Dirt Beneath The Cobbles

London did not make itself an easy city to love, Christina knew that better than most. She kept her eyes fixed to the cobbles underfoot and forced herself to ignore the flood of people crowded into the streets, their bodies pressing in on her as she picked her way past. The in-between ran across the bridges of London. It was the area where the nobility ventured out to gawk at the poor, worthless people who fell into the wrong side of London, and those same poor, worthless people lingered, hoping for scraps.

Christina pulled the rim of her hat lower and shrugged past the small mobs of well dressed gentry, into the maze of narrow alleyways and filthy terraces beyond.

Sidestepping the beggars who huddled in doorways she gripped onto her collar, hiding behind the discoloured leather. Here was where the unsavoury were kept out of sight, laws set out by men like Christina’s father, forbidding those ‘of less than pleasing appearance’ to step out into the main streets of London. Their presence was deemed too distressing for the general public, and in the interest of social well being, the poor was swept underneath the carpet.

‘Change miss?’ He was an old man whose skull pressed outwards against his skin, showing ropy veins that scrambled across the pockmarked flesh like damaged spider webs. Christina shook her head and dodged away from his clawed fingers. She may not have shared her father’s views but she wasn’t stupid enough to get too close to anyone on this side of the city. Illness was rampant in the ruined tenements, jumping from one sagging slum to the next, rattling its talons against the empty window frames below. Even then, the healthy ones would slit your throat for the clothes on your back and what might be in your pockets.

The old man was either desperately unfortunate, or he had fallen into the slums through bankruptcy or madness. Either way, his death had already been declared, and no amount of charity from her would help, all she would be doing is prolonging his time in hell.

She picked up her pace and left the old man behind. The buildings on either side of her leered inwards, resting against each other for support, blocking off any sunlight that managed to seep through the smog. Below, the stale air was trapped, festering and clogging the airways of the breathing. The house where Christina was heading was in slightly better condition than the rest, less decrepit, and there was glass in the windows instead of old newspapers. Wedged into the low doorway was an iron sheet, riveted in numerous places to keep it together and thicker than the doorway itself. Rapping on the cold metal Christina waited for an answer. She shifted from foot to foot and glancing up and down the street. If she was murdered she doubted her body would ever be recovered, no one had the money and care to deal with those who dropped dead in the slums. The foul smell of sewerage covered up rotting flesh just enough that most couldn’t tell a corpse from someone sleeping.

The sound of gears whirling permeated the door, and with a series of groans and whines the sheet edged inwards leaving a dimly lit opening with a broad silhouette occupying the space.

‘Didn’t expect you?’ the figure growled, he gripped the door-frame with one hand and and took his time looking her up and down. Christina knew she looked like her mother, tall and lithe, with layers of fiery red curls that refused to obey any attempts at restraint. The oversized leather jacket she’d stolen from the servants’ quarters hid most of her body, but even then it was clearly better quality than most would find around there.

‘I have an appointment.’ she said. She lifted her hand to wave him out of the way. Her sleeve slipped down her arm and the Doorman caught a flash of silver on her left hand.

‘My commiserations.’ said the Doorman, a sincere grimace on his gnarled features. “Date been set yet?”

Christina shook her hand and yanked the sleeve back over her fingers. He stood aside and let her pass.

‘That’s not important right now.’ she said, dread spreading through her chest as she thought about the diamond rings on her finger. ‘Is he in or not?’

The building was spread over four floors, two above her and the cellar below. The person she wanted to see was at the top, probably lounging in a tattered smoking jacket and sipping a cheap wine that resembled something closer to vinegar.

‘Go on up.He’s not seen anybody all day, said he could feel somethin’ bad rolling in or somethin’ like that.

He closed the door and the locks clicked back into place.

‘I don’t see how things could get much worse around here, but who knows,’ Christina snorted. She planted her foot on the bottom step of the narrow staircase that wound up from the tiny entrance way. Floral wallpaper made a valiant effort to cling to the walls but it was peeling in more places than it was sticking and Tara could smell the damp.

She came up onto a dimly lit landing with no carpets and flaking plaster walls. There was one door, not quite set into the wall straight and half hidden by shadows. Christina didn’t both to knock.

