a passable bow as the Lordships swept past, grinning as the sergeant blundered after them. As the wheels spun up Coventry Street, Sergeant Himself burst back in, fat and red and puffing like a walrus.
“You keep away from that, nancy boy, if you know what’s good for you.”
“What, me?” Tom smirked. “I wouldn’t dream of hurtin’ a nice Lordship like that.”
“You stay out of his house, or we’ll see how the boys in gaol like your sold little arse.”
Tom blew him a kiss as he slipped out the door. “Knew you’d like to watch. Don’t worry your heart about me, sir.”
The sergeant stood in the door, snarling as he went down the street. “I’ve got my eye on you, lad! You stay out of decent folks’ homes!”
Tom left laughing, the sergeant’s scarlet indignation cheering him up the street. But soon enough he drew his wits about him. Black John would have ducked those bobbies and no doubt, and he’d have a good idea, too, where to find the man who’d set them on him. Tom cut south toward the Strand, darting into mid-street and hastening near a run until he was free of the nest of close, dark lanes between the station and the open thoroughfare. Safety in numbers tonight, and that meant the late-night crowds of the Strand – though it hurt to walk home through streaming money on his way back to the Rings. No helping it. John knew him, and he’d know where he was headed as well. He’d best get to ground and let him sleep off his anger, and never mind tricks for tonight. The rent would have to wait.
It took him near an hour to hit the Rings. The city was a warren down by the river, and more so with every step east. Finally he cut wide around and behind the Rings, down Eastcheap Street and south behind the market, then back up at it from the river. Couldn’t be too careful when you were on the bad side of a man like Black John. He cut through the backcourt around the midden, nodded to Welch the bar boy coming out with a load of garbage, and slipped through the kitchens and into the main room with a long sigh of relief as he dropped into an empty seat near the back. Home, and all the joyous clamor of the evening crowd around him, thronging the bar and the front rooms.
“You’re late, Queeny. Run all your legs out playin’ with the high and mighties?”
Tom groaned as Black John dropped into the seat in front of him. He felt more than saw the pair of musclers step in behind him. It hardly seemed fair. But that was the problem with Black John. He kept you looking at that wild bear’s face, and that took your mind off of the brain that was working behind it.
“You had it coming,” said Tom. Why not? It was insanity from start to finish. Might as well be in to it up to his neck. “You could have let me pass. A half-crown’s nothing to you.”
Black John chuckled and waved toward the bar. Welch came scurrying, his worried eyes darting over the group at the table.
“Gin!” barked John. Welch disappeared. A moment later the gin was there and Welch was a fleeting ghost darting back toward the bar. Black John took a long drink as Tom watched him, cold within and tense with waiting.
“Ah. That does a man right. You’ll stand me that round, won’t you, Queeny?”
Tom shrugged, glancing up briefly at the two heavy forms that blocked him in. It was John’s game.
John leaned forward, eyes glittering.
“I ain’t right fond o’ you tonight. You’ve cost me my dinner.”
“You’re drinking mine.” Tom forced himself to meet John’s eyes. He was in for a beating; damned if he’d cringe too. Oddly, it seemed to help. John laughed as he threw back the rest of the gin.
“That I am. And will be, my lad, ‘til you’ve made it back.” He stood and looked down at Tom, him and his two thumpers fencing him in. Tom held on to his defiance in an act of sheer will as Black John leaned closer, his gin-heavy breath wafting his words over Tom.
“Now, I’m gonna make this easy. You cost me a good fiver there, and then there’s the problem of little renters gettin’ to think above themselves as well. We don’t need that. So we’ll call it ten. Ten pounds you owe me, and the interest on that is two a week. Keep it comin’, Queeny. And if I sends you a bit of trade, you’ll be good to the nice gentleman, and call it a favor for an old friend. You read me?”
Tom nodded, feeling sick deep in his stomach. He stared back at Black John and try not to slump. Two a week. And ten in the hole. Might as well be a hundred.
“John.” Tom looked up. Bell. The barkeep was behind Black John, wiping his hands on his apron. His big grizzled beard fanned out over his shirtfront, and his eyes above were quick and shrewd. He knew his man. Behind him already, wiry and lounging, was Hands, the bouncer. He was a dark smiling Irishman, five foot nothing that mattered, and he’d open a man up as neat as a chicken without losing that sardonic little grin. Tom had seen it, one night when the crowd got rough and steel flashed. Didn’t flash for long.
“Bell.” John didn’t look up. He kept his eyes on Tom’s, grinning.
“Anything else I can get you?”
“Naw. We was just leavin.’” John straightened and met Bell’s eye, then looked over at Hands. He touched his cap, then waved his men along with him.
“No fear, Bell. We ain’t breakin’ your peace. But you might want your rent in advance from this ‘un.”
John winked at Tom. “Ten and two, Queeny. We’ll know where to find you.”
Tom slumped as John and his men arrowed through the crowd and out the door. Bell took the seat opposite him, waving Hands aside. Hands turned his back to the table and took up guard. All along the bar, men and boys glanced up a moment in furtive guilt, then got back to business as Hands stayed motionless and smiling.
“You’ve got no rent?”
“It’s in Black John’s pocket,” said Tom, shoving at the empty glass John had left behind. “Caught me out St. James’ way and fleeced me down.”
“And you just had to get your own back?” Bell’s eyes warmed a little, and Tom smiled as Bell shook his head.
“Someone’s got to. He’s put the pinch on every renter in the place.”
“There’s a reason for that,” said Bell, his face sober as his eyes met Tom’s. “A sane man won’t cross him.”
Tom sighed and nodded. “I know. I know. But two and ten, Bell. Where am I supposed to get that?”
Bell shook his head. “Don’t know, but you’ve got it comin’ to you, messing with that. And I reckon it’ll be no rent from you for more than this week.”
Tom flushed. “Sorry, Bell. And you might see a couple of peelers. They’ll be looking for Tom Hart.”
“Real name and all? Say it ain’t so, Tom. What have you been up to?”
Tom shrugged. “Tipped ‘em on Black John. Once you’re in that far, might as well run your neck into the noose.”
