The Strange Affair of Spring Heeled Jack - Mark Hodder [51]
Burton pushed open the door and they entered, Penniforth bending to avoid knocking his head on the low ceiling.
"Buy us a drink, Dad?" asked a man of Burton before he'd taken two paces toward the bar.
"Buy yer own fuckin' drink," he replied, in character.
"Watch yet mouth, you old git!" came the reply.
"Watch yours!" warned Penniforth, his massive fist pushing up under the man's chin.
"Steady, mate, no 'arm done," whined the individual, turning away.
They shouldered through the crowd to the counter and ordered gins.
The barman asked to see their money first.
Leaning on the scarred wood, they gulped down the spirit and immediately ordered another round.
"Thirsty, aint'cha?" commented the man beside Penniforth.
"Yus," grunted the cabbie.
"Me too. I always gets a thirst on after fightin' with the missus."
"Been givin' you earache, 'as she?"
"Not 'alf, the bleedin' cow. I ain't seen you in 'ere before."
"I ain't been 'ere afore."
"That your old fella?" The man nodded toward Burton.
"Yus," answered Penniforth, gruffly. "Nosey, ain'tcha?"
"Just bein' neighbourly, that's all. If yet don't wanna talk, it ain't no skin off my nose!"
"Yer, well, fair enough. I thought I'd get 'im out o' Mile End for an 'oliday!"
The other man laughed. "An 'oliday in Stepney! That's rich!"
"At least you don't 'ave bleedin' monsters runnin' around at night!" exclaimed the cabbie.
Burton smiled appreciatively into his glass. Good chap, Monty! Quick work! He ordered more drinks and included a beer for their new acquaintance.
"`Ere yer go, mate-get that down yer neck," he rasped, sliding the pint over.
"Ta, Dad, much appreciated. The name's Fred, by the way. Fred Spooner."
"I'm Frank Baker," offered Burton. "This is me son, Monty."
They drank to each other's health.
Over in the corner, the man with the accordion began to squeeze out another tune and the crowd roared its bawdy lyrics, which, as far as Burton could make out, told of the various places visited by a pair of bloomers belonging to Old Ma Tucker.
He waited patiently, the odour of old sweat and bad breath and acidic beer and stale piss clogging his nostrils. He didn't have to wait for long.
"So they're in Mile End now, are they?" shouted Spooner above the noise.
"Yus," said Penniforth.
"They'll be 'ere next, then," said the East Ender, with an air of resignation. "My mate over in Wapping lost 'is tenant to 'em last week."
"Wotcher mean, `lost'?"
"They snatched one of the kids what roomed at 'is place. That's what they do-they steal the nippers, though most of the kids what were taken 'ave come back since. They took 'em from Whitechapel first, then Shadwell, Wapping these weeks past, and now I guess it's Mile End's turn."
"Bloody 'ell. What are they?"
"Dunno, mate. Dogs. Wolves. Men. Summick in-between. You know they explode?"
"Explode?" uttered Burton. "What do yer mean?"
"I've 'eard of three occasions when it's 'appened: they burst into flames for no reason and burn like dry straw 'til there ain't nuffink of'em left! I wish the 'ole lot o' them would go up like that. It's hell draggin' 'em back, if yer arsk me!"
"It's a rum do, that's fer sure!" said Burton.
"Come on, Pa-we'd better be off," urged Penniforth.
"I'll finish me drink first," objected Burton.
"'Urry it up, then!"
"You seen an artist around?" Burton asked Spooner.
"Aye. Slick Sid Sedgewick is the best in the business. Why, you got a scam?"
"No, mate. Not a con artist. I mean an artist what draws and paints."
Spooner spluttered into his glass. "You gotta be jokin'! A paintin' artist around 'ere!"
"I just 'eard there was one, that's all."
"What is it, Dad? You wanna get yer portrait done 'n' hanged in the National bleedin' Gallery?"
"All right, all right!" protested Burton.