(no subject)
Chapter One Of Long-Awaited Serial Killer Fic
ONE
The dark of night in the back alleys of Shoreditch was always an unpleasant place to be, and the young man lurking outside the tavern had a special reason to be nervous. He clutched his tattered overcoat more tightly around him as a biting wind sped past, blowing a fleeting warmth and the smell of alcohol tantalisingly past his face. His boots skittered on the cobbles as he jigged slightly on the spot, trying to keep the sluggish blood moving through his veins. On nights like this, it felt like his heart might stop beating, simply out of spite, and he wanted to be fully awake and ready for the approaching encounter. Dark hair flapped into his eyes, come undone from its usual tail, but if it gave him something to shelter behind, it could blow where it liked. Anxiously, he slipped a small, finely made watch from the pocket of his waistcoat, and checked the time. Two minutes to go. He blew on his hands, cold even through the gloves he wore, and tried to look as innocuous as possible. Despite his eagerness, his guts were churning with fear; had the stranger who contacted him simply not turned up, he would have been half grateful. Still, the fear wrestled with a sense of desperation. Life in London seemed to get harder by the day; every trade he had turned his hand to had failed, and his father’s advice to follow his passion seemed likely to lead him straight to the gallows.
A sharp clicking on the cobbles alerted him to the approach of someone quite distinct from the drunks and whores who lurched about the Pine and Oak. He could barely bring himself to turn his eyes towards to approaching figure. He didn’t need to; it was already obvious that this could be no one other than the sender of the mysterious request. The approaching figure was impossible tall and lean, his legs carrying him along with absurd grace. His dark overcoat was long, skimming the heels of his boots, making him appear to glide through the dirty pools of light spilt by the street lamps. Despite the freezing weather, he wore neither hat, nor scarf, but as he passed under the nearest street lamp, Joshua saw that he wore a crisp white cravat, stuck through with a pin of shining silver, topped with a violently glittering ruby.
He sank against the wall, feeling the icy bricks bite through his clothing, twisting his fingers together. Perhaps if he could will his body to blend into the wall, he wouldn’t be noticed, and he could continue his life unchanged. Joshua didn’t like to think of himself as a coward, but he had a gut-churning feeling that tonight’s meeting would change things irreversibly, and not necessarily for the better. Exhaling hard, he slipped his hand into the pocket of his coat, feeling the edges of the note that still sat there.
“Hiding?”
The word came in a hiss directly beside his ear, and Joshua stumbled to one side, his fingers grating uselessly at the stony wall. A bony hand shot out, gripping his wrist painfully tightly and hauling him back to balance. Joshua snatched his arm back, rubbing distractedly at where the stranger’s long fingers had been. He was confused. He stared into the face of the stranger and realised with a start that the other man could only have been a few years older than himself- perhaps the same age. He had been expecting a towering and fearsome presence, aged and gnarled, strong as an old oak, ready to snap Joshua up and take him away into a murky underworld. But the man that stood before him, although towering, was thin as a whip, limber and agile, barely old enough to have his first growth of beard- although, meeting his eyes, Joshua still felt a pang of fear. The other man’s eyes were sharp and dark, boring into him from under a tangle of nut-brown hair.
“I hope I have not chosen a coward to assist me.” The voice was rich and precise, but biting as acid, and the condescending tone struck some memory at the back of Joshua’s mind. He drew himself up a little, mustering the courage he had.
“I- I don’t think I have agreed to assist you yet.” Although not made in as strong a tone as he had hoped, the reply seemed to find favour with the stranger, who allowed a slow and slightly frightening smile to spread across his gaunt face.
“True. But once you’ve heard my offer, I’m confident you’ll agree. After all, career opportunities are thin on the ground for one of your talents, Mr. Hayward.” Joshua nodded a guarded assent, waiting to hear more. The stranger held out one long hand. “Faris Badwan,” he said. After a moment’s hesitation, Joshua eased off his glove and shook the other man’s hand. At that point, neither of them knew just how much would come to rest on this newly made alliance.
Tom had just settled down in his favourite easy chair when a light knocking sounded through the hallway. With an irritated noise, he pulled himself upright again, running one hand over the slick surface of his hair. Then the clock caught his eye, and a soft sigh of realisation escaped his lips. The note was still propped up beside the clock, although the familiar handwriting was now unnecessary; Tom had the few lines memorised. “Ten thirty,” he murmured to himself, and went to answer the knocking.
“Tom.” Faris’ sudden grin grew no less surprising no matter how many times you saw it, and Tom blinked a few times before taking the offered hand in his own.
