Supply and Demand

by C. C. Edmonston

  ‘Hmmm,’ said Grave, who’d barely flinched, his voice coming from some very distant place. He was shaking his head as he gently put his glass back on the workbench. ‘I could’ve laid money on that being the outcome to this unfortunate situation we now find ourselves in.’

  On all fours now and Shanklin attempted to stand but it was futile, the sensation of sinking into the earth like he was in a swamp, overwhelming him. His tingling fingers wrapped themselves around the handle of his knife but he felt no grip there at all, only a creeping numbness that worked its way through his poisoned body. He noticed then, from being low to the ground like he was, that there were more flaps of discarded flesh here and there. Something that looked to be part of an ear. Another: a bit of nose.

  ‘You see, London’s streets are brimming with stock,’ said the bootmaker. ‘On every corner someone begs. I once lived on those streets, sir, for a time, after I stepped off a slave ship on these shores and managed to escape my captors. I saw the tide of impoverished, the sick and the diseased. I mingled with those creatures who have no regard for their well-being. If you have no commitment to your own hygiene then why should I? And being that I have acquired skills through the years, I decided to harness that stock for an alternative, altogether better use. To remove its skin and clean it for repurpose. It is supply and demand, sir, nothing more.’

  ‘You fuuuu …’ slurred Shanklin, dribbling. ‘Wormley … he’s … you’ve … drugged … him too …’

  Grave softly sighed. ‘I have suffered at the hands of the white man,’ he said, ‘and now is my chance to give something back.’ His expressionless eyes finally sparkled. ‘And the wealthy will pay handsomely for such remarkable leather boots, sir.’

  Shanklin heard a moan coming from somewhere and realised that it was himself doing it.

  ‘Allow the laudanum to fully work, sir,’ Grave continued. ‘Do not fight it. It is in your interest to do so, for you will feel less pain during the procedure that awaits. Because you see, to remove the skin from the subject with ease it is crucial there is still body heat in the tissue. Yes! This is why the animal - for that is all that we are - is kept alive for as long as possible. It is not the finest, softest product I make simply by chance, sir!’

  Shanklin rolled onto his back, the knife slipping from his fingers as he lay blinking up at the spinning roof of the barn, dozens of human skins hanging from the beams above him, warping and dancing before his eyes. He turned his head to see Randall, groaning, his mutilated face covered in blood, lying inches from the edge of the tanning pit, one pleading eye blinking.

  Grave approached him with the oar he used for stirring the solution gripped in both hands. ‘Your friend has some fight in him too,’ he said to Shanklin as he towered over Randall. ‘I would ideally like to have kept you both alive during the skinning process but my efforts must be focused.’ He smiled. ‘Though you shall both make a fine pair of boots.’

  Turning his back to Shanklin, Grave hefted the oar above him and prepared to deal Randall a deathly blow.

  Sucking in a breath, Shanklin forced himself up, pushing his weight up onto his elbows and dragging a leg from under him. With an almighty effort he stood, the drone of the waterwheel hiding the grunts of frustration, his fuzzy stare remaining on the bootmaker’s back the whole time: all three of him. Shanklin hovered there, wobbled, swaying as he fought to control his senses, watching that oar rise up higher in Grave’s hands.

  Three Abraham Graves became just two. Then one.

  ‘Laudanum!’ Shanklin shouted.

  The bootmaker twisted round, surprised to discover that his other victim was no longer on the ground.

  ‘Old habits …’ Shanklin said, ‘… die hard.’

  Landing a strong kick to Grave’s back, Shanklin sent him toppling into the tanning solution with a heavy splash. The oar clattered to the ground as the bootmaker became quickly entangled in the layers of floating skins, wrapping themselves around him like heavy, wet bedsheets, dragging him under the dark, frothy mixture while he thrashed and flailed and groped helplessly at the slippery sides of the pit. But his fingers could not find any purchase and he was pulled down by the weight of the skins, twisting and turning, gurgling and gasping for breath before finally disappearing beneath the surface, sucked into the depths of the black water until all that remained were tiny, popping bubbles. Then they too were soon gone.

