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Andrews UK - John Worth

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111 pages

English

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Description

This extraordinary story unfolds in the dim streets of Victorian London's notorious East End. Poverty, squalor and crime fester and proliferate, blighting the lives of all who are unfortunate enough to dwell there. Yet from within the gloom, a random illumination- a beam of light. The light of human dignity; just sometimes, righteousness, decency and justice win out. In this dramatic play-out of the everlasting human conflict of good versus evil, various giants of their time, immortal beings, come into conflict. They form unlikely alliances, each presenting a differing prism of perception, different viewpoints of what is right and what is wrong; ultimately, what is Good and what is Evil.

Informations

Publié par	Andrews UK
Date de parution	25 juillet 2013
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781780924755
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0374€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Title Page
THE MAKING OF A MAN
A Sherlock Holmes Mystery

by
John Worth

Publisher Information
First edition published in 2013 by MX Publishing
335 Princess Park Manor, Royal Drive,
London, N11 3GX
www.mxpublishing.co.uk
Digital edition converted and distributed in 2013 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
© Copyright 2013 John Worth
The right of John Worth to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.
All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without express prior written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted except with express prior written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The opinions expressed herein are those of the authors and not of MX Publishing.
Cover design by www.staunch.com

Dedication
For my sister Irene
la coragiosa

Introduction
He lay still, curled in a protective ball; the kicking had stopped, but he feared any movement might cause it to commence all over again. He did not know how long he had lain there in the dark, face pressed to the uneven cobble-stones, so cold and muddy. The idea of fighting back was not entertained. All of his focus was upon survival, just to lie there and protect his head and vital parts. The filthy wet pavement was almost a comfort, a refuge - at least it was not attacking him. Hands over his head, he pressed closer into it.
After what seemed an age, it suddenly started again. He could not suppress a whimper of anticipation as a boot poked experimentally at his ribs.
‘Come on get up – I know you are alive. Get up man, this ‘ere is not the best place to spend the night at all, it aint.’ The tone was rough, but there didn’t seem any malice in it. It was a deep mellifluous voice, with gutteral overtones.
‘Come along young fellow; I don’t know about you but I fear I might get my death if this bloomin’ rain don’t ‘old off. Come on, here, let me give you a hand.’ So saying the stranger grabbed him under the armpits and attempted to lift the figure lying there before him. The deep groan of distress made him desist.
’Looks like you’ve been done a damage – hang about and I’ll round up a couple of lads. Stepping back from the prone figure, the speaker put two fingers in his mouth and gave two sharp whistles.
Slowly he lifted his head from the muck; the tone of the voice had not indicated malevolent intent. He lowered his arms and looked up, tried to make out the figure dimly perceived before him.
The fellow appeared bulky, dressed in a long coat of some heavy dark material that he took to be some sort of dressing-gown. On the stranger’s head perched a small tight cap upon long dank curling hair. The massive head sat seemingly without neck upon his shoulders. From beneath the man’s brow jutted a very generously proportioned nose, between bushy eyebrows and straggly beard. The dim moonlight fairly gleamed upon it as the bulky figure stood head turned side on, at an angle, as if listening for something. Shortly he heard it - an answering whistle. Satisfied for the moment, he turned back now to the figure lying there. As he approached, the crouching man spoke;
‘Look I haven’t got any money – ‘ he coughed then, it obviously caused him pain to say that much, as he now lay panting, unable to continue. Unexpectedly the other chuckled.
‘I didn’t expect you might have any, my dear, seeing as you have just had a right good blaggin.’ He turned away then, calling out.; ‘Over here lads; come on, look sharp. We got us a toff ‘ere as had a right bit of a kicking by the look of it.’ Two and then a third boy had come upon the scene, their heavy boots clattering on the cobbles.
‘Ere – cast about a bit and see if you can find something we can carry him with.’ Without a sound the three darted off to carry out the instruction.
Now that he realized he might be out of further danger, the injured man slowly uncurled from his defensive crouch. He began to very gingerly make a catalogue of his injuries. - His ribs of course, a badly bruised shoulder, hands that had suffered as he had endeavoured to shield his head – his whole body was in pain. The effect of the adrenalin was now beginning to leave him, the full consciousness of his pain rising rapidly - as he was lifted he gave an involuntary cry and sunk into merciful darkness.
