His fingers sliding along lush vermilion velvet...
Soft, supple skin...
A whispered promise on the humid cool night air...
Heady perfume invading his senses...
Then streetlamps swirling and paving stones rushing towards his head.
A torrent of pain before an eclipse of total darkness.
Harold jerked violently as he came to full consciousness. He opened his eyes to a blast of light that stabbed the back of his skull. An intense ache sluiced down his spine. Everything was still and sore, and cold. So cold and damp.
Where was his warm, wool Ulster overcoat? Even his evening tailcoat had disappeared!
He glanced down to see his silk stock gone, his waistcoat ripped, and buttons missing. The once pristine white dress shirt was streaked in grime; wrinkled into a bedraggled mess he didn't think his valet would ever be able to recover.
He shook his head working to clear the lingering fog, then instantly regretting it as his brain began its onslaught of angry, hurtful protests. He knew as he aged he should be going easy on the spirits, but he had been celebrating his newest acquisition: A saucy new mistress.
As his eyes adjusted to the dim light from lanterns lit around the room, Harold saw a warehouse, filthy and disgusting.
He curled his lips then took a deep breath in through his nose, only to feel the contents of his stomach roil. The putrid rot of the decaying fish flesh surrounding him. In the background, a briny tinge led him to believe he'd ended up in the docklands near the River Thames. Some sort of fish processing plant or warehouse. Nauseating.
It was only then that he realized he’d been bound to a chair. His ankles were snug against the chair legs and his hands twisted behind his back. He was made captive but by whom and for what reason? He could think of no rational argument for dragging him to a warehouse and restraining him thus. It was an abomination.
"What in the hell is going on?" he spat out. His voice echoed amongst the vastness of nothing. Where was he?
He heard a loud chomp, like an animal sinking its sharp teeth into tender flesh. Harold surveyed the scene until his eyes focused on a lone lad, huddled in a corner, eating an apple. He had missed him upon the first sweep of the area due to the boy's sooty, squalid clothes, and his deep ebony skin.
"You there, brat!" Harold shouted in a hoarse voice. "Come over here and untie me!" The boy's eyes went wide under his grey tattered cap, but otherwise showed no reaction as the urchin took another leisurely big bite, his cheeks puffing out with the flesh of the fruit.
Harold was not used to being ignored; perhaps by his father, but certainly not by work colleagues at the bank, or random nobodies. And definitely not by some snotty-nosed, little beggar.
"I demand you tell me where I am, and what I am doing here!" The boy took another bite, chewing as though he were eating the finest partridge. Perhaps it was like ambrosia to the little codswallop? Harold didn't have time to care. He was freezing, frightened, and could use a spot of food to settle his rolling stomach.
Finally, as if sensing the anger emanating off Harold's shoulders, the young thing deigned to pull itself up off the floor to traipse across the expanse of the building towards the chair.
"Bout time, brat. Get a move on. Don't be lazy."
The young man narrowed his eyes, the whites around the pupils no longer showing, but otherwise had no reaction. He stopped when he got a few feet from Harold.
"Well come on, then! Are you daft? Let me go I say! I am the son of a marquess! Untie me this instant!"
The boy screwed his face up as though the yelling was hurting his ears. In the next breath, he took off his soiled neckcloth.
What could that possibly do? Harold pondered.
The youth came towards him, taking another bite of the apple as he seemed to focus on Harold's mouth.
"For the love of God, if you would...” He was interrupted by the youth's swift, almost seamless action. He rushed forward only to shove the apple right into Harold's mouth, quickly securing the bandanna around his head, despite his struggle.
He'd been as quick as a ghost!
Harold howled as best he could with the fruit in his mouth but could only manage a muffled outcry.
The youth gave him a tiny, mysterious grin, then sauntered back over to the corner he had come from, before walking out a door.
Enraged, Harold began to fight against the bonds, trying to force the apple out of his mouth, maybe tip over the chair. How dare that guttersnipe leave him to this demeaning struggle. He would see that guttersnipe, and whoever else was involved with all this, doomed to an earth bath in an eternity box! This was outrageous!
