John Drake - Skull and Bones

Mid-morning, 19th June 1753 Miss Jenkins's rooms 1st floor, 17 Pitt Street London

Miss Jenkins tottered across the room towards Flint wearing white stockings tied over the knee with red ribbons, and small red shoes with neat little heels. She wore that and nothing else, for that's what Flint liked and what he needed.

Flint gazed at her shining black skin and all the wonders between waist and chin that bounced and swayed and quivered. Miss Jenkins offered him the tea-cup that she'd just re-filled on the neat and pretty little table by the window, where a neat and pretty little tea service was moored, and none of it as neat and pretty as Miss Jenkins's posture as she'd worked the tea-pot: straight back, straight legs, knees together, and delectable round bottom aimed at the client as she bent over the table to pour.

Flint sighed and wondered if he could manage another bout? But he'd fired three rounds already that morning. He smiled and his eyes wandered to the tousled bed, on the other side of the lavishly furnished room, for Miss Jenkins did not work cheap, and her gentlemen demanded the best.

She smiled at Flint, curtsied delightfully, and handed him the teacup, saying:

"Ee-yah Capting!" Flint took the cup, set it aside, and kissed her neatly on the point of each breast. "Ooo!" she said, "Wannabit more do ya?" And she folded her arms round his neck, and wriggled her behind.

Flint smiled. The voice was wonderfully coarse. It so thoroughly completed the necessary mixture, for Flint's capabilities were limited to those who followed Miss Jenkins's profession, while to all other females he was null and void: true to the ferocious prohibition driven into him by his long- departed religious maniac of a father, who doubtless sizzled in Hell this very instant, nodding in grim satisfaction over his son's impediment.

Why else – the Reverend Flint would ask – should the Almighty permit the existence of fallen ones, except for the detestable expression of vile and contemptible lust? It was a question impossible for a child to understand, let alone answer, but it had been screamed at little Joseph Flint so many times, and with such venom, that the sense of it had penetrated, if not the entire meaning. Thus Flint could perform only with whores.

He was also limited to black girls. But the reason for that was painful beyond contemplation.

Meanwhile, Flint kissed a few more choice parts of Miss Jenkins, got himself up, got fully dressed, paid a generous tip, was rewarded with a smile, and was shown out. The only thing that had marred a delightful encounter, he mused as he made his way down the stairs to the street, was the inevitable, unavoidable, un-crushable thought that Miss Jenkins – pretty as she was – could not compare with… with…

Flint's face twisted. It contorted. He stopped in his tracks in the busy street, closed his eyes and clenched his fists, gritted his teeth and groaned, for there were a thousand ways in which Joe Flint was not as other men were.

And then the spasm was gone. Flint opened his eyes, stared down those passers-by who were looking at him strangely, and walked briskly to Sir Frederick's house, to keep an appointment to see one of the great ones of the town, someone of whom Sir Frederick stood in awe and was delighted to have obtained an invitation to meet.

Flint was intrigued that Sir Frederick was showing signs of interests outside his usual range, and was happy to be taken to a splendid house in Bramhall Square, where that renowned leader of fashion, Lady Faith Carlisle, kept a salon.

Carriages lined the pavement outside the house, coachmen and footmen stood politely awaiting their masters, and a small crowd of the common herd was hanging about by the entrance, gawping at the famous and the splendid as they made their way up the flight of five broad steps to the main door.

Flint and Sir Frederick were admitted with deep bows, and led upstairs to the salon: a splendid room on the first-floor front, complete with Chinese wallpaper, pier glasses, huge windows, and opulent soft furnishings. They were announced by a butler, received by Lady Faith, and led down the centre of the room towards a knot of gentlemen centred on an enormous man in grey, scholarly wig. He was untidy and of bizarre appearance, being afflicted with twitches and odd gestures. But nonetheless he was holding forth, to the delight, respect and admiration of all present: and these were the cream of London society.

"Look," said Sir Frederick proudly, "it's Johnson!"

"Who?" said Flint, and Lady Faith winced.

"Johnson!" said Sir Frederick.

"Who's he?" said Flint, and Lady Faith all but fainted.

"Johnson! Dictionary Johnson. The lexicographer!"

"Sir Frederick," said Flint, perceiving that he was the only man in the room who didn't know the name, "I've lived a strange life, mostly out of England, beyond Christian civilisation -" he smiled with gleaming teeth "- you must instruct me.

Sir Frederick had that uneasy feeling again. The feeling that came when Flint looked him in the eyes. He didn't want to admit that the feeling was fear – stabbing, unholy fear – but it was.

"Ah… er…" said Smith, and found words: "Johnson is the foremost man of letters in England," he said. "He has published a magnificent dictionary, which he has written alone in a matter of years. A tremendous achievement! In France, the entire Academy Franзaise laboured for a generation to produce a lesser work."

Sir Frederick turned to gaze at Johnson, in the midst of his admirers, bellowing loudly and slapping a huge hand on the table to emphasise his point.

"He is a genius," gushed Lennox, "and the entire fashionable world is educated by his pronouncements."

Flint and Sir Frederick found seats close to Johnson, and were served tea – making Flint smirk, recalling the last cup he'd drunk. But when he settled down to listen, even Flint was fascinated by the power of Johnson's conversation, his cunning wit, his vast learning, and his tremendous vigour, along with a gift for superbly crafted phrases that delighted the ear, tickled the mind, and took root in the memory.

Thus all was smiles and respect – until a sudden disaster occurred. Coming to the end of a story, Johnson rocked on his seat, in his odd fashion, loudly cried "Huh!"… and passed a rolling thunder of wind: loud, strong and tremendous, as only a big man can who has a large dinner digesting inside of him.

At once there was a united attempt to pretend that nothing had happened. All around, ladies and gentlemen studied the floor, the ceiling and the pictures hanging on the walls, and there was a great clearing of throats and coughing, as if these innocent sounds would embrace Johnson's as one of their own.

But none could avoid sniffing… and knowing… and blushing.

"Urrrrgh!" growled Johnson, and his heavy face twitched, and reddened, and the mighty brows darkened. A profound silence descended on the room. Not even the mice beneath the floorboards dared breathe. But the Devil spurred Flint to speak:

"My poor sir!" he said, leaning forward in impertinent familiarity and daring to place a hand on one of Johnson's. "I do sympathise."

"Uhhhhhhhhhh!" gasped the company: trembling, horrified, and fearing an explosion.

"Sympathise?" cried the giant. "What d'ye mean, sir? Explain yourself!"

"Sir," said Flint with eyes of utmost innocence, "I sympathise with you in your struggle to contain these formidable pressures!" "WHAT?"

"Indeed, sir, I know from experience the burden of your struggle."

Johnson was now on a hair trigger, and risen half out of his seat. He was a vastly big man with hands like oak roots and limbs like Corinthian columns. His face was purple, his lips were working and it was the spin of a coin whether he would anathematise Flint with soul-shrivelling castigation – to damn him as the butt of all the town – or attack him physically with the aid of the heavy walking stick that he'd seized in his right hand. The company reacted as one, forming a sea of gaping mouths, staring eyes and paralysed horror.