London - 1888 - A Victorian-era Crime RPG

[Shangas]

London - England - 1888

In 1888, London is the biggest, busiest, most populated city in the world. In the fashionable and wealthy West End, titled nobility, wealthy businessmen and aristocrats live in dazzling, white-stoned Georgian townhouses in a world of butlers, housemaids, servants' bells, jewels, balls, parties, horses and carriages and expensive food.

But the Industrial Revolution, civil unrest, revolts, riots and asassinations have driven migrants to London, swelling the ranks of its citizenry to breaking-point. In the East End, crime and poverty are rampant. Whorehouses, brothels, bordellos, prostitutes, alehouses, public houses, bars, taverns, drinking-dens, opium-dens and gambling dens are everywhere. Almost every second woman is a prostitute, whoring herself out at 2d (twopence) a job to scrape a living. Every second child dies before the age of five, from starvation or disease. Alcoholism is rampant and brawling and riots are nightly occurrences.

The crime-rate in the East End, especially in the notorious Whitechapel District, is so high that in some areas, police constables refuse to patrol the streets...even in pairs...even in the daytime. Every class of criminal roams the streets out for blood or money. Everyone from a low cutpurse or footpad to a hired thug to a duo in crime all the way up to big street-gangs such as the Blind Beggars, who pickpocketed and thieved their way through life, battling it out with other gangs for control of the many illegal industries flourishing in the slurry of the East End.

Welcome to London, 1888.

Reynold's Shilling Map of London - 1895:
www.victorianlondon.org/map1895/frontpage0.htm

British Pre-Decimal Currency:
4 farthings = 1 Penny.
2 h'pennies (half-pennies) = 1 Penny.
1 Groat = 4 pennies.
1 sixpence = 6 pennies.
12 pence = 1 Shilling.
20 shillings = 1 pound sterling.

1 Crown = 5 shillings.
1/2 Crown = 2/6 (two shillings, sixpence).

1 pound = 240 pence.

[Shangas]

CHARACTER PROFILE

NAME - Thomas 'Slicer' Clarkwell.
AGE - 28 - BORN London, 1860.
HEIGHT - 6ft even.
WEIGHT - 170 pounds.
HAIR EYES - Brown/Brown.
SMOKES/DRINKS - Yes/Yes.

Born on the outskirts of London in 1860, Thomas Clarkwell came from a poor family. Life was hard and cheap. His father worked as a chimneysweep while Thomas and his five other siblings lived in a crowded tenament. Their room on the first floor was all they had to call home. Outbreaks of typhus and typhoid killed off most of Thomas's family apart from one younger brother and sister. With them in the workhouse, Thomas left at the age of 18 to seek his fortune in the Metropolis. He ended up in the swillpit of London - Whitechapel. Having taken to drink, he quickly fell among thieves, cutpurses, footpads and other luminaries of East End London. He made a scraping by becoming a pickpocket, spy and brawler, duking out bloody, illegal street-fights for money.

Thomas lives at 25, Buxton Street, just north of the Whitechapel High Street, on the top floor of a common lodging-house, with two rooms to himself, a luxury in Whitechapel.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Thomas sat at the table in his apartment and sprinkled water from his washstand-jug over the waterstone in front of him. He pulled out a straight razor and flipped open the blade. Two and a half inches of lethally sharp steel smiled at him, and he smiled back. Reflected in the shine was the face of a young man with a short, fuzzy haircut and scars on his face. His face was stubbly. He guessed he should have a shave. But more of that later.

Thomas started running the blade up and down the stone in fast, smooth strokes, enjoying the soft 'scrape-scrape-scrape' of the blade. When it was done, he stropped the blade on an old strop hooked to the end of his bed and folded the razor shut again. He slipped it into his trouser-pocket and headed out of his rooms, locking the doors. He pulled out his pocketwatch and checked the time. Nine o'clock. He pocketed his timepiece and headed down the five floors to the street. At the ground floor, he could hear Mrs. Evans talking to her husband. Evans and Mrs. Evans ran the boarding-house where Thomas lived. They were a nice-enough couple, if combustable of temperment. They let Thomas stay at half-rent because he sometimes brought them back nice little...souveniers. They never asked where they came from and he was never about to tell them.