Bell nodded, looking down at the table. Tom watched him glumly. Bell had been good to him. He’d taken him in when he was lost, given him his name, even – although that was bound to come with hair like his, and being what he was. The Snow Queen. It was good for a laugh. But better than a real name, and Bell was right. What he’d been thinking giving it to the peelers, he couldn’t say. But he’d done it, and here was Bell with Black John coming in one door and the police in the other. He knew what was coming before Bell opened his mouth.
“This ain’t a charity, Tom.”
“I know.”
Bell looked up. There was still some pity in him, but Tom pushed it off.
“I don’t mind a week’s rent lost now and then,” said Bell. “You know I don’t. But this ain’t the first time.”
Tom blushed. Bell leaned forward, dropping his voice.
“How many weeks you missed lately, lad?”
Tom shrugged helplessly. “Bell, really, I’m sorry –“
“That ain’t my point.” Bell spoke slowly, carefully. “You’re not earnin’. And this ain’t just about my pocket. You’ve lost your touch, lad, and it’s been gone a while.”
Tom sat silently and took it. Bell had the right. God knew how much he was into him for. He tried not to think about it, because it wasn’t fair. Poor old Bell wouldn’t even take it in trade. Whatever he got up to, it was never with the crowd from the Rings. And he’d let more rent slide than Tom cared to count.
Bell looked close into Tom’s eyes. Tom sat and let the blows drive home as Bell spoke low and firmly.
“This ain’t your life any more, Tom. However you came to it. Now you can tend bar, or wait tables, or take service, or pick up in some factory somewhere, but it’s time you were out of sellin’. You’re sinkin’ fast.”
Tom stared down at the table. No tears blurring the surface of it. None at all. Bell waited a moment, then spoke once more, gently.
“I can find you some work in the inns. It won’t pay well, but it’s something. They won’t mind where you’re from if you keep it out of their patch. What do you say?”
Tom looked down at the battered surface of the table, then out over the raucous, sensual wrack of the main room. Men and boys cozened together at chairs and tables, moving in and out from the upper rooms, money slipping hands, drink flowing. And out past the door, there in the darkness, lay Black John waiting, and all the darkened city. All the punters.
He roused. Inside his jacket. A card.
“No,” he said slowly. “But you could stand me a letter.”
“Mis-ter ... Thom-as ... Harrrrt ...” murmured Scrib the Pen, the nib scatching slowly over the paper. “All right. Do you want positive, glowing, or ecstatic?”
“Just two years good service,” said Tome. “Keep it simple.”
“Right you are,” said Scrib, rolling back his cuffs and delicately dipping the ink. He smoothed the paper out upon the table – fine stuff, beautiful white linen stock – and stared at the ceiling for several long moments. Then, with an air of inspiration, he began to write.
“’Mis-ter ... Hart ... was in ... the em-ploy ... of my late ... un-cle.’ Nothing like a dead old dear to pull the heart strings, eh?” Scrib smiled, rubbing his hands, then sank back into his work.
“His ... de-vo-tion ... to ... my ... un-cle ... “
“Thanks, Bell,” said Tom, eyeing the sun through the window. It had taken hard knocking and hard cash to get Scrib out of his bunk that early, and he’d still be cutting it fine to get to the Lordship’s in time for the hour. But there was no beating Scrib for the gentleman game – he had a hand as clear and fine as you’d like, and the paper and gear to make it stick.
“Worth it to have that room free,” said Bell with a grin. “’Bout time I got a payin’ lodger in.”
Tom smiled. “I won’t forget it. Wages won’t be much, but I’ll send what I can.”
“Just mind yourself, mate,” said Bell. “Black John’ll be lookin’ for you, and it’ll be a cold day in Hell that you’ll be payin’ two for ten out of a servant’s wages. Keep to your patch, wherever that’s goin’ to be. No, don’t tell me,” he said, as Tom opened his mouth to reply. “Keep it close, mate,” and here he gave a nod to Scrib, who was sunk in his work of fiction. “The less said, the better.”
Tom nodded. Bell drew him quietly aside, walking with him out to the front windows while Scrib sat laughing and exclaiming over his work.
“You wantin’ your other letters as well?” He asked it low and soft, his eyes darting from Tom to Scrib and back again.
Tom nodded slowly.
“I’ll have to. There’s got to be something he can trace.”
“Puttin’ Halford’s name in? You think that’s wise?”
“No gettin’ around him,” said Tom, shaking his head. “If I put anyone in, they’ll lead to him; every damned one of them mentions him in his character. You know what that lot’s like.” He looked up at Bell, praying that he didn’t look as bleak as he felt. There was nothing to be done. It was that or offer the Lordship a man with no history.
“I don’t think he’s the sort to recognize him,” said Tom, with defeated resignation. “But he’ll hear it, one way or another. Best try it now, and hope it slides by.”
Bell nodded. He reached into his coat and took out a bundle of papers, then handed them to Tom.
“Aye. I thought you might be wantin’ ‘em.” His eyes met Tom’s. “Just choose careful.”
“I will,” said Tom, weighing the papers. “I will.”
Half an hour later Bell stood in the doorway, watching the lad. Never looked younger, not in two years of living at the Rings. He was there at the table, dressed so sober that he looked ready for a funeral, with Scrib’s neat letter sat by his hand. He was wading through the pile of the others, picking them over while the sun rose higher.
You didn’t need the letters to read ‘em. You could watch the boy’s face and see the way of it. How he paled at some, threw them aside; dropped others slowly by Scrib’s clean white forgery, building up his character. And that last. How he came back to it time and again. In the end he just sat there, staring at it, until Bell had to see him on his way before he missed his hour with the gentleman. In the end he put it in. Bell watched him. And he saw the look on his face when he did.
Bell started in on the tables, wiping them down for the morning. Wasn’t his place to say, of course. Wasn’t his place to judge. But there were worse things in life than the Rings, he’d say, and worse folk than the ones who lived there. Worse out there than that.
***************************************
Questions of special interest:
(1) Is Edward coming through consistantly as a character?
(2) Is the "set" of the leads too obvious - i.e., does it feel like they're being deliberately forced together?
