Sword For Hire

She was already awake. He looked groggily up at her: combing her hair, already dressed, with grey morning light pouring through the opened shutter.                “I thought you said you didn’t need to be up early?”                “It isn’t early, Will!” She smiled. “Anyway, I ain’t surprised you slept longer than me. I ain’t gonna lie, it was you done all the heavy lifting!” She smiled again with that look of hers, arranging her hair into a bun. Trying to clear the sleep from his mind, he lay back, eyes shut, running over the events of last night, with his own little smile. He opened his eyes again and now she was sorting out her headscarf. Neither of them spoke for an awkward moment.                “Will, I’m sorry, but you can’t come round no more.” She wasn’t smiling any more...

It was deathly quiet at this hour – and everything was black as brewers’ pitch down here in the streets; only a little fuzzy moonlight showed where the gables slept, three or four stories up. Here and there, snuffling from a side alley – stray dogs, maybe, or a vagrant, or wild pigs. Or just the dances of rats. Who could tell? At this time of night you navigated with your nose as much as anything else: the smell of piss indicated the side streets; the aroma of the gutters told you what sort of district you were in; everywhere of course, wood smoke hung in the air; but if you were in a fancy neighbourhood, then the tang of coal ash told you that.                This wasn’t a fancy neighbourhood.                He slipped down an alley, barely three feet wide and let himself through a low entranceway. Was that a dim light that filtered from the top of...

Later that night, William opened the door into another pub – one that made Leonard’s bar look positively sophisticated. This place was dirty: the sort of establishment where the bloodstains were just part of the general patina and mislaid teeth got gradually kicked into the corners. He had done his homework carefully: this place looked like the kind where he’d find what he was looking for. It was certainly close to Hammad’s shop.                William wasn’t a regular here ; the faces looking up at him from the tables made that perfectly clear. A certain amount of bluff would be required. Striding up to the bar, he eyed the landlady squarely; he’d seen her once before, but she didn’t know who he was. Standing solidly amidst her little domain, she radiated an air of ‘don’t even try it’ – the sort of woman who was probably widowed at least once but only because she’d done the widowing. William took in her scarred face,...

It wasn’t a fancy bar by any stretch of the imagination: dirty, plain, dimly lit. Frequented by hard-faced men who liked a quiet drink and a nice argument now and then. But the proprietor, Leonard, was also William’s landlord, inasmuch that the latter got a garret to sleep in and the former got a bouncer who was quick enough with his hands to evict any troublemakers. William Quick, by name and by nature. One look at Leonard’s face across the room told William that it was one of those nights, as he slipped through the low doorway into the gloom. The landlord looked tense. There were plenty of folded arms in the bar and a group of young, heavy-set lads standing up, dominating the room and talking a bit too loudly. Red faces. Rolled-up sleeves. A lot of effing and jeffing. William stood   just inside the door, weighing it up; a couple of regulars looked his way. He thought he heard a snigger but he wasn’t sure. Subconsciously, William squared his shoulders: he’d seen it countless time...

London: exciting, magnificent and very, very profitable: the City of dreams, the City of gold, you want it, you’ll find it, as long as you’re bold... You can find anything you want in London. Anything at all... if you can pay for it.  ...And, most importantly, if you know where to look and who to ask... William Quick – quick of mind, hand and blade – former soldier and now full-time solver of tricky problems, always knows how to find things. Right now, William is looking for a blonde.   This was just another cramped shop, on just another narrow street. He glanced back at the doorway, where two lads slouched in the shadows, sharing some kind of dubious snack. The shop was full of exotic-looking items made from brass and wood, catering for its unusual clientele; even the low lamp was odd – multicoloured glass facets glowing cold and sullen. He knocked again on the door to the back room, very aware of the smells of sandalwood and cinnamon that clung to the air. The door opened, t...