Thomas stepped outside and closed the front door. Smoke, smog and fog hovered around in front of him and filled his lungs. He headed off down the High Street and down further south, to the Ten Bells Pub on the Commercial Road...to meet someone...


The Ten Bells Public House - The Commercial Road, Whitechapel.

[Falcon]

Marty Wolfe stumbled out of The Four Horsemen pub somewhere in the bowels of the east end. The air smelled rank and heavy, humid and pungant. He drunkingly reached for his tobacco pipe and leaned against the pub's wall as he packed and lit it.

The sounds of the city at night rang through his ears, but he couldn't care less in his current state of mind. Somewhere down the dark street a woman screamed.

He was wearing a dark brown suit and a black tie, as well as plaid flatcap.

On this night in particular, he was waiting for his accomplice. And sure enough, after not too long a period of waiting, a red haired man came sauntering down the street to where Marty Wolfe stood.

"Evenin' Martin."
"Evenin' yourself Billy. What's the word?"
"Nothin' i can tell you in our current surroundin's."

Marty flipped out a pocket watch and checked the time. Half past eleven. They were running late.

"Look, if we intend to do this job then we'd better get going. I ain't got time to make casual conversation."

Marty took one last drag from his pipe before he tapped out the ash and stuck it in his pocket. Together, Marty and Billy dissapeared down an alleyway and headed west.

"You armed, billy?" Marty asked.
"No, I was hoping you could lend me one of yours, seeming as how you are acustomed to carrying two around."

Marty grinned a sly grin and procured one of the two colt navy revolvers he kept in criscrossed gunbelts across his waist. He held the butt end out to Billy.
"Put it in your coat, I don't want a bull to come and give as a hassle before we even blast this sod."

Billy stuck the revolver in his coat.
"Where'd you go about getting those colts Marty?"
"My cousin from America was in their civil war, he got them in the army, gave them to me for my twentieth birthday."

"Well that's a right heart warming story, innit?"

"Shut your fucking mouth."

They proceeded through the mazes of alleyways and cobblestone sidestreets, past closing vendors and half stoned beggars asking for a coin or two.

"You see that building, the red brick one with the two lights on up top?" Billy asked.

"Yeah."

"That's where the chump lives. He's a long nosed fellow, got a limp in his right leg. He should be leavin' the house at half past midnight."

Marty checked his watch. They had nearly fifteen minutes to kill.

"Come on, let's walk around the block."

So Marty and Billy casually took a stroll down the street. Peering into windows for anything worth pinching.

"Fancy we go to Martha's after we're done, get a hump in?" Billy asked as he cupped his hands against his eyes to look in one particularly well endowed household.
"Thoe whore's look like fucking horses. If I want a hump I'll go to Allie's in the chapel. That Irish cunt can suck like no toffer I've ever seen." Marty said.

Billy laughed and shrugged. "Whatever. Let's go blast this pidgeon, shall we?"

They turned around and went back towards the marks house. They'd accepted the contract on this guy yesterday. He was a gambler who owed a pretty sum to some big fish on the west side. Through a contact they'd hired Billy and Marty to do the job on him. They both usually hung around the four horsemen pub during the day, where underworld big fish tended to contract work. Both Billy and Marty were well known around their neighbourhoods, but were yet to really make an impact.

As they approached the red brick building, the long-nosed victim opened the front door and closed it behind him. Marty felt in his holster for his revolver. He cocked back the hammer and drew it.

The gambler could barely see them coming through the fog and the dark, but by the time he realized what was going on, it was far too late.
Marty and Billy both had their revolvers drawn and cocked.

