James McGee - Resurrectionist

Hawkwood eyed the moll. She was definitely on her way over. He took a sip from his mug, and braced himself.

Lizzie had her prey in her sights when she sensed the presence at her shoulder.

“Find your own, darlin’. That one’s mine.”

The voice was soft and seductive and threaded with a raw huskiness that spoke of a lifetime of hard liquor and a throat roughened by cheap tobacco fumes.

Lizzie felt the short hairs along her arms and the back of her neck prickle. She turned slowly and found herself confronted by a pair of midnight-blue eyes set in a pale, elfin face framed by a cascade of jet-black ringlets.

“Sal!” Lizzie swallowed nervously. “Didn’t know you was in tonight.”

“Is that right, Lizzie? And there was I thinking you were avoiding me.” The corner of the young woman’s mouth lifted, but there was no humour in her tone. The dark eyes were totally without warmth.

Lizzie felt herself shrink under the piercing gaze.

“Just tryin’ to make a livin’, Sal,” she said quickly. “You know how it is. A girl’s got to earn a crust.”

The young woman nodded slowly, hands on her hips, as though giving Lizzie’s response due consideration.

“Might be worth trying to earn it someplace else then.” Though softly spoken, the threat was there.

Lizzie blanched. “Didn’t mean no harm, Sal, honest.”

“Course you didn’t, Lizzie. I know that.” The girl smiled silkily and laid her hand on Lizzie’s arm.

Lizzie felt her skin crawl. She prayed that nothing showed on her face.

“You won’t tell Sawney, will you?” Lizzie blurted, hating herself for the tremor in her voice.

The girl’s eyes narrowed momentarily. They reminded Lizzie of a cat that had once been housebroken but had reverted to a feral creature, cunning and savage. She felt her arm gripped, as if by sharp talons, and winced.

“Now why would I do that?” The voice was quiet, almost a whisper, yet still audible. “This is just you and me having a quiet chat. Tell you what, why don’t you run along like a good girl and we’ll say no more about it? How’s that?”

Lizzie was conscious of a hollow thumping sound and realized it was the pounding of her heart. She wondered if the other woman was aware of it. Probably; the fingers still holding fast to her wrist were close to her pulse. She nodded and felt a bubble of sweat beading between her shoulder blades burst into what seemed like a thousand droplets of moisture. The back of her dress clung to her body as if it had been drenched with warm water.

“Thanks, Sal. It won’t ’appen again. Promise.”

The girl released her grip. “Course it won’t. Go on, now. Off with you.” Slender fingers patted Lizzie’s arm reassuringly. “And take care, now, Lizzie. You hear?”

Lizzie nodded again. Turning hurriedly and sucking in her breath, she headed for the door. She was a yard or two away when the door opened, admitting a blast of cold air and half a dozen fresh customers; more men with empty pockets and low expectations, already casting longing looks towards the counter and the pay-table in the alcove. Most would be looking for a drink. More than a few wouldn’t have the money to pay for it, but if their name was in the ledger they knew Hanratty would give them credit. Just for tonight, tomorrow could look after itself.

Had it been any other time, Lizzie would have executed a swift about-turn, fluttered her eyelashes, hoisted up her bosom and set to work, but not tonight. Ignoring the gauntlet of crude inducements and wandering hands, Lizzie pushed her way through the new arrivals and out through the open door.

It was only after she had emerged into the street that Lizzie realized she was still holding her breath. She let it out slowly, emitting a soft involuntary moan of relief as she did so. She looked down at her hands and found they were shaking. She clenched her fists, straightened, and moved into the shadows by the side of the building. Leaning against the wall, she waited for her heartbeat to settle. She heard footsteps approaching out of the gloom; two more men on their way into the pub. They didn’t notice her at first. When they did, they looked surprised not to receive a proposition. Lizzie, her cheek pressed against the damp brickwork, remained silent and let them go.

It occurred to Lizzie, as she waited for her breathing to return to normal, that she had still not earned her rent money. She looked back at the pub’s entrance, weighing her options. There was always the George or the King of Denmark. The night was growing colder. The street suddenly looked dark and forbidding and there was a new hint of rain in the air. Lizzie shivered. Pushing away from the wall, she set off towards Field Lane. Tonight, she wanted to be in her own bed. And if that meant submitting to the lecherous demands of Luther Miggs, on this occasion, it was a price she was more than willing to pay.

Hawkwood had seen the exchange between the two women. The expression on the face of the older moll had been intriguing. In the murky interior of the taproom, with shadows playing across washed-out, alcohol-ravaged features, it was sometimes difficult to read a person’s face or mood. But there had been no mistaking the look of apprehension in the big moll’s eyes when she had turned and seen the younger woman standing beside her.

There was a pecking order in all strands of society, Hawkwood knew, and that applied to the oldest profession as much as it did to any other. Whoring was, by nature, territorial. Molls guarded their patch zealously. It didn’t matter if the location was an archway in Covent Garden, an alleyway in St Giles’ or the taproom of the Black Dog, the same unwritten rule applied: trespassers would be dealt with. It was clear that in the Dog some sort of boundary had been crossed. What had been surprising, from Hawkwood’s perspective, was the absence of histrionics. There had been no hysterical altercation, no screaming or scratching of eyes. There had been only quietly spoken, though evidently very persuasive, words. It hinted at some kind of severe warning.

Curious that it had been the older woman who had given way. In the normal scheme of things, Hawkwood would have expected the younger whore to beat a retreat, but that hadn’t been the case. Given that other whores were plying their trade in the Dog, why had the older moll been singled out for chastisement?

She’d strayed from her traditional haunt, Hawkwood surmised, and had chosen the Dog because it was warm and because it was payday and maybe there’d be enough men with money in their pocket or credit to go around. The reason for the older moll’s abrupt departure was probably that simple. She’d just made an unwise choice of hunting ground and had been sent on her way by the Dog’s matriarch, who, having emerged victorious from the encounter, was now weaving her way through the tables towards Hawkwood’s side of the room.

Watching her progress, Hawkwood noticed the way the other whores seemed to give way before her. He wondered if it was his imagination, for it appeared as if most of them were trying to avoid eye contact, acknowledging her superiority within the pack. She’d seen off one weaker rival and the other girls knew it; judging from their collective demeanour, they heartily resented her for it.

Unlike most of the others, she had the looks; there was no disputing that. There was a swagger about her that suggested she revelled in it. The obligatory tight, low bodice accentuated her pale skin and slender curves to their best advantage, but it was her face that drew the attention, the dark eyes especially. She’d have been a pretty child, Hawkwood suspected, and had probably traded on that to get her way. There was certainly self-awareness in her manner. It spoke of someone who’d experienced a catalogue of despair and degradation at the hands of men and had, by force of character, risen above it, most likely at the expense of others. In this sort of place it was sometimes difficult to gauge a person’s age, male or female. Somewhere in her mid twenties, he guessed, though she could have been younger.