Hairy London by Stephen Palmer

Author:Stephen Palmer [Palmer, Stephen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: infinity plus
Published: 2014-03-04T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Sheremy assisted Missus along the gangplank leading from the Titanic to the concrete embankment of the Old Sun Wharf. He had slept for a few hours on the ferry, but now, as the sun rose through Limehouse fog in the east, he was still tired; and he was hungry. He surveyed Narrow Street. It did not look good. This whole district was dense with pubic hair, thick, black and curly. Many of the disembarking passengers wielded machetes, which already they used to clear paths through to Horseferry Road. Sheremy surveyed the scene with sinking heart. He had no machete.

“Don’t worries,” Missus said, giving his hand a squeeze. “We’ll find a way through, that we will.”

Sheremy considered. He wanted to return to Gough Square as soon as possible, but that meant going through the East End – on foot, as he had no coin, unless he should chance upon some kind aerogator. He said, “We need to find a way to Butcher Row and Cable Street, which hopefully we could follow to Whitechapel. Then it’s a short step through the City to Gough Square.”

“A short steps will be a long steps through all this.”

He nodded. “Limehouse has been merkinised,” he observed, “and we’ve got nothing to cut it down.”

But then Gormane Thinnograde leaned over the gunwale of his vessel and said, “Here, you two scurvoes, have these old dirks. They’re blunt and no use to my tars. ’Tis only a little, but it may help you.”

“Why thank you,” Sheremy replied, catching the dirks as Gormane threw them down. The leather sheaths were rotting and the blades rusty, but he felt they might be serviceable if they scraped them across stone.

“See that ingrowin’ pube over there?” Gormane said, indicating a red and swollen lump at the edge of the quayside. “Use the oil inside it for lubrication and the granite of that there buildin’ for a whetstone. Then be off with you.”

They followed Gormane’s instructions, then turned to face Narrow Street. Sheremy’s stomach rumbled. “I’m starving,” he said.

“Me too,” Missus replied.

Sheremy sighed. “What am I saying... all of London will be starving, and poor folk will be the worst hit – as usual. Yet we two must survive if we’re to discover the reason for all this hair.”

The building on which they had sharpened their dirks was the ruined office of the quay manager, whose name they saw on a brass plate beneath a lock of dark hair: Fonswhile Smithors. Cutting back the hair growing from the front door they forced a way in then explored the place, finding a kitchenette at the back.

“Looted,” Sheremy said, observing the mess of rotting meat and mouldy vegetables that had been discarded by the vandals.

“Tins, though,” Missus said, pointing at a cupboard.

Yes, there were tin cans. This novel form of food storage was unfamiliar to Sheremy, but then he remembered something. “My valet claims there is an implement that allows a fellow to open cans such as these.”

“Tins opener,” Missus said. “There must be one right here if Fonswhile had tins.

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