(3) Is it reasonably clear what's going on between Edward and Julian in the first scene?
(4) The scene of Edward dealing with Tom in the street - where Tom is warning them about the ambush - feels like it badly needs something. What is it? Tom's POV? More of Edward's thoughts and background/where he's coming from/characterization? It feels thin to me.
(5) I know that I'm flirting with death in introducing a fair bit of slang into Tom's observations and dialog. However, I also think it important in establishing who he is and what his life is like. How hard is it on the reader at the moment? Does it need to be cut back?
All other comments are, naturally, most appreciated. Feel free to shred it, as I'm quite unhappy with it at the moment anyway, barring a few individual lines. Feel free to shred them as well; I'll just quietly think them quite fine anyway
Shanglan
Any and all comments appreciated; specific questions at the end. This is the current opening to a longer work.
*****************************************************
Sunlight was always Julian’s element. Edward looked up wearily from the desk, watching the white mid-morning rays spill over him from the eastern windows. They lit him up like an angel. Sometimes it still made him forget himself.
“Really, Edward, it’s a trifle,” said Julian, his coaxing, languid pose shaping in his every word.
“Forty pounds is hardly a trifle,” Edward replied.
“Well, it’s a trifle compared to what earned it.” Julian smiled, a sensual, radiant curve of his lips like a debauched cherub’s, and let a languorous purr slip into his voice. There was a time when that had charmed him, Edward recalled, with a bleak sense of distance. Back before he knew how lightly Julian used it.
“I will not continue to pay this sort of extortion,” said Edward. “It is wrong to give this man a living from the misery of others.”
Julian let his head loll back, lounging against the doorframe in one of those ridiculously flagrant poses that still, damnit, stirred him beyond all expression. Edward stared down at the blank surface of the desk and strove to put curling gold hair and a delicate arch of limbs from his mind. Playful as a kitten, yes, and with all the charm, beautiful Julian. And all the conscience as well.
“Edward, you are so very serious, and life is so very simple. We pay them, they give us that little missive, and they go away.” Julian smiled at him, darting a coy glance from under his lashes. Edward met it for a long moment. Serious. Yes. More serious than you will ever know, Julian St. Clare.
When he answered his voice was level and empty of pain.
“It seems simple to you, Julian, because you leave me to resolve all of your difficulties.”
“But you do it so awfully well.”
Edward took his chequebook from the desk drawer.
“This is the last time,” he said, without lifting his gaze.
Julian flitted gracefully behind him as he wrote. A moment later his lips pressed to Edward’s neck. He stopped in mid-stroke and closed his eyes. He still smelled like Julian. Perfumed. Delicate. Beautiful.
“I’m terribly grateful,” Julian murmured. God. Help me, thought Edward, with the fervent instinct of a prayer. Every vow, every resolution, shot out like chaff when his lips brush my ear. Edward signed the cheque with a shaking hand, then held the slip up without turning.
“Your cheque, Julian.”
“Is that all you can offer me?” Julian’s lips closed on his ear, and a moment later his tongue licked softly out. There was no use disguising it; Edward felt the sheer cry of his body shake through him. He stood and crossed the room.
“That’s all,” he said. “And that’s the last.”
Julian sat on the desk’s edge, golden in the light, giving Edward a pouting look calculated to shake him. It did. He held himself near rigid and tried not to linger over Julian’s sweet form wrapped in his decadent little assemblage of damask and lace. Julian fanned himself coyly with the cheque, then offered a graceful moue to Edward’s grave regard.
“Can’t you at least see the delicious irony of it?” he asked. “All my happy debauch thrown over for one sentimental little note you simply had to write? Really, it would be too ridiculous to play the good host to half the sweet young things at Oxford only to end up in a scandal over a Romantic pastiche from an undersecretary.”
“I’ve had ample time to regret writing it,” said Edward quietly.
Julian glanced up at him. He sighed, and a moment’s sympathy came over even his laughing, taunting features. He slid off the desk and walked over to Edward, stepping in close until their bodies brushed and his hands slid easily along his shirtfront.
“Really, Edward,” he said, high-handed still but perhaps just a little sad. “What did you imagine? That we’d run away to a little cottage in the Lakes?” Julian offered a wry half-smile. Edward looked away. Julian sought his lips, though he turned from him; at last Edward simply stood, impassive, as Julian’s soft kiss and tongue stroked and teased at his silent response. Nothing in him could answer any more – nothing but the flesh. But even that began to die with Julian’s cool, laughing manner. Julian broke the kiss and smiled, as if everything was now arranged.
“We are what we must be,” he said. His eyes laughed still. He was hardly the man to regret it. “A delightful, nasty little secret.”
“No more, Julian.”
Julian shrugged. “Well, you know that my door is never shut. But really, you might thank me for taking up this note for you.” He picked up his gloves and slid the cheque into his inner pocket. “Innocent young undergraduate ... older man of the world ... if that little extravagance ever came out, you know who they’d blame.”
“Yes,” said Edward, the words sliding numbly past his lips. “Yes, I know.”
Julian winked as he turned toward the door. “How little they know me, hmm?”
And he was gone.
***
The sounds of his departure echoed fainter through the house with every step. Long after the street door shut and the house lay in silence, Edward sat staring blankly down at the polished surface of the desk.
It wasn’t fear. It ought to be. That letter was beyond explanation. He tried to imagine himself fumbling for a defense – fatherly fondness, brotherly affection, mentoring a young man in whom he saw something of himself. But how could he say it? It was a lie, more monstrous in its cold repudiation than even, agony of guilt though they were, those warm nights when he’d felt curling gold hair brush his lips and a scented body touch his own. Whatever men might think honor meant when nature tore him so viciously asunder, the words could not pass his lips. He would not stand before the world and say that those lines meant nothing.
To him. Julian would have not the slightest trouble. Where had they found that letter, he wondered bitterly. On his desk? Surely he wasn’t so careless. No, the waste basket. Or thrown amid his papers, with some lines to a dusky undergraduate scrawled across the back. Torn into firelighters, or whatever it was Julian did with his toys when he’d had enough of them.
