The Maze

by A. J. B. Johnston

  “No,” says Cleland on Thomas’s behalf.

  Or there’s the Armenian, whose name Thomas does not catch. Of middling size, with coal black hair and eyes, and, according to the list, very vigorous in the sack. Or Miss Cross, a black-eyed gypsy with a curious yet delightful manner of wiggling herself. Billy says he’s never had a complaint. Most find it worth the extra pennies. She’ll be just a little over a pound. Much different is Kitty. She’s from Ireland but a veteran in London now.

  “But thirteen when she arrived and is now past thirty I think.” Billy squints at Thomas to see if that triggers something. “Not a race she’s not done. Jews, Papists, Turks, whatever, Kitty has had them all. Especially likes the French.” Billy glances up at Thomas from his list.

  “Let me see that.” Thomas holds out an open hand. He’s beginning to think the man is not reading but making half of this up as he goes along.

  Billy shakes his head. “The list is for no eyes but my own.”

  “Only fair,” says Cleland. He gives Thomas something of a warning look. “Cannot have been easy to compile such a list.”

  “It was not. Thank you, Friend. It’s a knowledge and a service I gladly share. For a price.”

  “All right, go on,” Thomas says. But he retrieves his own rejected manuscript from under his ass and puts it on the table beside his untouched mug of coffee. He figures another few minutes and he’ll head off. Cleland can do what he wants.

  Thomas gives a quick glance around the room. He notices, as he had not before, that there are two sets of stairs to whatever lies upstairs. He sees a file of men coming down one set, all of the well-to-do sort, with their wigs fitted and properly kept. He guesses there must be a club meeting of some sort just overhead. Yes, indeed, one of the men has what looks like a record book tucked under one arm. At the other end of the long room there’s a man beginning to mount the stairs with a woman who is clearly for sale. He already has his hand up her skirt and they’re not yet out of sight. So it must be at that end of the big room where the ladies on Billy Bing’s list come and go.

  “Still with us, friend?”

  Thomas’s gaze comes back to Billy Bing.

  “Just getting the feel of the place,” he says. “Quite a—” Thomas cannot think of what word would come next.

  “That’s right.” Billy lifts a sheet and reads from the one below. “Here’s one: wicked as a devil, it says. From the sugar islands, she is. How does that sound? Fancy a bit of brown?”

  “Perhaps not tonight.” Thomas digs into his pocket and pulls out his watch.

  “Here’s a Cleopatra. From the real Egypt too. Flays her arms like no one else.”

  Thomas shakes his head. Are there more Egypts than the one?

  A loud wailing noise begins close by the entrance to the place. A drunken soul has just ventured in with a hurdy-gurdy and begun to crank its wheel. There are shouts of “Not in here!” and “Get out!” One of the waiters, a burly chap, sends the poor man on his way with a boot to the ass. From outside the hurdy-gurdy make a sad sound as it strikes the ground.

  “Fanny then?” Billy is seemingly oblivious to the cacophony at the other end of the room. “Just arrived from the country. Pretty as a picture. Sandy hair. Breasts like peaches. Fifteen she is and not yet deflowered. Special price if you want to be the first?”

  Thomas glances at Cleland with skeptical eyes. How many times do pimps sell their young ones as virgins?

  Cleland slides off Thomas’s mocking look. He reaches across the table to tap Billy on the arm. “What county is she from?”

  Billy Bing smiles at Cleland. “I know she’ll tell you if you ask. What county do you want? Gloucestershire, I bet.”

  Cleland appears to be thinking about that. And about the Fanny Mr. Bing has described.

  Billy swivels back to Thomas. “Dolly? She’s built like a Dutch boat.”

  Thomas laughs. “And what does that mean?”

  He looks at Cleland, who is apparently surprised Thomas does not know. “A broad bottom,” Cleland explains.

  “That’s right,” Billy adds. “Keeps things comfortable, and solidly on the bed.”

  “Oh.” Thomas clicks the lid on his watch. A quarter past midnight. A quarter hour more and he’ll be off. No matter what John Cleland or this Billy says.

  “Here’s one of pygmy size?”

  Thomas rolls his eyes.

