He tipped back the bottle and took a long swig. “He took her, that bloody uncle of yours, of the Rocheforts…money, you see…he has it and I don’t and now he has my Polly.”
I pushed away the plate. “You already said, damn your eyes.”
“And he took the estate…I rent it now.” He fought to maintain equilibrium as he took a solitary step from the wall.
I pushed back my chair and stood, exasperated that this latest piece of news should come after the former. The man had everything backwards. “And you choose to tell me this now?”
He staggered forward and collapsed at my boot, clinging to my leg. “Son, you’ll fight for it, won’t you? The home of your birth? Your inheritance? For me?”
“Ah, so now you need me?” I shook my head in disgust, recalling how only six short months ago it was I pleading to him, in a state of desperation no less, and he’d soon given me short shrift alright. Although I didn’t necessarily revel in his misery, it was somewhat satisfying how things were different this time around. “I bet you wish you hadn’t sent me packing now, what? If you hadn’t, maybe Polly would still be around cleaning up after you.”
He clung harder to my boot, most pathetic. “I don’t care about the estate, I just want Polly back,” he wept as I regretted the fact the birches were kept in the study, “and vengeance on that…that bloody bastard would be nice.”
I had my own reasons to wish vengeance upon Uncle Luther and I wondered if the nation’s hero would hold any sway at the Horse Guards, maybe lose the man his job at the very least. But here I had the old man where I needed him, begging and broken on the floor, and knew there was no better time than now to make a play for what I’d always desired.
“Ok, father, I will help you regain the estate, Mrs Clayton’s hand and perhaps I’ll even give Luther a good cudgelling into the bargain.”
He looked up with pleading eyes. “Yes? Oh…son, I always knew it…I always knew you were…”
“…But you must agree to sign the business over to me.” And to the blazes with brother Alfred. The business was my birthright and he’d not take it from me.
His grip pulsed around my foot. “The business?”
“Those are my terms.”
He accepted on the spot, which showed just how desperate he was and the very next day I hired a local shyster to make everything nice and legal.
“And he’s definitely drunk, you say?” Mr Leibsen Esquire enquired, soto voce.
“Like a magistrate on a Friday and there’s no need to whisper.” I showed him to the study, where the old man was asleep in the chair. “I kept him suitably plied pending your arrival, good sir.”
The lawyer spent a good few seconds glaring at my father before opening his leather satchel bag and delving inside for some papers. “He’ll need to be roused to sign these.”
“Really?” I’d half hoped that wouldn’t need to be the case. I’d not been around enough recently to know if his memory had run off with Mrs Clayton and the rest of his faculties. I jabbed him in the ribs and he spluttered yellow dribble over his chin.
“What the devil?” His eyes opened as he took a while to adjust to seeing two men stood so close. “Ah, son…this the shyster you spoke of?”
I turned briefly to Mr Leibsen. “Apologies, sir.”
He remained expressionless. “Water off a duck’s back.”
I looked again to the embarrassment. “Father, he’s a lawyer, remember? We have papers for you to sign and then everything will be ok.”
He pulled himself up, belched and wiped his face with a cloth. “Yes, I remember.” Well that was a relief and he obediently held out a mitt for the papers, squinting a cursory drunken glance over the small text before giving up. I thrust a quill his way, which he took before signing.
I breathed - The business was mine and with barely even a difficulty.
“Now, you promised to help buy back the estate, what?” There were those pleading eyes again, the type that came from placing all your faith in another person.
I patted him on the shoulder. “Well, before we can afford to buy this place back, I first need to salvage the business. Make sense, no? And before that, we first need to cut back on our expenses. How much rent do you pay Luther for this place?” It was a question I really should’ve asked earlier, as it was one detail that had the potential to cause a shock.
He blinked several times. “Rent? Uh, let me see…a hundred and fifty pounds a month if my memory serves.”
My reflex was to take three large steps away from the fool and even the shyster recoiled on hearing that. No wonder the old man had taken to drink, no change there.
“Well that won’t do at all, you silly daft sod…no, no…don’t interject Father, you’ll bankrupt us yet, if you haven’t already.” I stepped toward the corner, bringing Leibsen with me as we discussed the legality of the next part of the plan. I returned and loomed down on the old man. “It’s just temporary, you understand, but we must find you some alternative accommodation.” He tried to interrupt but I was quick to quell his fears. “Father, we need to cut down on costs, just for the short term.” I reassured him and smiled. “And you thought I needed an Oxford degree, didn’t you.”
He nodded, bared teeth and wiped the drool from his chin.
I’d secured the best deal all round, for all concerned and reasoned I had a natural business acumen. And even the lawyer refused payment, which showed how sought after I was, just as long as I was seen to stop by his office once or twice, so he could call himself my official solicitor, which was worth more than the money anyway.
Three days later the white carriage arrived to collect my father - En route to the St Francis Lunatic Asylum.
“YES…yes…yes…yes…yes.” The woman screeched as the table shuffled backwards inch by inch.
“Grab ahold of a leg, would you, Melville.”
He straightened, exposing his knocker and reached for the madam’s leg that dangled before our faces, banging his head on the underside of the table as he did.
