Sinistrari

by Giles Ekins

  Razor George eyes opened in mock amazement. ‘Well glory be to goodness, would you be lookin’ at that? All this time you bin aholdin’ out on me, girl.’

  ‘No, no, ’onest, just this once, I must’ve forgot, put it there for safe keepin’ before I could give ’em to you, honest. I weren’t ’oldin out. Never!’

  ‘Seems to me girl, you got two choices, else you bin ’oldin out on me, else you’s like the Goose what lays the Golden Eggs. In which case I says thank you glory halleluja, cos a mot with a golden arse’ole is some’at velly h’unusual. Some’at velly rare. An’ I knows many a flash carney cove as ’ud give his grandma’s tits for such a thing as that. Nar, which of ’em two little suppositions you reckons as is the likeliest?’

  ‘I must ’ave forgot, ’onest.’

  ‘You mean to say you don’t shit gold? ‘Ow very disappointing! I really did fink as that was to be the most regular h’answer to this little conundrum.’

  And all joviality fell away from Razor George like a cast off cloak; Jenny-No-Nose was in his hand and slashing at Cast-Iron Peg face before she had time to move. Time to scream. Once, twice – fast as a striking mamba Jenny-No-Nose sliced across the bridge of Peg’s nose, cutting off the flesh and gristle of her nose-end and right nostril, the bright steel of the blade a slash of silver, the second cut laying open her face from her left temple, down across her mouth, cutting through to teeth and gums and then over her chin. A third deadly strike narrowly missed her right eye but cut across to the back of her face and severed the bottom half of her ear.

  All the whores screamed as Peg gazed in shock at the torrent of blood cascading into her hands. And then the pain struck, her screams of agony drowning the screams of all the other girls. George nodded to Sealskin and Boiler who strode over to Peg, kicked her feet out from under her, and began to kick at her screaming writhing body. Sealskin and Boiler knew their work and methodically went about it, working in unison, careful not to kick each other. Sealskin concentrated on Peg’s upper torso and stomach, mindless of the blood that stained his heavy boots; Peg’s blood was by no means the first blood to anoint his footwear and was unlikely to be the last.

  Boiler kicked at her legs and buttocks, stamping at her ankles and knees, wrenching another scream of agony as his iron shod toecap slammed into Peg’s coccyx. After a minute or so, Razor George called them off, he did not want to kill the girl – after all, she still had a debt to pay off.

  The minders dragged Peg out of the room and threw her into the back of a growler. Peg would be sent to work the dockside cribs of Limehouse and Wapping; the roughest trade of all, serving the sailors and wharf rats at four pence a turn – twenty-five – thirty men a day. Peg would hardly ever see daylight again, never be allowed out of the dockside brothel, doomed to die a broken wretch within the year.

  Before he left Razor George glared at all his girls in turn, making sure that the lesson had been learned. He then hopped across to Pall Mall Sal and slapped her face several times, warning her not to raise her hands to defend herself.

  More blood flowed to the floor and onto the straw mattresses and dirty blankets where the girls had to sleep. ‘You had done right to tell me, girl. ‘Bout Cast Iron Peg, I means, them as knew but didn’t say, take good note. But I don’t like them as blows. Them as blows on anovver girl is as likely to do the blow on me. And that my girls, is likely to be permanently damagin’ to yor ’ealth, if you takes my meanin’. So, you is mogged if you do mogged if you don’t. So, jus’ you remember as how your Uncle George ’as told you; else Jenny’ll looking out for another kisser to kiss.’

  As she clutched herself tighter against the cold night wind of blustery March, Black Eyed Mary remembered – as if she could ever forget. Her blanket was still stiff with Cast Iron Peg’s blood, as was her mattress. She could smell it in her sleep, hear Peg’s screams in her dreams.

  Never would she dream of crossing Razor George, but still she had to find some trade – four nights running this would be without so much as a second look, let alone a paying customer. Mary didn’t understand why. She was as pretty as the other girls, prettier by far than Pall Mall Sal – whose pig nosed looks could curdle milk and send small children screaming down the street. But Sal was still a consistent earner, bringing in two or three times as much as Mary. And it wasn’t as though Mary didn’t know her business, she’d been lifting her skirts for men more than four years, ever since she was ten or eleven years old; starting with her Dad and elder brothers.