  Billy goes to the last page. “How about Miss Laycock. She lives up to her name.”

  It takes Thomas a moment to grasp the supposed humour in that. “Oh, I see. No.”

  Billy leans forward toward Thomas. Cleland leans in so he too can hear. “Our Miss Laycock has a special way to restore the spent thing.”

  Cleland smiles at Thomas. “Revives the stallion after its run.”

  Billy Bing points at Cleland. “There you go, friend. A fine way with words, you have. I should get you to help with the descriptions on the list.”

  Cleland shrugs but is clearly pleased. Billy turns back to Thomas. “Miss Laycock is a linguist, if you know what I mean.”

  Thomas knows exactly what he means, but instead of replying he brings out his watch again. Five more minutes.

  “Posterior?” inquires Billy. His list is rolled up and put away, back into the funnel it was. “Costs more, but the preference of some.” He flashes a quick look Cleland’s way. “Friend here might agree?” Billy leans back and waits for Cleland to comment. Cleland makes a non-committal face, but he rubs his chin like there’s a spot he wants to eliminate. It’s enough to make Thomas laugh.

  Thomas leans forward to Billy. “Des femmes françaises? I mean do you have—”

  “Any French?” For the first time since he began to read names off his list, Billy finally settles back in his chair. There even comes a smile, a genuine smile. “What kind of purveyor would I be, as Friend here describes me, without the charms of the French? There just might be one waiting for you upstairs right now.”

  Thomas fights to keep a straight face. “Already? French? With dark eyes and dark hair?”

  “Mais oui.” Billy is having fun. He has worked hard to get the transaction to this point, Thomas has to admit.

  Thomas glances at his new English friend, as usual dressed in his expensive green coat. If Thomas reads Cleland’s open-mouthed expression correctly, his companion is surprised that after all the exotic delicacies on Billy’s list, Thomas has selected a woman whose only requisite commodity is that she be French. Thomas turns back to Billy. “The name of this woman, could it be Hélène?”

  “Very specific, friend, but—” Billy raises a hand and snaps his fingers. “There, Helen it is.”

  “Hélène,” Thomas corrects. “Hé— lène.”

  “All right, Hay Lane it is.”

  Thomas smiles at this unstoppable Billy Bing. Cleland was right. “Up those stairs?” Thomas asks, using his thumb to point back over his shoulder.

  “Very perceptive, the French,” Billy says to John Cleland.

  Thomas pushes back his chair, takes his cursed manuscript in both hands and readies to stand.

  “Oh not quite yet, sir.” Billy Bing is up on his feet. He places a firm hand on Thomas’s shoulder and keeps him in his seat. “I must go first. That’s how it works. Have to make sure Hay Lane is ready for you. Votre visite. All right, friend?”

  Thomas settles back into his chair. “Of course.”

  “A quarter hour, not a minute more. Good pleasure, like a good meal, takes a bit of time.” With a courtier’s bow, like Thomas is a lord, Billy Bing is away.

  John Cleland lifts his chair and comes as close to Thomas as he can. The wooden arms of the two chairs are nearly touching. The man responsible for this outing is smiling as broadly as any person can. “I’m glad it has worked out, this little exploration of ours. Do you fancy a glass of port while we wait? There
are ardours ahead.”

  “Amours, you mean?”

  “That too.” Cleland rises slowly to his feet. “Oysters, I think. What do you say? Some succulent fortifiers to prolong the enjoyment ahead?”

  “Des huitres with the port, bien sûr. But sit down, Cleland, I’ll pay the bill. I owe you something for taking my mind off – other things.” Thomas climbs to his feet.

  Cleland bows from the waist. “Perhaps I will accept, dear Tyrell. It occurs to me that I might be running short. I’m going to need something to purchase my country girl from Billy’s list. I too seem to have a goatish side, alas.”

  “Why alas?”

  “Because his Fanny will come dear. Billy said as much.”

  Thomas hesitates then says it anyway, what’s on his mind. “You know that this Fanny is not really going to be the virgin Billy claims?”

  “Shhh. There’s no guarantee there’s a God, but people keep building churches. It’s how we are.” Cleland shrugs. “I prefer the fiction that she is.”