The heat hit her first. It was akin to stepping into another continent. While the landing behind her had been as sparse and bare as possible, the room beyond was full to bursting with stuff. Metal pipes ran the circumference of the room, spurting clouds of steam into a forest of greenery that had somehow been crammed in. Bamboos, fruit trees and long grasses sprouted up from large ceramic containers, their branches and leaves brushing the ceiling. Along with everyday furniture such as chairs and footstools there were numerous brightly coloured orchids jostling for attention and from the sounds above her, Christina was pretty sure there was a menagerie of birds somewhere in the rafters.

In the middle of the room an oval shaped rug covered the little visible floor space there was and a heavy set desk had been positioned slightly off centre. With his feet up on the ink blotter was Gregory Yikes. Exceedingly tall and thin, with a burst of yellow hair sprouting from his scalp, piggy eyes and stubby fingers which fumbled continually with whatever object he was holding, Gregory Yikes did not strike a pleasant chord.

‘Now, now, now,’ he grinned and leaned forward, pushing his glasses further up his nose. ‘What would Lord Winter’s precious daughter be doing in the slums at this time of night?’

‘It is not night at all Yikes,’ Christina sighed, unwilling to play along to the man’s patter. ‘Do you even own a clock, or has time lost all meaning to you by this point?’

Yikes shrugged. ‘I don’t have much need for clocks, I can see Westminster from any rooftop in the city so why would I need one in here?’

‘You would be able to tell when someone is running late to meet you,’ she suggested, noticing that all the seating in the room had been nailed to the floorboards, meaning that nothing could be dragged forward for her to sit on.

‘No one ever runs late to see me,’ Yikes replied, his grin twisting darkly. ‘No one would dare.’

‘How would you know if you can’t even tell day from night?’ Christina murmured. She sighed and touched her fingertips to her temple and closed her eyes. ‘I’m starting to think that I’ve come to the wrong person, I need a professional, not a crackpot whose only companions are the birds who live in the roof of his office.’ She threw a glance upwards, and examined the canopy of leaves with a scathing expression. For someone as accredited as he was, Yikes had more than a few loose screws.

‘Yet we both know that there is no one else you can go to,’ Yikes replied. ‘No one you could trust with a situation of such a delicate nature.’

Christina frowned. ‘You sound as if you already know why I came here.’ She tucked her hand into the folds of her skirts.

‘It falls within my best interests to understand the matters of cases such as these; they tend to hold distinctly…’ Yikes paused, eyes fixed on her hidden hand, ‘…volatile outcomes.’

‘If you know what I’m asking, then why the questions when I walked in?’

‘Good old fashioned manners,’ Yikes smiled. ‘They don’t cost a penny you know.’

‘Unlike you,’ Christina retorted, seeing Yikes’ eyes flash with excitement. ‘I’ve heard your drive a hard bargain.’

‘I’m flattered, it’s always nice to hear that people haven’t forgotten me.’

Christina’s lips quirked into a small smile. ‘I would have thought you’d prefer to remain in the shadows. Like you said, the outcomes of some of your cases can be distinctly,volatile.’

Throwing his head back Yikes let out a splintering chuckle, a sound that reminded Christina of bones creaking beneath great pressure. ‘But I handle them with such finesse!’ he grinned. ‘Gregory Yikes, murders, theft and arson, for those who wish to make their point crystal clear.’

‘And somehow you reputation hasn’t landed you in the Tower yet. Tell me, how do you get around the Bow Street Runners? Is it bribes? Threats?’

Tired of standing, Christina perched herself on the edge of his desk, angling herself so that Yikes was forced to look up at her.

‘Because there is no one that the Bow Street Runners won’t take down,’ she whispered, bringing her head lower. ‘So your reputation is either a lie, or you having something exceedingly interesting over someone exceedingly important.’

Yikes grinned at her. ‘And there was me thinking that you didn’t like me,’ he said, his hand settling on her waist.

Christina’s hand shot towards his jaw, cracking across the stubble and sending his head rocketing backwards. Chuckling, Yikes held up his palms and prodded the tender spot at the corner of his mouth with his tongue.

