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, brawny arms and the hint of a solid cudgel peeking from beneath the bar-top. He nodded at her, smiling slightly – after all, that was worth a try, at least. There was a man over to the left sitting in the shadows with some kind of mastiff-type dog, growling to itself.
The landlady looked at him, as if waiting for something to happen. William was prepared: cracking open a smile, he turned to coo at the mastiff and made show of looking for a titbit while telling it what a lovely boy it was. Having now got the slavering animal’s attention, he gently tossed a small piece of dried meat at the dog; there was a suggestion of a nod from the owner and the mastiff gobbled it up. Still speaking in his most amiable voice, William bent down with another piece of meat, dangling it in front of the dog. Still growling, but at least in a less threatening way – the animal leaned forwards, sniffing his hand, smelling the meat; William toyed with it, coaxing it to accept a stroke behind ragged ears, teasing it. Casually, William squatted down, momentarily gaining the big animal’s full attention and then giving up the second bit of meat, while warmly stroking its neck, speaking sweet nothings to its massive face. For the moment, William had a friend in the bar. He stood up again and looked at the landlady.
“Evenin’.” She offered, in a voice that was barely lukewarm.
“Evening.” He leant forwards, in such a way that he could see slightly behind himself in his peripheral vision. The dog wasn’t growling any more, at least. “You got any lads in here, in the Trade?” he asked her quietly. The Landlady said nothing, staring at him heavily; but her eyes flicked momentarily to the corner of the room. William nodded and wandered across to the small group of men she’d indicated. Anonymous men, dirty-handed; probably concealing weapons by the looks of it. So was William, but his sword was also plain to see, poking out from his long cloak. Uninvited, he pulled up a stool and sat down. They didn’t like that. Ugly faces looked at him: they weren’t happy. He eyeballed them all for a moment, just to wind them up a bit more. For another moment, nobody spoke. The tension was building horribly.
“’Oo the fack are you?”
“Fackin’ cant.”
“Fackin’ little posh boy.”
“Wotcha want, yer fackin’ posh wankah?” They were getting really wound up: it was hilarious. This was a good game. Presumably he looked affluent to this little gang, which was ironic; amusing, even.
“Come to do you a favour, gents,” William cooed.
“What yer fackin’– “
“Trust me, you’ll thank me.” He smiled at them. But only a little.
“What th’ fack you on about?” They were getting upset now:
“Think we need to fackin’ sort out this fackin’ pretty boy.”
“Now gents,” he shushed them, “I just want to help you out.” He stared at them across the table.
“What th’ fack?...”
“Now, there’s a shop near here, owned by a Moorish gentleman.” The faces betrayed a satisfying mix of extreme disgruntlement, with just a tinge of recognition. William was enjoying himself. “Do you think you can put the word out that he’s not to be disturbed.”
“Don’t fackin’ know what yer mean, mate.”
“What I’m saying, chaps, is that I’d really appreciate your help to get the message out, you know, that everyone should leave this man and his shop well alone.”
“I fink ’ee’s got a fackin’ problem!” One of them was reaching for something. William smiled at them.
“Thanks, gents, I knew I could count on you.” He turned around and walked away, ducking right as the knife shot past his ear and hit someone else across the bar; spinning around he threw two of his own knives at two of the men at the table, the sharp points burying themselves in the wall immediately above their heads. And now William unleashed the concealed meat cleaver he’d been holding under his cloak and brought it down clean through a leather beer mug that sat in front of one of the burglars, right into the surface of the table, beer sloshing everywhere. And as William leaned forwards to yank his knives out of the walls, he suddenly, simultaneously punched two of the seated men on each side hard in the face, and then whipped his knives to the throats of the two sitting in the middle. With the points pushing up into scabby, stubbly jowls, William smiled viciously at them, while somebody was yelling blue murder on the other side of the pub. Withdrawing his knives, he pulled the cleaver out of the table, used it to knock all the other drinks into their owners’ laps, and then told them in no uncertain terms:
“I can find where all of you live. Make no mistake about that. You do NOT want a night-time visit from me: understand?... Now, this Moorish gentleman is not to be bothered, you get me? If he is, or if I hear that he’s had the slightest problem, if he gets unwelcome customers, if some kid nicks even a single thing from his shop window, then you lot will wake up one morning to find your balls nailed to the ceiling. Alright boys?” The men stared at him.
Waving his cleaver airily, William strode to the bar and smacked a silver coin down in front of the landlady, flashing her a leering grin. For a moment, he held her steady gaze, while the injured drinker continued to swear. Then William bent down, stroked the dog once more, stood up, looked around the room, and walked calmly out into the night.