  ‘How … unfortunate,’ muttered Shanklin, his vision still blurred and his head pounding like the bastard of all hangovers. It’d been a long while since he’d taken a dose anywhere near as strong as the one he’d been given today, but like a muscle remembers how to lift something heavy, so it was that he recalled the effects of his once chosen choice of heavy relaxation.

  He staggered towards Randall, careful not to squash his friend’s eyeball under a boot. Shanklin’s stomach swirled seeing it hanging out like that, the stringy connective tissue still intact. Wasn’t normal. Not even fucking close. But what was today? Boots made from people?

  Christ, it was time to go home.

  Stooping down, Shanklin hooked an arm under Randall and hauled him to his feet, the eye resting on his cheek while he looked around, dazed and bloodied. They made to leave the barn before pausing, Shanklin glancing back at those immaculate boots all lined up nice and neat like that. Couldn’t hurt, could it? he thought. Whoever they’d been in life they would now have the chance to walk again in death.

  With his pistol and his knife in his belt and a pair of boots tucked under one arm with the other around Randall’s waist, Shanklin and his partner staggered back, back towards the light.

  ‘My …,’ Randall said, pawing at the dangling red blob as they made their way out of the tannery, one wobbly step at a time. ‘Something’s not …’

  ‘I’ll tell ya … all about it on the ride home,’ Shanklin said. ‘But … look on the bright side, Fluff … at least you can … see around corners now.’

  Outside in the blinding whiteness and the horses were still tied and patiently waiting. The rain had eased. The fog was lifting.

  With a helping shove from Shanklin, Randall swung a leg up and over onto Jess and there he sat sloped in the saddle, his loose eye bouncing like he was a damaged toy.

  ‘Stay there,’ Shanklin wheezed while Randall swayed. ‘I’m gonna check … on someone.’

  The sitting room was once again how they’d first found it: shy of people, the drugged beggar having somehow made his own way out of this hell-hole. For a moment, Shanklin wondered if the idiot would ever know quite how close he came to becoming someone’s footwear.

  Mr Ditchwater sat with his elbows propped on the desk and his chubby fingers clasped firmly together while he stared at the pair of boots in front of him.

  ‘Dead?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s how we found him,’ Shanklin said. ‘Drowned in his own tanning pit.’

  The landlord sighed then closed his eyes before scratching at his scalp in visible frustration. ‘And this is all you retrieved from his warehouse?’

  ‘It wasn’t a warehouse,’ Shanklin said. ‘It was a tannery and those boots are worth more than you can imagine.’

  ‘So he told you!’ Ditchwater said.

  Shanklin breathed. Now wasn’t the time to go getting upset. There was a purse to collect first. ‘So I know,’ he answered. ‘Listen, if you don’t want ’em that’s your choice, Mr Ditchwater, but it’s all we got from our visit. There’s men’d give their eye to own a pair of boots like that.’

  The words had come out before he’d had time to consider ’em but his thoughts turned to Randall then, laid up in bed and recovering after being under the surgeon’s knife. ‘So, unless you’ve got anything more to say,’ added Shanklin, ‘then I’d like to collect what’s owed and be on my way.’

  Reluctantly, Ditchwater removed a shoe, picked up one of the boots from his desk and attempted to pull it on, squeezing his fat calf into the soft leather whilst grunting with all the effort. Shanklin watched
him with disgust, the bulbous bastard doing all he could to make the thing fit when clearly it didn’t.

  ‘Gah!’ said Ditchwater, tearing the boot off and flinging it across his office. ‘Dead? The bloody fool! The paperwork this’ll require! And I’m still out of pocket. Damn and shit on it all!’

  He stood up sharply and, wearing only one shoe, limped over to the first-floor window looking down on Seething Lane and the shoppers that flitted by.

  ‘I assume the authorities have been informed?’ Ditchwater asked, his back to Shanklin, hands wringing behind him.

  ‘Then you’ve assumed wrong. I left your debtor drowned in a pit of his own tanning solution. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed but I don’t exactly have the face of a saint and my name’s on the lips of too many thief-takers already, so it’s up to you what you do from here just as long as you leave me out of it. I hope that’s understood, Mr Ditchwater?’

