Only the Thunder Knows_East End Girls Read online

  Chilled bone deep, Charlie watched the stranger walk away. One by one, each gaslight along the High Street dulled, flickered, and then went out as he passed it.

  Charlie dropped his candle and fumbled for the flask of whiskey he kept hidden in the depths of his coat pockets, not nearly as afraid of the fog now as he was of the darker things that walked within it. Shaking, he uncapped the silver stopper and drank deeply. The whiskey burned on its way down but it didn’t even begin to touch the chill in his rapidly beating heart.

  * * *

  Maggie Hare answered the door almost before the first knock had sounded. She threw it wide open and braced herself there in the doorway like some common fishwife, ready to give her miserable excuse for a husband a mouthful for coming home in the middle of the night stinking of beer and smoke.

  She’d kept a faithful vigil at the downstairs window for hours with only the ticking of the grandfather clock in the common room for company. Not that she could see anything of the streets outside. A fog had crept in off Colston Hill and the peaks of the Highlands beyond, smothering the city in mist so thick she had trouble seeing the end of her nose much less the road and the workhouses and factories beyond her front stoop. William, her husband, was a good for nothing drunk. Worthless as a human being, worth even less as a husband, Maggie thought bitterly. Given his usual state of inebriation she was constantly surprised when he found his way home, but then even the mangiest of mongrels seem to have the knack for finding their beds and a softie to feed them come morning.

  “Damn you, William Hare! If you’ve been out pokin’ some damned whore–” Maggie launched into her tirade but the familiar invective had barely left her tongue before she saw the stranger waiting on the doorstep.

  She wasn’t sure who the tall dark-clothed man was, but he definitely wasn’t her William.

  “Ah, my sincerest apologies, Good Wife. I appear to have come at a bad time,” the stranger said, no hint of the Scottish burr to his voice; nor Irish for that matter. An English Gentleman maybe, out in the dead of night. “I was hoping to rent a room but I can return in the morning, or perhaps you know of somewhere else nearby?”

  “Goodness me, no, sir. Come in, come in. It’s colder ‘n a witches tit out there… you must be frozen. We’ve got a nice warm fire stoked and I can heat up a bowl of broth for you no trouble… get some heat into your old bones, eh?” Maggie graced him with her most winning of smiles, pretending that it was a common thing for complete strangers to come calling this late at night. It was nothing short of magic the way the thought of getting her hands on the stranger’s money dampened her anger with her husband.

  “How long will you be with us, mister…?”

  “Black… Ambrosious Black,” he said, smiling. “I know, quite a mouthful, but you get used to it by the time you get to my age. I was thinking something along the lines of a couple of months, perhaps even more. It all depends on the work I have to do here really, so it’s hard to say exactly.”

  “A basic room is two ‘n eight a night, nothing fancy mind, just good plain home cooking and a warm bed.” Her eyes took on a far away quality as she wrestled with the arithmetic in her head. Two shillings, eight pennies a day, for at least sixty days was almost ten guineas. “Half up front, of course,” she added hurriedly.

  “Of course,” Black said, reaching into his top coat pocket for his leather purse.

  “Black with the white eyes.” Maggie found herself saying.

  “Pardon?” Black said, his smile spreading.

  “Black. Funny name for a fella with white hair and white eyes…oh my, you ain’t blind are you? Can’t be giving you something upstairs if you’s blind…oh do listen to me prattling on like a fool.”

  “I’m not blind, dear lady. Though a downstairs room, perhaps out of the way of your other guests would be appreciated. I’ll be working during my stay.”

  “Well,” she said doubtfully, “We have got a room out back, William uses it for his workshop, not that he ever does any work, mind.”

  “Marvelous.”

  “I think William’s got a cot in there.”

  “Even better.” He palmed five guineas into Maggie’s hand, more than he even owed. “I can see we are going to get along like a house on fire, Mrs. Hare.”

  “Do call me Maggie, everyone else does,” she said, without so much as wondering how he had come to call her Hare and not Log, in the first place – old Mrs. Log had been dead a good twenty years now and they’d just never bothered changing the name. Most likely someone had told him so.

