The Spirit Box (The Freelancers Book 1) by Isserow Lee

Author:Isserow, Lee [Isserow, Lee]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: ABAM.info
Published: 2017-05-16T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 22

Middle distance

Two hours later Rafe was back in London, after yet another uncomfortable train journey, stepping back through to Slugtrough's parlour at The Randy Dowager.

“You smell burnt.”

“That's gonna happen when you break into a house full of fire adepts. . .”

“The Earl! Really?” Gryph feigned shock. “I honestly had no idea!”

“Sure. . . If you were trying to get me killed, better luck next time.”

“You know I'd never wish you any harm, Ralphy.”

“Save it. Here's your damn charm.” He threw the lucky rabbit-leprechaun foot at Slugtrough. “Where's my money?”

“Does this have some of your scars on it?” Gryph asked, examining the charm.

“Minor mishap, still works fine, I'm living proof.”

“Buyer won't mind either way, foot's a foot, am I right?” Gryph said, sliding a small leather pouch across the table. “You can keep the bag an' all.”

“How thoughtful,” Rafe muttered, as he grabbed it and peeked inside to confirm the money was all there. “You owe me a new damn coat.” he spat, as he turned his back on Gryph and went out in search of something to sate his hunger.

*

London was full of potential places for breakfast, and with Rafe's refilled coffers, all of them were within his means. Despite being able to afford the finest of cuisines, on instinct, he walked through the doors of the nearest greasy spoon cafe that was still open, and proceeded to order a full English breakfast. It was a curiously British thing, the notion of an “all day” breakfast. And curious still, was the dish itself, which was close to a national delicacy, if such a thing existed on the island.

The British notion of 'breakfast' still didn't really sit right with him. It was similar to the fried breakfast one could get back in Australia, but in England they seemed to care less for what was actually on the plate, and more for ensuring everything was saturated in oil. It consisted of barely cooked bacon, trotter-and-snout sausages, both of which were lathered in grease. On the side there were tomatoes―often canned rather than fresh, alongside over-fried eggs, burned baked beans in a sickly sweet tomato sauce, two slices of heavily buttered white toast, and the ever-present half-inch tall cylinder of pigs' blood, suet and oatmeal that they insisted on calling a “black pudding”. The name was only half a misnomer: it was often black in colour, but it was certainly not a pudding by any stretch.

Despite being suspicious of the mountain of fried foods laid out in front of him, his appetite was greater than his reluctance to drink so much sunflower oil down in one meal. He scarfed everything on the plate, drowning the mouthfuls with sips from a mug of overly sweet instant coffee, that appeared to have close to a half pint of milk in it. Although his stomach was appreciative of finally having its hole filled, it was not particularly grateful at so much food being deposited in it quite so quickly. However, its complaints became fewer once digestion had begun.

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