‘My apologies, I forgot that I was dealing with a promised woman.’

‘Don’t talk about me as if I’m some object,’ Christina snapped. ‘Even without this ring on my finger there would be a greater chance of you being ordained Pope than me finding you even the slightest bit attractive.’

‘I’ve been told that I’m an incredibly handsome man,’ Yikes smirked, adjusting his glasses.

‘Was this before or after you paid her?’ Christina shot back. Yikes’ grin dropped from his lips and was instantly replaced with a scowl.

‘Don’t forget why you’re here Lady Winters. One more crack like that and I may be inclined to send you and your business elsewhere.’

‘I’m not so sure you mean that. You want the opportunity too much to let it slip through your fingers now!’

Yikes chewed his bottom lip. ‘It is certainly tempting,’ he admitted, placing his fingertips against each other and resting his chin on the steeple. ‘It is certainly more challenging than anything I’ve taken on before.’

‘Of course it is!’ Christina scoffed. ‘I doubt you will ever find another case to match it, no matter how long you survive in this game, or who walks into your office.’

Yikes’ expression creased in concentration, his eyebrows furrowing so that they almost met. Christina shifted, uncomfortable with how much it looked as if he was staring at her chest, despite his gaze having gone completely blank.

‘I would have to vanish,’ he mumbled to himself. ‘I would be open to attack if I took this on.’

Christina forced herself not to scowl, Yikes would have to do more than vanish, he would have to be dead if did as he was supposed to. She couldn’t risk leaving him any other way.

‘I have already catered for afterwards,’ she told him, breaking him out of the trance he seemed to have slipped into. ‘All you would need to do is make sure you reach Tower Bridge by midnight.’

Yikes looked at her distrustfully. ‘Why do I doubt that I’ll leave that bridge alive?’

‘I really have no idea,’ she said, her voice flat and emotionless. ‘Have I given you reason to doubt me?’

‘You’re arranging your father’s assassination,’ Yikes pointed out. ‘And your family does have a previous record for being rather fickle.’

Christina slid from the desk. ‘I think that I’ll be going now. We’re done here. I don’t have time for those who simply wish to compare me to my father.’

‘Surely you must see the similarities? I mean, if it wasn’t for him then your mother would still be alive would she not?’ Yikes wriggled his left eyebrow. ‘Your turbulent family history is hardly a secret.’

The temperature in the room plummeted, and even Yikes had to quail beneath Christina’s glare, the tips of his fingers turning blue as she loomed over his desk towards him.

‘A true Lady of the Winters,’ he croaked, doing his best to remain calm even though he was fairly sure he could feel his blood freezing. ‘If you don’t mind, I’m not sure my birds are overly fond of the cold.’ He tried to glance upwards but finding his eyeballs wouldn’t move and his breath plumed in clouds before him. The temperature continued to drop.

There was silence in the office, the birds’ previous chatter gone as ice crept across the plants.

‘No,’ Christina said, keeping her eyes fixed on Yikes. ‘I don’t suppose your birds do.’

Slowly the room began to warm again, though the birds remained silent and Yikes could see his hands shaking.

‘It seems that you would be more qualified to deal with matters than I am,’ he said carefully.’I’ve always heard that freezing to death is a truly unpleasant way to go, though you’re meant to feel warm at the end.’

‘I need a resolution that doesn’t implicate me,’ said Christina, brushing the frost from her clothes, all trace of her previous anger gone. ‘So do not forget and do not be late, midnight on Tower Bridge. My man will deal with your payment.’

‘Do you not want to ask how much I will cost?’ Yikes called, his voice muffled by foliage as she walked towards the door.

‘Trust me,’ she called back. ‘You’re more than affordable.’


The doorman flashed her a toothless smile as she left, the metal door slamming shut behind her. Back out on the street Christina could almost convince herself that Yikes’ exotic office and the conversation were all part of some strange dream. The stench of death and decay lurched at her the moment her feet hit the cobbles, desperation and despair seeping into her skin until reality seemed so distant that it almost didn’t exist at all. Putting one foot in front of the other she headed towards the richer part of London. Returning to her white mansion where they would be men cleaning the walls outside, the same as every Thursday, and the servants would skitter away as she walked down a corridor.

