Darren Craske - The equivoque principle

'Did I not say this would be easy, Butter?' he said.

The words had just fallen from his lips when an extremely large Alsatian dog bolted from behind the shack, a fire in his eyes, and a trail of saliva dripping from its jaws. Shards of gravel ricocheted around, smashing against the wall of the shack as the dog tried to get purchase on the ground, incensed to see two intruders in its yard. It didn't even bother barking, but just leapt with all its strength towards Quaint, the thick ruff of fur around its neck looking almost like a lion's mane. Quaint instinctively defended himself, and as the dog's vice-like jaws clamped themselves around his forearm, he let out an uncharacteristic yelp of pain.

'Christ, this bastard's strong!' Quaint yelled. He thought of his Indian friend Kipo's work in the circus with his tiger, Rajah, and remembered a flash of a conversation that they had shared once. Instead of trying to wrench his arm from the thrashing dog's mouth, Quaint relaxed, and forced his arm instead towards the gnashing jaws. He could see the ferocity in the animal's eyes as it tried to wrestle the tall man to the ground. With his other hand, Quaint delved deep into his pocket, desperately ferreting around for something he could use as a weapon, when suddenly-the animal stopped thrashing. It stopped snarling, and it stopped furiously trying to twist Quaint's arm from its socket. It just froze in mid-motion, its eyes rolled up into the back of its head, as if someone had flipped its OFF switch. Looking down at his bloodied and shredded sleeve, Quaint watched in transfixion as the dog released his forearm limply. As he stared down at the animal, something silver and glistening caught his eye, deep within the canine's open mouth. His eyes travelled up the length of the silver protrusion until they greeted the sight of Butter astride the now very dead dog. One hand tripped tight around the animal's neck, whilst the other grasped the handle of a long-bladed knife that was embedded into the dog's skull. The dog fell to the ground limply as Butter released his grip, sending a smattering of gravel into the air.

'My thanks, Butter,' said Quaint exhaustedly, examining the state of his gouged arm through his ripped sleeve. Large patches of red blood seeped through the dark-grey material. 'This coat is pure Mongolian Kashmir. A second longer and that beast would have cost me an arm and a leg.'

'Or perhaps just an arm,' said Butter, his face a roadmap of craggy wrinkles as a smile breached his worn features.

'I shall have to have a word with Jeremiah about teaching you his sense of humour,' Quaint said. He removed his scarf and tied it firmly around his wound. 'Come on, let's move on. I've no wish to explain to that dog's owner the circumstances of its demise-especially as I'm about to thieve one of his rowing boats as recompense.'

A minute later-passengers in a small pale-orange boat-Quaint and Butter pushed away at the wharf with the long oars, and the Inuit set about rowing them along the River Thames towards Blythesgate fish market. The afternoon fog was drawing in up the river, and visibility was getting steadily worse. Quaint produced a tinder-box from his coat pocket, striking a flint next to a small, oil-burning lantern. The wan flame flickered into life, albeit reluctantly, as Quaint hung the lantern on its pole at the fore of the boat. It gave them scant light, but hopefully enough for them to be seen through the fog should there be any other boats drifting nearby.

'Take it steady, Butter,' Quaint said. 'We don't want this peasouper to be our undoing. Let's hope we can still see Blythesgate; we can barely be seen ourselves!'

But Quaint was mistaken.

They had been seen.

They were seen very clearly indeed by a set of piercing eyes that had been watching them with obsessed intensity from the entrance of Barter's Boatyard. The scruffy young lad wiped his mouth with a moth-eaten sleeve, and smiled.

'Off t'Blythesgate market are we, boss?' said the urchin of a boy, his thick matted black hair brushing against his eye line. 'Mr Reynolds will pay 'andsomely fer that little titbit.'

THE WINTER SKY was as dark as soot by late afternoon, with formless tufts of grey cloud obscuring the smattering of stars. Butter slowed the rowing boat to a crawl, as Quaint spied the docks through a pocket-sized pair of opera glasses. The fog had obviously put off other sailors and this stretch of the Thames was silent as a tomb, with visibility down to a minimum. Butter scanned around him, anxiously waiting for a sign that would indicate their destination.

'We should be coming up to Blythesgate pretty soon, Butter; I recognise the wharf's buildings. There's the Chinese textile emporium, and there's Arlow's mill,' said Quaint. 'There! Just ahead, that's it. That's Blythesgate!'

A short time later, Cornelius Quaint and Butter were standing in front of a vast warehouse. Its walls were a hotchpotch of colours and mismatched materials, from corrugated tin and iron, to large sheets of wood and salvaged planks. Trickles of rust seeped like gunshot wounds from the various bolts and nails holding the building together. Quaint stared up as far as the fog would permit him, and he raised the lantern to the door. A battered sign hung loosely from two hooks just above his eye level, creaking in the wind.

'Blythesgate fish market,' Quaint said. 'Shall we go inside and take a look?'

'But it is tight-up locked, Mr Quaint,' said Butter, eyeing the massive chain wrapped around the warehouse door.

'Don't worry, old chap,' said Quaint, with a devilish glint in his eyes. 'We'll no doubt find a more suitable entrance around the rear of the premises.'

As Quaint and Butter walked to the end of the warehouse, they pushed past a collection of large wooden delivery crates, not unlike tiny coffins. Each one of the crates was damp, stained white from the salty seawater, and reeking of fish from that day's catch. The trawlers would arrive early in the morning in Blythesgate, eager to sell their wares from the long, arduous day at sea and, to ensure their goods were kept fresh, they were packed in crates and covered in ice. The stench from the crates was fairly strong, and Quaint was pleased to move into the shadows of the alleyway that ran along the side of the market warehouse.

The buildings along the docks were positioned closely to each other to make the most of their highly sought after dockland location. Huge, narrow tenements nestled next to storage warehouses, taverns to entice the seamen, as well as a variety of other more questionable pursuits. The entire stretch along the docks was virtually a different world from the rest of London, designed to cater to the needs of the passing traveller, or sailor, but as time had progressed, a more sinister element had taken up residence there, and more and more buildings had been built to accommodate the rash of interest in sea-faring commerce. Brothels were conveniently tucked away down every alleyway, and opium dens were even easier to find. Taverns were scattered about to pick up the flotsam and jetsam that wanted to empty neither their purses nor their minds on illicit sex or opiate distractions. The wharf was a disturbing, dark place once night fell, but Quaint moved confidently about with either ignorance or arrogance as his guide. The alleyway still presented potential for danger even at that time of day, and the wary traveller never dropped his guard. Not yet night-it was almost dark, and soon the local populace would be crawling from wherever they hid themselves during daylight hours.

Soon Butter and Quaint were in a much wider alleyway, bereft of light, save the slow-rising moon in the sky, barely visible through the crevices of the alleys. The fog was less evident now; the warmth between the buildings keeping it at bay, and Quaint was able to see the rear of the fish market more clearly. An array of large boxes were scattered about, containing the remnants of melted ice, and the same strong smell of fish as the crates at the front of the building. Quaint eyed the crates, his gaze drifting up the warehouse, to a small window above.