Read The Fiend in Human Online
Authors: John MacLachlan Gray
The Fiend in Human (7 page)
He holds a blunt forefinger before her face for emphasis: ‘Never you mind the cosh, Dorcas. Nor do I approve of that kind of smutty talk.’
‘It was only in jest, Father,’ says Phoebe.
‘What is done in jest is done in mind, and what is done in mind is soon or late done in deed.’
‘That may be so, Henry, but still he should get a good coshing after what he done to you. Deserves to be served out proper for it, he does.’
‘That may be so, child, yet I will not see you stun the man. For in truth it is not so simply done and you could as easily kill him. Besides which, from what I seen of him there will be no need – by the time he finds his way out of his booze-ken, he’ll have stunned himself.’
The Haymarket
Having dined on beef pie, duck and sherry, Reginald Harewood alights from a coach at the corner at Orange Street and the Haymarket, followed by Walter Sewell, both men in a state of high excitement, albeit for different reasons.
Sewell watches his friend, as he often does, with a kind of wonder: tailored to perfection, fragrant as a lily, inhaling the unwholesome night-time miasma as though it were country air. (For his part, Sewell expects to come down with a fever at any moment.)
Harewood drinks deeply from his silver flask, replaces the stopper, smoothes his impeccable whiskers with the back of a chamois glove and turns to his friend, eyes sparkling with that merry light that draws women like insects.
‘She walks in beauty like the night, Of cloudless climes and starry skies …
How’s that for a turn of phrase?’
How’s that for a turn of phrase?’
‘It was Byron, actually.’ Indeed, Sewell can imagine his friend as George Gordon, seducer of Europe, which impression is enhanced by Harewood’s slight limp, the consequence of a rugby injury of which he is very proud; excepting that his friend is not a poet so much as he is a man about whom poems are written; to Sewell, it is his friend who walks in beauty like the night.
‘Can you feel it, Roo? The
frisson
in the air – a quivering of creatures of the night, begging to be worshipped and ravished?’
frisson
in the air – a quivering of creatures of the night, begging to be worshipped and ravished?’
‘Your
frisson
is misplaced, Reggie. I do not know how you can find such excitement in the prospect of an intimate association with a fallen woman.’
frisson
is misplaced, Reggie. I do not know how you can find such excitement in the prospect of an intimate association with a fallen woman.’
‘You do have a rum way of expressing yourself sometimes.’
‘They are not the cleanest creatures on earth, nor are they the most discreet. Does that not worry you? I certainly worry on your behalf.’
‘The devil take your hygiene, Roo. We’ll find some romance in you yet.’
Near Leicester Square is an angular street, unilluminated by gaslight, where whores retreat to relieve their bladders. (Peelers ignore this trifle as long as it is not done in the main thoroughfare.) They retire in twos for this necessary process, so that one woman will act as a screen,
standing alongside until her companion is finished, then taking her turn. In this convenient setting the two Oxonians join a queue of merry gentlemen, alone or in pairs, waiting to select their companions of the evening.
standing alongside until her companion is finished, then taking her turn. In this convenient setting the two Oxonians join a queue of merry gentlemen, alone or in pairs, waiting to select their companions of the evening.
‘How do you maintain an appetite, Reggie? Imagine if this were a dining-room.’
‘Dash it Roo, you’re a fountain of unpleasant imagery. Very well, to the square – though the selection there is not half so convenient.’
Crossing Oxendon Street they sidle their way between slowly moving hansoms and grinders, avoiding hooves, wheels, and manure. Regretting the absence of a sweeper, Sewell employs the edge of the opposite kerb to scrape the shite from the sole of his boot, then hurries down a narrow lane after his friend, whose fawn-coloured boots reveal not a speck of muck. Sewell watches his friend’s back in its triangular elegance, walking-stick swinging in a brisk arc, the other gloved hand holding a cigar, whistling beneath his whiskers, his slightly uneven gait seemingly in rhythm with the melody. Sewell notes as well the contrasting glances of passers-by, of welcome or envy depending upon the gender, and the moment is sufficient for him, he needs no more, he would happily return to his rooms off Bruton Street and spend the rest of the evening with a book.
Past the Comedy Theatre on Panton Street, the preponderance of female traffic increases, until by Leicester Square they face an ample array of women of every description, examining shop windows with curious intensity, their reflections in the glass exchanging seemingly accidental looks with the men walking by.
‘Not to be a prig, Reggie, but what do these ladies possess that your cousin lacks?’