Edward drew a deep breath and let it out, trying to feel the irony and not the pain. Man of the world. Julian was more that now than he would be if he lived to a hundred. It wasn’t years that made a man taunting, jaded, surfeited with pleasures and wise in their ways. It was something he was born with. It was something he was.
Or wasn’t. Edward drew a ledger wearily over the desk and opened it, trying to resolve the symbols into letters and words. They offered no meaning, only a dancing blur in the trouble of his mind. Julian’s words came back to him, and he felt that helpless, falling sensation again, harder.
“What did you imagine?”
Something high. Something fine. Something ridiculous, Julian would say. But something better than this.
He sat on into the chill noon, the cold winter light shining bare through the chamber. Gone, all hope of that. Gone, and the dream gone with it. And nothing in its place but a long, bitter waking, torn with mocking laughter and the riot of joyless debauch.
***
Tom slid his lips down the withered and rather unappealing cock with a vigorous swirl of his tongue, sucking hard. A moment later he was rewarded with a hot if somewhat sluggish surge as Hec stiffened and shot into his mouth. Tom stifled a sigh of relief, finished off with a long lick and suck, and got wearily to his feet as Sir Hector plucked at the trousers puddled around his ankles.
“Three shillings, was it, lad?”
Tom straightened his jacket and answered with thin good humor.
“Five, sir, same as last week.” Hec always tried this. He was good for the fee; five shillings was nothing to him, not with the plush hangings of the dim room and the gilt and silver gleaming on the dresser. Certainly not enough to keep him from his Saturday evening habit. But he always tried. Tom ran his fingers through his hair with a quick glance to the mirror, trying to get street-tidy enough to have no trouble on the way home. There was no harm in the old boy. Like as not three had been generous, back when Hec was still fit to go out hunting it.
“Five it is then,” said Hec with a dry little chuckle, still sitting on the bed with his trousers half-mast as he dug in the drawer of the nightstand. Depressing, thought Tom, tracing the vines and cupidons of the carven legs as he waited for Hector to find his coinpurse. Depressing that I’d know that damned nightstand blindfolded. Just like I’d know the sixpence spoiler that’s coming with this rent.
“Here you are, laddy, and a little something for your troubles,” said Hec, with the gleeful prodigality of the recently blown. The coins clinked into Tom’s hand – five shillings, and then that drab little tanner pressed in with as much happy pride as if Hec had tucked a sovereign into his palm. Tom forced a smile, then helped Hec back into his trousers before he scandalized the housekeeper. Not that she really seemed to believe that it was Hec’s “nephew” visiting for roughly twenty minutes at half past ten every Saturday night, but she was willing to play along so long as the old boy kept up a polite fiction.
Back out on Bury Street, Tom drew in the cold night air and checked the weather. Clear, but chill to be working the street or the gardens. Might pull something over a plate at the St. James – it was just around the corner. It was that or the theatres, this time of night. He hesitated a moment, then put his hands in his pockets, hunching against the wind, and turned east toward the Haymarket. Theatres. He wasn’t in the mood to for a long play over a late dinner; he didn’t have the patience to prattle to some toff who wanted to pretend he was charming the cultured set at his club. Rent was due, and he wanted a mark who would get down to business.
He sighed, pushing down his irritation. It wasn’t Hec, really. He was a decent enough old boy and not demanding – a lot lighter trade than the docks, and a regular you could count on was something to be thankful for, his time of life. He glanced into a darkened window, his gaze flicking automatically over face and hair. Not old, but the wrong side of twenty for this trade. He paused a moment longer, scrutinizing himself. Then he scowled, tore off the ridiculous frilled cravat and stuffed it in his pocket, and jerked his shirt sleeves up and his jacket sleeves down to cover the flaunting line of lace at the cuff. God damnit, he looked like some tarted-up little doll. He was sick of being on the tout. It wasn’t just that he was getting older; he was only twenty-two, and he could still pull well given a good stock to pull from. He was just sick of it. When he was young and wild it had looked like a good life for a man with some looks and a taste for fast living. Now it was grinding the soul out of him, even the parts that had brought him to it. Every night the drink and the raucous laughter at the Rings rang a little more hollow, and the late night riot and debauchery wore harsher on his nerves. He hated to even see a crowd of marks any more, even if they were buying. Especially if they were buying. That just meant an extra half-hour’s grind under some oily lech whose wages he’d already drunk.
Tom pulled the collar of his jacket closer, fighting the chill March breeze. He’d been right to leave Surrey. No doubt. It was no place for a man of a certain nature. But London was cramping in on him. When he’d come it had seemed vast, full of endless carouse and venture. Now it had crowded down to a narrow few miles bounded by the docks and the Rings on one side and the skating rink on the other, with theatres, Sir Hec, and a dozen hotel rooms in between. The kneeling tour of London, he thought with a curl of his lip. Cheapside to Knightsbridge, a square foot of rug at a time. Then the wall of the alley struck him so hard that for a few long seconds he thought nothing at all.
Rough hands pinned him to the stone and pawed over his clothing.
“Fuckin’ nance boy. Some fuckin’ luck.”
“Fuckin’ waster o’ a nance too. Hardly tuppence on him.”
“Hi there, Snow Queen, innit?”
A broad, fierce face glared into his, near black with the dim light of the gas lamps behind it. Wild black hair. Glittering animal eyes. Dark shapes skulking about him in the close passage.
“Black John.” Tom’s head was ringing from being cracked against the wall, but it was starting to clear. Alleyway set. Black John. Bound to be disappointed.
“You’re well off your patch, princess.”
“Private showin’,” he muttered thickly. He caught a flash of light from a calloused palm and felt at his pocket. Empty. Damnit.
“Weren’t for His Highness, were it?” sneered one of John’s men, shoving the coins up under his nose. “Havin’ a thin night, Queeny?”
“Thin enough.” He tried to bite it back – it would do no damned good – but it blurted out in desperation. “Look, it’s not your game, and I’m not who you’re lookin’ for. Let it go. My rent’s up tomorrow, and you’ll make ten times that when you get your mark.”
Black John grinned and patted his cheek, heavy, taunting slaps that rocked his head.
