The Great Stink

by Clare Clark

  'For Christ's sake! If I can do it —' he hissed at his friend, who sniggered and inspected the bloodstains on his cane, the point of his tongue thrust between his teeth as if he would lick them off.

  Apprehensively Brassey had another dog put into the ring. Its face was set into a vicious sneer but it made only halfhearted moves towards its prey, starting like a child as a rat sprang into its face and backing towards its second. The second drummed his hands together furiously and barked at the dog to go at them but for all his efforts the dog looked more anxious than bloodthirsty. It made a few feeble pounces but the rats had him rattled and they knew it. Together they advanced on the dog. Angrily the Captain kicked at the pit and called for an end to it.

  'You waste my time, Brassey,' the Captain spat. 'I would have seen more sport at a Sewing Circle.'

  'Come now, my friend,' Brassey soothed, the sweat greasing his forehead. 'Be patient. We have barely begun.'

  The Captain jeered and snatched up his hat. Behind him his companion tugged at his neckcloth, a simpleton's smirk plucking at the corners of his mouth.

  'Come, Henry,' the Captain barked. 'We shall not trouble ourselves again with so inferior a place.'

  This was sport. The Fancy quietened down to watch.

  'Gentlemen, gentlemen, please. Not so fast.' Brassey's little eyes darted around the room. 'Ah, Tom! Now, gentlemen, here we have a dog for your consideration. Never fought before.'

  The Captain growled angrily and kicked over his chair.

  'Not here, that is,' Brassey added hastily. 'But she's a champion in the Borough. Famous there, she is. A phee-nomenon. Right, Tom? Famous, you two is, in the Borough.'

  He gave Tom's sleeve a sharp twist. Tom said nothing but his hand sought out Lady's ears. She rubbed her head against his palm.

  'A phenomenon?' the Captain said contemptuously. 'That mongrel?'

  A low rumble of laughter ran around the room. Brassey gulped and his toad eyes bulged.

  'Assuredly. Laid good money on her myself, many a time.' He licked his lips as he made a show of setting the Captain's chair upright and brushing the sawdust from its seat. 'Go on, Tom. Show the Captain what she's made of.'

  The Captain hesitated. Then with a shrug he tossed his hat back on his chair and folded his arms over his chest. He did not sit down.

  'Well, go on then, mongrel man,' he drawled. 'Let the massacre begin.'

  A fresh mound of rats was released into the pit. Very quietly Tom untied the rope from around Lady's neck and held her face between his hands. She stared at him steadily with her pink eyes. Then he held her over the wall of the ring.

  'What are you doing?' Brassey hissed, his face scarlet. 'You's the second, ain't yer? You got to get in with her.'

  But Tom shook his head.

  'No. She don't like it.'

  'For the love of God, man —'

  Ignoring the publican Tom lowered Lady gently to the floor. The Fancy muttered, shaking their heads. The Captain glowered. For a moment Tom remained quite still, his hands around the drum of Lady's chest, his fingers slotted between her ribs. The Captain tapped a restless boot and drummed his fingers on the pit wall. Brassey clenched his damp fists and closed his eyes. Then Tom stood, folding his hands together. He looked steadily down at the dog. Lady paused, her own gaze set thoughtfully upon the squalling mound of rats. She looked small and very pink.

  And then, without a sound, she set about the killing. One after the other she killed them, another and then another, barely pausing to take a breath. The Fancy stared, their mouths open. The Captain's fingers stopped drumming to grip the rim of the pit. His eyes sharpened with greed and delight. In hardly more than a minute a dozen rats with scarlet necks lay dying around the ring and the white paint of the pit was grained with blood. When time was called the corpses piled like dirty sandbags against the walls. Tom called quietly to Lady. Obediently she sat, every muscle taut, her eyes fixed on the few live rats that were left.

  There was a moment of stunned silence and then the shouts erupted. The Captain beat his fists hard against the pit wall. His eyes flashed and his breath came in quick pants like a dog.

  'More!' he urged. 'Give her more!'

  Excitedly the Fancy took up the call. More! More! Fists full of coins punched the air. More! Here! More!