  Thomas heads off to get the oysters and the port. On the short walk, a growing smile becomes a laugh. John Cleland can never be the friend Jean Gallatin is or was, but Thomas finds him amusing nonetheless.

  —

  The quarter-hour wait that Billy Bing promised has become a full half. The emptied oyster shells and the tray they came on have long since been cleared away. Thomas and Cleland are each on their third glass.

  Thomas suddenly no longer wants any more of the port. Its sweet promise of delight, like the Hélène that Billy said he could get, is a deceit. Thomas runs a finger round the top edge of his glass. He pushes the glass a short distance away and glances at Cleland on the other side of the table. “He’s gone out into the city to find a whore who speaks French, hasn’t he?”

  “’Fraid so.” Cleland takes a sip of his port, then another, a long one, to finish it off. “And a willing maiden to play my Fanny as well. Our lives are pieces of theatre, if we only knew. And it’s a knave who writes the scripts.”

  The two men exchange harrumphs.

  “Did you know that Fielding’s next play is set in a brothel?” Cleland asks.

  Thomas’s eyes go wide.

  “’Tis true. He’s concocted a plot—”

  “Con-cocked? What’s that?”

  Cleland laughs. “I think you’ve drunk enough. Fielding has concocted a plot....” He pauses and waits to see if Thomas got it this time.

  “Oh,” Thomas says.

  “It’s about two prostitutes. A Covent-Garden Tragedy it’s called.”

  “How do you know so much?”

  “I get around. I listen well.”

  “And you?” Thomas ventures. He reconsiders the glass of port. He picks it up and takes another sip after all.

  “Me what?”

  “Gallatin says you write about people having sex.”

  “Does he now?” Cleland frowns. “Well, I read a few sample pages a while back, before you started joining us. Yes, it’s half true. But there is a story. And I refuse to use any vulgar terms at all. I will not talk or write like the street.”

  “Not easy to do, I bet. The vulgar terms are what we know.”

  “Well, there’s no challenge in doing things the easy way, is there now?” Cleland holds out an open hand.

  Thomas acknowledges that he makes a good point. Then he covers his mouth to hide a laugh.

  “What is it?” Cleland asks.

  “I was just thinking. Every cock must have its day.” Thomas holds in his sputter of laughter until he sees Cleland laugh himself. Then the two of them nearly cry.

  “You know the real saying is dog, don’t you, Tyrell?”

  “I do. Do I? I’m not sure.” Thomas starts laughing again.

  When they return to the business at hand, the waiting game, Thomas pulls out his watch. “Another few minutes is all.”

  Cleland nods that he agrees. “And what about you, Tyrell, any aspirations to create a fictional world?”

  No.” Thomas studies Cleland for a moment to see if he really wants to hear what he has to say on the subject. He decides he does. “Well, perhaps. I was thinking recently about writing a tale in which the hero is no hero at all.”

  “What would he be?”

  “I— I’m not sure. Maybe someone forced to become a thief and spy.”

  “Tricky,” Cleland says. “That would be like writing from the wrong end of the telescope. As long as he is hanged for his crimes in the end, I suppose.”

  Thomas stares at his companion to see if that is perhaps a joke. No, apparently not. Maybe he’ll leave the writing of novels to someone else.

  There is a hard clasp on Thomas’s shoulder.

  “Wondered where I was, I bet.”

  Thomas and John Cleland exchange blank looks. Thomas pulls out his pocket watch.

  “Ah friend,” says Billy to Thomas, “you can put that away.”

  Thomas leans back in his chair. He finds he’s squinting at the man.

  “That’s right, just another few ticks of the clock and your Straw— no, your Hay Lane will be along. How about I get your glass refilled while you wait?”

  Thomas does not say a thing. He chooses to be stone-faced.

  “Not thirsty then?” Billy says, then switches to Cleland. “You, good sir, your Fanny is upstairs.” The thin pimp lifts both hands. He wears a look that suggests perhaps some thanks are due. “She’s waiting eagerly and nervously of course. Go easy. You’ll be her first. Third door on the left.”