“You know the rules, Queeny. You’re off your patch. Now run along like a good little lad, before we take it out in trade.”
They guffawed as Tom let the hard shove stagger him into the street. Too close in there, too close by half, and the feral stink of them all around. He crossed the street and kept moving, hearing their laughter low behind him as he pulled his clothing into place and felt where they’d torn the pockets in their eager search. Bastards. They’d cost him more than they’d taken in ruining his gear. And it now it was near eleven, rent due in the morning, and his pockets empty as a whore’s promise. Fucking Black John. A moment later the humor of the phrase broke through his anger, and he laughed. Yes, fucking Black John. He would have been, too, if the evil sod wasn’t so keen to get back to the lurk. Count your blessings, he thought, hurrying down Jermyn Street. If they weren’t so keen on your pockets, they’d have been more wear and tear on your knees.
Bastards, though. It wasn’t enough living cheap and vicious all your life. You needed cunts like that to make more misery than life had already arranged. What he wouldn’t give to have his own back on that sod. Some time when he didn’t have his clutch of jackals with him. He glanced back at the alley’s mouth, deep in the nighttime shadow. Always there like a reeking dogpack, hunched around the garbage of the eastern West End.
And there, up and over the street, was some utter tosser about to get robbed. Two of them, actually. Tom watched them, drifting down Jermyn Street close in conversation and with not a care in the world. Lordships by the look of it, dressed for the clubs and about to walk straight to Black John’s tender embrace. Tom glanced back at the alley. Trodden-down anger flared up in sudden defiance, and a mad impulse shot through him. He hovered a moment, looking into the alley where black eyes glittered out of the darkness. Then a wide grin broke out over his face, and he darted across the road. Fuck it. Fuck Black John, he thought, and laughed.
***
“Sir!"
Edward looked up at the figure running across the street. A young man, with white-blond hair and a cheap, flashy blue jacket. Edward paused and touched Kerrington’s elbow. A beggar? A thief? One never knew this time of night, even on the open street.
The man stopped in the circle of gaslight, looking between them as he caught his breath. Not a beggar; too well dressed. But hardly reputable. No livery or uniform, only a jacket with worn linen under it. His eyes met Edward’s, and he seemed to settle on him.
“I’m sorry sir,” he panted, looking up to him. “They sent me after you. You’ve left your chequebook behind.”
Edward looked him carefully over. Absolutely not. There was not a chance that he was in any way connected with the club. And he noticed that the man didn’t mention who or where he’d come from.
“I believe you have the wrong man,” he said. Kerrington was on the alert as well now, and they stepped back instinctively to put the wall behind them. Edward glanced up and down the street. Nothing yet. But they were out of earshot from Piccadilly, back in the quiet side-streets near St. James’ Square. He gripped the handle of his stick and forced his mind level. Confederates? An ambush? He couldn’t see any sign of others yet, but who knew what the man’s game was.
“No, sir, they were very particular,” said the stranger. He looked up then, and his eyes – quite a bright blue, even in the lamplight – met Edward’s. They had a strangely intense look to them, and as he spoke the man held up his hand in the shadow of his body. Under cover of the gesture, he pointed down along Jermyn Street, cutting his eyes that way as well. Edward looked curiously at him, then glanced– just an instant – down the way he’d pointed.
An alleyway. Quite a dark alleyway. One they’d been about to pass.
“I’ve got it with me, sir,” the young man said, putting his hand into his jacket. He didn’t take anything out, though – only cut his eyes toward the alley again and then met Edward’s once more. “But if it’s not yours, I can leave it at the police station. It’s not far – just down Coventry Street. Perhaps you know the way?”
He said the last carefully, looking Edward steadily in the eye. Kerrington was about to speak, and Edward had a hunch that he knew what he would say. He had a rough way about him with a domestic who stepped outside of his sphere, and he could feel the indignation building. He’d bluster the lad off and then walk right past that alley mouth. Where, for all Edward knew, absolutely nothing lay in wait. When it was just as likely that this smooth-faced lad had been sent to decoy them in the opposite direction, holding out the hope that they were moving toward help.
But he stood there quietly, looking Edward in the eye. Edward felt a moment’s strange, half-tangible connection – an instant where he knew that the man saw exactly what he was thinking. In that moment he knew too, as if he’d been the man himself, that he’d done what he could, and that if he and Kerrington walked on past that alley, the lad would step away and leave them to whatever fate he’d tried to warn them of. But he’d rather he didn’t have to.
Edward nodded slowly.
“Yes. I know the station. We’ll go with you, and see if we can’t tell you the owner when we see it in plainer light.”
***
Their walk was brisk, and the man silent save for a brief muttered direction – “Keep walkin’, and don’t look back.” Edward eyed him as they went. The man glanced back twice himself, swift and anxious, his eyes toward the alley. Once they turned the corner into Regent Street he picked up his pace, drawing them hastily with him as he kept watch behind. He whispered a terse explanation – “Set in the alleyway. You don’t want tangling with that lot.” – and hurried on toward Coventry Street.
In a minute they were there, and in a quirky show of deference the man darted ahead to open the door for them. Kerrington raised an eyebrow in amusement; Edward gave a careful half-bow. Whatever Kerrington might think of the man’s manner or style, they were safe in the station and there seemed to be no mischief afoot. In fact the man was already rattling off his story to the surprised sergeant at the duty desk.
“Ambush laid, sir. You might catch ‘em if you’re fast. Black John and his gang, right by the churchyard in Jermyn Street. Layin’ for these gentlemen, or whoever else came by.”
The sergeant sent a pair of squaddies running while Kerrington watched with cool amusement. Then several swift bows were made to him and to Edward, with chairs hastily brought for their lordships. A few questions were thrown to them, to which they could answer very little, and not long after a young bobby was sent out to Regent Circus to fetch a hansom.
Edward took a seat, still unsettled, and stole a glance over at the man who was giving his statement to the desk sergeant. Older than he’d taken him for in the street – hardly mid-twenties he’d guess, but not in his boyhood either. It was odd. Strange that he should put himself out of his way, then not ask for a farthing. He’d expected, at least, some hovering and fawning of a nudgingly monetary nature; Kerrington had been feeling through his pockets with a cynical look about him as they closed the last yards to the station. But the stranger had split himself from them the moment they’d entered and kept the room between them ever since. Leaning back in his chair, Edward watched the gas-lit street and mulled it over, trying not to take an ungentlemanly interest in what he could overhear of the talk behind him.