  'Why not indeed!' crowed Brassey, dancing in delight as he spied the note slotted between the Captain's friend's fingers. 'Give the beast another round.'

  Tom reached down into the pit and lifted Lady into his arms. Shouts of protest rang round the parlour.

  'That'll do,' Tom said quietly.

  'But Tom — Tom, come now, another twenty —' Brassey protested.

  'She's done,' he repeated firmly.

  'A fine killer.' The Captain spoke softly, leaning towards Tom. He reached a hand out to touch Lady's head but the dog drew her lips back from her teeth in a silent snarl. Smiling faintly the Captain reached into his pocket for a cigar. 'A fine, fine killer.'

  'I told you, didn't I?' Brassey interrupted triumphantly, a lit match flaring from his fingers. 'A phenomenon. And Tom means to fight her here regular, ain't that right, my friend? Regular.'

  The Captain inhaled and leaned up against the wall so Brassey was pushed out.

  'I'm looking for a dog,' he said to Tom.

  Tom waited. The Captain pursed his lips and released the smoke in a neat chain of rings.

  'If yours can kill fifteen in a single minute I'll give you fifty guineas for her.'

  'One hundred.'

  The Captain choked on a mouthful of smoke.

  'One hundred guineas?' he coughed. 'Are you out of your mind?'

  'That's the price."

  The Captain looked Tom up and down. The tosher's hair was crusted into clumps and the reek of the sewers clung to his old coat. God only knew how bad he smelled to the dog who had her nose tucked right into one torn lapel. One hundred guineas! The old trickster must take him for a fool. A tramp like that would take fifty and think himself the luckiest cove alive.

  'It's quite impossible,' he said with a shrug. 'Fifty's the best I can do.'

  Tom shrugged back.

  'One hundred,' he said again.

  The two men stared at each other for a moment. Tom's face held steady but the Captain's eye twitched and two spots of red burned in his cheeks.

  'Seventy-five,' the Captain said at last.

  Tom raised one eyebrow.

  'Good night, Brassey,' he said quietly, nodding over the Captain's shoulder.

  'Tom, come now,' urged Brassey, eyeing the Captain nervously. 'Seventy-five guineas —'

  'Good night,' Tom said again.

  The Captain must have had a long stride. He was at the parlour door as Tom reached out to open it.

  'Eighteen in a minute.'

  'One hundred guineas?'

  'One hundred guineas.'

  Tom thought for a moment, his hand caressing Lady's ear. Then he nodded.

  'Tomorrow night?' the Captain demanded.

  Tom shook his head.

  'The dog needs rest. Give us a month.'

  The Captain sneered but his eyes fixed on Lady as if she was a slab of steak.

  'I thought she was supposed to be a phee-nomenon.'

  'You saw her.'

  'A phenomenon with no stomach for the fight,' the Captain snapped, jabbing at the dog's nose with the lit end of his cigar. 'You think I'm paying one hundred guineas for that?'

  'So don't,' Tom replied with a shrug.

  The Captain chewed on his cigar before spitting out a ball of smoke.

  'All right. All right,' he allowed angrily. 'One month from today.'

  'One hundred guineas,' Tom repeated slowly, savouring the taste.

  'One hundred guineas.' The Captain scowled at the dog but greed softened the corners of his mouth. 'The beast'd better prove herself worth it.'

  One hundred guineas. That night Tom carried Lady all the way home, hugged against his chest. One hundred guineas. Eighteen in a
minute was a push but not impossible, not for Lady. She wasn't no ordinary dog. Tom'd get his one hundred guineas, there was no doubt of it. Who cared now if they built the Queen of England a palace down the tunnels? He'd not have to go down there again for nothing, not if he lived another dozen years. One hundred guineas! The price of thousands upon thousands of rats, years of rats even if they were still there for the catching — for just one dog. Someone had been smiling on him, the day he'd picked up Lady outside the Badger. Who'd've thought a man like him would have luck like that? One hundred guineas. One hundred guineas! It was nothing short of a miracle.