  “Of course, Maggie… now about that broth?”

  Maggie Hare bustled her new guest through to the pantry where she set a pan of yesterday’s rabbit stew to cooking and settled down for however much small talk it would take for her William to come rolling home.

  Ambrosious Black was the perfect gentleman, taking an interest in her ceaseless blather and making her feel almost beautiful with his gentle manner and his pretty way of talking – and it had been a long time since Maggie had felt beautiful. A life with William Hare had beaten it out of her.

  The old grandfather clock in the corner chimed half past and then the hour, without any sign of the master of the house. Maggie was fed up with making excuses for his behavior – the truth, him being out all night tomcatting around with whores and doxies down by the Cattle Market and Gallows Gate didn’t make for endearing anecdotes to be shared with strangers. Instead, she dismissed his absence with seven words: “William? He’s a drunk and a fool.”

  There was little more to be said on the subject.

  “Well, if you’ll excuse my rudeness, Mr. Black, I’m afraid I’m going to have to turn in. A girl needs her beauty sleep, you know.”

  “Surely not, Maggie. A natural beauty like yourself?”

  “Aye, that’s me that is, a diamond in the rough. Well, goodnight.”

  Black watched her go, content to just sit there for a while longer in the flickering gaslight, thinking.

  Sometime later he snuffed out the gaslight and wandered through the downstairs of Log’s Lodging House in the dark, familiarizing himself with the lie of the land. The privy was right beside his ‘room’ and it stank to high heaven. Mrs. Hare, he decided, was not a fastidious cleaner.

  His room wasn’t locked. There was no point, there was nothing to steal in there, not even the mattress from the bed, which was a wooden pallet softened by mildewed straw and a single moth-eaten blanket. There was a large double window at the rear end of the room, held together by a simple latch, and a bare wooden table that was fit for firewood if nothing else.

  The room was pitiful for the money – the Hare woman had played him for a fool with her two-and-eight a night for a crib in a pigsty – but it wasn’t important. It would suit him just fine. All his too long life he’d shied away from excess and luxury. Excess led to weakness of body and mind. Weakness was for fools like William Hare.

  Black unlatched the window and threw it open, letting the fresh air in and the stale reek of urine out.

  The fog, he noticed, was already lifting. Come sunrise it would be as though the rows of houses with their slate rooftops had never been away. That was how he liked to think of it – not that the fog came and hid the houses but that it took them away to some distant land where if the sleepers awoke they would see wonders aplenty through their shuttered windows. It was a fine sentiment but hardly likely. These fogs were not the same fogs that had gathered over the Island of Apples so long ago. Now, perhaps in those mists miracles might have flourished, but not in the choking factory smog of this filth-ridden city.

  He settled down on the cot, drawing the blanket over his body, content to sleep in his clothes. But sleep offered Black no solace. He tossed and turned fitfully, plagued by dreams of ancient deaths and treachery – familiar dreams peopled by familiar faces, still alive with hope and the need to believe in all things good, the same naïveté that would lead them inevitably into Hell.

  And one face, most belov
ed of them all, with red eyes, weeping blood.

  * * *

  Black started awake, looking instinctively at his hands for the telltale blood and where once he might have scrubbed them, over and over until his frantic actions actually produced some of the blood of his dreams, he ignored the guilt and lowered them.

  While he’d slept an owl had perched on the windowsill. It flapped its powerful wings several times, banging them against the frame, its five-foot wingspan larger than the window allowed. The creature watched him now, curiously. Behind the great white bird, the first rays of dawn were creeping into the room, chasing the shadows away to wherever it is that darkness hides.

  Waking to find a menacing bird of prey in their room would shock most people, fearful of its long curved claws and deadly hooked beak, yet it didn’t faze Black in the least. Instead, it brought a contented smile to the old man’s weathered face.

  “A late night, my friend. I trust you found him?”