***
“Name.”
“Tom Hart.” Tom stole a quick glance at their Lordships. They were in a hurry to be out of here, no doubt. Well, they’d vouch that this was no rabbit game. He hadn’t asked a penny of them, and he’d been careful to stand well away when they got to the station so he wouldn’t be thought to be hanging on for a spoiler. That’s all he needed, to be taken for a cadge. Bad enough he’d just made a twat of himself and an enemy of Black John for the sake of sparing some toff a head-bashing – although it had been worth it for the thought of Black John legging it up Jermyn Street with couple of bobbies behind him. Tom grinned. Then he looked up at the desk sergeant and began to regret it.
“Occupation.”
“Gentleman’s man. Out of place.” It was the all-purpose answer. You didn’t need many skills – there was always the excuse that the last master had had peculiar ways, or was low in the world – and you didn’t need to be in hire. Besides, it never hurt to have the world “gentleman” in there.
“Address?”
Tom shot a look to the Lordships. They weren’t talking, which was a problem. But they didn’t seem to be making a regular study of him either. He dropped his voice and mumbled it.
“Three Rings, Cheapside.”
The sergeant’s knowing smirk bit at him. He pushed it off. He could sneer all he liked. It was living in places like the Three Rings that taught a man to recognize a Black John special in the offing.
“You’re a long way from home, lad.” The sergeant’s lip curled as he raked his gaze up and down Tom’s figure, no doubt taking in what he’d missed before. Brass buttons on the jacket. Lace at the cuff that was sliding down his right wrist as he spoke. No hat. Tight breeches, tight linen. Tom scowled as he hitched at his shirt, yanking the cuffs back under his jacket.
“So I’m not an angel,” he muttered, glaring at the desk sergeant. “I spared those Lordships a bashing, and I haven’t asked them for a penny. I’m happy to go my way and no one the wiser.”
The sergeant shook his head, grumbling something that ended with “fit to mix with honest folk.” He finished taking down the details and shoved the form across the desk to Tom.
“Put yer chop there,” he said, jabbing a heavy finger at the line at the bottom. “If they’re taken in, you’ll be called to testify.”
Tom scrawled the line. Brilliant. Fucking brilliant. His real name and the lot. Those drinks to start the night must have been damned strong. He shoved the form back as a uniformed bobby passed with a snicker.
“Hey, pretty darlin’,” he said, patting Thomas’s cheek with a heavy slap as the sergeant gave a contemptuous bark of laughter. “Didn’t we take you in down by the docks last Tuesday? Be a good little boy now, mind you.” He laughed at Thomas’s glaring challenge and left swinging his stick. Fucking pig. This was the last time he’d try to do some wanking Lordship a favor. Thomas growled his question.
“You done with me?” The Lordships were having some sort of squabble with each other now, and he was ready to be out of there. The sergeant waved him off as the hansom pulled up outside in a clatter of wheels and hoofbeats.
“Aye, you’re done. Try to find your way back to your own bed.”
Thomas stalked to the door. He didn’t need this. Not tonight. Half an hour gone, and a week’s rent due in the morning. He’d lost five shillings clear fucking about with this lot, and Black John would be happy to take that and more out of his hide when he found him. He brushed past the bickering Lordships toward the door.
“Mr. Hart?”
Mister who? Tom turned back, half-ready to go for that fucking joker of a desk sergeant. But it wasn’t him.
It was the Lordship, the taller one. Thirty-five or -six, he’d say, brown-haired, mournful sort of face on him. Never make it in this business, but then he didn’t look like he’d need to. Serious. Some sort of a thinker.
“Aye, that’s me,” said Tom slowly. He waited, with a glance back to the desk sergeant. Not a word. Not a fucking word about money. Just so they could see.
“We’re grateful for your help.” And the Lordship offered him his hand. Just like that. Tom took it, a little leery still, and eyed the man as his grasp closed. Strong. Not hasty. Nothing shrinking about it. Brown eyes with lines around them. Thoughtful. Almost sincere, which wasn’t something you looked for in that class of person, in Tom’s experience.
“Thank you, sir,” said Tom carefully. He glanced again at Sergeant Peeler over at the desk. Bein’ a good boy here, sergeant. Best behavior. Hope you’re bloody watchin’, you fat sneering pig.
“I hear that you’re a man out of position.”
“Really, Falkirk –“ cut in the other, a tight, dapper little man with one of those neatly trimmed mustaches that made a man look an absolute prick. The first Lordship didn’t give him any heed.
“You’ve done us a great service tonight, and as it happens, my house is short of a man. If you call tomorrow with a character, I’ll consider you for the position.”
“Your Lordship,” cut in Sergeant Peeler, starting up from the desk in alarm. “I really wouldn’t advise – “
“Thank you, your Lordship,” said Tom, with humble deference and a sly grin directed straight to the sergeant. “I’d be very grateful.”
“My card,” said the Lordship, passing a cream-colored sliver of paper with a gloved hand. “Ten o’clock, if you will. Kerrington,” he added, turning to the other Lordship, “the hansom.”
“But sir – “ protested the sergeant.
Tom managed a passable bow as the Lordships swept past, grinning as the sergeant blundered after them. As the wheels spun up Coventry Street, Sergeant Himself burst back in, fat and red and puffing like a walrus.
“You keep away from that, nancy boy, if you know what’s good for you.”
“What, me?” Tom smirked. “I wouldn’t dream of hurtin’ a nice Lordship like that.”
“You stay out of his house, or we’ll see how the boys in gaol like your sold little arse.”
Tom blew him a kiss as he slipped out the door. “Knew you’d like to watch. Don’t worry your heart about me, sir.”
The sergeant stood in the door, snarling as he went down the street. “I’ve got my eye on you, lad! You stay out of decent folks’ homes!”
