Mark Sanderson - Snow Hill

“I ’aven’t spoken to yer, awright?”

“Yes, yes. Get on with it.”

“Mr Steadman, I’m serious. Sumfink’s up, but I don’t want to lose my job.”

Johnny suddenly wondered if Percy had a wife and family to support. Probably not. Few women, knowing what Percy did for a living, would want those hands touching their flesh.

Realising that he was still holding the mop, Johnny handed it back.

“Here you are. Don’t worry, I won’t say a word. And don’t you go talking to anyone else either. We’ve got an exclusive arrangement, remember.”

“No danger of me blabbing.” Percy dropped his voice. “As it ’appens, I did know one of the geezers. Don’t get me wrong, ’Arry’s a good lad. Wouldn’t ’urt a fly.”

“Who is this Harry? What does he do?”

“’Arry Gogg’s ’is name. ’E’s a porter at Smithfield. Drinks in the Cock most days.”

“Thank you.”

Johnny glanced at his watch. He had under an hour to get his copy to the subs. As usual, most of it was already written in his head.

Someone was coming down the corridor with a trolley. Its wheels needed oiling.

“What made you decide to tell me?”

“I ’aven’t said nuffink, remember.” Percy was whispering now. “But it’s the only case of hypothermia I’ve seen wiv broken bones sticking out the skin.”

Thursday, 10th December, 5.50 a.m.

Johnny got off the tram in St John Street. It had been clear at the Angel but down here the capital was gripped by a choking, freezing smog. Smithfield appeared as a yellow shimmer straight ahead of him.

Even though daybreak was a couple of hours away, it was busier than Piccadilly Circus. Trucks, wagons, vans and carts jostled for position like pigs round a trough. As soon as one lorry had loaded its cargo of meat, the next was sounding its horn, determined to take its place. Others, on an equally tight schedule, were just as desperate to load up and deliver their new stock to butchers’ shops across London. As he approached, he heard raised voices then shouts and the sound of pallets being overturned as a scuffle between drivers broke into a fist-fight. Most of the market workers barely gave the combatants a glance; flare-ups like this were an everyday occurrence at Smithfield.

Still excited by the lead Hughes had given him the night before, Johnny made his way through the mêlée like a man on a mission. The vast iron-and-glass building was a cathedral of corpses, complete with nave, transepts, and aisles. The interior had been decorated with an almost fetishistic attention to detail: every arch, spandrel and lunette was filled with a swirling mass of ferric foliage painted not green but blue. The nave was lined with stalls that stretched as far as the eye could see. Hundreds of skinned and gutted animals, their carcasses shining dully in the electric glare, swung on rails bristling with giant steel hooks. It was a forest of flesh through which strolled potential buyers, some from the kitchens of the very best hotels, inspecting meat and comparing prices.

There was, however, nothing spiritual about Smithfield; under its roof the “inner man” meant the stomach, not the soul. It was devoted to carnality, its services designed to assuage man’s hunger for beef, pork, lamb and poultry. Money was the religion here.

The Central Markets even had their own men of the cloth: porters, known as bummarees, who acted as intermediaries between buyers and sellers. Their white coats and strange hats—a cross between a havelock and a wimple—made them stand out from the mass of black and grey. They were freelances who got paid for what they did, which was why most of them worked on the run, lugging carcasses on their shoulders or dragging wooden carts behind them. As time was money, they brooked no interruption.

Trying not to get in their way, Johnny hurried to keep up as he asked one after another where he might find Harry Gogg. Those that did not ignore him simply professed ignorance. The market workers were a bolshy lot, only too happy to go on strike. The last one, in February, had cut off the meat supply to the whole capital.

Finally Johnny gave up and wandered through the halls. Although the floor was scattered with sawdust, the dripping blood, melting ice and trudging feet had turned it into a gruel-like sludge. If Smithfield was no longer the filthy abattoir described by Bill Sykes in Oliver Twist , it remained a steaming, swarming hive that reeked of death.

As a reporter, Johnny was used to being unwelcome. Most people looked down on journalists. He’d hear them on trams and in cafés and pubs, tut-tutting whenever the tricks of the inky trade got so bad they ended up making the headlines. But it didn’t stop them devouring their newspaper each morning. Looking around him, it occurred to Johnny that it was much the same with the contents of their breakfast: if people were to see the process that led to the bacon and sausages ending up on their plate, many of them would lose their appetite. The consumer was not interested in the means of production, what counted was the finished product.

Anyone of the cowled creatures roaming the aisles of Smithfield could have been Harry Gogg. Cursing himself for not getting a description from Percy, Johnny decided there was nothing more to be gained from hanging around the market. Besides, he needed to take refuge from the cold.

A board outside the Cock Tavern announced that it was permitted to open at 4 a.m. “for the accommodation of persons following their lawful trade and calling as salesmen, buyers, butchers, assistants, carmen and porters and attending a public market at Smithfield”. Taking a seat at the bar, Johnny ordered a “wazzer”, the speciality of the house. It tasted like a cup of tea laced with whisky. Whatever it was, it did the trick. Soon even his toes were warm.

Those around him were tucking into plates piled high with bacon, eggs, fried bread, sausages, liver, kidneys and black pudding. With the salty, prickly smell of raw meat still in his nostrils, Johnny made do with a cigarette.

By half past seven most of the day’s business had been concluded so far as the market workers were concerned. A group of bummarees came in and sat in a corner.

The landlady went over to take their orders. She was a dumpy, middle-aged woman with a mop of long, lank curls that looked as though someone had tipped a bowl of cold spaghetti over her. She did not seem to mind that their white coats were smeared with gore and had no problem countering their ribald banter with some of her own. Johnny watched in the mirror behind the bar as she served the five men their wazzers then went off to the kitchen.

Fortified by the alcohol, he slipped off his stool and made his way to their table.

“Sorry, mate. Never ’eard of ’im,” said the oldest, a grizzled bear of a man. His colleagues looked at each other.

“He’s one of your lot. Look, he’s not in any trouble—I was told he may be able to help me, that’s all.”

One of the younger ones muttered something. They all laughed.

“There’d be a few bob in it for him,” said Johnny.

“As I told yer, never ’eard of ’im.” The bummaree raised his voice so the whole pub could hear. “Anyone ’ere know of an ’Arry Gogg?”

Silence fell. Everyone in the room was staring at Johnny. He returned their stares until they turned away. Slowly the conversation resumed.

“Well, that is odd,” said Johnny sarcastically. He was riled. He hated being treated like an idiot. “Harry Gogg works in Smithfield. There can’t be that many of you—someone must know him.”

The brute who’d spoken before lumbered to his feet. He could easily have carried half an ox on each shoulder.