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Post by Idris on Apr 11, 2009 19:55:00 GMT
The ‘island’ of Wapping was bounded by the great basins of the London docks, and entered via the dock-gates through which the great ships came and went. From there the roads became progressively narrower, the houses meaner, the faces more pinched and the clothes more ragged. By night, without the clangour and bustle of the docks, with only the main thoroughfare meanly lit by gaslight, and the courts and stinking alleyways sunk in darkness, the smells seemed even more vivid. A pungent mix of refuse, ordure, coal-smoke and chemicals, of unwashed bodies and unflushed sewers. Not as strong as it would be in the height of summer, but enough to catch the throat and make the eyes water.
The Prospect of Whitby straddled Wapping Wall, just downriver from Execution Dock, where less than a hundred years before so many pirates and mutineers danced at the rope’s end. The back of the inn hung out over the cold dark Thames lapping just below, and the smell of river mud was added to the other odours. A long set of stairs led from the street down to the water, where a pair of rowing boats rocked uneasily in the chilly swell. But the front of the tavern shone like a beacon in the darkness, its many-paned bow windows glowing with warm light, and sounds of revelry poured into the streets every time the door opened.
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Post by aagon on Apr 12, 2009 6:41:20 GMT
Solomon Hawkins stopped outside the inn on Saturday night. He reached into his pocket and felt reassured when his hand brushed up against his gun. He nervously readjusted his mustache before heading in.
Guy Olson walked confidently through the door and looked around the inn without fear and went to claim an empty table. He ordered a beer and sat down. He sipped on his beer and glanced around the room. His eyes wandered over the ladies, but managed to take in the entire room and he listened carefully as he sipped.
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Post by Idris on Apr 12, 2009 22:37:02 GMT
The front door of the tavern led into a narrow hall. Out of this opened a large stone flagged room, with a cheerful fire burning in the chimney and a few rough benches and unmatched tables against the walls. To one side was a long board set up on barrels, from which a saturnine landlord and two well-endowed barmaids kept the customers supplied with beer, ale and spirits. Being Saturday night, the room was crowded with men who had just been paid, men whose money was already burning a hole in their pocket. Dockers with bulging muscles, sunburned sailors of every nation, labourers and locals. There were also, Solomon noted, a number of men of the kind whose business could not be defined, but who always had money to burn.
One had unrolled a cloth upon a table in the corner, and was already doing some business, when the landlord came up to him. “Now Dick, none of your tricks. Haven’t I told you, many and many a time, that the Crown and Anchor is pro-hibited in my establishment? Fold it and out with you, and be glad I don’t call on Carlos to give you a helping hand.” He nodded at a swarthy man who seemed to be made entirely of muscles. The chatter that had silenced at this scene resumed at an even higher pitch as the landlord went back behind the bar.
There were certainly plenty of ladies in the Prospect this chilly Saturday night. Gaudy and noisy as a flock of tropical birds they swarmed around any man who looked as though he still had money in his pocket, laughing loudly, cheeks flushed with gin and the heat of the small room. One of them came up to Solomon and suddenly sat herself on his knee, engulfing him in a miasma of patchouli, alcohol and hot unwashed flesh. She squirmed about and then giggled, “Is that something in your pocket dearie, or are you just pleased to see me?”
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Post by aagon on Apr 13, 2009 5:27:37 GMT
Guy glanced around the room without noting anything out of the ordinary and settled back to enjoy his drink. He watched the confrontation with interest, admiring the innkeeper's efficient dealing with the situation. Crown and Anchor...where have I heard that before? He was trying to remember when one of the many ladies in the inn approached him. As she did, a flash of annoyance surged through him. He liked women well enough, but when he was working, his apparent interest in the ladies around the room was more a reason to look glance around for anything interesting. Not that looking at pretty women isn't a happy coincidence, he admitted to himself. As the woman sat on his lap, he pretended to respond enthusiastically, running his hand up her arm. I'd always be happy to see you. Let me get you a drink. He made a move as if to wave a serving wench over for a drink, but stopped in mid-motion as if remembering something. I...spent the last of my money on this drink, he said, indicating the drink on the table.
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Post by Idris on Apr 13, 2009 12:42:54 GMT
“Hmmph!” the girl snorted, getting off his lap with alacrity. “I thought you were a gentleman who knows how to treat a lady!”
