Matthew Hawkwood Thriller Series Books 1-3: Ratcatcher, Resurrectionist, Rapscallion. James McGee

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      Hawkwood looked up. The man’s surly expression indicated that he didn’t care one way or the other. Hawkwood nodded, though he had no intention of allowing anything to pass his lips in a sty such as this. A dirty tin mug was placed in front of him and the noxious brew was poured. Hawkwood wiped a sleeve across his face and handed over a coin. The pot man shuffled away. Nothing else to do now except wait, and wonder what had possessed Jago to choose such an unsavoury place for a rendezvous.

      Half a dozen benches away, close by the port bulkhead and out of Hawkwood’s line of sight, the pot man answered the summons of a crooked finger.

      “Well?”

      The pot man nodded sullenly. “It’s ‘im.”

      “You’re sure?”

      “I’m sure. ‘E’s dressed rough, but I saw the scar, didn’t I? Under ‘is eye, right where you said it’d be. Looks an ‘ard bastard, if you ask me.”

      A coin was placed on the table. “No one’s asking you, Cooter. On your way.”

      The disgruntled pot man pocketed his earnings and slunk off. The receiver of the information stood up.

      Hawkwood was staring into his mug and wondering how much harm a single sip would do when he sensed a presence.

      “You lookin’ fer Jago?”

      The whispered enquiry came from Hawkwood’s elbow, literally. The speaker was the height of a small boy, but that was where the similarity ended. The seamed forehead was high and broad, the nose flat, while the eyes were large and set wide apart under a heavy brow. The speaker’s lack of stature was matched by the incongruity of his dress: a brocade frock coat over a filthy ruffled shirt and striped pantaloons, the latter held up by a wide leather belt. On his feet, a pair of knee boots. The vision was topped off by a blue turbaned bandana. The costume would not have looked out of place on the deck of a Caribbean privateer.

      Hawkwood eyed the creature with caution. “Who’s asking?”

      “The name’s Weazle.”

      Hawkwood hesitated. “Where’s Jago?” The little man, Hawkwood saw, even sported a large hooped earring.

      “Last-minute spot o’ business to take care of. Sent me to fetch you, on account of ‘e didn’t want you blunderin’ around in the dark. Now, you comin’, or what?”

      The stunted figure was already waddling away. Hawkwood cursed and rose to his feet.

      In the outside world, Weazle’s size would undoubtedly have placed him at a disadvantage, making him the target for prejudice and intimidation. On board ship, it was a different matter. In the country of the blind, the one-eyed man is king. In the confined, claustrophobic space between decks, the little man was in his element. While his guide trotted confidently ahead of him, Hawkwood was forced to assume an awkward, neck-straining stoop. More than once he had to duck even lower to avoid striking his head on a protruding beam.

      The deeper inside the hull they penetrated, the darker it became, and they were not alone. It would have been impossible to count the number of persons on board. In the disciplined world of a ship of the line, all hammocks would have been slung neatly in rows and aligned stem to stern to conserve space. In the Rat’s Nest no such regime existed. There were bodies everywhere. Sleeping sacks were suspended from the deck beams like seed pods, and judging from the number of limbs sticking out from beneath blankets, many of the hammocks were double occupied. The moans and groans and movements of the occupants confirmed the fact.

      Hammocks were not the only form of sleeping accommodation. There were bunks, too, though that might have been too fine a description for what were, in effect, little more than coffin-sized niches. The place was a catacomb. If the rumours of her former trade were true, Hawkwood thought, it was doubtful if any slave had endured more privation than these pitiful souls. The only difference was that her current residents weren’t wearing shackles. At least, none that he could see.

      It was as he followed the dwarf through the racks of suffering that his nose had begun to detect another strange aroma, sweet and syrupy. When he saw the weak glow coming from inside the cramped cubbyholes and the pipes, he understood.

      He’d seen it before, in the cellars of St Giles and the worst of the Wapping doss houses, and it had always intrigued him. It had begun with the Orientals – Chinese and Lascars mainly – but the habit had started to spread among the Europeans. Forced to exist in the most primitive living conditions, without furniture, bedding, warmth or comfort, it was small wonder that so many of these forgotten folk had turned to crime or begging. While others had resorted to a less arduous means of escape.

      It had been the ships of the Elizabethan Levant Company that had first brought the black mud into the country. During that time the dealing had been controlled by Turkish merchants. Now, the opium was shipped in by the East India Company, and it was an expanding business. Controlled by legitimate concerns like the Apothecaries’ Company, the main brokers operated out of Mincing Lane. Auctions were held at Garraway’s Coffee House, close to the Royal Exchange. Over druggists’ counters it could be purchased as Kendal Black Drop or the Elixir. In the more disreputable districts of the East End, it was the pipe. The main dens were run by the Chinese, in Stepney, Poplar, the Limehouse Causeway, and Shadwell. In those areas, the Chinese also ran strings of lodging houses. It was a captive market.

      What struck Hawkwood most as he ducked past the lolling smokers were the blank stares and the emaciated state of their bodies. He watched one of the addicts prepare his smoke. The tiny ball of opiate was placed on the point of the needle with great care, before being turned in the lamp flame. The bamboo pipe was placed over the lamp and the sticky knobule was inserted into a hole in the pigeon-egg-shaped bowl. The smoker drew carefully on the pipe, his effort rewarded by a low gurgling sound. The look on the man’s face transfixed Hawkwood. He had expected hopelessness, yet what he saw was a kind of serenity, something completely at odds with the foetid surroundings.

      “Don’t mind them,” Weazle said. “They won’t bother you none.” The dwarf chuckled throatily. The sound was not dissimilar to that made by the gurgling pipes.

      A few paces further on, the little man halted outside a heavy wooden door. “Here we are – Captain’s cabin.” Weazle winked broadly. “Let’s see if he’s at ‘ome.”

      Weazle opened the door and Hawkwood followed him in.

      The cabin was low-ceilinged. Large stern windows indicated it had probably been the master’s quarters. A lantern hung from the underside of a deck beam. There were a few items of furniture: table and chairs, a battered dresser, a wooden bunk bearing a stained mattress and several grubby blankets.

      “Well, it’s about bleedin’ time. We’d just about given you up!” The gravelled voice came from behind, while a dark form detached itself from the shadows by the window and moved into view. A handsome face, grey hair cut short, the features quite recognizable.

      Instinctively, Hawkwood spun, his hand clawing for the baton beneath his jacket. But he was too late. He felt the cold kiss of steel against his throat, and watched the grin spread wide across Weazle’s face.

      “Move an inch, culley, and I’ll split you like a hog. They’ll be scooping your innards up with a spoon.”

      The speaker moved into view. Bull-necked, shaven-headed, and a twisted smile of triumph on his lips. The bruiser from the dog pit.

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