Читать книгу Resurrectionist - James McGee - Страница 10

In a corner of the smoke-filled taproom two customers were competing for the favours of a whore. Though she was well past her prime, overweight and heavily rouged, the duo engaged in the tussle for her ample charms were drunk on gin and, viewed through an alcoholic haze in the muted candle glow, her imperfections were less apparent than they might have been in the cold light of day.

The woman leaned across the beer-stained table. A pair of enormous milk-white breasts strained provocatively against her low-cut bodice. Placing her mouth against the ear of one of her companions, the whore dropped her hand on to the leg of the other and began stroking his inner thigh.

The drunk into whose ear she had been whispering lewd enticements grinned expectantly. Sliding a hand inside her gaping blouse, he began a vigorous kneading of her right breast. The whore pulled away, shrieked playfully and slapped the hand down, deflecting his crude advances with an admonishing finger, at the same time throwing his companion a knowing wink.

Interpreting the wink as a gesture of encouragement, the second man lifted his mug to her lips, encouraging her to take a sip. She did so, tipping her head back. Draining the mug, she wiped her chin with the back of her hand and licked her lips with relish.

The whore, whose name was Lizzie Tyler, had been playing the drunkards against each other for a good ten minutes. It was a game at which she had become an expert. She’d certainly had enough practice over the years.

It was an unfortunate fact that accommodation, no matter how squalid, did not come free, and with the long winter nights drawing in, Lizzie had no intention of walking the cold, dark streets any longer than she had to.

There had in the past been times when, finding herself a copper or two short of the rent, Lizzie had been obliged to pay in kind for the roof over her head. But her landlord, an odious individual by the name of Miggs, whose rat-infested dosshouse nestled on a corner of Field Lane, had chosen to interpret this arrangement as his personal conjugal right. And that was an option Lizzie had no wish to pursue. A lady had her dignity and a right to a man’s respect, after all, even if she was a whore.

So, Lizzie had taken to plying her trade among the public houses and grog shops around Smithfield and Newgate, enduring humiliation, insults and beatings in a continuing struggle to keep the cold and Landlord Miggs at bay and her lice-ridden head above water.

The advantage of catering for gin-guzzlers was that, more often than not, once they got you into the alley, rammed up against the wall, they were too far gone to do the business. If she was particularly inventive, a girl could wrap the tops of her thighs round a man’s cock and, by dint of a little panting and moaning, fool him into thinking that he had outperformed Casanova himself. And in that particular sphere of deception, Lizzie Tyler was as adept as a conjurer’s assistant. Whether the customer could rise to the occasion or not, money still had to change hands. But so far all Lizzie had managed out of this pair was a leery smirk and two swallows of rotgut. So, even as she submitted herself to their unco-ordinated fumbling, Lizzie was on the lookout for an alternative source of remuneration, just in case.

One customer had caught her attention. She’d seen him enter the tavern a while earlier. Tall and dark-haired, he was wearing a long black coat over a shabby grey jacket and what looked like a pair of old military breeches. The yellow seam down each leg was faded and worn. His boots, she noticed, also looked old but appeared to be of good quality, which struck Lizzie as odd, given the run-down appearance of the rest of his attire. In her time as a moll, she had seen a variety of men and a bewildering array of footwear from, it had to be said, just about every conceivable angle; it was Lizzie’s avowed opinion that you could tell a lot about a man by the boots he wore. And this one intrigued her, seated alone in a booth on the opposite side of the room, his back to the wall, his face now cast in semi-shadow. She’d seen the way he carried himself and the scar below his eye, which, along with the remnants of uniform, suggested he was most likely a wounded veteran, down on his luck, who’d come to the pub looking for employment. Given that the Black Dog doubled as a house of call, it seemed the most obvious explanation.

If you required the services of a professional, a lawyer or an actuary, you paid a visit to Lincoln’s Inn or Bartholomew Lane. If you had need of someone at the tradesman’s end of the job market – a tailor, shoemaker, or perhaps a weaver – you went to the Green Dragon. If you wanted someone more menial – a chimney sweep, rag picker or suchlike, there was the Three Boys. But if you were seeking someone for the really dirty jobs – a gravedigger or a shit shifter on one of the night-soil barges – then chances were you’d find him in the Dog.

Lizzie eyed the tall man and wondered what sort of work he was after. Already two or three of the other girls had sidled up to his table, jiggled their titties and trailed a hand across his shoulders, in a less than subtle attempt to engage his interest. All of them had received the same response. A brief dialogue had ensued, followed by a shake of the head and an intimidating look that said, All right, you’ve tried me once, now don’t bother me again. And so they hadn’t.

A sharp tweak of her right nipple jerked Lizzie out of her reverie. The drunk at her elbow was trying to cadge another free feel. Lizzie decided she’d had enough. The charade was over.

“That’s it, darlin’,” she snapped, slapping the hand away. “You want Lizzie to take you to paradise, you gotta pay the fare.” She turned to the second man. “You, too, sweet’eart. What’s it to be? Lizzie ain’t got all bleedin’ night.”

Both men blinked myopically. Lizzie sighed and looked across the room. The dark-haired man was still seated by himself, nursing a mug. Lizzie considered her options, which were not numerous. Well, she thought idly, it might be worth a try …

Hawkwood sensed he was being watched. He raised the mug to his lips as if to take a sip and quartered the room. It was the plump moll in the corner. He watched as she slapped away the roving hands of her table companions and registered the speculation in her gaze as her eyes met his.

Ignoring her come-on, he lowered the mug and looked around. Similar scenes were being enacted around the room. The molls were out in force. They had good reason to be. It was Saturday evening and it was payday.

In a partially curtained-off alcove, beyond a low archway to the left of the counter, a small knot of poorly dressed men was lining up before a bald, unsmiling, bullet-headed man seated at the pay-table. In front of him sat a ledger and a sack of coin. Behind him stood two younger men, well built, in waistcoats, with the sleeves of their shirts rolled up to display an impressive expanse of well-toned muscle. Each was armed with a thick wooden cudgel.