Victorian Nocturne

The street was empty and silent. Silent but for the leathery thud of neatly polished boots. Night fell in a blinding blanket, the fog of the earliest morning hours obscuring the gaslights that had been lit many hours before. It was amazing that the figure--just one shade blacker than the black of the night and several shades less pale than the fog--could even maintain its footing. But oh the silence! It was unreal, unholy, almost. Even at this hour there were generally signs of life in this part of London. Squalor bred the most unpleasant nocturnal activities, and usually the brawl of those who had had too much to drink or the sound of coupling paid for in pence might near the ear. But this was not the case. It was not possible even to hear the early morning hunger screams of the wage earner's infant.

The steps approached a small apartment building squashed hastily between two others of a similar design--if design one could call it. For there was nothing for the eye to gaze at with pleasure even in the bright noon sun. The brick walls were caked in soot and the contents of chamber pot--likely worse things than these, if one really thought about it. The doors consisted of little more than hastily constructed boards of wood, nailed together and hinged by some miracle of God. And the windows peered at one like dark, thoughtless eyes, void of all expression. Some of the panes were broken, some cracked, most caked with dirt, soot and general grime. What could be seen was often concealed with whatever bit of fabric or newspaper the tenant could procure. This was meant to give a pretense of privacy to those who lived in penury with ten or more other occupants, or to obscure and hide the misdeeds of the less productive of the tenement's inhabitants.

A gloved hand turned the knob of the entrance, letting the door shut behind with a creak and a resounding thud. Up two flights of stairs. Third door to the right, if memory served--and it inevitably did. Three knocks, short, quick raps. This was all that was needed. The sallow face of a careworn woman peered out as the door squealed on its hinges. She was clutching something in her hand. as she opened the door to the stranger, her heretofore tense face relaxing in visible relief. Few things adorned the room but a few sparse pieces of furniture and a cheap print of the Blessed Mother. In another room five other people were standing by a mattress. On the mattress lay in a tight ball a young woman no older than eighteen. Her dark hair hung in stringy locks over her sleeping face, greased by sweat and exertion. The covers had been tossed aside and she wore nothing else but a dirty shift, her feet bare, the blue veins in them visible like indigo cobwebs.

( I Will Fear No Evil )