He sat for what felt like hours, groggy, cold, and in pain until finally, he heard the door open again. He sprang fully awake ready to begin his struggle afresh when his eyes focused upon an almost holy site. The angel from the night before. A vision in a pink pinafore dress, with the most beautiful soft blonde curls and big round eyes of blue. She was skipping towards him and he swore he saw the heavens open up to shine a light upon this heavenly creature. The sweet, innocent smile on her face... and then it melted as she came closer to him, noticing his conundrum. Thanks be to God, Harold's luck was looking up.
"Aww, my poor baby! Who did this to you?" She giggled, the sound like chiming bells to his ears as she carefully untied the foul-smelling bandana from around his mouth.
Harold spit the offending and half-rotten apple from his mouth, drool dribbling down his chin.
"Oh my, let me clean that up for you." She leaned down and pulled out her handkerchief from underneath her soft and frothy candy pink confection of a dress.
Harold ogled her breasts as she leaned in close. He took a deep breath of the sweet bathwater that adorned the handkerchief; violets and lily of the valley. Pure and sweet, just like this wonderful saintly woman who was hovering above him. Perhaps his situation wasn't as bad as it could have been and he would be able to escape with this juicy morsel, perhaps warm up together in a bath by a fire at the townhouse of his recently departed mistress. The new one had conveniently not yet moved in.
"Oh my dear, I cannot begin to tell you how glad I am to see you this morning. You've come to rescue me into your bosom."
A tittering, tinkling, melodious sound erupted from her again and Harold felt a small bit of warmth gather in his belly. He'd been in some close ones before, but this time, apparently, his luck still held. "Now if you could just untie me, we can be out of here in a thrice. And I know just the place to take you..."
She shook her head, the tight blonde curls dancing about her pink cheeks.
"Or I can drop you off at whatever location you would prefer, depending of course on if I can find my carriage..."
She held his head to her warm bosom and stroked at his bald head. "I'm so sorry, handsome Harold, but I'm not allowed to untie you. Catherine's orders."
Harold pulled his head from her grasp and looked up at his savior.
She blinked then held her hands over her ripe lips. Her eyes turned to full saucers.
"Who is Catherine?"
"Me." It came from a stately woman on the other side of the room who had just appeared out of nowhere. The booming voice was more appropriate for a ballroom than this hovel he found himself in. Her elegant poise and certitude filled the room as she floated across the dirty floor, her violet and grey skirts repelling the muck and refuse strewn about the place. It was as though a grand Duchess had magically appeared. For all Harold knew, perhaps she was. She seemed familiar in some way...
"Mr. Liset, if you would be so kind as to bring me my chair?"
Out from the corner of the room, the tiny street urchin from earlier came shuffling in, with a pristine cane back chair, gilded in gold. Such finery for a low down location. The youth carefully set the chair onto the ground, avoiding leftover fish bits, then took a clean handkerchief from his pocket and dusted off the already spotless perch for the woman called Catherine.
She sat
down most elegantly, settling her extensive skirts in a pleasing picture before her eyes settled to examine Harold. She was most likely in her early 50's, with only the smallest of lines across her face. Her aquiline nose was somehow still elegant and lent an air of gravitas to an altogether striking appearance.
Her cohorts, numbering three or four, hung back in the shadows, awaiting her bidding.
Harold felt a quick memory tickle at the back of his mind. This woman, standing in voluminous drapes of white, was like the vengeful roman goddess Diana, after a successful hunt. She was lit from behind, with a glorious sunset rising to worship at her feet and her hair waving in glory around her face.
He shook his head at the fanciful thought. This woman, with her piercing, green eyes the color of peridot, was dissecting him with her stare, as though he were some offending frog, being cut open in one of those Gothic horrors about some unhinged doctor in a midnight laboratory.
"Harold Fletcher,” she intoned. “Second son of the Marquess of Crudwell. You have been found guilty."
Harold could only shake his head, wondering if he had misheard her for the moment. His head was still throbbing from the alcohol of the night before.