  Seemingly affronted that the old man had to ask, the large owl rotated its head toward the window and closed its eyes without feeling the need to dignify the question with a response. Ambrosious Black roared with laughter, climbing stiffly out of his less than luxurious bed.

  “I’ll just go see for myself then, shall I?”

  The owl had nothing to say. It was already fast asleep.

  Chapter

  2

  With the sun barely over the horizon, Black presumed he’d find the common room of the lodge dark and empty, everyone still tucked away in their beds. He was pleasantly surprised to see a warm fire already burning in the hearth and Maggie Hare bustling around preparing breakfast. Her dark hair was tied up in a tight bun but strands stuck out in all directions, making it look like someone had glued a bird’s nest to the top of her head while she’d been sleeping. Black stifled a laugh. Perhaps her beauty sleep hadn’t gone quite as well as she’d hoped. Still, Ambrosious gave her top marks for being up and at it, and tired as she must have been she still greeted him with an enthusiasm he found honest and refreshing.

  “Top of the morning, sir,” Maggie said. “Had a feeling you’d be an early riser, I did. Thought I’d get the fire lit…nip the chill out of the room for ya.”

  “Many thanks, ma’am. You shouldn’t have bothered so. Still, I could get used to a woman who knows how to treat a man like a king. Now if only I were a few years younger…”

  “Oh, go on!” Maggie said, blushing as red as the coals in the fire, unconsciously fiddling with her hair, trying to straighten out the tangles. “I’m not much of a sleeper… never was. May as well be getting ‘bout my business, right? Besides…someone has to keep wee Donny company. He’s always up at the crack of dawn.”

  Black was confused. “Donny?”

  “Behind you, in the corner there. He’s easy to miss.”

  Black spun on his heel to see that the room did indeed have another occupant. Over by the window, tucked in beside the grandfather clock, a tiny wisp of a man with a shiny bald head and a salt-and-pepper‐colored beard sat hunched over a chess board. He was oblivious to their conversation, intently studying the intricately carved game pieces, his round spectacles hanging so low on the tip of his nose the slightest movement would surely cause them to fall.

  “I see why you call him wee Donny,” Black said. “Not a dwarf, is he?”

  “No. Just a strange little old man. Been living here for years. Before I met William. Before I took over from Mrs. Log, even. Plays his chess all morning, sleeps most of the rest of the day. Why don’t you go say hi while I fix you up a plate?”

  “Sounds good. I’m famished.”

  “Then I hope you like hard‐ boiled eggs, ‘cause our chickens are still learnin’ how to lay kippers and bacon?”

  Black smiled at Maggie’s joke, one he was sure she’d used a great many times. “Eggs are fine.”

  * * *

  What wee Donny perhaps lacked in physical stature, he appeared to make up for intellectually. Standing watching him play a chess match was one of the most astonishing things Black had witnessed in quite a long time. Donny was playing himself – simultaneously in charge of both black’s and white’s moves – and he did so with such a ferocious speed that Black was sure there was no thought behind his decisions, that he was just shuffling the pieces around at random. Not so. The more he watched, Black was sure the tiny old man was playing textbook‐ perfect chess, setting up classic attack and defensive strategies in the blink of an eye.

  The strange little man even seemed to take on a different, distinct personality depending on which side he was currently playing. His black side – the side that was clearly winning – showed itself with a big toothy grin and larger eyes than white, who would squint, grind his teeth, and grumble obscenities under his breath. Black almost expected Donny to reach over to shake his own hand, after the match ended. Instead, he just cleared the board and immediately began to set the pieces back into position for the start of the next game.

  Black decided not to bother him, moving over to the window to have a look outside. As he’d predicted, the thick fog of last night was but a memory now, replaced by a drab grey sky filled with sickly dark clouds ready to burst with rain at any moment.

  Another lovely morning in Edinburgh! Black thought. God how I miss being back home in…

  “What opening do you prefer?” Wee Donny asked, interrupting his thoughts.

  “Pardon?”

  Donny pushed his spectacles back into place, and squinted up at Black. “Chess openings, of course! Which one do you prefer using?”