  Not that it took much know-how to lean up against a wall with your legs open wide. Spit on your fingers and rub it in to moisten the way, that’s all it took. Although some of ’em liked it by the back door, up her arse. She didn’t much care either way; leastwise she couldn’t get pregnant that way. She didn’t like to take it the mouth though; damned if she was going to get down on her knees amongst all the dog shit, cat shit, rat shit, mouse shit, human shit, piss and mud and filth just to take a sweaty smelly cock in her mouth; but then, she knew she would have to if that was what the customer wanted. She had to find some trade, even a butcher from Smithfield Market with bloody hands and the smell of offal on his clothes would do.

  A weeping-sored leper would do if it kept her from being cut by Razor George. A good beating was the least she could expect if she returned empty handed again.

  Ignoring the pain in her feet Black Eyed Mary set out again, softly singing to herself a rhyme that George had taught the girls in one of his more expansive moods:

  ‘Do you know the Muffin Man?

  The Muffin Man, the Muffin Man,

  Do you know the Muffin Man?

  Who Lives in Drury Lane?’

  George thought this a great joke, all his ‘fambly’ gathered in convivial merry making, especially when he changed the words.

  ‘Do you know the Moggin’ Man?

  The Moggin’ Man, the Moggin’ Man,

  Do you know the Moggin Man?

  The King of Drury Lane’

  However, Drury Lane was quiet tonight. No muffin or moggin’ men. The theatre and the Middlesex Music Hall had long since emptied and although there might still be trade in the pubs and gin palaces, George did not like his whores to go inside; they might get too cosy and full of gin to be of any use and good trade might go a begging. Or worst of all might go into the pockets of another girl’s pimp – and that Razor George definitely did not like.

  A Hansom cab clattered past, the hooves of the horses splashing up a thin spray of rain from the wet cobbles but she was so wet already that she barely noticed, too weary to care. She passed the open door of the ‘Three Blind Mice’, a waft of raucous laughter, the smell of gin, ale and tobacco and a soft blast of warmth fluttered across her face like a lover’s breath. She stopped for a second or two to draw in a sense of warmth and life, stealing an envious glance at the drinkers and revellers within.

  A girl she knew, Lucy Carrots, so named because of her flaming red hair, waved to her, beckoning Mary on in. Lucy was not a regular whore; she was a part timer with no regular bully who sometimes sold herself to pay for her drink, she was fond of her drink, was Lucy, always getting into trouble with the law for Drunk and Disorderly Behaviour. She beckoned again, pointing at an empty glass, offering a Mary a drink; obviously, Lucy had had some business that night. Mary lingered for a moment or two, sorely tempted – and then waved gaily at Lucy and then moved on, not daring enter even for a minute or so, just in case George was inside.

  She heard footsteps behind her – a churchman – his clerical collar gleaming white in the light of a guttering gas lamp. He must have come from a meeting or service at Exeter Hall2 on the Strand. Mary had been told by some of the other girls that a well-attended gathering at Exeter Hall was always good for trade, especially if the preacher was of the hell fire and damnation persuasion.

  The clergyman slowed as he approached her, nervous smile across his face. Mary smiled and let her shawl fall open so that he could see the swell of her young breasts a
gainst her bodice. The clergy liked ’em young, she knew that – and although she did not know exactly how old she was, fourteen perhaps, maybe fifteen – Mary did know she wasn’t legally old enough to be what she was doing.3 She gave him her warmest smile, ‘Hello,’ she said softly, taking his arm and pressing it to her breasts. ‘You want to come wi’ me, I’ll make you nice and comfortable an’ no mistake. Sweet an’ as fresh as a daisy; cunt as sweet as silk, that’s me.’ she whispered seductively.

  ‘Er, no, no, thank you,’ he muttered looking down at the ground.

  ‘There’s not much ’air on it, me cunny that is,’ Mary added, reinforcing the image of virginal innocence.