‘Upon my word, Roo, a fellow cannot be always asking himself why he does things. Takes the fun out of life.’
As they stroll around Leicester Square, Sewell does his utmost to avoid the implied invitation of an array of physical types:
A brunette with sturdy shoulders and a noticeable moustache simpers coquettishly from within her bonnet, followed by a woman who bears a slight resemblance to a bulldog, with compressed features, little close-set eyes and separated teeth. A prospective paramour with the little nibbling face of a mouse bats her little black eyes at him. Now he hurries past a long, white, slug-like creature with a head like a little ball and a small dark nose like the ace of spades …
‘I suppose there’s no rhyme or reason to it,’ says Sewell, ‘when one is
simply looking for a hole in which to spend.’
simply looking for a hole in which to spend.’
‘Roo, if you weren’t the best friend a man could have, I might give up on you entirely. These women are the poetry of the age: young lovelies, brimming over with desire, unspoilt by education and manners, living for the moment …’
Abruptly, Reggie Harewood points with his walking-stick in a way that reminds Sewell of fox-hunting. ‘Oh I say, look what we have here.’
‘Which one do you mean, Reggie?’
‘See the two little creatures reading the Empire playbill? Dark hair on one of them, quite pretty in a prim sort of a way? And her friend beside her, blonde, tits nearly falling out of her bodice? I say, Roo, the little dark-haired one might be just your cup of tea. Spirited little piece, be great fun once you get the clothes off her.’
Before Sewell can protest, his friend has already commanded the rapt attention of both young maidens.
‘If I may be so bold, Ladies, we are two gentlemen from the country who are rather at a loss this evening.’
Speaks up the blonde girl, conspicuously eager: ‘If you’re lost, Sir, my friend and I are more than pleased to give you directions.’
Reginald Harewood smiles, eyes sparkling in that way of his. ‘How utterly kind of you.’ He offers the blonde girl a drink from his flask, which she accepts. ‘Please permit me to introduce my friend, Mr Stanley.’
‘How do you do, Mr Stanley. Please might I introduce you to my friend, whose name is Phoebe.’
Mr Stanley reddens in reply.
‘What an utterly enchanting name,’ prompts Harewood, offering the young lady a drink. ‘Is Phoebe not an enchanting name, Mr Stanley?’
‘Enchanting,’ replies his friend.
‘Why thank you, kind Sir,’ replies the darker, smaller girl, admiring the silver flask and smiling prettily. ‘Unfortunately, we both are currently engaged. Instead, why don’t you go and pork your little fat friend?’
‘Reggie, these people are animals.’
‘Indeed, were I not so enchanted by her friend, I should have taught her a good lesson with my walking-stick.’
‘In truth, old chap, I am feeling ill, and in the mood to retire.’
‘Nonsense. A temporary disappointment is part of the hunt. See?
Look there – already we are in luck.’ Harewood grips the arm of his friend, turning as if to glance into a shop window displaying bonnets, situated a short distance from two young women, similarly partnered.
Look there – already we are in luck.’ Harewood grips the arm of his friend, turning as if to glance into a shop window displaying bonnets, situated a short distance from two young women, similarly partnered.
Sewell watches his friend direct a beam of charm straight at the tall one with the rebellious head of chestnut hair, whose lack of a corset and straight, peasant’s waist gives her an unaffected, upright air – unaffectedness being Reggie’s principal fetish. Sewell would judge the young lady to be something over eighteen. Her companion, whom he fully expects to have foisted upon himself, cannot have attained her fourteenth year. The one shows a pleasing eye and a fair set of lips, whereas the younger girl is the worst kind of Irish drudge, features prematurely set in an expression of resentful disappointment.
While the taller girl exchanges pleasantries with his confident friend, Sewell takes an intense interest in bonnets.
All too soon, Harewood taps him on the shin with his walking-stick: ‘I say, damned impolite of us not to introduce ourselves.’ With a wink, he turns back to the two young women.
‘I am Mr Brighton. And I am pleased to present my cousin from Kent, Mr Stanley.’
Mr Stanley screws his face into a smile.
‘Very pleased to meet you, Mr Brighton.’ The taller girl offers her gloved hand to the handsome, tipsy young clubman. His teeth are excellent. His whiskers complement a set of features that fall just short of aristocratic. There is something luxuriant in the way that his eyes linger upon her white arm, which she displays in pleasing contrast to the dark velvet of her cape. She squeezes his hand before letting go, for he is a relatively attractive prospect and not unpleasant to service, though he can barely contain himself and will require careful tending for maximum return.