  Back in his lodgings the two of them shared a dish of stew. Tom felt the first stirrings of anxiety. Perhaps he'd been wrong to insist on a month. It was time enough for the Captain to change his mind, for another dog to take his fancy. Tom swallowed firmly and took another bite of bread. Dogs like Lady didn't come along every day. And this way he'd have time to work her that bit more, so as to be sure of the prize. In a few weeks he'd have his hundred guineas — one hundred guineas! And the Captain, well, the Captain would have Lady. Tom's hand crept unbidden to the spot on the dog's belly where she liked to be scratched. She curled herself blissfully round it and closed her eyes. She'd have a good life with the Captain. A one hundred-guinea dog'd live like a queen, best cuts of meat at every meal. He tried not to remember the way the Captain had looked at Lady, greedily, like he might eat her. Most likely he'd have her sleep on his own bed, to keep her from thieves. One hundred guineas. He must've seen she'd be a champion.

  Gravy slopped from the dish of stew on to the bare boards of the floor. Tom's knees were trembling. It was the weight of her, too heavy for his old legs. He put the dish down and Lady stretched out across his lap, contented as a cat. The candlelight made her look pinker than ever. She was a rum-looking beast, he thought to himself, and he felt something choking him, like a piece of meat had got itself stuck in his throat. He swallowed hard but it didn't shift. His nose prickled. Impatiently he rubbed it on his sleeve. He'd never needed nobody, not his whole life. Being alone was the way of things for him. He'd always liked it that way, no one to depend on him, to be a burden on him. He was too old for that sort of thing, these days. And Lady, well, Lady was going up in the world. It wouldn't be long before she'd have herself a fancy gold collar like the stuffed champion at the Badger, maybe even two collars. Her life'd be that flashy she'd never stop to think on her old master in his mean lodgings above the courtyard in St Giles. Like enough she'd think herself well shot of him. She was set to be a champion, this one, and he wished her well. All he could hope for was she wouldn't forget him, old Tom who'd set her on her way. He wouldn't forget her. He would never forget her. He wrapped his arms around her, so tight she snapped at him sleepily and wriggled out of his embrace. He did not move himself until the rush-light had burned itself out and the very last of her warmth had cooled from his lap.

  IX

  'Fifty brickyards right here in London and you tell me we have to go where for our bricks?'

  'Strowbridge, sir. It's in—shire.'

  'How many times do I have to caution you on this matter?' Hawke snapped. 'Do you have any notion of the expense of transporting bricks more than one hundred and fifty miles?'

  'Of course, sir. Here, I have detailed our calculations.'

  Hawke snatched at the sheaf of papers that William held out to him. Glancing at the first page he smacked at it dismissively with the back of his hand and his face darkened. William bit his lip but he stood his ground. Hawke's anger was regrettable, since Hawke was not only his superior but wielded considerable authority with the Board of Works, but nonetheless in this instance William considered himself on safe ground. The brick specifications to which Hawke objected so strongly had been laid down by Bazalgette himself. In the tests that they had run upon them, the Strowbridge bricks had shown themselves to be ideal for the purpose. Indeed William had, in the course of the last months, come to suspect that Hawke's fits of anger, although frequent and excessively convincing, might not reflect his true state of mind. It was Hawke's job to account for every penny spent by the Board and to ensure that every possible economy and efficiency could be made. Intimidation was doubtless a useful tool in those negotiations. But even bullying could only achieve so much. Already arrangements were being finalized for the first sewer excavations to begin. Contracts with the brickyards would need to be drawn up before Christmas. Bellow and bluster he might but sooner or later Hawke would have to accept that, although more costly than he wished, the approval of the contract with the Strowbridge Works was as inevitable as it was justifiable.

  'The assumptions we have made are detailed in the appendix,' William said evenly. 'Mr Lovick agrees that they are as accurate as can be expected at this time.'

  Hawke glared at William, thrusting the fistful of papers into William's face.

  'This is impossible! There are yards right here in London that will produce bricks at half this price. Less than half. Alfred England's yard, to name but one. You will cease this nonsense about Strowbridge and work with those brickyards, with England's, damn you, or I will have you hauled up in front of the Board. Do I make myself clear?'

  Wadding the papers into a ball, he tossed them in the direction of the waste-paper basket. William resisted the urge to retrieve them. A muscle in Hawke's cheek twitched as he leaned across his desk.