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, brawny arms and the hint of a solid cudgel peeking from beneath the bar-top. He nodded at her, smiling slightly – after all, that was worth a try, at least. There was a man over to the left sitting in the shadows with some kind of mastiff-type dog, growling to itself.
The landlady looked at him, as if waiting for something to happen. William was prepared: cracking open a smile, he turned to coo at the mastiff and made show of looking for a titbit while telling it what a lovely boy it was. Having now got the slavering animal’s attention, he gently tossed a small piece of dried meat at the dog; there was a suggestion of a nod from the owner and the mastiff gobbled it up. Still speaking in his most amiable voice, William bent down with another piece of meat, dangling it in front of the dog. Still growling, but at least in a less threatening way – the animal leaned forwards, sniffing his hand, smelling the meat; William toyed with it, coaxing it to accept a stroke behind ragged ears, teasing it. Casually, William squatted down, momentarily gaining the big animal’s full attention and then giving up the second bit of meat, while warmly stroking its neck, speaking sweet nothings to its massive face. For the moment, William had a friend in the bar. He stood up again and looked at the landlady.
“Evenin’.” She offered, in a voice that was barely lukewarm.
“Evening.” He leant forwards, in such a way that he could see slightly behind himself in his peripheral vision. The dog wasn’t growling any more, at least. “You got any lads in here, in the Trade?” he asked her quietly. The Landlady said nothing, staring at him heavily; but her eyes flicked momentarily to the corner of the room. William nodded and wandered across to the small group of men she’d indicated. Anonymous men, dirty-handed; probably concealing weapons by the looks of it. So was William, but his sword was also plain to see, poking out from his long cloak. Uninvited, he pulled up a stool and sat down. They didn’t like that. Ugly faces looked at him: they weren’t happy. He eyeballed them all for a moment, just to wind them up a bit more. For another moment, nobody spoke. The tension was building horribly.
“’Oo the fack are you?”
“Fackin’ cant.”
“Fackin’ little posh boy.”
“Wotcha want, yer fackin’ posh wankah?” They were getting really wound up: it was hilarious. This was a good game. Presumably he looked affluent to this little gang, which was ironic; amusing, even.
“Come to do you a favour, gents,” William cooed.
“What yer fackin’– “
“Trust me, you’ll thank me.” He smiled at them. But only a little.
“What th’ fack you on about?” They were getting upset now:
“Think we need to fackin’ sort out this fackin’ pretty boy.”
“Now gents,” he shushed them, “I just want to help you out.” He stared at them across the table.
“What th’ fack?...”
“Now, there’s a shop near here, owned by a Moorish gentleman.” The faces betrayed a satisfying mix of extreme disgruntlement, with just a tinge of recognition. William was enjoying himself. “Do you think you can put the word out that he’s not to be disturbed.”
“Don’t fackin’ know what yer mean, mate.”
“What I’m saying, chaps, is that I’d really appreciate your help to get the message out, you know, that everyone should leave this man and his shop well alone.”
“I fink ’ee’s got a fackin’ problem!” One of them was reaching for something. William smiled at them.
“Thanks, gents, I knew I could count on you.” He turned around and walked away, ducking right as the knife shot past his ear and hit someone else across the bar; spinning around he threw two of his own knives at two of the men at the table, the sharp points burying themselves in the wall immediately above their heads. And now William unleashed the concealed meat cleaver he’d been holding under his cloak and brought it down clean through a leather beer mug that sat in front of one of the burglars, right into the surface of the table, beer sloshing everywhere. And as William leaned forwards to yank his knives out of the walls, he suddenly, simultaneously punched two of the seated men on each side hard in the face, and then whipped his knives to the throats of the two sitting in the middle. With the points pushing up into scabby, stubbly jowls, William smiled viciously at them, while somebody was yelling blue murder on the other side of the pub. Withdrawing his knives, he pulled the cleaver out of the table, used it to knock all the other drinks into their owners’ laps, and then told them in no uncertain terms:
“I can find where all of you live. Make no mistake about that. You do NOT want a night-time visit from me: understand?... Now, this Moorish gentleman is not to be bothered, you get me? If he is, or if I hear that he’s had the slightest problem, if he gets unwelcome customers, if some kid nicks even a single thing from his shop window, then you lot will wake up one morning to find your balls nailed to the ceiling. Alright boys?” The men stared at him.
Waving his cleaver airily, William strode to the bar and smacked a silver coin down in front of the landlady, flashing her a leering grin. For a moment, he held her steady gaze, while the injured drinker continued to swear. Then William bent down, stroked the dog once more, stood up, looked around the room, and walked calmly out into the night.
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