It was as if Christina’s father had taken a knife to London, slicing it down the Thames and leaving the one half to rot while the wealthy poured money into the other half. It hadn’t bothered her as a child, she hadn’t needed to worry about the impact of her father’s actions. That was before he’d taken a mistress and cast off her mother as if she were a piece of clothing that had gone out of fashion.

Somewhere among the slums was her mother’s body. Dead, not because her father had ordered it, but because he’d allowed his wife to be dragged into the rotten half of the city. All for a woman who’d eventually run off with a groom.

His death was only partly fueled by revenge though. With it she would be able to break off her engagement, retreat to the country and claim that grief prevented her from marrying. With the family fortune she would be able to do as she pleased and there would be no one to say otherwise.

Crossing back over into the other half of London she made a note to order her man to find out what exactly it was that kept Yikes out of the Tower. She never knew, it could prove to be useful information for a rainy day.

The mists were creeping in off the river.

Just another day in London. Just another miserable, grey day.


It’s been four years since I posted this short story to Writing and Works so it seemed like time for a bit of a redraft. I haven’t had to change very much but going back over it did remind me that I tend to favour some words too much and I need to watch out for repetition.
I also got a reminder that it was only four years ago that three likes on a post seemed like a lot and I’ve managed to build this blog so much since then.
Thank you to everyone who keeps reading my work. I appreciate every one of you more than you know.

*Update. I know that this story was re-blogged last night but I didn’t like how that meant readers had to click on the post and then click again to get the full story. Instead I decided to put up the redraft as a fresh post.*

Free Write Friday: Balanced On A Blade’s Edge

Things rarely ended how Bellris intended. He’d kept his hood pulled low and his face in the shadows, but somehow they had noticed him.

He hit the wall at the end of the alley and scrambled for purchase. The stone was wet with rain and too smooth for climbing. The crates stacked next to him were soft with rot and half collapsing into themselves, with little to offer anyone hoping to scale the sheer wall.

He glanced back the way he’d come and the crowds still surging past the entranceway.

Hallows’ Night. The same explosion of revelry every year and every year he found himself in the same position.


Edget’s voice crawled inside his ear as the three shadows from the tavern emerged from the crowd, the rain shimmering in front of them.

They came down the alley single file, their bodies too wide to fit them any other way.

‘Oh Bellris…’ The two behind Edget cackled and Bellris threw himself against the wall again, the skin on his fingers tearing as he fumbled for a way to pull himself up. ‘Now, now. None of that.’

Edget’s hand came down on his shoulder and Bellris spun. His spine slammed into the wall and his skull bounced off the stone sending sparks of lighting crackling across his vision.

Hallows’ Night, let it be dammed by the Nine Lords of Chaos  and every single one of their insane followers.

He felt the air leave his lungs as he double up, Edget’s fist lodged in his gut.

Edget should not have been the problem that he was. Granted, he was twice Belris’ size, almost three times Belris’ size in fact, but the brute was slow and cruel. Instead of taking out his opponent quickly, he liked to play, dragging the torture out until he grew board. Belris was different. Belris knew how to take the ending shot when required and preferred to finish things before they started. While Edget was all rolls and weight, Belris was corded muscle and sharp reflex, the perfect fighter, trained to be deadly.

Edget’s fist came in for a second below and Belris thought about the way he could pop the boy’s spine at his neck, or cut off his air with one well aimed blow to the throat. He mapped out the various pressure points and joints he could break along Edget’s arms and legs as his own knees buckled beneath him and he hit the cobbles with a dull splash of muddy water.

Just before his vision turned black he wondered if he could ever work out how to win a fight without killing his opponent first.


The light came back slowly. Belris blinked against it resentfully, his hand coming up to drag away the hair tickling his eyes as he rolled away from the brightness. He was aware that the rain had stopped, he was dry and warm, it was no longer Hallows’ Night and he was not lying bleeding in an alleyway behind the tavern.

‘Did you fight him?’