  “Oh…well I’ve always been a fan of the Gambits. King’s Gambit more than Queen’s, but I like them both.”

  The little man hunched over the chessboard screwed up his face as if he’d bitten into something sour. “King’s Gambit! Are you daft, man? No one falls for that move anymore. You’ll never see me give up control of the center of the board just because you dangle a pawn in my face; I can assure you that!”

  “You’d decline the gambit, then?” Black asked, amused by the old man’s passion for the game.

  “Decline it! I’d hammer it right back down your gob! Check mate in twelve or thirteen moves.”

  “I see…well we wouldn’t want that now, would we? What opening would you suggest?”

  Wee Donny scratched his bearded chin for a moment, considering the question seriously. “Seeing as you’re obviously no’ a master, like myself, I think you’d be better off using a sound defensive opening like the Knight’s Sacrifice. Protect your king at all times, right? That’s the way to win!”

  The smile vanished from Black’s face, gone as if his face had never known how. Unwanted visions flashed in his mind, rapid-fire images of men screaming in agony on a field of emerald‐ green grass. Of men writhing in pain, futilely reaching out for help as they lay dying in puddles of their own blood. And once again of the great man who wept crimson tears—

  “…chance to attack your opponent’s weak side,” Donny said, but Black had been lost in his dark memories.

  “Sorry…what were you saying?” Black apologized.

  “The sacrifice, mate! Aren’t you listening? The Knight’s Sacrifice? Have you ever used it?”

  “That I have, old‐timer…a long, long time ago.” There was a somber quality to Black’s voice, a tone filled with heavy burden and dark regret. Donny didn’t notice, happy that he had found a worthy playing partner.

  “Wonderful! Have a seat and let’s see how you fare.”

  “Me? Play chess?” Black asked, shaking his head. “God, no. I studied the moves for years, sure, but I’ve never actually played the damn game. Always thought it a bit silly, truth be told.”

  Wee Donny was confused. “Never played? But you said—”

  A loud crash in the hallway, followed closely by the slamming of the front door stopped the little man in mid-sentence. Both he and Black turned quickly to investigate. Entering the room – or rather, stumbling into it– was a tall stocky man
with greasy black hair dressed in a pair of soot-stained dungarees and a threadbare wool sweater. He had a thin face, wild bloodshot eyes, and the aroma of someone who’d either been out drinking all night or had recently had the misfortune of falling headfirst into a giant keg of whiskey.

  “The master of the house?” Black bent down to quietly ask Donny. Fear was shining in the little man’s eyes, telling Black everything he needed to know.

  Donny nodded once, then quickly hunched back over the chessboard, trying his best to disappear into his chair. From the look on his face, if he’d been able to jump right into the chessboard, hide among the pawns and rooks in the only world that made any sense to him anymore, Black was sure he would have gladly done so.

  “Maggie?” the new arrival shouted. “Where the hell’s my meal, woman?”

  Black looked over just as Maggie had been entering the room with a plate full of eggs. His eggs, presumably. The smile slid from her face, seeing that her husband had finally returned home. However it wasn’t replaced by the angry scowl Black had expected, hearing the harsh way she’d talked about Mr. Hare last night. She was angry all right, but being careful not to let it show. What her face did show was a look remarkably similar to that of Wee Donny’s. For all her brash talk, Maggie was obviously frightened of her man.

  “William. I didn’t know you were home,” Maggie said. “Umm…these eggs are for—”

  “For who…?” Hare asked, his voice rising, his dark eyes swiveling to take in Wee Donny and Mr. Black. Maggie didn’t know what to do. Her eyes found Black, silently pleading. Black nodded in her husband’s direction, understanding perfectly.

  “They’re for you William, of course,” Maggie answered, placing the eggs down in front of him. “Eat up, while they’re hot.”

  Hare grumbled something incoherent then greedily started shoveling food down his throat. Maggie started to head back to the pantry, but turned to meekly ask, “What took you so long, William? You…you promised me you wouldn’t be staying out all night like this anymore.”