  He looked around again, as though fearful being spotted, and then abruptly disengaged his arm and hurried on past. A few yards on however, he slowed down and looked back at her, hesitating, his desires battling with his Methodist conscience. He was about to speak when another Hansom cab, followed by a black carriage turned the corner of the street and he was gone, ducking into an alley that led into Covent Garden like a startled rat. Mary cursed under her breath, she knew he would have gone with her – ten bob maybe– although churchmen were more noted for their eagerness for fornication than their willingness to dig deep into their pockets. ‘Randy as stoats’ one of the girls has said about clergymen clients; not that Mary had any clear idea what a stoat was, but did she know she’d almost had him and then lost him again.

  She was so annoyed had with herself for letting the churchman escape that at first she barely noticed the hansom and the coach coming up Drury Lane from the direction of the Strand. The hansom cab trotted straight on past her but the coach travelled more slowly, as if the passenger were looking for something – or someone. Definitely trade, Mary decided, and opened her shawl again to show off her breasts.

  Further down the street, another girl she slightly knew, Dolly Knapp, who normally worked the backstreets and alleys behind Covent Garden and the Strand, tried to catch the attention of the coach. The coach slowed momentarily and for one horrid moment Mary thought she had lost another customer, then the driver flicked his whip and the coach glided on past Dolly.

  Dolly, old before her time and haggard from drink and the vicissitudes her trade, swore and tried kick at the rear wheels. Dolly was drunk again; she had spent more time in the ‘Black Bull’ than trying to solicit trade. Mackie Blue – her pimp, her manager, her whatever you liked to call him, her protector, hah, that was a laugh, if Mackie was her protector, then who protected her from the protector? – Mackie was almost as vicious as Razor George and she needed some paying trade and soon. Or else she was likely to feel the weight of his fists and belt before too much longer. Or else the agonising crush of his heavy hands as he squeezed her breasts. Mackie liked to pinch-squeeze the breasts of his girls as punishment. Hard! The heavy blue-black bruises and the constant dull ache in her right breast from the last time he had disciplined her was a constant reminder of his anger. She saw the coach pulling in and thought that the punter had changed his mind – then she saw Black Eyed Mary standing in the harder shadows. And swore again!

  Although she had been trying to attract the attention of the coach, Black Eyed Mary was still surprised when the black coach pulled up alongside her. Some kind of swirly, flowery pattern was picked out in gilt on the door, it might be a letter S, she thought. Not that she could read but some of the other girls had tried to teach her but somehow the letters leaked away in the night. No matter how well she knew them before going to sleep, in the morning they’d all gone, leaving her head as empty of letters as though they had never been there at all.

  ‘Good evening, miss. It is a most inclement night to be out on the street without warmth and adequate shelter, if you would care to sit awhile in the dry?’

  The man’s deep voice seeped out from the dark depths of the coach, she tried to peer in closer but could see nothing; it was if all light had been banished from within the coach. Black Eyed Mary hesitated, on the one hand, this could be a rich catch, it was warm and dry, better by far than backed up against a cold wet wall with her skirts pulled up about her waist, but something held her back. She took a pace forward. Then stopped again, unsure – a nagging worm of caution writhing somewhere in the deepest reaches of her subconscious.

  ‘My dear, if do not wish to avail yourself of shelter and my company, no doubt there are many more who will appreciate all that I have to offer.’

  Mary shrugged, what was the alternative – another beating from Razor George and maybes a gentle kiss from Jenny-No-Nose? Taking a deep breath, she grasped the handle of the coach door and climbed inside.

  Dolly Knapp was alongside the black coach now, still angry that the punter, whoever he might be, a flash cove with money, had turned her down in preference to Black Eyed Mary. As the black coach began to pull away, she looked over at the window, intending to give the occupant a piece of her very foul mouth but heavy black velvet curtains were pulled tight to.

  Dolly also noticed the swirly gilt S embossed upon the door, cursing even more because it was obvious that the punter had money, lots of money and Dolly knew that if he had taken up with her rather than Black Eyed Mary she would have tried to lift his purse. That would have kept Mackie Blue happy for a while, ‘til the money ran out of course.

  But then, with a rush of charitable spirit that she did not know she possessed, Dolly Knapp suddenly said to herself, ‘good luck to the girl, she needs a good’un, a big payer to keep Razor George of her back for a while.’ Dolly was not one of Razor George’s girls, ‘thank gawd,’ Mackie Blue was bad enough, but she knew, as did all the girls who worked the streets of Covent Garden, as to Razor George’s extreme reputation for violence and the beatings he administered – and about Jenny-No-Nose. And all the girls knew about Black Eyed Mary, poor little cow, and for once in her life Dolly Knapp was pleased that someone else had profited at her expense. ‘Make it a good un, Mary,’ she called out softly as the coach pulled away.

