The Great Stink

by Clare Clark

  'I know you're here!' It was his voice but it came from far away. 'I know you're here, you bastard!'

  The hand closed over his mouth and pulled back his head. For a moment William was certain it belonged to him, to the dead man, and he felt the terrible thrill of triumph. But the hand was warm and it stank of shit and seaweed. It was hard to breathe. There was a wrench of pain as his arms were brought up behind him. He tried to struggle but he was caught off-balance and the grip that held him was too strong. The screams came still, up and up, but they were more ragged now, strangled and torn. Half-carried by the filthy stream William was dragged on his back from the tunnel. With a last muster of strength he kicked his boot against the tunnel wall, dislodging a crumble of brick. An arm hooked around his neck, crushing his windpipe. Someone shouted. The darkness deepened. Then, suddenly, it was pierced by a shaft of white light. Boots scraped against iron. Something lashed his wrists together painfully behind his back. Then, without ceremony, William was bundled upwards. The light hurt his eyes. He closed them, aware only of the terrible dark chill that gripped him and convulsed his limbs and neck in spasms of uncontrolled trembling.

  'Get 'im out of 'ere,' growled the ganger.

  A blanket was put about his shoulders. William felt its prickly pelt against his cheek as he sank into its greasy reek. Then, a door was opened and he was pushed through it. The light pierced his closed eyelids and flooded them with a painful red. He squeezed them shut as he stumbled forwards a few paces on the uneven ground, a hand pushing at the centre of his back. When at last he separated them a slit, they allowed beneath the shadow of his lashes only a slice of the dank wall of Flower-lane and, leaning against it, very close, the smirking countenance of a young man. The shiver clattered William's bones, penetrating each brittle shaft with a sharp needle of ice. As William lurched past him, his eyes fixed upon the ground, the youth let out a long delighted whistle.

  'Like I said,' he whispered gleefully into William's ear. 'A veritable glutton for punishment.'

  William pressed his eyes shut once more but it was too late. There could be no ridding himself of it. The dread and the blackness and the cold swirled together, draining in a ceaseless sucking vortex into the pit of his stomach, and at the centre of the vortex, leering with vicious satisfaction, was the gargoyle face of the young man. There was no way back. In the frozen darkness he knew it only as a terrible plunging feeling but he knew it all the same. He had reached the end and, where he had hoped to find comfort and peace, there was nothing. Nothing but his own terror and the terrible darkness, stretching into eternity, and the Devil's gargoyle smirk as he came to claim him. It was only much later that he was able to stand outside of himself and understand the terrible true simplicity of it. He had been forcibly removed from the sewers, a madman, shackled, shaking and thick with filth. And Spratt had been a witness to the entire spectacle.

  XVIII

  The following Saturday Tom showed up early to the Badger, for all he'd meant to keep the Captain waiting. He took Joe along with him for the company. On the way there he was sure he saw her pink face grinning out at him from every shadow and broken-down doorway. She'd shiver with excitement when she saw him, of course, the whole of her pink rump vibrating as she wagged her chewed stump of a tail, her snout cocked ready to fit into the palm of his hand. All of a sudden there was a stitch in his side so sharp he had to stop for a moment, leaning over, his hands upon his thighs.

  When he was fit to straighten up he shook his head hard to dislodge the thoughts of her. He was being fanciful, of course. The Captain wasn't likely to bring her along, not if he didn't mean to fight her. He'd be resting her up. Right now she was likely spread out in some fancy kennel, nibbling on a juicy rump of beef. To drown out the traces of her Tom embarked upon a stream of idle speculations about the dogs he reckoned'd be up at the Badger that night. Joe listened, taken quite aback at the tumble of words pouring out from his habitually taciturn friend, and he scratched his head. It was a rum thing, a fortune, and no mistake. Joe'd never known a man come into a fortune before but from what he could tell it was like to take a man who all his life had been content to stand firm upon his feet and turn him fully upside down.

