(Page 1 of 2) A Foggy Night by Peter AllchinSUMMARY: A Foggy Night is an exercise in what I can achieve in 800 wordsI move silently through fog filled cobbled streets. In the tiny terraced houses where people are still awake, gas-lamps glow like ruddy smears through grime-caked windows. Am I a fool to be here in the early hours? After all, thieves and murderers may be hiding in every darkened doorway, patiently waiting for their next victim.
I walk on, head bowed, the brim of my hat pulled low over my brow. The thick, choking, autumn fog grows thicker by the minute.
"Not a night to be out on yer own, is it guv'ner?"
I stop and look to my right. A man, fairly tall, stands less than six feet from me, and yet, he is no more than a phantom in the night, shrouded by mist. The light from a nearby window gives him an eerie incandescent glow. A black cape is draped over his shoulders. He moves forward and I can see his gaunt, unshaven face.
"Is it money you want," I ask, putting a hand in my pocket.
"That, an' whatever else yer got. What's in the bag?"
I grip the bag tight and draw it close to my chest. "It contains my work. It is of little use to you."
"I'll be the judge of that. Now, ‘and it over!"
He reaches out with both hands. In his right hand, he is holding a large knife.
"I will give you one guinea. For that, you will return to the gutter from whence you came, and I will walk away unscathed."
The man begins to chuckle. "Do you know who I am?" he asks, waiving the knife in my face.
"The head scum of this God forsaken place?"
"You have such wit sir. It will be a wheeze when the papers tell all that Jack the Ripper ‘as ‘ad ‘is first male victim. So now I'm goin' to cut yer up and spill yer guts in the street. What say yer to that, eh, yer royal bleedin' highness?"
I open my mouth to answer and as I do, he lunges at me with the knife. The blow is parried with my bag, knocking him to the ground. My right foot kicks out at his face. He lays perfectly still, no doubt uncon-scious. I kick him twice more, then crouch beside him: he is alive. The knife is still in his grasp and as I take that hand, I plunge the blade into his heart. There, I leave him and walk away.
The Ten Bells is full of people, mainly dockworkers and prostitutes. The air is full of smoke and idle banter.
"Rum!"
The barmaid pours the drink and I look about me. A woman catches my eye. She is plump, unattractive and about forty years of age.
"Buy me a drink?" she asks, and I place four pennies on the counter. "I can give you something in return, not free you understand, but you can have whatever you want for sixpence," she says.
Although not refined, the way she speaks tells me she was not born into the way of life she has chosen. I po-litely refuse her offer and watch as she leaves the Bells. I casually drink my rum and leave.
Ahead of me I hear footsteps. It is the woman from the pub.
"Excuse me?" I ask, now walking by her side. "I was a little shy and somewhat embarrassed by your offer. I cannot afford for people to see me with... well you know."
"You need not fear of that. Gentlemen come here all the time, and no-one sees anything."
Smiling now, I squeeze her hand.
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