by Steve Hester
CHAPTER 3
The body of James Connelly left the prison later that day headed for an unmarked paupers grave. From his window the clerk watched the cart trundle away into the busy streets of London and with a sigh of satisfaction he returned to his desk.
He was a small man, unremarkable in almost every respect except for his eyes. Those that met him were always remarking on his eyes, on how they always seemed to pierce right into people whenever he looked at them. He unnerved people and found that it was a useful skill to have. Most people, when faced with his gaze, suddenly found a pressing need to be as far away from him as possible. It allowed him to work almost undisturbed which was very beneficial for his plans, the last thing he needed was to be popular. He balanced a pair of pince-nez glasses on the bridge of his nose and picked up his fountain pen.
Moving a few books he picked up a specific ledger from the bottom of the pile. He started to hum a little tuneless song to himself as he opened it up, searching for the last page and filled the pen from the ink well on his desk.
The words in the ledger though were not English. They weren't French, Italian, Arabic, Mandarin or any language that anyone but a few people on earth could read. He wrote in a strange curling text that seemed to shimmer and vibrate before it settled onto the page. After he finished he calmly shut the book and perched the pen onto its stand before he took out a key from his waistcoat pocket and walked over to a cabinet. He opened it and selected another key for the metal box inside it.
Inside, it was mostly empty but held in place by wooden slats were a handful of crystals, each one swirled and glowed faintly, lighting up his face and throwing sharp shadows across his cheekbones. Still humming he reached into the inside pocket of his frock coat and took out another, holding it in his fingers rotating it for a few moments before slotting it into an empty compartment. He nodded at the fit before closing the box again.
That last one had been a good pick. He'd been perfectly ripe by the end and would now go a long way to helping his goal. Too bad the start had ended up slightly messier than had been intended, but that was a mistake that wouldn't be repeated any time soon. Regardless he'd been here far too long and it was time to move on, he still had much more work to do.
He continued to hum as he lifted the box out and onto his desk and took a look round the office. It had served its purpose but things were becoming a little too big and it was starting to attract attention. He'd gotten sloppy, allowed himself a moments pleasure which could have very easily backfired and ruined everything. Getting into the press like that hadn't been part of the plan and he knew that before long people would start to investigate it. Not the police, he wasn't worried about the police, they were about as useful as lifeboat in the desert but if he didn't nip things in the bud now then the other ones would start to grow curious, if they weren't already.
He busied himself and packed up several folders of papers, a few books and the ledger into his satchel before putting his hat and coat on and collecting the box. It was a pity about the building; he thought as he made his way out into the dark corridor, it was actually very pretty. He'd felt like its hallways and corridors had fitted him like a second skin.
At the thought, he looked down at his body. He lifted his hands and examined them like he'd only just seen them for the first time. The body would have to go too. Just like the office he'd been wearing it for too long. He needed a new face but that could be easily arranged, it was just as well; he could feel the knees starting to go.
He walked humming his nameless tune down the carpeted stairs and onto the black and white checkerboard floor of the buildings central corridor. A few other clerks were still there, even at this time. They nodded to him and he returned the courtesy, noting with an inner grin how they couldn't quite bring themselves to look him in the eyes.
Beaks was standing on guard duty at the front gate tonight, he noted. A poor job at the best of times, he was little more than a concierge out here, the real guards were inside taunting the prisoners most likely or huddled in their rest room playing a card game and telling each other lewd jokes, probably involving humorous hand gestures. Beaks on the other hand had to keep an eye on the now almost deserted street out front as the fog started to come down and, in his own words, “freeze my bleedin' plums off”.
The clerk nodded to him.
“Evening Mr. Salmon, sir!” Said Beaks with a small salute. “All done are you?”
He ended up locking eyes and almost immediately they started causing his brain to itch. He looked briefly away.
“Yes Beaks. I'm all done. Could you call me a hansom?” Said the clerk pulling on his gloves.
“Yessir, right away!” He was grateful for a reason not to look at him anymore but wasn't entirely sure why.
Beaks put his fingers in his mouth and gave a shrill whistle. They didn't have to wait long as almost immediately a cab rattled from around the corner and pulled to a stop in front of the gates. Beaks opened the door and the clerk stepped in, clicking it shut behind him. The coach rocked for a moment while he settled on the seat before the clerk pulled out a coin from his waistcoat pocket and tossed it towards the guard.
“For your trouble.”
Beaks stared at his hand. “A whole guinea?? Well, it weren't no trouble sir, not at all! Thank you very much sir! Gawd bless you!”
He very well may do, thought the clerk as the coach rattled off along the cobbles.
Beaks stared again at the money in his hand. A whole guinea!! This is going to go down very well with the missus! Ha! Them lot in there think it’s a poor job being on the gates, well this'll show em! None of them lot are going to get any of this.
It would have been no comfort for him to know that in a short time most of the other guards inside would be dead along with all of the prisoners and two of the remaining staff. As he returned to his post he didn't see the yellow flickers of the first flames starting to lick up at the curtains in a room on the first floor.