The Business of Perdition

Chapter 3: With Feather, With Blood, With Bone

Many days it took to procure Barbara's list of ingredients, offerings, charms, baubles, and trinkets. As much as I'd yearned to decode the crow's sign, the cumbersome requirements of her magics were altogether daunting. Certain spices, and specifics from how coarse the salt was, down to the material of candle wicks seemed rather trivial, but I did not wish to botch the ritual. As such I procured every detail of her requirements through one bargain or another. Most was simply the exchange of money, something I was more than familiar with; however, others were far more complicated.

Shops and often the happenstance individual that possessed whichever minutia I'd located had sometimes preferred barters over money. Thus, it was an exhausting circle of procurement from the shops and squares to the harbors, to the peddlers, to the tinkers, and back again. Days and days of it until finally the last item was all that remained.

More often than not, much of the work was done in the waning hours of the day. Business hardly ever stopped in London, and my mornings and afternoons were filled with the usual moneylending, insurances, smiles, and handshakes that accompanied naked commercialism. Though most of my worth was self-made through well placed investments, the skills were not self-taught.

I was born into wealth and spent my youth learning tradecrafts and stockjobbing. Through the stern, impassive teachings of my bastard father, I became a shrewd businessman. I hoped at times for some encouragement or, dare I say, affection but it never came. I’d contented myself with the understanding that I was simply a means to ensure the family business endured long after he was unable to continue the job. Merely a clause on a paper buried somewhere in a lawyer’s desk. Such was the opulent life of a financier’s son, and though it was a far cry from the grinding anguish of those shadowy outcasts outside my office, it was, in its own right, a singularly hellish life.

The weight of it had always scraped away at me like a blacksmith's file. Just as the razor gets sharper when honed, it removes something in the process, a thinning of sorts. Though I was healthy as one barely in my thirties, I was still ill. 'Twas a malady that was not outwardly perceivable, but more akin to a sickening of the soul. A dwindling of vitality and spirit, and thus I would have wasted away in the eroding winds of commerce, but my rebirth on those church steps, upon that exquisite exodus from the stifling limitations of the faith, fires that had long since burned to cinder were now alight and roaring.

My newfound zeal kept me true to course as I navigated the daily tedium of business, and the nightly trades that required more discretion. Though I was reinvigorated I however, still held my reservations. This evening was no different. I was far more wary and alert than during the daily trading, though it wasn't what one might call wholesome business, there was little risk of anything more than perhaps a raised voice or quick insult, such was the sparring of tradecraft. These evening callings and moonlit ventures were far less reserved. London was an altogether different place when the sun set. In the waking hours it held a din of chaos, clamor and craft, but at night it wore a different mask.

Shadows in the recesses weren't the crawling and bedraggled paupers, they were hunters, prowlers and opportunistic feeders. Each of them ready to strike when given the opportunity, and though I'd kept myself relatively far from harm's way or carried myself correctly, the dosshouses were bellies of the beast. Wherein, those who were markedly downtrodden but still with some manner of income could live among the many sorts of individuals birthed by extreme poverty. They were little more than boxes, packed to near bursting with whoever may have a few coins to spare for shelter. So squalid and vile they were, that many of the London poor chose to remain in the streets, there they could at least have room 'twixt them and the one nearest to their spot on a doorstep. Dosshouses offered no such luxury. Steeped in crime, opportunism, and thievery the filth was more than the refuse and discarded byproducts of overcrowding, it was also the residents themselves. It was in that mishmash of the beggarly, the wicked, the derelict, and the rancid that remained my last item.

Though it seemed odd to me that Barbara could not requisition some of the things herself, she held certain misgivings of those of her lot. That much was certain to me. Despite her trying to disguise it through whatever manufactured wisdom she could conjure, she despised them.

These must be acquired by your own hand. It is your incantation, not mine.