"You!" Marty yelled at the gambler as he tried to stumble away.
"Empty your pockets bastard!"

The gambler attempted to flee but Marty slammed the butt of his gun on top of his head, which sent him spinning to the ground.

"Billy, search his pockets."

Billy rummaged through the man's belongings, taking a knife, a pocketwatch, somee tobaccoo, and a decent amount of shillings.

Marty peered up and down the street before he placed the muzzle of his revolver against his victim's head.

BOOM!

the .44 exploded and sent the gambler's brains bubbling out the side of his head.

"FUCK!" Billy exclaimed.

"Let's get out of here." Marty said. and they pocketed their guns and ran.

[Shangas]

"Evenin' Charlie!"
"Thomas".

Charlie was the publican at the Ten Bells. He was an enormous man with a bald head and a huge beer-gut. He was smoking a cheap cigar that was probably horseshit rolled in parchment. Because it sure as fuck smelt like it.

"He 'ere yet?"
"Naw. Ain't seen 'im...Siddown an' have a pint..."
"I just might..."

Thomas sat down at the bar and started drinking. Beer was cheap and plentiful. He'd finished three glasses of the stuff before...

"'e's here, Tommy...just come in..."

Thomas turned in his seat. A younger man entered. He wore a black, bowler hat and an assembledge of clothing that somehow seemed to work.

"You took your soddin' time, din'cha?" said Thomas.
"I 'ad to go top up!"
"I don't give a fuck you had to clear it out! We said nine thirty, didn't we?"
"Yeah! Wossah maddah? It's only..."

"You're an HOUR late!" said Thomas. He yanked his watch out and swung it in front of the other man's face, "In the corner. Sit the fuck down!"

The two men headed to a table in the corner of the pub and sat down.

"Now Mikey, I love yah, but don't you be screwin' me up over this or, blood or no blood, it'll spilt good, y'hear?"
"Orright! Keep yer 'air on...I damn well hope youse ready".

Thomas pulled out his gun from under the table. Michael nodded. Thomas also pulled out his razor.

"Nice," said Michael. He pulled out a blackjack and a revolver. Thomas nodded approvingly.

"Come on, then," said Thomas. The two men got up to leave. Suddenly, there was a scream!

"Oh fuck..." Thomas groaned. Before they were halfway across the room, a fullscale brawl had broken out! The two men tried to get through the mass of combatants but were soon caught up in it! Michael swung his walking-stick around, striking one man in the back and shoving him away. He grabbed at Thomas and pulled him along, who was fighting with another man! The man was taller than Thomas and much larger! He swung a huge fist and Tom ducked! He pulled out his razor, shook it open and, moving in, slashed the blade across the man's throat and then thrust the end in! The man choked! He gasped! Blood gushed out! More screams! Thomas pushed the man back and rushed for the door!

"Come on!" said Michael, "Let's be off! We have meet him at Seven Dials and we'll be late!"
"You're the one who MADE us late!"
"Picky-picky-wet-and-sticky..."
"Oh shut up! You're not fuckin' twelve anymore, Michael! And DON'T be late again. Or brother or no brother I'll slit that smart-aleck mouth o'yourn so open you'll need clothes-pegs to keep it shut!"

[Falcon]

Marty Wolfe knocked back a shot of whiskey as he and Billy sat waiting for their man to come pay them the contract they had performed. It wasn't long before a well dressed gent in a top hat came in and sat down opposite them.

"Well boys, I see your endeavours have even made the paper."
"Publicity aint no business of ours." Marty said. "But money is."

"Quite right." The well dressed gangster laughed. "Quite right."

He reached in his pocket and pulled out a small leather sack of gold coins, he slid it acrosss the table to Marty an Billy.

"Spend it wisely boys, and do come back if you need more work."

The gangster got up and dissapeared out the door as quickly as he had entered.

"Bloody hell thats a pretty sum innit?" Marty said as he looked through the bag of coins.