"I'm sorry, but would you be so kind as to repeat your last words? I seem to have some ringing in my ears." He wondered why he was keeping up the niceties with this woman, who was clearly the ringleader of this nefarious street gang made up of women and ne’er-do-wells.
"You are guilty, sir." It was enunciated clearly, through her thin and disapproving lips.
He blinked, confident he had heard correctly, while his mind tried its best to catch up. "This isn't a court of law, madam. And you are not a barrister, let alone a judge."
"You see, I told you he was clever, didn't I?" The blonde one laughed this time, clapping her hands as though she were a tiny child on a horse. She was clearly an accomplice in this ragtag group. Perhaps she had snuck some sort of sleeping drought into his glass the evening before. He would deal with her later.
"That remains to be seen, Eveline. He certainly wasn't acting very intelligently when he decided to dally with the wrong group of people."
Harold's mind raced as quickly as his shivering body would let him. What could this woman be speaking about? Had the bank cast these people from their homes? Had he fired their brother? He couldn't think how these women would know who he was, let alone imagine what of his many past transgressions might have led to their ire.
A small mincing voice in the back of his mind reminded him that there had been many such sins, but he was a banker and a landowner, not a charity. And God willing, if he could find his way out of this pit, he would someday be the next Member of Parliament for North Yorkshire. He squashed the voice inside his head.
"I have no idea what in the world you are talking about, madam. Do you know what sort of groups of people you are currently dallying with by accosting me in this manner?"
"I do. I know exactly to whom you would rush to were you to escape unscathed here." The cold slice of her logic chilled his heart.
"What do you mean by, ‘were to escape unscathed?’"
"That part depends on you, Harold. You must choose correctly in the game we have prepared for you."
"I love games!" Eveline jumped up and down again, clapping her hands, the bows in her hair becoming loose. Harold was entirely convinced of her insanity at that moment. "Catherine lets me play them all the time. Just like last night, when I got to dress up and play with you, Harold." There was a smile on her face, but behind it; nothing. As though she were some sort of demented clockwork doll.
"What sort of game are we talking about?" Harold had played games his whole life. Investments, schemes, hide the mistress.
"It's a guessing game. We are looking for the correct answer, Mr. Fletcher."
"A guessing game! Mona, did you hear that?" Eveline shouted.
Mona? Harold's eyes traveled across to the sullen youth still hiding in the shadows behind Catherine and the doll. He watched as a small Cheshire grin appeared on the dirt-smeared face. Much like the painting of the same name, the partial smile was, unnerving. Harold peered through squinted eyes to notice the delicate build of the jaw and the distinct lack of an Adam's apple.
"That hoodlum is a woman dressed in men's clothing!? It's obscene."
Mona crossed her arms over her chest and spat on the ground.
"Yes, Mr. Lisel is a woman. Perhaps you are clever, Harold." Caroline looked fondly over her shoulder towards the young woman, then turned back towards him, the smile melting from her face. "But I still believe you are very stupid since you landed yourself here."
"Because I was hoodwinked by that, demonic...dancing doll in the corner over there."
"He called me a doll! I love playing with dolls!" Eveline shrieked, the curls bouncing merrily.
"No, from the choices you made in life." Catherine stood up from the seat then, rising like a titan from the ocean's deep. "Mr. Lisel, would you mind sending in Krishna, I grow tired of this idle chit chat. I believe it is time to move into the negotiation portion of this conversation."
Harold craned his neck as Mona strode back out the corner door, her footsteps from her heavy boots echoing against the wooden rafters of the roof, interrupting the nesting doves.
"Krishna? Another one of those females dressed in trousers?"
Caroline let out a rare sniff of humor. "I'll let you be the judge of that, sir."
Harold did not understand what that meant, but he knew that he needed to get out of there. This was ridiculous. "Listen, madam, I do believe if you would just untie me, we could certainly settle this like two civilized beings. Without all the riff-raff lurking about." He glanced at Eve who waggled her fingers at him before biting on her pointer finger.