He was relieved when she went off into the crowd to look for another promising target. At least she had not tried to pick his pocket – he knew that some of the ‘ladies’ would use a man’s natural confusion at their close proximity to fan him. The landlord gave him a sharp look as the girl flounced away but seemed satisfied that he was who he appeared to be. Nobody else seemed to be paying him any attention. Looking around the room again, Solomon saw cards and dice being played. He recalled that Crown and Anchor was a sailor’s game, but so weighted in favour of the person running it, that it had been banned by the navy. The landlord was quick to forbid it too, maybe he had once been a tar himself.
As the evening progressed and more drink was poured, the noise rose. Solomon caught snatches of conversation – talk of the latest murder in Whitechapel, debate over the relative merits of two bare-knuckle fighters who would be performing upstairs sometime later, a child gone missing in Shadwell, a body found in the river. Hardly uncommon events, but the last made Solomon prick up his ears and listen harder.
“Found with a piano wire round ‘is neck,” said one of the speakers, a lugubrious docker in a filthy bowler hat that was a sign of authority in the dockyard. He had been holding forth to several others. “Yer know what that means.”
His audience nodded in agreement, but a young sailor with a Liverpool accent suddenly chirped up. “Well, what does it mean then?”
Men rolled their eyes and the bowler-hatted one leaned forward until his face was scant inches from the sailor’s. “It means ‘e crossed ‘is betters. Like what you’re going to do if you don’t shut yer trap.”
For a moment it looked as though a fight might break out, but the sailor was not so drunk he did not recognise superior fire-power when he saw it. Mumbling something he backed away.
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Post by aagon on Apr 13, 2009 19:57:46 GMT
Guy listened to the conversation around him while feigning an interest in his drink. The topics were all familiar to him and eventually he started to wonder whether his secret contact was actually going to show up. When discussion turned to the body in the river, however, all such thoughts disappeared. Crossing your betters he thought with dread. Does that mean traitors and snitches? Could that be Vincey? Or maybe my new contact? More nervous now, Guy refused to look around, focusing on his drink.
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Post by Idris on Apr 14, 2009 14:06:08 GMT
Stories that Vincey had passed on to him over the last few months churned in Solomon's mind. Rumours of a dark figure rising in the London underworld, a king among criminals. No one knew who he was, or who worked for him. The stories were vague, mere hints, but there were two details that had been repeated. A name - the Reaper. A threat - the Wire.
Vincey had sworn he would get more. Solomon knew he was desperate for money - Vincey was a gambler, and not a lucky one, he had run up many debts. Last November he had contacted Solomon and informed him that he had the information. That was the last Solomon heard from the gravedigger.
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Post by aagon on Apr 14, 2009 20:06:33 GMT
It couldn't be Vincey-could it? It's been months, surely he'd have been found earlier. Possibilities ran through his head- could this be a trap? Could the dead body be the man he was supposed to meet here tonight?
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nick60
New Member
Better than 50 Cent
Posts: 4
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Post by nick60 on Apr 20, 2009 10:34:36 GMT
Nic walked into the Prospect of Whitby, unsure of where to go, who to speak to, what to do. He was self conscious in his impeccably clean clothes, the same clothes he was wearing when he first showed up in London four months previously. The scrubbing of his outfit, with the threadbare long coat over them, was one of the few joys he had found in this dirty city, and here he was about to ruin them with drink and the accompanying filth of the workingmen around him. As he made his way to the bar, he tried to keep a low profile, and didn’t know what to do when the filthy young (old?) woman grabbed about the waist. She spoke in a rough accent, and he dissuaded her as best he could, the whole time keeping his arm near his money. He had learned in the long months. As he ordered a beer from the innkeeper, he asked if he knew a man named Carver.
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Post by Idris on Apr 20, 2009 21:29:15 GMT
Nic noticed one or two strange looks as he walked up to the bar, but the room was so packed with men - most of whom were already half awash with drink - that nobody took too much notice of him. There were women too, flouncing through the crowd, looking about with bold eyes. One of them came straight up to Nic and put her arm around him – he could see that the layers of paint and powder covered a multitude of fine wrinkles. Having escaped her clutches, Nic reached the bar.
In response to his question, the landlord nodded to someone behind Nic, just as a heavy hand fell on his shoulder and a deep voice spoke into his ear.
“Watcha want wiv Mister Carver?”
The owner of the voice was a man shorter than Nic but with muscles bulging under his well cut coat. He had the shaven head of a recently released convict, and the broad face and self-satisfied expression of a tom-cat. Nic could sense the narrowed eyes weighing and measuring him.