***
Tom left laughing, the sergeant’s scarlet indignation cheering him up the street. But soon enough he drew his wits about him. Black John would have ducked those bobbies and no doubt, and he’d have a good idea, too, where to find the man who’d set them on him. Tom cut south toward the Strand, darting into mid-street and hastening near a run until he was free of the nest of close, dark lanes between the station and the open thoroughfare. Safety in numbers tonight, and that meant the late-night crowds of the Strand – though it hurt to walk home through streaming money on his way back to the Rings. No helping it. John knew him, and he’d know where he was headed as well. He’d best get to ground and let him sleep off his anger, and never mind tricks for tonight. The rent would have to wait.
It took him near an hour to hit the Rings. The city was a warren down by the river, and more so with every step east. Finally he cut wide around and behind the Rings, down Eastcheap Street and south behind the market, then back up at it from the river. Couldn’t be too careful when you were on the bad side of a man like Black John. He cut through the backcourt around the midden, nodded to Welch the bar boy coming out with a load of garbage, and slipped through the kitchens and into the main room with a long sigh of relief as he dropped into an empty seat near the back. Home, and all the joyous clamor of the evening crowd around him, thronging the bar and the front rooms.
“You’re late, Queeny. Run all your legs out playin’ with the high and mighties?”
Tom groaned as Black John dropped into the seat in front of him. He felt more than saw the pair of musclers step in behind him. It hardly seemed fair. But that was the problem with Black John. He kept you looking at that wild bear’s face, and that took your mind off of the brain that was working behind it.
“You had it coming,” said Tom. Why not? It was insanity from start to finish. Might as well be in to it up to his neck. “You could have let me pass. A half-crown’s nothing to you.”
Black John chuckled and waved toward the bar. Welch came scurrying, his worried eyes darting over the group at the table.
“Gin!” barked John. Welch disappeared. A moment later the gin was there and Welch was a fleeting ghost darting back toward the bar. Black John took a long drink as Tom watched him, cold within and tense with waiting.
“Ah. That does a man right. You’ll stand me that round, won’t you, Queeny?”
Tom shrugged, glancing up briefly at the two heavy forms that blocked him in. It was John’s game.
John leaned forward, eyes glittering.
“I ain’t right fond o’ you tonight. You’ve cost me my dinner.”
“You’re drinking mine.” Tom forced himself to meet John’s eyes. He was in for a beating; damned if he’d cringe too. Oddly, it seemed to help. John laughed as he threw back the rest of the gin.
“That I am. And will be, my lad, ‘til you’ve made it back.” He stood and looked down at Tom, him and his two thumpers fencing him in. Tom held on to his defiance in an act of sheer will as Black John leaned closer, his gin-heavy breath wafting his words over Tom.
“Now, I’m gonna make this easy. You cost me a good fiver there, and then there’s the problem of little renters gettin’ to think above themselves as well. We don’t need that. So we’ll call it ten. Ten pounds you owe me, and the interest on that is two a week. Keep it comin’, Queeny. And if I sends you a bit of trade, you’ll be good to the nice gentleman, and call it a favor for an old friend. You read me?”
Tom nodded, feeling sick deep in his stomach. He stared back at Black John and try not to slump. Two a week. And ten in the hole. Might as well be a hundred.
“John.” Tom looked up. Bell. The barkeep was behind Black John, wiping his hands on his apron. His big grizzled beard fanned out over his shirtfront, and his eyes above were quick and shrewd. He knew his man. Behind him already, wiry and lounging, was Hands, the bouncer. He was a dark smiling Irishman, five foot nothing that mattered, and he’d open a man up as neat as a chicken without losing that sardonic little grin. Tom had seen it, one night when the crowd got rough and steel flashed. Didn’t flash for long.
“Bell.” John didn’t look up. He kept his eyes on Tom’s, grinning.
“Anything else I can get you?”
“Naw. We was just leavin.’” John straightened and met Bell’s eye, then looked over at Hands. He touched his cap, then waved his men along with him.
“No fear, Bell. We ain’t breakin’ your peace. But you might want your rent in advance from this ‘un.”
John winked at Tom. “Ten and two, Queeny. We’ll know where to find you.”
Tom slumped as John and his men arrowed through the crowd and out the door. Bell took the seat opposite him, waving Hands aside. Hands turned his back to the table and took up guard. All along the bar, men and boys glanced up a moment in furtive guilt, then got back to business as Hands stayed motionless and smiling.
“You’ve got no rent?”
“It’s in Black John’s pocket,” said Tom, shoving at the empty glass John had left behind. “Caught me out St. James’ way and fleeced me down.”
“And you just had to get your own back?” Bell’s eyes warmed a little, and Tom smiled as Bell shook his head.
“Someone’s got to. He’s put the pinch on every renter in the place.”
“There’s a reason for that,” said Bell, his face sober as his eyes met Tom’s. “A sane man won’t cross him.”
Tom sighed and nodded. “I know. I know. But two and ten, Bell. Where am I supposed to get that?”
Bell shook his head. “Don’t know, but you’ve got it comin’ to you, messing with that. And I reckon it’ll be no rent from you for more than this week.”
Tom flushed. “Sorry, Bell. And you might see a couple of peelers. They’ll be looking for Tom Hart.”
“Real name and all? Say it ain’t so, Tom. What have you been up to?”
Tom shrugged. “Tipped ‘em on Black John. Once you’re in that far, might as well run your neck into the noose.”
Bell nodded, looking down at the table. Tom watched him glumly. Bell had been good to him. He’d taken him in when he was lost, given him his name, even – although that was bound to come with hair like his, and being what he was. The Snow Queen. It was good for a laugh. But better than a real name, and Bell was right. What he’d been thinking giving it to the peelers, he couldn’t say. But he’d done it, and here was Bell with Black John coming in one door and the police in the other. He knew what was coming before Bell opened his mouth.
“This ain’t a charity, Tom.”
“I know.”
Bell looked up. There was still some pity in him, but Tom pushed it off.
“I don’t mind a week’s rent lost now and then,” said Bell. “You know I don’t. But this ain’t the first time.”
Tom blushed. Bell leaned forward, dropping his voice.