“Faris. It’s good to see you again.” Tom’ eyes shifted to the figure standing slightly behind his old friend; a well built young man, about his own height, with a head of thick, dark hair that blew about his face in the chill November wind. “So, is he anything to do with what you have to tell me?” The young man flinched as he was mentioned, and Tom bit back a smile; the lad probably had no idea what he was getting himself into.
“Perhaps.” Faris gave another ghoulish smile. “But it is not business to be conducted on the doorstep.”
“Of course.” Tom stood aside to let the pair through, snapping the door closed quickly behind them. He left them removing their coats in the hallway and returned to his sitting room, poking briefly at the fire and giving an irritated huff when the flames only flickered feebly.
“Another piece of coal usually does the trick,” Faris said from behind him. He pulled a well-stuffed chair up to the hearth and made himself comfortable, smirking a little as Tom glared at him.
“I gave all the servants the night off to accommodate your latest scheme, and if you think I’m manhandling coal in this suit-”
“Let me,” another voice broke in, and the young man who had entered with Faris knelt casually on the hearthrug and stacked another few bits of coal in the fender. He dusted his hands off on the back of his black waistcoat and ruffled his hair up, seemingly unperturbed by the coal dust now floating about his person.
Tom looked accusingly at Faris, who was looking far too pleased with himself for his liking. “And who is this?”
Faris leant over to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of brandy. “Mr. Joshua Hayward, most accomplished young murderer in London. Mr. Hayward, this is my old friend and business associate Thomas Cowan.” He took a sip of his drink, and the corner of his lip crooked upwards in a sudden grin. “Call him Tom.”
Tom ignored Joshua’s outstretched hand to look sharply at Faris. “Business associates? And when did this happen?”
“All in good time.” The taller man drained his glass, wiping his lips in satisfaction. “Isn’t your good Mr. Webb here yet?”
“Clearly not.” Tom grinned suddenly. “He probably stopped for something to eat.” Joshua looked between the two old friends, clearly puzzled by their amusement.
“Let’s hope he didn’t chance upon young Master Spurgeon. I have no doubt he’d find him…to his taste.” Faris swirled the dregs of his drink around in the bottom of the glass, pursing his lips meditatively. Tom frowned at him.
“How many people did you invite to my house, exactly?” A sharp knock cut in before Faris could reply. Sleeking his hair back distractedly, Tom made a vague attempt to gesture Joshua into a seat before leaving to answer the door. His hospitality was clearly wasted; Joshua gazed around him a little more with a faint look of bewilderment before dropping down on the hearthrug, folding his long legs up under him. His head dropped down, thick hair veiling him from the rest of the world. Faris allowed himself another smirk; there was something extremely satisfying in being the only person who really knew what was going on.
The front door banged shut again, and Tom reappeared, flanked by two men, one rail-thin with a delicate face and sleek dark hair, the other still slim, but with a roundness to his face that suggested someone only on the first step out of childhood. Tom had a clear question in his face, almost a reprove.
“Faris, are you sure?” he asked, inclining his head not so subtly towards the younger man- or boy. “He seems barely old enough to shave.”
“He’s not,” Faris replied shortly. He nodded in the direction of the thinner man. “Rhys. Good of you to come.”
“Not at all,” Rhys replied, with a smile. “How could I ignore such an intriguing appointment?” His eyes, which never seemed to fix in one spot for more than a few moments, suddenly alighted on Joshua. “Oh, excuse me. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” He raised an eyebrow at Faris, who made introductions with only the more perfunctory gestures of his hand.
“Joshua, this is Rhys Webb. Rhys, Joshua Hayward, finest young murderer in London. Both of you, this is Joseph Spurgeon.” Joseph ventured a nervous smile, the sombre room and unfamiliar faces clearly intimidating him.
Tom rubbed a hand across his forehead, motioning the new arrivals towards seats, finally dropping back down into his own chair with a sigh. There was a moment of silence, a collective exhale as the five men settled into the room, and into each other’s company. Then Rhys turned to the figure lounging in the shadows, sipping leisurely at another glass of brandy.
“So. We’re all here; we’re all burning with anticipation. Care to enlighten us?” The four faces that turned towards Faris, while not exactly burning, were all tense and expectant. Faris finished his drink, licking his lips in a slightly smug way, knowing he had them all on a string. Then he placed the glass on the floor beside him and leaned forward, clasping his hands together on his knees, the firelight casting gloomy shadows across half of his face. His mouth cracked into that peculiar half-smile again.
“Bodies, gentlemen.”