‘Confound it, Ladies,’ says he, ‘I’m utterly charmed by your company, as is my friend – am I not correct, Mr Stanley?’
‘Quite,’ murmurs Sewell, resigned to the fact that Reggie must have her, and have her tonight.
‘I say, this is damned bold of me, but might you trust yourself in a coach with us?’
‘I am sorely tempted, Sir, and pleased that you find me engaging, but it is my duty to see to my sister. Etta is a country virgin unused to the city and I am responsible for her honour and safety.’
‘Upon my word, we mustn’t see your sister unescorted. I assure you that my companion Mr Stanley would be only too delighted to
accompany little Etta – protect her, set her on the right path and all the rest. Am I not right, Mr Stanley?’
accompany little Etta – protect her, set her on the right path and all the rest. Am I not right, Mr Stanley?’
‘Undoubtedly,’ mumbles Sewell, leaning into the shadow of the doorway, for his cheeks have turned crimson.
‘Capital. Then it is settled.’
The taller girl turns for a private word with the solemn young thing, who stands close by as though hiding behind her skirts.
‘What do you think of the pudgy fellow, Etta?’
‘I does not think he likes me,’ whispers Etta.
‘Nonsense. Look at the blush on him. He is a baby, wetting his wick for the first time, he doesn’t know what he likes or doesn’t like. Straighten up, Etta, it isn’t as though I have not told you what to do. Get yourself in order and do as he wishes, but don’t be too willing and don’t be too quick. I shall meet you later at the usual place.’
‘I’ll try, Flo. But I has my doubts.’
‘Do not worry. Plant him a kiss with the tip of your tongue in it, and you will have your way.’
Carefully closing the curtains of the hansom against prying Peelers, Flo adjusts her bonnet in the way that allows her chestnut hair to fall over her velvet shoulders, and turns to smile at her Mr Brighton. ‘Your friend is a bashful gentleman, Sir. I fear I cannot tell what my sister will make of him.’
‘Never worry, my dear, the old trout will pay well. Indeed, he pays for nothing as far as I know – though he’d die if anyone found out. Dashed good fellow, Roo, but a mere child in the ways of the world.’ Smiling, he offers her his silver flask.
She smiles back and sips the brandy after wiping the flask with her glove. ‘But you gave me to understand that his name was Mr Stanley,’ she says, for she likes to tease men, and prides herself on her powers of observation.
‘You can call him whatever bloody thing you like.’ A note of sharpness, then his voice drops to a soft burr. ‘Still, I am utterly fascinated by all that you say.’ So saying, he places her hand on his thigh; she removes her hand after giving it a squeeze.
‘Well, my blossom, what do you say to the Crown for champagne? Damn me, it’ll be a pleasure to be seen in the company of such loveliness.’
‘To be candid, Sir, I don’t drink in the way of business. For that I have haunts of my own, and other sort of men for my pleasure.’
His smile tightens, as does his grip on her thigh. ‘I say, getting saucy are we? I don’t like impudence in a girl.’
‘I am only looking after my own interests, Sir. Surely you would not expect otherwise.’
The hand on her thigh relaxes. ‘Quite. Assume the standard arrangements of course. Five shillings – or more, depending.’
‘How much more might that be – depending?’
‘Oh I should think as much as ten.’
‘Unlike your friend, I can see that you are a man of the world.’
A bargain having been struck, they retire to one of the many rooms for rent above the nearby coffee-houses, which no one supposes are meant for a good night’s sleep.
Alone with him in the room, she feigns modesty, pushing him away at first, then permitting him to loosen or remove a bit of her clothing here and there. So it proceeds. As the charade becomes more playful she intrudes upon his person as well, with accidental touches and lingering glances, while persistently refusing to submit. Notwithstanding his evident state of readiness, she increases the boldness of her teasing – until, unexpectedly, there occurs an abrupt change in the young man, as he pushes her backward suddenly and roughly onto the bed and clutches her throat in a way that is neither comfortable nor gentlemanly.
‘What is it, my blossom? Eh? Do you wish to be forced? Is that the way of it?’
‘Why no, Sir.’ Despite the shimmer of fear in her bosom she maintains an aspect of calm innocence, for that is the best way with gentlemen who are prone to turn mean. ‘It was just a game, Sir, and I thought you were fond of playing it.’
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