Feb 16, 2022
Gateway by schastlivaya-ch
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Gateway by schastlivaya-ch
RESURRECTION: A REYLO ANTHOLOGY 26/35: art by @dark-london
part IV
rise
The stars quiver and their fingers twine— He trembles and she calms him in kind— Her hand in his, they face Death strong A duet in tandem, a holy song.
“Death begets death,” cries the undying. “Why will you not stop your denying?” But they and their ancestors had all faced Death. With a stroke, the terror takes his last breath.
[masterpost]
Digital images
Digital Images
The Tyburn Tree by Marc Almond and John Harle (album)
The Tyburn Tree by Marc Almond and John Harle (album)
The Tyburn Tree are a duo comprised of Soft Cell singer Marc Almond and saxophonist John Harle. On February 24, 2014 the pair released ‘Dark London’ on Juno Records. Promotional shots for the album were taken in Highgate Cemetery.
The album that features songs about the more frightening aspects of the British capital city’s history. Spring-Heeled Jack, The Highgate Vampire, Victorian serial…
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Dark London, Pt. 3
There was a deliberate knock on the door, a familiar little jingle played in C major.
Thomas’ heart stopped in his chest, blood frozen, eyes going wide. His fingers gripped the arms of his chair so firmly his knuckles whitened.
The locked door was quickly, and effectively, unlocked.
“Tommy, Tommy, Tommy-boy,” came the voice of Mr Sands, one of the shining beacons of London’s underground. “Aven’t you been a cheeky little cunt.”
Mr Sands strode in full of purpose, followed by his two goons. Thomas began to stand, listening to the animal that lives in all lower class criminals that says ‘fucking leg it’. A huge meaty hand caught him square in the chest and knocked him back down into the chair. Pinky Bob gave him a look that suggested he stay put. It recommended he stay put.
“Got somewhere to be in an ‘urry, Tommy?” asked Mr Sands, dripping sarcasm.
Thomas wasn’t a quick thinker at the best of times. Coming down the steep end of heroin induced stupor wasn’t going to help.
“Just, err,” said Thomas, his mind trying to race through the haze of withdrawal, “just need to take a piss, is all.”
“Well I’m sure you’ll manage to hold it in while we talk.” It was a statement.
Mr Sands removed his hat and coat, passing them and his cane to Pinky Bob, and took a seat opposite Thomas.
“How’s about a nice cuppa tea then, George?” said Mr Sands, “And a Reg Varney, thanks George. Mor’adella, I think.”
George nodded and began to rummage through the fridge and cupboards of the tiny kitchen.
“So then,” said Mr Sands, “seems you’re friend Wee William has gone and got himself into a spot of mischief.”
Thomas nodded dumbly, “Yeah, got nicked for selling dope.”
“My dope,” said Mr Sands, his voice laden with menace, “He got nicked selling dope he bought with money he borrowed from me. That makes it my fuckin’ dope, Tommy.”
Thomas’ heart lurched in his chest and began to quicken its pace.
“Now the way I see it, Tommy, is that ‘e was you’re friend. That makes you guarantor. And that makes this your problem, and that means trouble,” He reached unto his breast pocket and removed folded piece of paper. “Twelve hundred quid worth of trouble, to be precise. That’s six for what ‘e borrowed and another six for the dope, and the trouble.”
Thomas’ stomach began to coil itself into knots, his heart raced even faster, and he could taste bile in the back of his throat.
George returned with a cup of tea and a sandwich of a paper plate. “There you go, boss.”
Mr Sands set the tea down on the arm of the chair and took a bite from the sandwich. After several chews he let the soggy bite fall out of his mouth and onto the plate.
“...the fuck is this shit, George?”
“Luncheon meat and ketchup, Boss.”
“Luncheon meat and ketchup? Do I look like a fuckin’ six year old, George? Are you gonna cut the crusts off too?” he dropped the half eaten sandwich onto the plate. “What kind of useless wog are you then? Can’t tell the diff’rence between mor’adella and fuckin’ luncheon meat.”