  However, by the time the coach had turned west into Long Acre, Dolly Knapp had all but forgotten about Black Eyed Mary. She had taken the arm of a nervously smiling clergyman and was leading him into an alley where she sometimes conducted her business.

  ‘Come on then, darlin,’ she said, her thighs flashing white as she lifted her skirts, ‘Sweet an’ as fresh it is, cos I’ve only just started see, you’ll be one of the very first, you will. Ooh’, she exclaimed. ‘I’ve never seen one as big as that afore!’

  After the body of Black Eyed Mary was found, Dolly Knapp remembered the black coach and the swirly gilt S upon the door and wanted to tell the police, but Mackie Blue would have none of it. ‘Listen girl, and listen well, you start talking to the rozzers, even if only to ask em the time o’ day, let alone pass information to ’em, and I’ll break your arms and legs for you, you just see if’n I don’t’. And he gave her a beating anyway, just for even thinking about talking to the police and such was Dolly’s fear of Mackie, she never did tell anyone about the mysterious black coach with the swirly letter S – even as the killings continued.

  Chapter 7

  THE RIVER THAMES, LONDON

  SATURDAY MAY 3rd, 1887 5-30AM

  TOFFER HOXTON EASED HIS WHERRY UP TOWARDS THE PIERS of Westminster Bridge, hugging close to the right hand bank; the south side of the river. Cast into sudden gloom beneath the bridge he felt temporarily blinded before the boat slid out again into the sunshine on the upriver side of the bridge. A brewer’s dray plodded solidly over the bridge, the rumbling of the heavy iron shod wheels echoing like an imminent thunderstorm whilst the ponderous clop of the shire horses hooves rang out like gunfire. A Hansom cab, followed by a four in hand then quickly trotted across, clattering like kettledrums or a heavy hailstorm.

  But Toffer bore them no mind. To the people of the city, river men like himself were all but invisible, occupying a strata of society about which they neither knew nor cared. And Toffer was happy to keep it that way, the less anyone knew of his business
the better.

  Toffer was small, with a thin pinched face and long nose, which he perpetually sniffed and twitched, giving him more than a passing resemblance to the sleek water rats with which he shared the river. Although a small man, years of rowing his wherry against the tides of the Thames had made his chest and arms thick and heavily muscled. Toffer’s strength of arm was also necessary for his other riparian activities.

  Once through the bridge Toffer let the wherry lose headway and then expertly turned it across the stream to carry him over to the Victoria Embankment side by Westminster Palace. Light morning mist swirled like wraiths across the murky waters of the Thames, soon to burn off once the sun rose above the rooftops. The towers of Westminster Abbey thrust boldly up into the brightening morning sky, but Toffer barely noticed. Thick wisps of smoke from morning fires slithered across the dull rooftops like a spreading stain.

  As he cruised slowly along the upriver side of the bridge Toffer peered closely into the blackened waters by the bridge supports, hunting his particular treasure. He sniffed loudly, the river mists always on his chest and sinuses and then swiped the snot from the end of his rat-like nose onto the sleeves of his blue woollen fisherman’s jersey, the cuffs of which were ragged and frayed.

  The tide had just turned, now on the ebb, the best tide for bringing bodies to the surface.

  Bodies!

  Toffer’s stock in trade. Bodies brought into shore collected a Coroners fee for the finder. More importantly for Toffer, bodies were usually clothed, carried money, wore rings and jewellery and pocket watches, silk ties and good shoes – of no use to a dead-man, so why let them go to waste? No cadaver brought ashore ever had money in its pockets or wallet or purse, it was if the coins evaporated through the clothing. Distinctive jewellery Toffer left alone – distinctive jewellery could be traced- but plain rings, wedding bands, necklaces, bracelets, all somehow became washed off by the river tides; mysteriously finding their way into Toffer’s pockets and subsequently into the dubious hands of jewellers and second hand traders who were none too fussy as to the provenance of goods they bought and sold.