“How many weeks you missed lately, lad?”
Tom shrugged helplessly. “Bell, really, I’m sorry –“
“That ain’t my point.” Bell spoke slowly, carefully. “You’re not earnin’. And this ain’t just about my pocket. You’ve lost your touch, lad, and it’s been gone a while.”
Tom sat silently and took it. Bell had the right. God knew how much he was into him for. He tried not to think about it, because it wasn’t fair. Poor old Bell wouldn’t even take it in trade. Whatever he got up to, it was never with the crowd from the Rings. And he’d let more rent slide than Tom cared to count.
Bell looked close into Tom’s eyes. Tom sat and let the blows drive home as Bell spoke low and firmly.
“This ain’t your life any more, Tom. However you came to it. Now you can tend bar, or wait tables, or take service, or pick up in some factory somewhere, but it’s time you were out of sellin’. You’re sinkin’ fast.”
Tom stared down at the table. No tears blurring the surface of it. None at all. Bell waited a moment, then spoke once more, gently.
“I can find you some work in the inns. It won’t pay well, but it’s something. They won’t mind where you’re from if you keep it out of their patch. What do you say?”
Tom looked down at the battered surface of the table, then out over the raucous, sensual wrack of the main room. Men and boys cozened together at chairs and tables, moving in and out from the upper rooms, money slipping hands, drink flowing. And out past the door, there in the darkness, lay Black John waiting, and all the darkened city. All the punters.
He roused. Inside his jacket. A card.
“No,” he said slowly. “But you could stand me a letter.”
***
“Mis-ter ... Thom-as ... Harrrrt ...” murmured Scrib the Pen, the nib scatching slowly over the paper. “All right. Do you want positive, glowing, or ecstatic?”
“Just two years good service,” said Tome. “Keep it simple.”
“Right you are,” said Scrib, rolling back his cuffs and delicately dipping the ink. He smoothed the paper out upon the table – fine stuff, beautiful white linen stock – and stared at the ceiling for several long moments. Then, with an air of inspiration, he began to write.
“’Mis-ter ... Hart ... was in ... the em-ploy ... of my late ... un-cle.’ Nothing like a dead old dear to pull the heart strings, eh?” Scrib smiled, rubbing his hands, then sank back into his work.
“His ... de-vo-tion ... to ... my ... un-cle ... “
“Thanks, Bell,” said Tom, eyeing the sun through the window. It had taken hard knocking and hard cash to get Scrib out of his bunk that early, and he’d still be cutting it fine to get to the Lordship’s in time for the hour. But there was no beating Scrib for the gentleman game – he had a hand as clear and fine as you’d like, and the paper and gear to make it stick.
“Worth it to have that room free,” said Bell with a grin. “’Bout time I got a payin’ lodger in.”
Tom smiled. “I won’t forget it. Wages won’t be much, but I’ll send what I can.”
“Just mind yourself, mate,” said Bell. “Black John’ll be lookin’ for you, and it’ll be a cold day in Hell that you’ll be payin’ two for ten out of a servant’s wages. Keep to your patch, wherever that’s goin’ to be. No, don’t tell me,” he said, as Tom opened his mouth to reply. “Keep it close, mate,” and here he gave a nod to Scrib, who was sunk in his work of fiction. “The less said, the better.”
Tom nodded. Bell drew him quietly aside, walking with him out to the front windows while Scrib sat laughing and exclaiming over his work.
“You wantin’ your other letters as well?” He asked it low and soft, his eyes darting from Tom to Scrib and back again.
Tom nodded slowly.
“I’ll have to. There’s got to be something he can trace.”
“Puttin’ Halford’s name in? You think that’s wise?”
“No gettin’ around him,” said Tom, shaking his head. “If I put anyone in, they’ll lead to him; every damned one of them mentions him in his character. You know what that lot’s like.” He looked up at Bell, praying that he didn’t look as bleak as he felt. There was nothing to be done. It was that or offer the Lordship a man with no history.
“I don’t think he’s the sort to recognize him,” said Tom, with defeated resignation. “But he’ll hear it, one way or another. Best try it now, and hope it slides by.”
Bell nodded. He reached into his coat and took out a bundle of papers, then handed them to Tom.
“Aye. I thought you might be wantin’ ‘em.” His eyes met Tom’s. “Just choose careful.”
“I will,” said Tom, weighing the papers. “I will.”
***
Half an hour later Bell stood in the doorway, watching the lad. Never looked younger, not in two years of living at the Rings. He was there at the table, dressed so sober that he looked ready for a funeral, with Scrib’s neat letter sat by his hand. He was wading through the pile of the others, picking them over while the sun rose higher.
You didn’t need the letters to read ‘em. You could watch the boy’s face and see the way of it. How he paled at some, threw them aside; dropped others slowly by Scrib’s clean white forgery, building up his character. And that last. How he came back to it time and again. In the end he just sat there, staring at it, until Bell had to see him on his way before he missed his hour with the gentleman. In the end he put it in. Bell watched him. And he saw the look on his face when he did.
Bell started in on the tables, wiping them down for the morning. Wasn’t his place to say, of course. Wasn’t his place to judge. But there were worse things in life than the Rings, he’d say, and worse folk than the ones who lived there. Worse out there than that.
***************************************
Questions of special interest:
(1) Is Edward coming through consistantly as a character?
(2) Is the "set" of the leads too obvious - i.e., does it feel like they're being deliberately forced together?
(3) Is it reasonably clear what's going on between Edward and Julian in the first scene?
(4) The scene of Edward dealing with Tom in the street - where Tom is warning them about the ambush - feels like it badly needs something. What is it? Tom's POV? More of Edward's thoughts and background/where he's coming from/characterization? It feels thin to me.
(5) I know that I'm flirting with death in introducing a fair bit of slang into Tom's observations and dialog. However, I also think it important in establishing who he is and what his life is like. How hard is it on the reader at the moment? Does it need to be cut back?
All other comments are, naturally, most appreciated. Feel free to shred it, as I'm quite unhappy with it at the moment anyway, barring a few individual lines. Feel free to shred them as well; I'll just quietly think them quite fine anyway
Shanglan
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