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Post by Idris on Apr 20, 2009 22:12:33 GMT
Solomon had picked a seat where he could see everyone who entered the door, but none of them were his contact, as far as he could tell. Certainly all of them were known to those already in the bar, and were greeted with shouts of welcome and ribald comments. The room was now even more crowded – it was sweating hot, and filled with overloud talk and singing.
Then he noticed a young man come through the door, unusual in the cleanliness of his clothes, and in his apparent discomposure as one of the older tarts set herself at him. Solomon watched as the man walked to the bar and spoke to the landlord. Whatever he said it drew the attention of a dangerous looking customer. Solomon pricked up his ears and heard the name Carver.
He knew he had heard it before – Carver was involved in street gambling games, not doing it himself, but taking a percentage in return for offering ‘protection’. Protection from the police, from other criminals, from disgruntled losers, but most of all from Carver himself. He had some very tough enforcers in his gang and it looked as though the young man might have fallen foul of one of them.
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nick60
New Member
Better than 50 Cent
Posts: 4
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Post by nick60 on Apr 21, 2009 10:17:50 GMT
“I…I was told to ask for him if I was looking for a job,” he said. Nic wasn’t quite sure what was going on, but the one thing he was sure of was that he had to tread carefully. This wasn’t a man to trifle with, and he had no intention of doing anything that might mean him to wake up dead the next morning. He wasn't even sure if Carver was the kind of man he would want to deal with. This man was filthy, in more ways than one, and Nic for one was scared shitless.
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rip
New Member
The Silent One
Posts: 5
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Post by rip on Apr 21, 2009 12:53:53 GMT
A stocky man entered and shook his jacket, ostensibly to warm himself. The hands that gripped his lapels were large and calloused. They were the hands of Heathcliff Ridley. A good bit of dirt was lodged under his fingernails, an honest testament to his choice of vocation. A couple of heads turned to him as he entered, and he smiled to them and gave a small nod. He did not know them of, course.
Smiling had always been easy for him, but today they almost took effort. Internally, somewhere below the stomach and above the gut, Heathcliff Ridley was in a rage. There had been too many delays in getting here, and if his contact had left he wouldn't forgive himself. The last and greatest delay had been an incident involving a pair of street urchins who had somehow felt they were entitled to the money that he was carrying. He had educated them, of course, and had taught them a great many things. Among these things were the left jab, the right cross, and the taste of Wapping dirt on a cold night.
He recognized a couple of men that he had seen when meeting his friend Caldwell at his place of employ. But his visits were short, the rooms were dim, and the business of Caldwell's employer did nothing for the mental acuity of his customers. The men would probably not recognize him.
From the dimmer side of the room, a lady of accommodating morals waved at him and began to make her way over. He smiled at her and turned so she could see the threadbare clothes that clung to him. She didn't get the hint, even when he patted his empty pockets.
"Why th' bloody 'ell not," he muttered when she walked up. "'ello, dove. What 'ave you got for me?." Her perfume was cloying and he could make out some wrinkles, but she wasn't older than him. It was a shame when she was wearing so much make-up when she would have been of decent appeal without it. He was thinking this as he wrapped a big hand around her waist and pulled her close, pressing her hot bosom into him. The woman was a miasma of gin vapour, and she only muttered something about having been waiting for him all night. He smiled then, genuinely this time, and patted her on the head. "You've got an 'ell of a disguise, Solomon. Let's discuss the finer points of animal husb'dry over a coople of points of milk then, eh? Call me Rip. What did you say your name wos?
He laughed at his own joke as he moved toward the bartender, trying to remain visible for his contact's sake--if the man was even here. One way or another, he wasn't leaving here empty-handed.
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Post by Idris on Apr 22, 2009 21:38:27 GMT
Suddenly Solomon heard his own name spoken, taking his attention away from the scene being played out. A newcomer was walking confidently up to the bar – a tough looking man with a ready smile, his arm around the same ageing tart, who was looking admiringly up at him.
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Post by Idris on Apr 22, 2009 21:39:12 GMT
The woman giggled and leaned herself against Rip as they moved to the bar. A crowd of men surrounded it, debating with the landlord the relative merits of the night’s competitors, while the barmaids were kept busy supplying them with beer.
Beside them, and looking quite out of place, stood a young man in incredibly clean clothes. He seemed extremely nervous, as well he might, for facing him was someone who - although Rip had never seen him before – was instantly recognisable as a bruiser, and not long out of the Steel he would guess.
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