James McGee - Resurrectionist

Even when she stopped at his table, it wasn’t easy to tell. He realized then what the confrontation had been about.

She looked down at him and grinned. “You’re a lucky man, sweet’eart.”

“Is that right?” Hawkwood said. “How come?”

“I just saved your arse. Another ten seconds an’ Fat Lizzie would’ve been all over you like a bad rash. An’ she’s ’ad more than a few of those in her time, I can tell you. She likes to pass ’em on, too, if you know what I mean.” The girl winked suggestively.

“Lucky I had you watching over me, then,” Hawkwood said.

“Glad I could help, darlin’.” She placed a hand on his shoulder and leaned forward. In the well of her unlaced top, the dark valley between her breasts beckoned invitingly. “My name’s Sal.” Her gaze moved suggestively to Hawkwood’s groin. “Nice breeches.” Her eyes drifted back to his face. “What brings you to the Dog? You lookin’ for company?”

“Not tonight,” Hawkwood said.

At that moment a customer at the adjacent table rose unsteadily to his feet, fumbled at the flap of his breeches and cast an eye towards the back of the room and the doorway leading to the privy. He was barely out of his seat when the girl reached over, grasped the empty chair and pulled it towards her. Spotting the move out of the corner of his eye, the man turned to remonstrate. “What the bleedin’ — ?” Then his eyes fell on the culprit and his red-veined cheeks paled.

“Don’t mind, do you, Charlie?” the girl said, taking her seat. “Only I noticed you weren’t usin’ it.” Her dark eyes glowed.

For a second the man looked as though he was about to speak. Indecision moved across his face. Then his shoulders sagged and he shook his head. “Nah, that’s all right, Sal,” he said hollowly. “Best be goin’, anyway.” Turning quickly to avoid the embarrassed looks of his companions, he left the table and teetered off across the sawdust-smeared floor.

The girl turned back to Hawkwood as if nothing had happened. “Now, where were we? Oh, yeah, you said you weren’t lookin’ for company.” She arched an eyebrow. “You sure? We could call one of the other girls over. They’ve got rooms out the back. We could have some fun, the three of us. How’s that sound? You up for it? I know I am.” She gave Hawkwood the eye once more. “I’m always up for it.”

“Another time,” Hawkwood said. “I’m waiting for someone.”

The girl placed her right forefinger between her lips, sucked on it suggestively and ran its moistened tip along Hawkwood’s sleeve. “Been waitin’ a while, though,’ aven’t you? You sure they’re going to turn up?”

“He’d better,” Hawkwood said. “There’s money in it if he does.” He took a sip from his mug. “Maybe you’ve seen him around? He said he’d be here. His name’s Doyle, Edward Doyle.”

The girl’s brow furrowed. “Can’t say as I know the name. What’s ’e look like?”

Like death, Hawkwood thought, but didn’t say so.

The girl listened to Hawkwood’s description of what Doyle would have looked like if he’d had a pulse and all his teeth, and then shook her head. “Sorry, sweet’eart. Still don’t ring any bells. You sure ’e meant the Dog? There’s the Dog and Dray over the other side of Long Lane. Maybe you’ve got the wrong place.”

“Bugger,” Hawkwood said. He clicked his tongue. “Just my luck.”

“What sort of work was it, if you don’t mind me askin’?”

“There’s a man wants some hog carcasses delivered. Only a morning’s lifting and carrying, but there’s a shilling or two in it.” Hawkwood frowned and added glumly, “Looks like I’ll have to find somebody else.”

“There’s plenty in ’ere who’d be up for it.” The girl jerked her head towards the counting table.

Hawkwood followed the gesture. “You’re probably right. Maybe I’ll try a couple of the other places first though, seeing as we’re mates. What was that place you mentioned? The Dog and Dray, was it? If he doesn’t turn up there, I might come back.”

“I’ll look forward to that. Meantime, I can ask around, if you like. If I hear anything an’ you come back, I’ll pass it on. What’s your name, by the way? You never said.”

Hawkwood took a sip of grog. “Matthews.” He kept his face straight.

“What do they call you?”

“Jim.” Hawkwood took another swallow. The porter tasted as if it had been laced with fulminate. He tried not to grimace.

She smiled at him again, indicating that the attempt had not been a total success. “You sure I can’t tempt you, Jim Matthews?’ Cos you were definitely lookin’ a bit lonely sittin’ here on your own.”

“The answer’s still no,” Hawkwood said.

The girl hesitated, then shrugged philosophically, pushed back the chair and stood up. “Ah, well, can’t blame a body for tryin’. Your loss, sweetheart.”

Blowing him a kiss, she headed towards the back of the room. Hawkwood watched her disappear beyond the veil of tobacco smoke and the tightly pressed bodies. He sensed she knew he was watching her by the exaggerated sway of her hips, though she did not turn back to check.

There was a definite easing of tension at the next table, he noticed. The stilted conversation became more animated. A couple of the men were giving him curious looks, presumably wondering why he wasn’t following the girl out. Let them wonder, Hawkwood thought. He considered the girl’s prospects. He recalled a story he’d been told about sharks, sea predators that had to keep moving and eating to stay alive. He thought about the girls plying for trade. Their lives seemed very like the shark’s: every day spent in an endless trawl for prey. In that regard, each of them was as lost in hope as the men lining up at Hanratty’s table.

Following their brief encounter, Hawkwood doubted the girl would be without company for long. She had the looks and she had the wit, and there were plenty of customers in attendance, so the queue for companionship wasn’t about to shorten any time soon.

Hawkwood took a look around. A new batch of woebegone souls had begun to file past the pay-table. Another half an hour, he decided, and he’d call it a night. He caught the eye of a serving girl and held up his mug. He’d convinced himself that the grog wasn’t too bad. In any case, once the first swallow was out of the way, it didn’t really matter because he wouldn’t be able to feel the inside of his mouth anyway.

Sawney was in the cellar, stacking bodies by the light of a lantern, when he heard the heavy tread on the stair.

“His ’Oliness ’as turned up, Rufus. Didn’t know we was expectin’ ’im.”

Sawney cursed savagely. The body he’d been trying to prop against the wall was wrapped in a filthy sheet, but the ends of the sheet had come loose and the grey-faced corpse, which was beginning a slow emergence from its state of rigor mortis, was proving to be a bit of a handful.

“Rufus?”

“I heard you, Maggsie. I’m not bleedin’ deaf.”

Sawney tried again. This time, he managed to get the corpse’s arm to stay inside the sheet. Lucky it was a female. A male would have been heavier and more difficult to manoeuvre.

“Come ’ere.’ Old this,” Sawney snapped. “Bleedin’ sow’s all over the place.”

A hulking shape appeared over Sawney’s shoulder. “What do you want me to do?”

Sawney nodded towards the arm, which had flopped loose for the third time. “Just keep the bloody thing tucked in while I wraps ’er up. And mind what you’re doin’. I want to make sure we deliver ’er in one piece.”

“What do you think she’ll fetch?”

Sawney reached for the corner of the sheet. “Four maybe.” He clicked his tongue and looked around the room. “Not a bad night’s work.”