  The Captain's box was empty when they arrived, although, from the way that Brassey had his boy go at the carvers with a damp rag, it was clear that he was expected any time. Tom leaned on the wall of the pit, to all appearances quite taken up by the fight, but his ears flexed and strained to catch the sound of footfalls upon the stair. In his pocket his fingers worked the corners of his contract till they were soft as a lady's glove. The brilliant glare of light upon the white-painted ring threw the extremities of the room into dim shadow which played tricks with him. Over and again he was sure he saw it, the door edging open a little and the tip of her pink nose twitching as she paused on the threshold to fill her nostrils with the pit's rich bouquet. Each time his heart squeezed a little and her name melted on his tongue. But the door never opened. It was only a twitching of the shadows that he saw, a guttering in the gaslight, the Fancy's stampings, perhaps, or the lick of a breeze through a broken sash. Each time the space inside Tom grew a little emptier and each time, like muck silting in a tunnel, the anger filled it a little more. Where was that slippery shit of a Captain? The bastard had promised him he would be there. He'd been late before, of course, later than this. But if he thought he could cheat his way out of this one —

  Tom pinched the contract hard between his fingers.

  They had watched four or five bouts, and Joe had secured himself a shilling or two in winnings, when Brassey declared the pit closed for the night.

  'Of course, if you would care to repair downstairs for a spot of further refreshment —' he urged, the smile splitting his face in half like a rotten orange.

  'Where is he?' Tom demanded of Brassey as the Fancy clattered noisily down to the lower parlour. 'He owes me. He said he'd come.'

  'Come now, Tom,' Brassey's tone was soothing but he hastened his pace and his eyes swivelled away from Tom's. 'A gentleman like the Captain has many calls upon his time. He cannot be expected to put himself always at the beck and call of ordinary folk such as yourself.'

  'We had an agreement.'

  'Naturally you did,' Brassey agreed. 'And I have every faith that the Captain can be relied upon to honour his debts.'

  But Brassey's faith proved misplaced. The next Saturday Tom made his way once again to the Badger, his softened contract in his pocket, and again he waited. Again he strained for the sound of the man's step on the wooden stair, his hand upon the door. And again the Captain's recess remained empty. Tom did not let himself think what might have become of Lady. He did not notice that Brassey eyed him beadily from across the room, muttering something to his boy. Instead he sat in a corner and stoked the anger that was swelling inside him, taking over the space she'd left behind. He took a whisky and then another. His throat burned. Together the pair of them had been swindled, betrayed. Well, if that bastard reckoned Tom'd shrug and cut his losses he'd reckoned on the wrong man. Tom wasn't no martyr like those soft fools in the Bible, turning the other cheek. It wouldn't be long before the Captain'd wish he'd never set eyes on the tosher and his dog. Tom threw back another drink, soothed by the intensity of his anger, his overpowering urge for vengeance. Indeed, it would not've been stretching the truth much of a length to say that if the Captain had walked through the door at that very moment and handed Tom his thirty guineas all piled up and shiny on a silver tray there'd have been a part of him that'd have felt the disappointment keenly.

  But the Captain did not come. On the third Saturday, when in due time the pit was closed and the boy busy with scrubbing down the blood-spattered paintwork, Brassey cornered Tom. He came straight to the point.

  'You ain't welcome here no more. If you ever show your face again, I'll have you thrown out. Get it?'

  Tom stared at him, less angry than astonished.

  'It's the low types like you keeps the quality t
rade away,' Brassey went on. 'They don't want to be rubbing shoulders with the men what gets the rats. Besides, I got myself another supplier.'

  'But the Captain —'

  'Your business with the Captain ain't no concern of mine.' Brassey flexed his feet and his eyes swivelled in his head. 'All I knows is I got a business to run. You come here again, you'll have more'n a broken wager to concern you.'

  It was Brassey's boy who pushed Tom out the door then, strong as an ox for all his slight frame. Tom thundered on the closed door until his arms ached. When at last he gave up shouting, the anger inside him was white hot. It lit him like a lantern. He would find the Captain. If the Captain was anywhere to be found he'd find him. And when he found him the Captain would wish to God he'd never been born.