I hardly believed that, but she was after all, as old as the Earth, though her stance, her voice, even her eyes suggested some obscured youth. It would have been quite doggish of me to send her on these errands, most especially this one. I had no experience with the rank accommodations of the English poor, only an obscure understanding of what I could deduce through local chatter and whispered gossip. Armed with the little knowledge I had, I knew this was no place for such an old woman like Barbara. It was no place for anyone. The Whitechapel dosshouses carried a frightening reputation. All manner of perversion, injustice, and villainy lurked inside. As such, I saw fit to carry my coat pistols, and boot knife. Quite unlike most of the aristocracy, but urban nightwork required a certain degree of care and self-preservation.

The pale and insipid glow of a full moon afforded me more visibility than I cared to have. Upon first inspection of the building, it seemed more appropriate to simply let them all starve and be done with it, for the place was a tomb. Unequivocally unfit for habitation, aside from the vermin and vile skittering, crawling, and slithering organisms that often accompanied such horrid filth. The exterior walls were sullen and devoid of any manner of ornate or sightly decoration that might coax the thoughts to something less depressing. They were in fact, sordid and unapologetically plain aside from the stains of neglect and fresco of dirt that smeared the dull sooty bricks. The feeble lights from inside were suppressed at every window by layer upon layer of dinge which in the building's entirety offered a harsh unwelcoming that could not be dismissed. The whole structure quite simply felt wrong. Every brick. Every window. Every last mote of dust scratched and scraped at the mind and wrestled with reasoning to settle upon a degree foulness beyond dereliction. The building was a profanity, even in the dilapidation of Whitechapel.

The very air about the place crawled against my skin like centipedes. Its foulness sunk and hung like moss in a swamp, viscous and sticky in a way that mudded all it touched, yet it was as frigid as a gravestone in winter. Each wary step stuck into the cobblestones like I trod through a tarpit though there was nothing but the bare street beneath my feet. There was a resistance, a reluctance—a maddening whisper within that begged me to turn 'round and run. Were it not for my insufferable need to know what that crow meant, I would have listened to that whisper.

Why? Why in all hell am I doing this?

I couldn't formulate any reasonable answer to the question, only a constant desire to know.

Know? Know what?

It was after all, just a crow, yet it was more, and it was that obscure and abstract allusion to something beyond perception that drove my feet forward yet pushed back against my heart. My body simply was not my own, for it fell to an unreasonable desire to understand what could not be understood. I pressed on, through the mire of worry, and through the murk of trepidation past the heat of the skulking shadows 'round the corners, to come face to face with that which frightened me the most—a door. As simple and stupid as it seems, it was a gateway to a world in which I knew nothing, and that, was terrifying.

Inordinately bare and dull even compared to the rest of the building, heat radiated from the pale, damp wood which was a stark juxtaposition to the cold, dry and hateful bricks. Against every last thread of sane justification I could muster, I grabbed the handle and tugged.

Abandon all hope ye who enter here.

Heat was a damp and wicked tidal wave as the metal hinges bit themselves, creaking and moaning their discontent to the silent street. Such was the force of the heat, my steps faltered, and my grip tightened on the doorhandle so to avoid falling. It was not the warmth of a cozy home however, nor the infernal fires of damnation, it was the heat of a hundred stinking and sweaty souls, cramped into such confinement that even the air struggled to find a free space to settle. Bile, sweat and blood stewed in the air, mixing into a cacophony that assaulted my nose with razors. Muscles in my face stiffened as each line, and crease on my brow dug deeper into the skin. The corners of my watery eyes twisted as though they were lashed to a wheel as each step into that thick and clammy hall brought a new foulness to the nose.

A sickly condensation clung to the walls on either side, rolling down the oily surfaces in worming streaks and cutting through the smoky grime like slugs on a leaf. The wood floor beneath each step flexed and sunk as though it were made of taut leather. Dull, tarnished sconces dotted the length of the walls on either side. Stalactites of melted and dried wax stuck to the walls and heaped upon the rotting floor in piles. The feeble light that each candle offered sprouted waxen halos in the thick, wet haze of the hallway and was little more than a failing vigil against a tidal gloom. Doorways stood in the middle of the hallway facing one another like adversaries in the darkness.