Marty carefully split the payment in half and the two hitmen pocketed their cash. Billy yawned and said he had to head back home, to check on his mother and stash away the money.

Marty now found himself bored, and with a growing hard on. He looked across the pub at the brunette whore, Alice ,bending over the bar.

He got up and drunkenly sauntered over.

"Evenin' Alice," He said and placed a hand on her round ass, bulging out of her skirt.

"Oh Marty," She giggled. "I would know that voice anywhere."

"What you got for me, girl, been a good week?"

She stood up and reached a hand into her cleavage, she pulled out her sum of earinings for the week.
"There." She said.

Marty shook his head. "Alice, Alice...Don't make me hurt you."

"Oh please Marty," She scoffed. "You couldn't hurt a-"

Marty drew one of his revolvers and smacked her acrosst the nose. Blood gushed and she grasped at it. He smacked her again on the back of the head, hard, and she dropped to the floor stobbing.

"LISTEN YOU FILTHY CUNT! IF YOU DON'T GIVE ME ALL THE MONEY YOU HAVE IM GONNA SHOVE THIS GUN UP YOUR ARSE HOLE AND EMPTY EVERY CHAMBER!"

She sobbed and reached into the depths of her blouse, pulling out another few coins.

Marty stood up and twirled his revolver, putting it back in his holster.

[Shangas]

"Mr. Gould".
"You're late!"
"Indeed. We apologise for the tardiness".
"I said ten o'clock, did I not?"
"Indeed".
"It's now eleven".
"Indeed".
"Stop saying that! I haven't time for all this!"

The man standing at the center of the roundabout at Seven Dials was a well-dressed individual with a thick, brown moustache and a homburg hat. His eyes were piercing and green.

"I have an assignment for you," he said, "I need you to dispose of a business-rival of mine".

"What is your business?"
"Absolutely none of yours, just as how yours is none of mine".
"And payment?"
"Is part of the plan. I don't want this to appear like I planned it. You will break into his house, you will find him, kill him and then help yourselves to anything that you find in the house that is to your liking. The profits of anything you manage to sell will be to your advantage and you keep the profits. Of course, you can always keep whatever you find and wait for another job..."

Thomas nodded. He liked this idea.

"Alright," he said, "You have you a deal. Yes Michael?"

Michael nodded in agreement, "Right Tommy!" he said. Mr. Gould nodded.

"Good," he said. He handed the two men some pieces of paper.

"This is his calling-card...and this is a photograph of him..."

The two brothers studied the two pieces of card. The address was a long way away, all the way over in Mayfair. The photograph showed a cleanshaven man in his forties. He looked like a hard man with a thin face and cold eyes.

"Dispose of him. Make it look like a home-invasion gone wrong or something, just do it!"

"Right..." said Thomas, "G'evenin' Mr. Gould. We'll do just that. How do we contact you later?"
"That will not be necessary. I will keep an eye on the Times. If I see an article about it in the papers, I will take that as proof enough. Best to keep contact to a minimum, you know..."

"Right, guv..."

Once Mr. Gould had left the area, Thomas looked at his brother.

"What should we do then, Mikey, eh?"
"Find Susie. She might help. Knowin' her, she'll dig up someone what has an 'ansom or somethin'..."
"Eah...What about Squawker? He's good with a set of wheels..."
"Good idea. Come on".

The two men started walking back into Whitechapel. A church tower chimed midnight. Eventually, they turned down an alleyway which revealed a door at the end with a red lamp hanging next to the door. They headed in.

"Awright, awright! You go easy on her now, Greggo! She ain't recovered from the last one just yet! Hahaha!"

Thomas put a finger to his lips, indicating that Mikey should stay quiet. Pulling out his razor, Thomas tiptoed forward then held the blade across the throat of a hot, buxom wench with red-brown hair. She was in her late twenties and as always, looked amazing.

"Hello Dolly!" he said.

The lady's eyes reflected in the razor-steel. She scowled.