“It was the only thing in the fridge, Boss.” said George defensively.
Mr Sands put the plate down on the floor, picked up his tea and turned his attention back to Thomas.
“See what I’ve gotta put up with? A dago wop who doesn’t know ‘is deli meats and a communist who doesn’t know how to speak the Queen’s.”
Pinky Bob, just a footnote in Thomas’ mind until now, shifted his weight from foot to foot.
Mr Sands took a sip of the tea, tilted his head to the side, and let out a gruff, “hmm. Not bad,” he said, as casually as one would declare an absolute truth, “That last cup tasted like fuckin’ bollocks”.
With that he set the teacup down on the arm of the chair and stood, taking his cane from Pinky Bob, along with his hat and coat. “You’ve got three days, Tommy.”
He made his way to the front door sandwiched between his two goons.
“Well Tommy, least the tea was nice this time. Do get something a little fancier in the fridge for next time. Oh,” he said, nodding towards the splintered door frame, “and you might want to get someone to ‘ave a look at that, eh?”
Day 29 - Dark London, Pt. 2
Infallibility was a questionable concept.
Thomas didn’t have the time for a park bench debate into the origins of the term; he had never really set any stock by it. God does his thing, men do theirs.
But Mr Sands, however, was infallible. He was right all the time, especially so when he wasn’t. To suggest otherwise was an act known to local authorities as suicide.
His mind reeled with unasked questions. He mentally leafed through the stack, selecting one befitting the situation.
“So, why Pinky Bob?”
The large brute of a man turned to look at him.
“What mean why?”
“Well, you don’t look the sort to have a name like Pinky Bob, is all.”
“Is what Mr Sand call me.”
“Why?”
Mr Sands strode into the room, cane clicking on the linoleum floor.
“Because I can’t pronounce ‘is fucking name,” explained Mr Sands, “Why? You got a fucking problem with Pinky Bob, Tommy?”
“No,” said Thomas, trying to smooth over the last part of the conversation, “I was just curious about the ‘Pinky’ part.”
“It’s because ‘e’s a fucking communist, kid. Look at ‘im. Does he look like ‘e’s from fucking Hackney?”
“My name is Nazariy,” said Pinky Bob, with some effort, “I come from Russia to here.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s enough Pinky Bob. No one asked for your fucking life story.” chided Mr Sands.
Mr Sands looked around the kitchen and dining room, taking it all in.
“This is a shit of a place you have here, Tommy. I wouldn’t send fucking rats to live in this.”
Thomas wisely chose to stay quiet on the subject.
“Now, down to business. Where’s my fucking money?”
Thomas went to stand, and was forced straight back down by the powerful arms of Pinky Bob.
“Just tell us, kid, so George can fetch it. I’m in no mood for surprises this morning.”
George, who was busy making Mr Sands a cup of tea, turned at the sound of his name and pointed a finger gun at Thomas. He lowered his thumb with a clicking noise and a sly wink.
“It’s in an envelope,” Thomas swallowed, “U-under the mattress.”
“George...”
George brought over the tea and left the room. After a moments searching he located the bedroom and began rummaging under the mattress. There was a sound of breaking porcelain, Thomas winced and shook his head.
“My apologies about that,” said Mr Sands, less than genuinely, “George likes to be thorough.”
The noise of a room being ransacked continued for a few minutes before ending abruptly. George walked back out into the kitchen carrying an overstuffed envelope.
“We good George?” asked Mr Sands, not taking his eyes off Thomas’.
“Yeah, boss. We’re golden,” he said, flicking through the notes, “Must be thirty four hundred in here.”
Thomas silently cursed his stupidity. Mr Sands wasn’t the kind to give change.
“We’ll call that interest, eh Tommy?”
Thomas closed his eyes and nodded his reply.
“Good boy.” said Mr Sands, his tone condescending.
He stood up, grabbed his hat off the table and pulled it on. As they walked out Mr Sands stopped in the doorway and turned around.
“Tea was piss, by the way. Get a better cuppa for next time, will you?”
And with that, he left.