While one of the doors was shut tight, the other was opened halfway. Dancing and pulsing light escaped through the opening and illuminated the hallway with an askew ray glowing against the backdrop of a rank and festering filth. So many breaths whispered through the dim glow, I couldn't formulate a number to how many people were in the room beyond. The occasional coughing fit, or pleading groan interrupted an otherwise heavy silence. Although the entirety of the interior was unsettling, it was a fiery awareness beyond the threshold that gripped and tugged on my waning resolve.

Then came a shadow. It hung there in the door, its breath huffing and puffing in heavy breaths as though it might blow down the walls around it. What heat hung in the air was nothing to the fire that burned from its form. It sweltered and seared my skin as its elbow rested against the jamb. Its hand hung limp as a dead fish, as the other scraped against a rough, shaved skin. The shadow had a face as it pressed through the doorway, leering at me in that forsaken candlelight.

"You the one lookin' for the bones?" His voice was as coarse as crushed stones.

"I am."

The door reeled open behind me, and I was off my feet. A vice bit into my arms and shoulders on either side of me, digging down into the sinews of my muscles as two unseen shadows pulled me into the darkness. Their fingers were spikes into my bones, such hateful strength they had, I was certain my arms would snap.

The coarse one skulked through the door before shutting it behind him, still rubbing his hand against his gritty face. Light swelled behind me and flickered about in the far-flung corners of the room. I fought, pulled, grunted and spat against the hands that held me, but I was not their equal. Hot, stinking breaths snaked by my ears, smelling of spirits and neglected teeth. One hand lightened the vice on my left shoulder and hooked around my mouth. It pressed in tight just under my nose, and squeezed so hard I thought my teeth would pop out.

Wait.

I didn't know what to wait for, but I wasn't dying to my own attempts at escape. No. They would have to earn this.

Imbecile.

I had no idea what I was thinking, earn what? They had me. I was already dead. This was just fun for them.

The one with that coarse voice drew closer. Twirling a leather pouch that hung from a string, he spun it round and round on his finger. His other hand clutched his belt. He tucked his thumb behind the band of his trousers as his empty, wicked eyes scanned me from top to bottom.

"Let's just kill him and take his money." One to my left said, "We can dump him downstairs."

"Not yet." The coarse one stood nose to nose with me. His face was cracked and fissured from dirt and weather. He untucked his thumb and brought his hand up to the back of my head. A handful of hair balled and wrenched up into his grip. "You're a pretty thing, aren't you?"

A vile, brown grin curled across his coarse and pitted face. The ball of hair pulled against the back of my skull hard enough I thought he might rip it out as he pulled me toward that hideous skin of his. His eyes closed as he drew in my scent through his nose. My toes cramped inward, and my fingernails dug into my palms as he did it. My bowels curled and my air left me as his hand released from my hair. He brought it around and slid his hard palm across one cheek and the other, his thumb tracing the outline of my lips.

He sighed before backing away a step and fiddling with his belt. "Take off his trousers."

The air that escaped me when he touched my face had still not found its way back. The world spun around me as my fingers and toes went numb. The curling in my bowels was now a so violent my throat ached. The glow of lights around me shrunk, yielding to a darkness that swallowed all but those filthy things holding me. One hand found its way to my belt buckle and fought against the clasp. Then a second hand.

"Lookin' for the bones are you? I've got them here." He held the loop of the sack at the end of his finger, his other cupped over his bulk as he came close to me again. "I've got another one you might like."

Is this how I was to leave this world? I deserved it. Anyone stupid enough to enter a dosshouse deserves what they get. I couldn't fight it anymore. The rumbling and gurgling in my stomach had found its way to my throat, and I vomited. It coated his bare chest and splattered it back in my face, stinging me with its sour heat and burning my eyes.

"You bastard!" His voice was enough to peel my skin off as his fist struck square in my jaw.

I didn't feel it. I didn't feel anything. I stood there, somewhere else in the back of my head, and watched. How long was I like this? I couldn't recall. One fist after the other in the face. In my tumultuous belly. He hit me all over and I felt nothing. I was locked in a room with these men, yet I was locked in an altogether separate room with myself, cowering in some dark corner of my mind. Afraid to move. Afraid to speak—so very afraid.