  'Is it your expressed intention that this project founder, Mr May? Or perhaps you stand to gain directly from the Strowbridge contract? Is that it? They cutting you in, are they? How much, May, eh? Hundreds? More, surely? Thousands?'

  William gasped. He understood the requirement for Hawke to press him on decisions of this nature, to ensure that the Board's money was properly spent, but to make so low a charge, to impugn not only William's judgement but his good name, his honour? The anger boiled in his chest. But at the same time he was certain that that was what Hawke hoped for, that he would lose control. He would not lose control. Clenching his fists, William took a deep breath.

  'As I am sure you are aware, sir,' he replied carefully, 'the Committee has clearly stipulated that all contracts shall be awarded solely on the basis of merit. And, as we have discussed on a number of previous occasions, no London brickyard can meet the specifications required by Mr Bazalgette.'

  'Do you take me for a fool, you insolent clod?' Hawke hissed. 'England's brickyard incapable of producing bricks?'

  'Of producing the right bricks, sir.'

  'Then, dammit, man, it's down to you to show 'em how!'

  'That would be quite impossible, sir. You see, the methods used by the Strowbridge Works are protected under patent.'

  'Under patent? If that is the concern —!' Hawke passed an incredulous hand over his forehead before permitting himself a small chilly smile of the variety proffered by schoolteachers to obstinately ignorant children. 'Let me tell you something, Mr May Patents are — well, let us just say that there is no reason they should limit our operations. You have visited these Works, have you not? And you understand the principles of their production? Well, then. England's is an established and reputable yard that is prepared to offer us extremely favourable terms. If we simply employ the Strowbridge techniques there I am sure that the necessary adjustments can be made to ensure we are not in — how can I put it? — direct infringement. Patents, Mr May, are notoriously difficult to protect. If that is the only obstacle —'

  'I am afraid it is not that simple, sir,' William countered. 'Even if we were to disregard the patent, which I had understood to be in breach of law, the complex kiln system at Strowbridge has taken years to perfect. Even if we were able to copy so sophisticated a system it would surely be an impossibility in the time that we have to produce sufficient bricks of the required quality —'

  'Enough!' Hawke slammed his fist down on to his leather blotter. Piles of papers shuddered in alarm. Very slowly, Hawke leaned over the desk until his face almost touched William's. His dark eyebrows were shiny with
oil. He smelled sharply of sweat and taverns.

  'You listen to me, May,' he snarled. Flecks of saliva gathered in the corners of his mouth. 'I have tried to reason with you. For months now I have tried to reason with you. But of course I wasted my time. Who after all can hope to reason with a lunatic? Oh yes, I know all about you. Did you think you were safe because Rawlinson kept his mouth shut? Well, I'm so terribly sorry to have to disappoint you. You see, I know everything. All of it. You lost your wits against the Russians, didn't you, you filthy coward? Went barmy, deranged, stark staring mad, off your head. God damn it, you loon, they should lock you up and throw away the key. You think I don't know what you do down there in those sewers when you think you're all alone? You're a deviant, May, a freak of nature. Do you hear me? You disgust me. You'd disgust any right-minded, God-fearing Christian. The members of the Board, for example. What do you think they would say if they knew about your perversions? Do you really think they would permit you to remain in employment here? Do you? Do you?'

  Hawke's face was so close that William could see into the slick dark pinpricks of his pores. William clenched his hands in front of him. He said nothing. He felt pale, cold, as insubstantial as smoke. Then, abruptly, Hawke pulled away. When he spoke again his voice was as smooth as a blade.

  'Tomorrow you will meet Alfred England. You will inform him in detail of whatever improvements he needs to make to his yards here in London in order to produce these bricks so beloved of Mr Bazalgette. And you would be prudent to ensure it is done to your own satisfaction because when the time comes for tenders to be put out you will personally endorse the quality of England's product. You will not support the Strowbridge tender because if you do so I will be obliged to share with the Board all I know. All of it. After that, well, we could hardly expect them to continue to offer you employment. Or indeed any other reputable business, come to that. It would be quite unthinkable, would you not agree? There is little hope for the future for a man whose good character has suffered so severe a setback. You will lose everything.'