Belris felt his skin tighten at the voice that wasn’t his father’s. He loosened his grip on the blankets and realised that they weren’t his and the bed was wrong in comparison to the small sleeping cot beside the fire in his father’s hut. Carefully he uncurled himself, ignoring the way his muscles protested as he sat up.

‘I said, did you fight him?’

She was younger than him by a few months, one of the girls he’d seen hanging around on market day when the whole town congregated in the main square. She was pretty with blue eyes and tanned features. She wore her blonde hair mostly loose, with two braids twisted along the sides of her head to form a small crown, while the rest lifted slightly in the breeze from the open window.

The window. Belris noticed it for the first time, the glass and the lead piping.

‘Where am I?’ He already knew the answer but he wanted to be sure.

‘The Upper Quarter,’ she answered. Jill he remembered, she was called Jill. ‘Now answer my question please, did you fight him?’

‘Fight who?’ asked Belris.

‘The boy who beat you, or do you not remember that bit of last night?’ She glanced him over. ‘He did knock you about the head a fair bit.’

‘You were watching?’

‘No, but others did and they told me what I wanted to know when I asked, unlike you that is.’

Belris belt his cheeks flush.

‘No,’ he said ‘I didn’t fight him.’

‘Good. I think we both know what would have happened if you had.’ She leant forward, resting her arms against her knees. ‘Tell me, do you know who you are or are you just another fool who’s never considered the prospect of anything other than life in this decrepit little town?’

Belris kept his mouth closed. His father’s warnings were hammering in his skull, each one an echo to a blow that he was supposed to be defending against.





‘I think you have me mistaken with someone else,’ said Belris. He made to stand but the moment he left the bed felt his head began to slid from his shoulders, the world tilting rapidly to one side. He sat down again quickly. ‘What was that?’ He clutched his head between his hands. ‘Did you drug me?’

‘Poppy milk. Even you can’t go around with broken ribs and a fractured ankle, no matter how little of it you feel.’

The dizziness had receded slightly and Belris turned his ankle experimentally to see the damage. It throbbed but that was the worst of it. It was healing.

‘I need to leave,’ he said. ‘My father’s waiting for me.’

‘No he’s not.’ The girl was frowning at him. ‘He’s been gone three years with no signs of returning. No one is waiting for you. No one cares about you.’

‘Says you.’

‘Says everyone in this town.’

She patted her trouser pocket and pulled a slip of paper free. ‘Here, take this.’

It was a map, folded over and over until it was the size of the pad on Belris’ thumb. Nervous about tearing the frail parchment he teased the map open, smoothing the wrinkles with his fingertips when he was done.

‘It’s the town,’ he said, looking down at Felmouth laid out on the paper.

‘Yes,’ said the girl. ‘For now it is. Tomorrow it might change, or the next day, but for now it is Felmouth, and that-‘ she reached over to tap a small green spot on the map, ‘that is you.’

Belris squinted at the tiny dot.

‘No,’ he said. ‘It can’t be.’

‘Yes, it can. If you have the right map.’ She plucked it from his lap and folded it up. It vanished as quickly as it had come about and she returned to resting her arms against her knees.

‘The question is,’ she said. ‘ Why did it lead me to one of your kind?’

‘One of my kind?’

‘A Kellrath, a killer. You do know what you are right?’

Belris could hear the blood pounding in his ears.

‘This is what we are son. They call us Killers, some call us Kellrath. They don’t know for certain though, all the know is that they’re scared of us.’

‘I don’t-‘

‘Ah, ah,’ she cut him off. ‘I don’t care. I don’t care about why you are hiding in this town, or why you would rather take a beating than get into a fight, or why you happen to be the thing this map wants me to find first, what I care about is how you’re going to help me find the next thing it lands on.’ She tugged a dagger from her boot. ‘If you’re not going to help me however, things can end here and now.’

Belris studied the blade pointed at him and wondered how soon after breaking her wrist could he tear out her throat or her heart. He squashed the thought.

‘I’m listening,’ he said. ‘What is it you want?’

Hour Glass

Combining #freewritefriday with Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction Challenge. Two birds, one stone and a whole can of worms now ready to wriggle round in my brain while I’m trying to write Dawn Shadows.