“Not her leg, you imbecile, the table leg.” I reached for the one closest to me and attempted to pin it to the floor with my added weight.
He rubbed his bald patch. “I’m not sure how much more of this I can take, Captain. I’m hungry, need to use the pan and I’ve missed the parliamentary vote on the construction of a fence to keep the dead out of London.”
A bolt of terror shot through me and, fearing the man might leave the safety of our position at any moment, I let go of the leg to grab ahold of him. “You’re not going anywhere…surely you must recognise the consequences of him finding us.” My fingers dug obscenely hard into the blubber around his hips. “What were you thinking of doing? Just crawling out and announcing your presence after all this time? And how do you think that would go?” I mimicked his overly cultivated accent. “Ah hello there milord, I’ve been tupping your wife, what? Don’t mind if I just make my way out do you, all’s well that ends well and I’ll be seeing you around, no harm done, what? I mean, just look at you, damn your eyes, you’re stark bollock naked.”
He settled down as did my heart rate. “You’re right Captain, I’m not sure what I was thinking.” He rubbed his hands over his face. “I need a distraction…your story…you said putting your father in the asylum was temporary. Well, what is it now…one year later? Where is he now?”
I hesitated. “Wouldn’t you rather know about how I fell in with some bad company? About how Dolan twitched out his revenge plot? It’s what I was getting around to anyway before the table began sliding across the floor.”
“Ah yes, I think that would be a suitable distraction, quite.”
A Chance Encounter
Entire lives can change course from the most obscure occurrences or events of which we have no control. A late coach could mean a man meeting, or failing to meet, the love of his life. Braving the London rain can have profound consequences, setting in motion a chain reaction of events that could bring repercussions fa
r beyond expectation. Or in my case, choosing to remain inside to avoid it and not creating that alternate reality can be what scars you for life. It’s quite ironic really, considering it was one of the only times I ever delayed satiating my lust, bestowing upon me not one but two coincidental encounters which set my nightmares in motion.
No longer having any ties to Sussex, I decided it was time to move on and begin my life as a socialite. And why not? It was late 1858 and everybody wanted a piece of the nation’s hero returned. There was only one place for me and that was the bright gas lit lights of London, Soho to be exact, where every building was a front for the clandestine activities above and behind, where every bakery, ale house or respectable accountancy firm would open out into a brothel where, after supposedly receiving financial advice or other such service from the harlot, whatever else happened between two consenting adults was of nobody else’s concern. They certainly weren’t the type of establishments I’d become accustomed to in Ireland, where you never could be quite sure what you were getting, where desperation had made whores of respectable types and dregs both.
No sir, here in Soho, and even in these times, they had a reputation to uphold, an image to maintain and had become known for attracting the better to do types, people like myself and, after renting a large flat on the square, I’d spent the last month leisurely working my way around and had made more than just a few powerful friends from politics, theatre and commerce as I rogered my way from brothel to bordello.
Naturally, word soon got about that the famous Captain Jack Strapper had taken up residency in the area and seldom could I leave my abode, to make the short walk to whichever bawdy house I fancied frequenting on any such day, without being mobbed by large groups of likely lads. Aristocrats or shoe shines, it made no difference to them when Strappy strutted on by and it was on one such occasion I chanced upon an old friend, who wasn’t, as it happened, seeking me out, but had in fact on the off chance strode by whilst trying to pluck up the courage to enter one of the square’s fine establishments.
“I say…” an almost masculine hand touched my shoulder as I continued pacing toward The White House across the greenery, “…oh, I say…”
I removed the mitt without looking back. “I’ll be boarding your great grandmother before you son, so why not slither back to whichever hole you crawled out from before the Old Bill hang you for buggery.”
I heard him stumble. “What? Strappy? It’s me, old boy.”
The voice did sound familiar, but it couldn’t be. But when I stopped to look - It was. “Clayton? What the bloody hell?” I didn’t know whether to hug him or punch him.
He stepped back. “You didn’t really think…did you?”
I laughed and thought to torture him a little. “Who knows what you and Old Tubs got up to in that all boys school. Your test scores were never much better than mine yet here you are, an Oxford boy.”
“Oh, I say, that’s quite an accusation. You know which side my bread’s buttered.” He held out his hand. “Bygones be bygones, what?” I continued walking and he rushed to catch up. “Oh, come on. It’s because of my poor test scores I needed the word of Old Tubs to get me in. Surely you don’t still bare me malice?”
I stopped and made sure to see the whites of his eyes for this special moment. “Clayton, I stopped baring you malice the minute my drunken father took your mother as his tramp.”
He stiffened and then brushed over his side parting that the wind had dislodged. “Steady on, old boy. Let’s not say anything we’ll later regret, what?”
I considered my pimple faced former friend, his blond hair and baby stubble on a lanky frame. “You’re right…bygones be bygones.” I held out my hand, which he took. “Now, if you’d excuse me, I’m off to The White House to rattle a tramp of my own.”
His hand quickly moved again to my shoulder. “The White House, you say? Oh, how capital. I say, I don’t suppose you’d mind some company would you…be like old times, what?”