  XIX

  All day Sunday Tom walked around the city, for all that snow had fallen again before dawn and the cold was brute enough to take your breath away He walked through Soho to the river and then past the Tower to the Pool, where the air was heavy with ice and salt and tar and the wet-grass stink of rotting rope, and the masts stretched into forever like a forest of barren trees, and on beyond the Minories along Ratcliff-highway to the frozen swamps of Shadwell and Poplar. The Captain had Lady. The thought of it caught like a fishbone in his throat. But Tom'd find them. Even though he'd good as stolen her, she'd still cost the Captain forty guineas. He wasn't going to keep her as a lapdog, not at that price. He'd want to turn a profit from her, make good what he'd given. He'd want to fight her and soon, if he hadn't done so already. It was just a question of where.

  He went first to the King's Head on Cock-hill where he was on good terms with the landlord, on account of Tom being one of Boggis's more dependable suppliers. But Boggis hadn't observed any man matching the Captain's description and no new dogs neither. The only other proprietor Tom contrived to cook up an exchange with that day was a one-time prize fighter, himself with a flattened fist of a nose, who owned what passed for a tavern in the remains of an old forge on the quaggy reaches of Mile-end. He drained the glass of rum-and-water Tom had stood him and scowled. He didn't have no need of Tom's business. He had his rats sent in from Clavering, over Essex way, and fine specimens they were too, sleek fat creatures you could make a coat of. He didn't have call for no more, specially not the low and filthy sewer-rat sort. His was a high-class establishment and his clients was picky. More than that Boggis was not prepared to say. A man of Tom's calling, throwing his money about, it didn't smell right. It was a fool's tongue found itself loosened by the bottle. He refused Tom's offer of another drink and wouldn't utter another word.

  Discouraged, Tom made his way slowly back to his lodgings. More than once in the deepening gloom he caught a glimpse of a white dog and something in the way it held its nose up or wriggled its belly in the dust made his heart skip. More than once he called out her name. But it was never her. His feet ached. He who had always sought solitude, who had felt himself truly steady only when alone, now felt his lonesomeness drag heavy as a cloak at his shoulders.

  On impulse, he turned down an alley and followed its twisting course to the river. Even on a Sunday the Docks jostled and shoved and the darkening afternoon echoed with shouts in a score of languages, jumbled together with splashes and hammerings and the doleful cries of animals and the rattle of chains. Between the layers of mud and salt and tar and sweat Tom could make out the harsh smart of strong tobacco, the sun-warmed fumes of rum, the rancid reek of hides, the exotic whiff of coffee and spices, the warm breath of wine, the yeasty stench of dry rot. At the water's edge a Sardinian brig was unloading its cargo and the quay tumbled with barrels and casks. Tom had to stand to one side as a row of its discharged mariners passed him six abreast, gold earrings glinting in their black beards, their red shirts caught at the waist with bright sashes. They smelled strongly of sweat and garlic sausage and their teeth flashed with more gold as they grinned and clowned and filled the winter twilight with the music of their unfamiliar tongue. A little further along, in the shadow of a looming warehouse, a public house spilled its light on to the muddy ground. Above the clamour Tom could just make out the creak of a fiddle scraping out an Irish jig.

  He went in. Sailors crowded the tavern, shouting in a dozen languages and all crushed around a fiddler in a red neckerchief who had been placed upon a table in the centre of the room. His bow sawed at his fiddle with such verve it seemed he might slice it clean in two, and he stamped his boot on the table's battered face until it jumped in time to the music. Around him the sailors sang and clapped and parted with their pay. A woman with matted hair and a weasel's watchful eyes tugged at her husband's vest, begging him to come home with her. He slapped her hands away, adding another to her cheek for good measure before swallowing himself up into the solid wall of his fellows. The woman spat copiously into the mass of men before, issuing a stream of curses, she stormed out of the tavern.

  Tom found himself a corner where his toes were less prone to trampling and, closing his eyes, let the music stamp and whoop through his head. Close by, two men, day labourers by the look of them, settled their pots on a ledge.

  'Still, I catched meself a sight last night and no mistake,' one shouted to the other. 'Niver thought I'd see such a thing.'