  The landlord turned, eyeing Shanklin with a certain degree of disdain before nodding.

  ‘Good,’ said Shanklin. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I’ll be going.’

  Ditchwater waddled back to his large desk and flopped down into his chair, sliding open a drawer from which he retrieved a pouch full of coins.

  Shanklin took the money from him, weighing the purse in his hand and assessing the grain of the leather. He reckoned he’d be doing a little more of that from now on.

  ‘It’s all there,’ Ditchwater assured him with a dismissive wave of his chubby hand. ‘Unlike my bloody tenants, I pay in full when it’s required.’

  Shanklin bid the landlord farewell and turned to leave the office just as Ditchwater thumped a fist onto his desk, scattering papers. ‘The bastard!’ he exclaimed, cheeks flushed red. ‘To think that I trusted that bloated, hairy, scruffy fucker with my shop! My shop! A prime fucking location too! He wouldn’t have found it cheaper anywhere else, I can assure you. And he couldn’t even make the rent for one year? Called himself a businessman? He wouldn’t know business if it tore his wretched beard off, the ignorant—’

  ‘What did you say?’ asked Shanklin, now hovering by the door.

  Ditchwater was frowning up at him from behind his desk. ‘What?’

  ‘You called him bloated. Hairy. Y’said he had a beard?’

  ‘Yes, so? So what?’ Ditchwater was leaning so far back in his chair that it creaked loudly and sounded in danger of breaking. His gaze was drawn to the window once again. ‘You’d think that having a negro fucking servant to help around the place would give him more time to focus on his affairs!’

  ‘A servant?’

  ‘So he mentioned once,’ replied Ditchwater. ‘Never met the man myself. Grave took him in off the streets, apparently. Inseparable, so I’m told. Used him to help out in his tannery, to stir the solutions and so forth. They might’ve been lovers for all I know, but who gives a shit? Grave is dead and I’m still owed money!’

  Shanklin watched the landlord for a moment, Ditchwater’s stare still fixed on the street outside. There were things he wanted to say but the words were all snagged on his tongue.

  Shanklin placed the pouch of coins safely into his pocket, where it would stay until he met with Randall later. ‘Good day,’ he said and turned to leave.

  ‘Is it?’ Ditchwater said, drumming his fat fingers on the desk. ‘Maybe it’ll improve if someone makes a pair of fucking boots out of the fat cunt. I’d pay to have those fitted!’

  Softly closing the office door, Shanklin descended the narrow stairs and left the building onto Seething Lane. He paused at the entrance, pulling up his collar to a cold breeze while he watched the fashionable beau monde amble past in their fancy wigs and frocks. Turned his stomach to see ’em with their noses in the air like their shit didn’t stink.

  ‘Spare a coin, sir?’ A feeble voice to his right.

  Shanklin looked down to see a young black lad with his outstretched fingers trembling. His back was pressed to a wall and he was dressed in rags with no shoes on his feet. He looked just about as low as anyone might get.

  Glancing up and down the street, Shanklin checked there were no watchmen close by and he pulled out the purse he’d just been given.

  ‘Here,’ he said, throwing a few shillings at the beggar who caught them with obvious delight. ‘Go buy yourself a pair of boots.’

  The lad thanked him, beaming from ear to ear.

  ‘It’s dangerous for you round here,’ Shanklin said. ‘You should find some place else. There’s some crazy folk around.’

  Then Shanklin began walking home. Home to Sarah and his son, Harry. Where it was somewhat safer.

  THE END

  To my wife, who does like a fine pair of boots.

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  About the Author

  Cheynne (pronounced Shane but that’s another story) was born and raised in East London and now lives with his wife and daughter in Hertfordshire. He has a martial arts background in Krav Maga, spent ten years as a bodyguard to A-list celebrities, used to be a nightclub bouncer and once co-owned a graphic design company. Nowadays he mainly spends his time putting words and paintings down on a digital canvas. Often quite violent words.

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  Copyright © 2017 C.C. Edmonston

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  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and co-incidental. Thankfully.

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