I snorted. “You never could go on your own, could you? What’re you so afraid of?”
“We can’t all be like you, old boy, strapping in cavalry uniform, famous, a hero, full of tin, and let’s not pretend they’d let me in the place anyway.”
That was true. The White House was arguably the most exclusive bawdy house in all of London and a place I could only enter due to my fame and new found temporary wealth.
But Clayton not being permitted into the establishment was hardly my problem and I was about to brush him off when the skies opened, flooding the square with rain. My destination was still two minutes away but we were right outside an ale house that went by the name of The Dog and Duck. I was so full of lust I considered hurrying to my intended stopping place anyway, but Clayton dragged me into the tavern and insisted on buying me an ale.
We took seats in a booth, the few existing patrons glancing my way and whispering to their companions. The scrutiny I never minded, just so long as the vagrants kept their distance and nobody placed me in harm’s way.
Clayton spoke of Oxford and his frustrating dry spell whilst I stared out the window at the rain that came down so heavy it bounced back off the cobbles. I wasn’t to know at the time that five seconds either way would’ve changed everything or that if I’d remained in bed two minutes more or less I’d never have met him, been delayed, caught in the rain and made to listen to tales of academia I was blessed to have missed in a smoky watering hole as the cogs of coincidence turned into place to forever alter my life.
I was a world away from zombies and as we began our second stouts, one could be forgiven for thinking such craziness didn’t exist. Indeed, for myself I’d planned and contrived that they’d never trouble me again but sometimes destiny comes looking for you and there’s nothing you can do to change what’s coming, save for jumping in the Thames with a sack of coal tied about your ankle, which might have been better.
Then just as suddenly as it started, the rain stopped, I stood with a still half full ale and Clayton looked at me most pleadingly.
Where was the harm? We’d been wenching together uncountable times in the past and the man was fit to turn green lest he take out his aggravations on some poor courtesan. “Come on then…It’ll be just like old times.”
He leapt up, banging his head on the decorative light hanging above the table and upsetting his parting. Aye, I’d surprised even myself with my amicability. Perhaps it was the ale that’d softened me in the moment or maybe a young fellow just likes showing off his wealth to old friends. It makes us feel superior, you see.
But if I thought Clayton, in his appreciation, would allow me to pick from the girls on duty I was very wrong - If only I’d shown more self interest, things might’ve been very different.
“Hello Margaret, we’d, um, like to book a room.” I said, winking to the old woman behind the counter. “One night’ll see us right…can’t wait to get some sleep.” I winked again.
“Good day, Jack, and which room would you like?” The madam asked, pointing to a chart on the counter.
It was one of the things that was so special about The White House, that many of the rooms were themed. There were the exclusive Gold, Silver and Bronze Rooms, the Painted Chamber, Grotto, Coal Hole and best of all the Skeleton Room for the acquired taste, where apparently a mechanical human carcass would jump out from the wardrobe whenever the curtains were opened. They were just for starters and even the lesser rooms with no discernible themes were furnished in ridiculous splendour, after a month of which I was still working my way around.
But, naturally, unless one was of the queer sort, it wasn’t the upholstery and fabrics one came to The White House for. And after jumping in, demanding the Gold Room no less and being told that room was presently occupied by an important client, we instead accepted the Silver Room. Clayton then snatched the roster from my grasp and took an extended nosey at it.
They certainly catered for most tastes and even the most particular should they be given adequat
e notice. Young, old, tall and even midget. Classy and elegant all the way to some whale I routinely saw wandering the corridors touting unsuccessfully for the use of her services. They had a bearded lady, a pregnant woman and a trapeze artist, dominatrices by the half dozen and a contortionist who, I could testify, was great fun. They had one wench, who most unbelievably was under great demand, with no arms or legs - It really was incredible what some degenerates were into. And then of course you had the different nationalities; Germans, Italians, Swedes, Russians, Amazons, Chinks and Negresses for those short on tin. And for the particularly deviant, there was even the occasional man on the books.
Personally, I had my heart set on Sweet Jane, who touted herself as a virgin, although that claim could hardly be believed, and one had to pay a premium for plucking her berry - It was all part of the fantasy of course.
Although, logistically, there was a problem with that, because I had Clayton with me, and since I was paying, I was half minded to send him in the direction of Gunhilda, the dominator, who’d apparently just been released from cracking rocks at Her Majesty’s pleasure. But no, I was being uncharacteristically amiable toward my old friend, who was by this time champing at the bit for the two French hussies because he remembered from his trip to Paris how stylish French women were.
“Oh, come on old boy, it’ll be capital, you’ll see.” His side parting had again become ruffled from excitement.
I wavered because the other day I’d seen Sweet Jane in the lounge and had nearly bought her outright on the spot but he persisted, and stupidly, I relented - It was a decision that would change everything.
I handed over the coin, none of that promissory note rot, which considerably lightened my purse. Unless I took rectifying action quick, my life of debauchery would come to a premature end.
The whore mistress took the gold. “Madams Lola and Camille are with a client presently, but you can wait outside the Silver Room for their arrival.”
Not Dead Yet: A Zombie Apocalypse Series - Books 1 - 2 Page 17