"Aww dolly y'self!" she said, twisting out of Thomas's grasp, "When's youse gonna stop playin' wid that cutlery o'yours, eh?"

Thomas gave the woman a kiss on the cheek.

"How's business then, sister?" he asked. Thomas's twin sister, Susan, stared at her brother.

"Awright," she said, "What's you...Mikey!"

Susan hugged her younger brother and gave him a kiss.

"You boys ain't been here in ages! Them girls upstairs is missin' you, they are!"

"We ain't 'ere for a suck, fuck and fondle, sis," said Mikey.
"Not from me you ain't," she said.
"Oi! Shush it!" said Thomas, sharply, "We's lookin' for Squawker Jones".
"The cabman? 'E's upstairs!"
"Which room?"
"Unclog your ears and you'll find out, my darling brothers!...A'right...third on the left! Off and up with yah!"

The two men headed upstairs. The brothel was one of the 'classier' brothels in the East End, although classy in Whitechapel simply meant that it was clean. They headed down the corridor and opened the third door on the left.

"...Guuuggh! C'mon bitch! You know you want the full...Holy fuck!"

Thomas and Michael laughed.

"Close the fuckin' door, can'tcha!? Bastards!"

"You and y'dick out 'ere, now!" said Thomas, "We got a job for you. C'mawn!"

"Awright, awright...keep yer 'air on..."

The cabman, a twenty-five-year-old ruffian named Eric 'Squawker' Jones stepped onto the landing.

"What's up?"
"We need your cab. Where is it?"
"Dawnstars, in the mews!"
"Go hook it up. We need wheels. Tonight".

Squawker looked behind him at the half-closed door.

"Right," he said. "Gimme another ten minutes, eh? You lads wait out in the yard..."

[Falcon]

Marty sat drunkinly on the bed in his apartment, ritualistically puffing on his pipe. A semi naked blonde who didn't even look out of her teens sat on her knees before him, servicing him sloppily. Her pert breasts were squeezed tightly together in her corset, ripe and pale.
"mmmm mmm mmm?" She mumbled with a slobber.

Marty wheezed out a laugh. "I got know idea what the hell you just said, lassy."

BOOM BOOM BOOM

three knocks came rattling at his door. He grumbled.

"JUST A MINUTE." He hollard. "Hurry up now...."

He placed a hand on the back of her head and she struggled as he forced his member deep into the back of her throat. His legs jammered as he shot hot load of spunk into to her stomach.

"ahhh." He got up and did up his pants leaving her gasping on the floor with a messy face.

He went over to the door and undid the bolt, yanking it open.
Before him stood a burly middle aged many with a heavily lined and scarred face, he had a wirely black moustache and beard and a large, pitted nose.

"Blimey pete, I wasn't expectin you till much later."

"Yeah well," Pete grumbled in a smokey voice. "I'm real busy."

He shut the door behind him and the two of them headed into the bedroom. Now the blonde girl was propped up on the bed circulating a finger on her breast.
"out, Molly." Marty Marty ordred.

"some gentleman," She sniveled as she grabbed for her clothes and Marty shooed her out of the room.

"Now," he said to Pete. "Let's see the dope."

Pete reached a hand of large sausage fingers into his coat and procured a small, tightly wrapped brown paper package.
He put it on the bed and folded it open. The packge was fild with a brown, tar like substance.
"That's new stuff from the ottoman empire, quite potent."

Marty sat down on the bed and smelled the heroin, he scraped a bit off onto his finger and touched his tongue to it lightly.

"Hmm, how much for the whole thing?"

"Fifteen pounds, but it's worth every shilling." Pete grinned.

Marty thought it over. He reached over to a bedside table and procured a sack of coins. He counted them out and handed them to Pete.
"Now getta outa my house you dirty dodger."

Pete sniggered and he headed for the door. When he heard it slam shit Marty hollared for the girl again.