The Terrifying Life Of Henry Granger: Making Of Monsters

Granger Manor, England – 23rd June 1924

The 1920s Royals Royce Ghost exploded impressively. One moment it was whole and beautiful, the next- boom! Lying on the grass face up, Henry could still hear the echo in his ears, the shock-waves in his bones. He groaned and rolled, ignoring the sharp bits of metalwork burning and biting into his skin as he crawled onto his knees and tried to lift his head high enough to see what was left of the house.

The front of it was a mess. The windows were bare, the glass shattered, the walls pockmarked with debris and the doors to the mansion blown inwards off their hinges. His arms trembled beneath his weight and gave out. He coughed and felt something move in his chest and then pain, all consuming pain, and suddenly he was coughing red onto the grass.

He saw the shadow fall across him and there was a hand beneath his chin, another on his shoulder and he was looking up at a face he thought he’d escaped.

‘Hello Henry.’ Philip crouched on his heels. He moved his hands so that they rested either side of Henry’s face and his features creased into something that almost resembled concern. He looked just as he had done in New York six months earlier when they had met, suit untouched by the chaos, eyes the same mahogany, auburn hair and a sculpture’s jawline. You could not help but fall in love with Philip Hardgraves, it was an inevitable outcome upon meeting him, and he knew this. He used his looks to get everything he wanted and used his cruelty to crush everything he left behind.

‘You’re here,’ Henry gasped, blood mixed with saliva as it down his chin. Philip swiped his thumb along Henry’s jaw and wiped it away, the touch tender.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m here. You knew I would have to be.’ He eased Henry over onto his back and let the young man’s head rest against his thigh. ‘You knew I would come for you.’

Henry’s vision was greying out and the weight in his chest made it difficult to draw breath.

‘Don’t fight it,’ said Philip. He threaded his fingers in Henry’s hair. ‘Fighting it always make it so much worse, I learnt that the first few times I died.’

‘What- what-‘ Henry’s words dissolved into coughing as his ribcage seemed to collapse in on itself. He wheezed in breaths but his limbs had turned to lead and lungs were refusing to co-operated.

He should have been safe at the manor, the village should have afforded him some sort of protection against Philip and his kind, Evangeline had promised him that. He could see her still, mouth and throat open, red spilling across the marble entrance hall of her parents’ home. There had still been flowers in her hair from the party the previous evening, the party where she had laughed and chattered like anyone else. The party where she had told him she was a witch and he was in terrible, terrible danger.

‘You’re a murderer.’ Henry’s voice was thready but he managed the accusation. ‘You killed her.’

Philip nodded. ‘Yes, I killed her. I’ve killed her before and I’ll kill her again no doubt, that is the way of it.’ He pressed his lips to Henry’s temple, they were dry. ‘You will learn it all in time, you will have all of time to learn.’

The pain was gone and Henry could feel himself slipping away.

‘Why?’ he whispered.

‘Why?’ Philip chuckled. ‘You think I chose this? You think I wanted to share? No. This is just as much of a shock to me as it will be to you but I believe in making the best out of a bad situation.’ Henry’s chest had stilled and the young man lay limp in Philip’s arms. ‘I’ve been alone for a very long time Henry. Our kind have so few we can speak to, I’m not even sure there is an ‘our kind’ so to speak, we are freaks, abnormalities, a mistake in the great scheme of things.’ Philip lowered Henry’s head onto the grass and brushed the dirt from his clothes as he stood. He turned back to the house and watched as the remains of the car continued to burn. It seemed a shame but it would serve a purpose.

‘Why did this all start though?’ He looked down at the corpse. ‘It started because I was in love with a girl who loved me back. It started because she would not let me go when death came hammering at the door. It started because a witch messed around with life and death and made a score so deep in the reality of things that everything dark, vulgar and wicked had a doorway in.’

He bent down and fumbled until he found Henry’s wrists. He gripped them and pulled them above Henry’s head.

‘You can blame this all on my wife,’ Philip sighed. ‘She’s the one who decided to make you too.’

Philip Hardgraves - Colour Pencil by Antonia Brennan

Philip Hardgraves by Antonia Brennan