  His friend raised one eyebrow over the rim of his pot and sucked on his pipe.

  'Up Spanks's place it were. Right pee-culiar to look at but true as I'm standin' 'ere no murd'rer in 'istory was ever 'alf so eager. Took a score o' the varmints in a single minute — you'd not've believed it if you'd not seen it yourself. Silent as the tomb it was an' all — not so much as a whimper, start ter finish. I'd a-taken it for a spook if it hadn't a-been the property of a professional gent —'

  Tom grabbed the labourer's coat.

  'What the —' the fellow's friend began but Tom cut right across him.

  'Where?' Tom demanded, his nose so close up against the labourer's own the two of them almost touched. 'The dog, where was she? Tell me, you bastard! Tell me or I'll rip your throat out, d'you hear me?'

  The labourer shook him off. He was a heavily built man and his eyes were no more than slits beneath the jutting slab of his forehead.

  'Well, I dunno 'bout that,' he drawled with a shrug. 'Worth a bit, I'd say, valuable hin-formation of that nature.'

  Tom snarled.

  'Sixpence.'

  The labourer's face twitched. The rate at the Docks was fourpence an hour.

  'A shillin'.'

  Tom felt into his pocket for the coin and rested it on his palm. The labourer reached out to snatch it but Tom closed his fingers.

  'Payment on delivery,' Tom growled and his heart thumped with anticipation. He'd've paid the shilling five times, ten times over for news of Lady but there wasn't any purpose in handing out more than what was necessary, even when you were newly into money. Old ways weren't easy to break.

  The labourer kept his gaze fixed upon Tom's closed hand as he related what it was he knew. The dog he'd seen had been fighting up the pit they called the Bridge Tavern over Kensal way. It was a strange-looking beast, a jumble of breeds and so worn out in the coat that its skin showed through, but it was a champion killer, of that there weren't a doubt. Its owner was a gentleman, a doctor perhaps though he wasn't sure of it. The labourer didn't know his name or where it was he came from. He hadn't paid him much attention except to notice that he was dark about the whiskers and, unlike his animal, his coat was thick and of a fine quality. He was new to the Bridge, the labourer was sure of that. You couldn't fight a dog like that and not get yourself remembered. What with being new the gent'd not managed to catch himself more than a pound or two in winnings but he'd got the Fancy's appetite whetted good and proper. The labourer was ready to bet that at the next fight there'd be wagers of the heaviest sort. He might even put a shilling or two on himself, he added, his eyes narrowing to no more than a pair of lines as they glued themselves to Tom's closed fist. You never knew.

  It was more than enough. Tom gave the
labourer his shilling. It was hot to the touch. On Tom's palm it had imprinted a perfect shilling mark, so clear he might've coined from it. Tom raised the palm to his mouth and kissed it. His hand was trembling and his heart pounded in his ears. She was found. In a week he would see her again, and he would see the Captain, or the Doctor, or whoever the devil he was. As to what he would do then, well, Tom was vague on the subject. It was a matter'd take some careful handling, he knew that, but he did not let it trouble him much. He'd found her. Besides, he had a week to think on it.

  And think on it he did, turning it over and over, as those six days dragged themselves past. He knew there'd be no purpose in confronting him in the pit, of course. A slippery bastard like the Captain, he wasn't about to fall to his knees in front of all the Fancy and confess his treachery, any more than he was like to shake Tom's hand and give up the money he was owing. Red Joe counselled lying in wait for him outside of the tavern and snatching the Captain's winnings off of him under cover of night but that wasn't likely to amount to anything like the sum he was owed. Besides, the Captain had always been in the way of having associates about him, which would place Tom at a disadvantage. Gents didn't simply walk the streets like ordinary folks. They took cabs, carriages, and even if they wasn't with no one in particular they was seldom to be caught out alone. It'd be simpler to snatch back the dog, try and recoup his losses that way, but even if he was able to pull that off, what then? It'd take careful planning and first Tom had to see how the land lay. He was no nearer to a plan when, careful not to draw attention to himself, he entered the Bridge's pit through the concealed door in the tavern's cellar and slid unnoticed into a dark corner.