***

The next day Marty leaned against a grimey wall in an alleyway somewhere in limehouse. He peered across the street at a small asian laundry which sat between two large apartment buildings. The streets were bussling with asian immigrants and white people alike, going about there daily business. Muscular workmen walked intently to work, poorer folk to the workhouses, as well as women shopping or walking with whiney children, complaining of hunger or just being brats. The pungant odor of the river speeded into Marty's nostrils.

Marty checked inside his brown coat for his Irons, which sat cricrossed in their usual fashion. Brass .44 cartridges glistend in the holders from the morning sun.

He walked briskly across the street into the asian laundry. He passed racks of drying linen and steaming vats of water, to a desk at the far end where an asian woman sat looking at papers.

"Morning." Marty said casually. "Peng Lai around?"

She looked up at him and studied his face for a moment before she got up and yanked a rug away on the floor behind. In the wood was the shape of a trap door, with a steel ring attatched to it. She yanked on the ring and the door flew open, revealing a set of wooden stairs. Marty nodded to her and trudged down the stairs which squeaked under his boots.

Downstairs was an earthy cavern with wooden supporting beams, which led to a larger, wood panneled room. All around people sat or lay slumped on matresses and blankets, some too high to open their eyes, others suckling on smoldering opium pipes like starving babies at a mothers teat.

He waded through the sea of addicts to a portion of the room blocked by a folding, oriental styled wall. On the other side sat a moustached asian man in blue.
"ahhhh, mista wolfe!" the asian man exclaimed. "you come as a friend!"

Wolfe nodded, he procured the package of heroin and tossed it over to the den proprietor.
"That's twenty five pounds worth, but it's worth every shilling." He said with a smirk.

The asian mulled it over in his head before he reluctantly counted out the sum and handed it to Marty.

"alright, but next time i wan betta deal!" the asian snapped.

Marty nodded and headed out on his heel. He knew where he was going, to his usal stool in the pub.

[Shangas]

A clock struck one in the morning as Thomas and his brother Mike opened the servants' gate and slinked down the front of a large, Georgian townhouse. Thomas picked the lock on the servants' entrance and they headed inside. Tiptoeing through the house, they headed upstairs.

"Does this fellah live alone or what?" Mike asked.
"He's got a missus somewhere upstairs," Thomas whispered. They carried their dark lanterns in one hand, weapons in the other.

The two men headed across the entrance hall and upstairs. They could hear one of those newfangled 'phonographs' playing in one of the rooms. This fellah must be fucking rich. They stopped outside a room with light under the door. Mike got down and peeked under. He could see a man dressed in White Tie moving around the room. He seemed to be reading something. The man stopped in front of a large mirror and adjusted his collar and lowered the papers for a minute.

"It's him!" Mike hissed, checking the photograph. "What should we do?"

"Once he's away from that mirror, we go in. Don't make any noise. You kosh him, I'll give him a shave..." Thomas said, taking out his razor.

The man moved away from the mirror and sat down back at his desk, with his face away from the door.

Carefully, Mike opened the door and the two men tiptoed inside, closing the door behind them, leaving it just slightly ajar.

The crackling, warbling soud from the phonograph masked their steps as they moved across the carpet. Mike raised his blackjack and then...

WHUNK!

The man slumped forward on his desk. They did one last photograph-ID before Thomas slit the man's throat with his razor. They plundered his pockets and stole his watch and wallet, his silver cigarette-case, his vesta-case, his watch-chain, the silver pencil and the magnifying glass. They rifled the drawers and snatching as many valuables as they could, they rushed out of the room!

The jingling of coins in their pockets must've alerted somebody because a door opened somewhere down the corridor.

"Harold darling! Are you coming to...YEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!!"

"Fuck!" Thomas shouted. Before he could stop him, Mike pulled out a gun!

The blast echoed through the house! A rich, elegant-looking society trophy-wife dropped to the ground in her nightdress! They heard noises downstairs.