Opinions? Con-Crit? Suggestions? All welcome.
ONE
The dark of night in the back alleys of Shoreditch was always an unpleasant place to be, and the young man lurking outside the tavern had a special reason to be nervous. He clutched his tattered overcoat more tightly around him as a biting wind sped past, blowing a fleeting warmth and the smell of alcohol tantalisingly past his face. His boots skittered on the cobbles as he jigged slightly on the spot, trying to keep the sluggish blood moving through his veins. On nights like this, it felt like his heart might stop beating, simply out of spite, and he wanted to be fully awake and ready for the approaching encounter. Dark hair flapped into his eyes, come undone from its usual tail, but if it gave him something to shelter behind, it could blow where it liked. Anxiously, he slipped a small, finely made watch from the pocket of his waistcoat, and checked the time. Two minutes to go. He blew on his hands, cold even through the gloves he wore, and tried to look as innocuous as possible. Despite his eagerness, his guts were churning with fear; had the stranger who contacted him simply not turned up, he would have been half grateful. Still, the fear wrestled with a sense of desperation. Life in London seemed to get harder by the day; every trade he had turned his hand to had failed, and his father’s advice to follow his passion seemed likely to lead him straight to the gallows.
A sharp clicking on the cobbles alerted him to the approach of someone quite distinct from the drunks and whores who lurched about the Pine and Oak. He could barely bring himself to turn his eyes towards to approaching figure. He didn’t need to; it was already obvious that this could be no one other than the sender of the mysterious request. The approaching figure was impossible tall and lean, his legs carrying him along with absurd grace. His dark overcoat was long, skimming the heels of his boots, making him appear to glide through the dirty pools of light spilt by the street lamps. Despite the freezing weather, he wore neither hat, nor scarf, but as he passed under the nearest street lamp, Joshua saw that he wore a crisp white cravat, stuck through with a pin of shining silver, topped with a violently glittering ruby.
He sank against the wall, feeling the icy bricks bite through his clothing, twisting his fingers together. Perhaps if he could will his body to blend into the wall, he wouldn’t be noticed, and he could continue his life unchanged. Joshua didn’t like to think of himself as a coward, but he had a gut-churning feeling that tonight’s meeting would change things irreversibly, and not necessarily for the better. Exhaling hard, he slipped his hand into the pocket of his coat, feeling the edges of the note that still sat there.
“Hiding?”
The word came in a hiss directly beside his ear, and Joshua stumbled to one side, his fingers grating uselessly at the stony wall. A bony hand shot out, gripping his wrist painfully tightly and hauling him back to balance. Joshua snatched his arm back, rubbing distractedly at where the stranger’s long fingers had been. He was confused. He stared into the face of the stranger and realised with a start that the other man could only have been a few years older than himself- perhaps the same age. He had been expecting a towering and fearsome presence, aged and gnarled, strong as an old oak, ready to snap Joshua up and take him away into a murky underworld. But the man that stood before him, although towering, was thin as a whip, limber and agile, barely old enough to have his first growth of beard- although, meeting his eyes, Joshua still felt a pang of fear. The other man’s eyes were sharp and dark, boring into him from under a tangle of nut-brown hair.
“I hope I have not chosen a coward to assist me.” The voice was rich and precise, but biting as acid, and the condescending tone struck some memory at the back of Joshua’s mind. He drew himself up a little, mustering the courage he had.
“I- I don’t think I have agreed to assist you yet.” Although not made in as strong a tone as he had hoped, the reply seemed to find favour with the stranger, who allowed a slow and slightly frightening smile to spread across his gaunt face.
“True. But once you’ve heard my offer, I’m confident you’ll agree. After all, career opportunities are thin on the ground for one of your talents, Mr. Hayward.” Joshua nodded a guarded assent, waiting to hear more. The stranger held out one long hand. “Faris Badwan,” he said. After a moment’s hesitation, Joshua eased off his glove and shook the other man’s hand. At that point, neither of them knew just how much would come to rest on this newly made alliance.
Tom had just settled down in his favourite easy chair when a light knocking sounded through the hallway. With an irritated noise, he pulled himself upright again, running one hand over the slick surface of his hair. Then the clock caught his eye, and a soft sigh of realisation escaped his lips. The note was still propped up beside the clock, although the familiar handwriting was now unnecessary; Tom had the few lines memorised. “Ten thirty,” he murmured to himself, and went to answer the knocking.
“Tom.” Faris’ sudden grin grew no less surprising no matter how many times you saw it, and Tom blinked a few times before taking the offered hand in his own.