This was probably for the best, as it enabled his rescuers to handle him with rough efficiency. In a short while he was lying helpless, flat upon an old door. He felt neither the cold drizzling rain upon his upturned face, nor being badly jostled and once nearly dropped entirely, as his unknown rescuers carried him through a maze of darkened back alleys and courtyards.
The busy din and clatter, voices calling out, snatches of raucous laughter; - all this bombarded his still somewhat deranged senses, as the recumbent figure in the corner upon a straw palliasse was recalled reluctantly to consciousness. Reluctant, for he dimly knew that consciousness promised to be painful.
For a time longer, he kept his eyes closed; despite the noise, the mingle of unidentified unpleasant smells, he felt safe like this, wishing only to prolong this inert state for as long as possible. He was warm, he was almost comfortable. He knew too well that this would all cease when he fully awoke. Awoke to a new day, and to the ongoing misery of his life.
Still in this semi-soporific state, he gradually became aware of a tantalizing smell, an odour so delicious it overwhelmed the pervading noisome fug. He opened his eyes.
There before him squatted a boy, just in the act of placing a steaming earthenware bowl of soup before him on the floor. The boy turned his head, and spoke out of the corner of his mouth to another urchin standing behind.
‘Ere –nip ‘round and tell the old gaffer that this’ns alive’. His grin was derisory as he turned back to the man lying before him. ‘- Fought a sniff of that soup in ‘is hooter might bring ‘im back from the dead.’ Laughing, the boy jumped to his feet and went off whistling, hand in his pants pockets.
Slowly he sat up; mindful of his many tender areas, it nonetheless gave him pain just to move. So much so that he found it very difficult to suppress a groan. His ribs in particular hurt like the very devil.
Halting half raised, he rested on his elbow and took in a few careful shallow breaths. Whist he rested, the injured man took the opportunity to take in his surroundings. As he began to do so, he marvelled that he had been sleeping through what seemed mayhem.
He lay in the corner of a cavernous, ill-lit place. It’s furtherest reachings were not discernable in the prevailing gloom. The only light source he could make out came from several small barred windows high up on one wall.
To further hinder visibility, and greatly add to his confusion, the whole place was billowing with steamy vapor. It was difficult to make out a ceiling in what he took to be some kind of vast dungeon. Gradually he became aware that he appeared to be inside some kind of giant laundry.
People scuttled about on various duties, mostly women and boys, as far as was apparent. The din in this steaming great space contributed to the confusion. Some of the women were very busy around a row of great boiling cauldrons, sleeves rolled up, faces red, as they stirred the contents with large wooden paddles. Due no doubt to the amount of water being sloshed about, he noticed that the washerwomen worked bare-footed. They worked with their outer garments tucked up near to their waists, showing plump white legs contrasting with reddened feet and toes. To keep their feet clear of the wet stone flagged floor, they stood upon pinewood duck-boards.
As they toiled, an old man carrying a short handled shovel and a bucket pushed amongst them, shouting for the women to get out of his way as he attempted to throw coal into the boilers. This was obviously a familiar occurrence, as the washer-women showered him with good-natured insults in return. The watcher deduced by their accents that the women seemed mostly to be Irish.
Now and again there was a shouting to and fro, several of these women would together begin fishing out the contents of a boiler into an even larger vat of obviously cold water, which then sent up even more clouds of water vapour as it’s contents were stirred and poked by a very stout woman, who also shouted a lot.
Amidst this flurry of activity, boys, scruffy urchins, were constantly trotting about, delivering more basket-loads up to the women at the cauldrons. On the other side of the cold water tub stood a great iron mangle, with wooden rollers. This was operated by a woman at either end each turning a crank handle. This pace of work went on continuously.
On benches along the walls of this great steaming place sat others, mostly older women but among them some younger boys, busy with the piles of clothing before them. The observer had no idea as to how he had come to this place.
Totally bemused by it all, unable to take it in, he turned his attention back to the immediate task at hand. To get himself at least sitting upright.
Finally he was able to sit with his back supported by the rough wall. As comfortable as he could make himself, the young man prepared to drink some of the soup before him. He noticed then t