Episode I

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, to reveal a swarthy face.

“Whatcha wan’, mate?” the Shopkeeper asked, his stale clove breath suddenly filling William’s world.

“Alright Ham,” William drawled in reply, meeting the man’s steely stare evenly. “I’m after something special. Pale, you know the sort. What’ve you got in the basement?” The shopkeeper thought for a moment and then motioned his head towards another door. 

Down they went, stone steps, into the claustrophobic near-blackness. From somewhere, the Shopkeeper conjured a sooty, stub-candle, mumbling a tune to himself all the while. 

“You keep ‘em locked up, then?” William asked. It was a cold, dank place to be kept.

“Yeah mate. Don’ wan’ nobody findin out, see? You never know ’oo might be fackin tempted, innit, you know what I mean, yeah?” It made sense. When you had something desirable, you didn’t know who would come looking... especially in this neighbourhood.

Another door, heavily barred. The shopkeeper  produced a key from his baggy clothes and opened the door, on rusty hinges: from within came the smell of sadness, confinement... and malt. At least the whitewashed walls reflected the weak candlelight well enough. Rows of casks lined the walls on two levels of stout racks.

“Blonde, yeah mate, innit?”

“Yeah, if you’ve got one.”

“Course I got it, my friend. I’m the man to come to yeah, you fackin know it, mate!” He fingered along the casks, then tapped one bearing an undecipherable scrawl. “There you go, mate, one barrel, just for you, my friend! You wanna taste?” William shook his head and Ham shouted something in coarse Arabic: a moment later the two youths appeared, hefted the cask and vanished up the stairs. William and Ham followed them back up into the comparative daylight of the shop.

“Am I alright to sort out payment later?” William asked

“Yeah mate. How you gonna take it away?” 

“Got a lift, Ham, got a lift!” He waved his arm out of the front door of the shop and a cart appeared from nowhere. In a trice, the shop lads placed the barrel on the back and then returned to their muttered snacking. William hopped onto the cart next to the driver. “I’ll look into that little problem of yours, alright, Ham?”

“Cheers mate, see you later!” he replied with a grateful nod, before disappearing into his shop again. William looked around the street quickly then winked at his accomplice.

“Nice one, Jonny. Off we go!” The driver looked at him from under his hood as he gee’d the little horse.

“What’s this one then?”

“Belgian, John-boy!” 

“Belgian beer, huh?” Johnny pulled a face. “Each to their own, I s’pose.” He was silent for a moment as the cart rattled along the street and rounded a tight corner. “Ere, ’ow come ’Am sells booze, if he don’t drink?”

“I think most of his customers are also Moorish too, I guess.” William half-smiled at this friend. “So he knows none of them would ever want to nick it!”

“Smart bloke.” Johnny went quiet again for a while. “’Ere, why’s ’ee called ’Am, again?”

“Because he doesn’t eat it...” 

“What, he don’t eat ’am?”

“Yep!” William smiled. “What with him being a Moor. You know, they don’t touch pork with a ten foot pole, just like with the booze.”

“Oh yeah, course!” said Johnny with a grin. It was London humour: if you knew, you knew.

  “...Plus it’s his name – Hammad!” William smiled, looking straight ahead. Johnny just nodded slowly.