“Faris. It’s good to see you again.” Tom’ eyes shifted to the figure standing slightly behind his old friend; a well built young man, about his own height, with a head of thick, dark hair that blew about his face in the chill November wind. “So, is he anything to do with what you have to tell me?” The young man flinched as he was mentioned, and Tom bit back a smile; the lad probably had no idea what he was getting himself into.
“Perhaps.” Faris gave another ghoulish smile. “But it is not business to be conducted on the doorstep.”
“Of course.” Tom stood aside to let the pair through, snapping the door closed quickly behind them. He left them removing their coats in the hallway and returned to his sitting room, poking briefly at the fire and giving an irritated huff when the flames only flickered feebly.
“Another piece of coal usually does the trick,” Faris said from behind him. He pulled a well-stuffed chair up to the hearth and made himself comfortable, smirking a little as Tom glared at him.
“I gave all the servants the night off to accommodate your latest scheme, and if you think I’m manhandling coal in this suit-”
“Let me,” another voice broke in, and the young man who had entered with Faris knelt casually on the hearthrug and stacked another few bits of coal in the fender. He dusted his hands off on the back of his black waistcoat and ruffled his hair up, seemingly unperturbed by the coal dust now floating about his person.
Tom looked accusingly at Faris, who was looking far too pleased with himself for his liking. “And who is this?”
Faris leant over to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of brandy. “Mr. Joshua Hayward, most accomplished young murderer in London. Mr. Hayward, this is my old friend and business associate Thomas Cowan.” He took a sip of his drink, and the corner of his lip crooked upwards in a sudden grin. “Call him Tom.”
Tom ignored Joshua’s outstretched hand to look sharply at Faris. “Business associates? And when did this happen?”
“All in good time.” The taller man drained his glass, wiping his lips in satisfaction. “Isn’t your good Mr. Webb here yet?”
“Clearly not.” Tom grinned suddenly. “He probably stopped for something to eat.” Joshua looked between the two old friends, clearly puzzled by their amusement.
“Let’s hope he didn’t chance upon young Master Spurgeon. I have no doubt he’d find him…to his taste.” Faris swirled the dregs of his drink around in the bottom of the glass, pursing his lips meditatively. Tom frowned at him.
“How many people did you invite to my house, exactly?” A sharp knock cut in before Faris could reply. Sleeking his hair back distractedly, Tom made a vague attempt to gesture Joshua into a seat before leaving to answer the door. His hospitality was clearly wasted; Joshua gazed around him a little more with a faint look of bewilderment before dropping down on the hearthrug, folding his long legs up under him. His head dropped down, thick hair veiling him from the rest of the world. Faris allowed himself another smirk; there was something extremely satisfying in being the only person who really knew what was going on.
The front door banged shut again, and Tom reappeared, flanked by two men, one rail-thin with a delicate face and sleek dark hair, the other still slim, but with a roundness to his face that suggested someone only on the first step out of childhood. Tom had a clear question in his face, almost a reprove.
“Faris, are you sure?” he asked, inclining his head not so subtly towards the younger man- or boy. “He seems barely old enough to shave.”
“He’s not,” Faris replied shortly. He nodded in the direction of the thinner man. “Rhys. Good of you to come.”
“Not at all,” Rhys replied, with a smile. “How could I ignore such an intriguing appointment?” His eyes, which never seemed to fix in one spot for more than a few moments, suddenly alighted on Joshua. “Oh, excuse me. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” He raised an eyebrow at Faris, who made introductions with only the more perfunctory gestures of his hand.
“Joshua, this is Rhys Webb. Rhys, Joshua Hayward, finest young murderer in London. Both of you, this is Joseph Spurgeon.” Joseph ventured a nervous smile, the sombre room and unfamiliar faces clearly intimidating him.
Tom rubbed a hand across his forehead, motioning the new arrivals towards seats, finally dropping back down into his own chair with a sigh. There was a moment of silence, a collective exhale as the five men settled into the room, and into each other’s company. Then Rhys turned to the figure lounging in the shadows, sipping leisurely at another glass of brandy.
“So. We’re all here; we’re all burning with anticipation. Care to enlighten us?” The four faces that turned towards Faris, while not exactly burning, were all tense and expectant. Faris finished his drink, licking his lips in a slightly smug way, knowing he had them all on a string. Then he placed the glass on the floor beside him and leaned forward, clasping his hands together on his knees, the firelight casting gloomy shadows across half of his face. His mouth cracked into that peculiar half-smile again.
“Bodies, gentlemen.”
Opinions? Con-Crit? Suggestions? All welcome.