They dragged me over to a table. As heavy as my feet were, I thought they might gouge the floorboards like a plow in a field. A heavy, hot hand clawed and dug into the scruff of my neck and pressed me into the table. My cheek ground and slid against the splintered grains of the wood and the kiss of warm blood caressed me. Where was I? I couldn't find myself in the dark, I couldn't see anything other than that dark crimson pooling there in front of me and the halo of light from the oil lamp in front of my eyes. I couldn't feel anything other than hands groping and tugging on my trousers; on my endowment. Hands all over, except my wrists. Had they let go of my wrists? First a twitch, then a twist. There was nothing there, only me.

A hard hand on my buttock, another on my side. There was no pain at all, only heat. Something warm, something damp, it rolled down the small of my back into the darkness of my backside. A foot bumped against mine as he positioned and pressed himself inward. I came back. Pain, heat, anger, fear, all of it hit me like a tidal wave hits a dingy on the stormy seas. His foot rubbed against my boot, as he forced himself inside. His bulk was a fire poker, glowing and red. It burnt and pulled my skin taut as the hangman's rope after the guilty drops.

Enough. My heel raised, then my whole boot. I brought the weight and wrath of the Earth down onto his foot as though I were stomping vermin. Heel dug into flesh and into bone, breaking like twigs in the woods. It withdrew like a knife being unsheathed as he wailed a sound that could fell the very walls around me.

"Disgusting creatures." Why did I say that? I wasn't myself anymore. Fear became rage.

The hollowness of the boards beneath drummed like tympani as his weight fell backwards onto his back all the while screaming as though he were being flayed alive. One of his companions rushed over to him, while the other remained with me. He held me there, his hand pressing into my neck as the other crashed into my side. It drove the wind from me, but I didn't care. I dug into my waistcoat and my hand curled around the exquisite smoothness of varnished wood. The coat pistol clicked as I tugged back the hammer. Another fist hit me again in the back of my head, before I felt his weight pull away from me. I stood upright, trousers at my ankles and turned to the one foolish enough to let go of me. There wasn't much light but there was enough to find him down the sight of the pistol.

"Give yourselves over to fornication, and strange flesh." I squeezed.

He'd raised his hands, shielding himself from the inevitable, but it found its mark. I caught a glimpse of his wide and terrified gaze through the bleeding hole in his hand. His frame fell like the trunk of an axe-cut tree crashing through the wilderness. His wide mouth was now wider, toothless, tongueless, and red.

The spent pistol fell to the floor, as I dug in my coat for the other. Finding my prize, it clicked as I pulled back the hammer. Down the sight, I turned what little I could turn with my ankles bound the way they were, but I found the other one who'd held me. Stiff as a statue, his eyes were even wider than his dead partner's.

"And you shall suffer vengeance of eternal fire."

Another shot, and another one dead. The concussions rang in my ears, and the acrid taste of smoke burned in my mouth as I pulled up my trousers. That vile creature that had entered inside me pulled himself away, backward, his mangled foot dragging along those rough boards like a dead animal bleeding out from where I'd made impact.

"Please," he sobbed as he slid further away, slithering, sliding.

"Like a slug," I raked, through gritted bloody teeth.

I pulled the boot knife free and appreciated its keen, silver beauty in the candlelight. Looking it up and down, too clean it was for the likes of him, but it would be dirty soon enough. One step, and another I took. Slow. Forceful. Vengeful. His wailing was exquisite, like a symphony on a moonlit evening.

"I'll do anything. Anything you want." He sounded like a child, one who'd been scolded. Crying and sobbing as he pled with me. Snot and drool wormed onto his vomit covered chest and dripped to the floor. He'd found the wall, there was no more backing away to be done.

I knelt down to him and eyed him up and down. His disgusting voice yelped as I grabbed a handful of his hair while kissing the tip of the knife to his cheek beneath his crying eye.

"You're a pretty thing, aren't you?"