  “How— how much?” Cleland is quick to ask. Thomas thinks he notices his friend’s left eye give a tiny twitch. It has to be the unknown cost.

  “No, no,” says Billy. “You’re both gentlemen. Not the time to speak of that. Relax. Pleasure first. No need yet for anyone to open his purse.” Billy rubs his hands together, like he’s dusting sand. “Here, sir, let me escort you to the right room and introduce you to the fair thing.”

  Billy winks at the still seated Thomas as he helps the slightly wobbly Cleland away from the table and toward the stairs. “Right back, friend,” he says to Thomas. “The French treat’s on her way, I assure you. Just another,” Billy shrugs, “another little bit. More than worth the wait, she is.”

  —

  The soles of Billy Bing’s shoes are no sooner up the stairs, out of Thomas’s sight, than Thomas is up from the table and out the door of the Shakespeare’s Head. He’s come to his senses just in time. John Cleland may let himself be fleeced by a foolish dream, but Thomas is wiser than that. As he hurries off he taps the inside pocket of his veston where his purse still safely lies. He only hopes Cleland has enough on him to pay whatever figure Billy tells him he owes after the deed is done.

  His feet spin across the Covent Garden market square, lit by a quarter moon and a field of stars. Tonight, the celestial bodies have the sky to themselves. There’s not a cloud. Thomas can see clearly how deserted the square is. There’s only him on his diagonal path straight across and a couple of stray cats running stops and starts. One is squealing like an unoiled wheel. The two of them dart left and right, round and round. The larger cat, cloaked in his coat of sable, is evidently stalking the smaller, mottled one. Thomas knows what that’s about and how it will end. He wishes the female well as she tries to escape her fate, but that’s not nature’s way, is it? It’s a reflection that slows him down. He sucks in a deep breath.

  Oh, how he can taste sulphurous grit from burning coal. He looks to the rooflines surrounding the square. Yes, he spies a few plumes of spiralling smoke. Not everyone, it seems, is asleep with their fires out. Some are still up stoking the heat.

  Stoking the heat? That makes Thomas grin. Funny how words and phrases sometimes come to mind with a double sense. It’s as if our minds are labyrinths with interconnected paths between hidden recesses. Those few word
s are a clear case of that. Because that’s exactly what Thomas would like to be doing right now, stoking the heat. And with the woman with whom he’s shared so much, up to and including this disappointment-laden English sojourn. He takes another breath. Maybe for the first time since arriving in London he doesn’t mind the taste of coal soot. Maybe its burning sensation will cleanse him of wanting Hélène.

  He exits the square onto a street where the houses lining both sides are all built of bricks. Head down, his fast feet lead the way. What was it he used to call his legs? His physicians. Well, physicians, heal yourselves if you would.

  Thomas grimaces at the joke. It makes him glance overhead as he marches along, for he recalls exactly where the original phrase comes from. Though for more than twenty years he has rejected the faith ladled into him as a child, claiming reason and logic as his adult guides, that faith swallowed so young still surfaces from time to time.

  A rattling hack and cough comes out of an alley to his right. Thomas jumps. He hears a man’s voice weakly calling “Help.” Thomas peers in. He can see an outstretched hand. Ah, but what if it’s a ruse? If he ventures into that dark corner of the night he could well be jumped. So he does not linger at the entrance to the alley for long. Caution is better than bravery. He hurries on.

  Up ahead, glowing like sculpted ivory thanks to the light of the moon and stars, the spire of Christ Church comes into view. Its sudden appearance above the rooftops surprises Thomas. He thought it would take him longer to get to Spitalfields than it did. He must have been in a rush.

  A rush to where and to what? Not to home, that’s for sure. He’s moving out in two days. His new home will be in ... the Duchy of Utope. Yes, that’s it. Nowhere. Hogarth’s recent cleverness at coming up with the term almost makes him smile. Almost.

  And so here he is, on Church Street so soon, standing in front of number 5. There’s not a light glimmering behind the closed shutters that he can detect. They must be in bed. The question is, is that beds in the plural, meaning separate rooms, or are they snuggled in the same one? Aye, there’s the rub.