"My colleagues will be staying, thank you. As will you and I. "
He felt a cold sweat mingle into the hairs of his sideburns. "I can be a very generous man, Madam. I'm not without resources."
"Funny, that is not what I heard."
"You harridan and your cast of misfit toys!"
"Catherine will do just fine, thank you."
"Catherine? More like a Cat, a hellcat, who's crawled out from some gutter." He bared his teeth in a feral and furious manner.
"Ah, now the real Harold makes an appearance. The one that hides behind his fancy cravats and Seville tailored clothing. The base, beast of a man, who is so capable of such unspeakable cruelty."
Harold strained against his bonds and felt the corner of the chair raise up off the ground only to come slamming down the next second. "I have done nothing to you and yours! You are the criminals. The real beasts around here!"
"Me?" Catherine intoned, placing her hand on her chest. She blinked a few times in a coquettish way. "And certainly you don't mean my sweet and simple Eve."
The party in question tilted her head and twirled a finger through her hair. Her eyes continued to look like a poppet’s, glazed and dead, encased in a mantel of cold glass.
Catherine continued, "And while I myself will admit Mr. Lisel's manners can be a bit rough, she's never hurt anyone...” She smiled at her charge. “…who didn't deserve it."
"You are all unhinged whores!" He could feel the spittle as it hurled from his lips. His head was now an incessant hammer, beating in time with the anger firing through his blood.
"And yet, you have not yet seen the most charming of our little gang." A pound was heard from the far ends of the room, as though an earthquake had shaken the very foundation of this dilapidated warehouse. "Ah, there's Krishna now."
The minor earthquakes continued with each step from the giant in the shadows. As it cleared the small light spilling from the various lanterns, Harold was sure he was seeing the embodiment of Frankenstein's monster.
He was a hideous, massive lump of a man, with deep-toned skin the color of burnt almonds. Scars crisscrossed his face, one slashing through an angry red and milky black eye, then continued down his neck until they disappear
ed behind his rough homespun shirt. His head was shaved clean, while his beard was a thick midnight black. Krishna's height and build made the very imposing Catherine look positively dainty in comparison.
"Krishna, I do believe it's time for Mr. Fletcher's afternoon swim."
Swim... Harold watched with wild eyes as the giant lumbered over towards another dark corner of the factory. There was a loud wrenching noise, followed by chains clanging, before a rusty squeak as the Indian stepped back into the light.
He carried with him, a large pulley, hanging from the network of metal beams running just below the wooden ones that held the roof. At the end was a very large and angry rusted metal hook. Krishna gave a mighty tug and followed the ropes ever closer to the chair Harold sat on.
"What in the world! You are entirely insane! All of you." He gave a mighty struggle but Krishna ignored him and secured the chair to the end of the hook.
In the next moment, Harold felt himself being tugged right up into the air!
"You are all mad!" He screamed now, looking down at the group and an ever-larger hole opening up in the floor, to reveal utterly dark and inky water. The Thames! "You will let me down this instant!" He swung about wildly.
The group flew in and out of his vision, not one of them perturbed or ruffled at the sight of a man facing his end.
"Well if that's what you'd prefer. Krishna?"
The chair slipped suddenly. The water was ever closer to his feet. "Don't let me down there! Please, keep me on dry land! What is this about? What do you want? Is it money? A favor?!" He was desperate now. He'd always been terrified of water.
The woman, the crazed fussock, calmly sat back down on her dainty chair. "Oh, it's not for us, Harold. But rather a dear friend. A dear friend whom you have done wrong, and owe."
He'd never heard of a lady gang of Crimps, looking for the shakedown on funds owed. And besides, he didn't owe anyone money! At least he didn't think so..."I owe no one." He held his chin up high, trying to ignore the quaking in his belly.
"That is incorrect. Mr. Liset? My book if you please."
The woman, whom Harold had taken for a boy, pulled a diary from inside her all-too masculine jacket and handed it to Catherine. Then dug a napkin wrapped around something from another pocket and placed it next to the book.
Hellcats: Anthology Page 57