"Fuck! You IDIOT! You woke up the servants!" Tom shouted, "Out the door, quick!"

The two men sprinted downstairs and out the front door. They started running to the corner where they could see the headlamps of the waiting hansom cab.

"Oi!" a voice shouted out. From across the street they could see a figure carrying a lamp, "You there! Stop! POLICE!"

"FUCK!" Thomas shouted, "MOVE IT YOU DOLT!"

Thomas saw a gleam of silver! Before he could draw his gun...

Chrrrrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!! Chrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!!

The shrill, discordant whistle-blasts echoed down the street! Now every cop within a MILE was going to know what had happened! Thomas got his gun out and fired! He hit the constable's helmet and must've got him in the head because the man staggered and toppled into the street!

Thomas and Mike climbed into their cab!

"Move it, Squawker!" Mike shouted. Their accomplice whipped up his horse and the cab took off down the street, just as two more constables, their bullseye lanterns flashing in the distance, appeared at the other end of the block...

[Falcon]

Marty sipped on his seven or eighth pint as he sat in the four horsemen's pub in southern whitechapel. His arm was around a redhead who he was practically forcing drinks to. Getting her nice and soused before he brought her home.
He was pretty drunk and intent on winning the affections of the curvey redhead, so he didn't notice the four shady looking characters come in.
One of them marched up behind him and and he felt a cold steel against the back of his head.
"Why hello there chum," The assassin said sarcastically. "We 'erd you been sellin' some opium in OUR territory."
"Who's territory? this ain't no fuckin' body's teritory!"

The man smacked the butt of his gun across Marty's head. Marty rubbed it sorely.

"It's the Drake brothers territory, and we're here on there behalf, to give you a warning."
"Fuck that, I say we do him over!" One of the others piped up.

"Well hell, I was gonna let you live, but my compaino here sure does make a good argument." He cocked the hammer.

Marty leaped up over the bar and toppled off the other side, to where the bartneder stood, whom was now running for cover.
The assassin's gun exploded and a bullet whizzed over Marty's head and into a bottle of booze, which smashed and sent liquor and glass bits flying.

Marty reached into his jacket and drew his two colts. He cocked each with a click. He popped himself up from cover with lightening speed and squeezed the triggers.

BANG BANG

He sent the first assassin flying back into a bar table, which crashed down loudly as he drew his lasts breath. A forty four slug was a powerful caliber, and in these guns it was liable to send you to an early grave.

Marty ducked down again. "Alright you sod's, time to meet your maker!"

He thumbed back the hammers and shot up, A bullet whistled by his left ear and he aimed on his next target.
He shot a blonde man in the top of the head, sending his scalp flying and brains splattered against the stained window behind him.
The last two assailaints didn't have guns, only blades, so they now charged toward the door at an alarming pace. But Marty was a fast shot, and put them both to the ground with a hellfire of bullets.

He hopped over the bar and put his guns in their holsters.

"Sorry bout the mess," He said the barkeep, and tossed him a shilling.

He headed for the door, barely a scratch on him.

[Shangas]

"Right Squawker," said Mikey, tapping the roof of the cab, "Youse can drop us 'ere!"

The carriage pulled over and Squawker reined in his horse. Thomas opened up the cab doors and climbed out and helped his brother to the pavement.

"Oi!" said Squawker, "Where's me pay?" he asked.
"Get Trudy at our sister's place to blow you half price! That's your pay!" said Thomas. Michael laughed. Squawker laughed as well.

"Yeah! Yeah, yeah, yeah...seriously chaps..." he said, pulling out a derringer. Thomas chuckled and checked his bags of loot. He tossed a pouch into Squawker's hands. The cabman opened it.

"Cor blimey...Right then!" he said, "We'll keep this between ourselves and if youse needs my services again, youse know where's to find me, eh?"

Thomas tipped his hat and nodded.

"Right...Come on Darkie! Off we go now..."

The horse started up and soon the cab was out of sight.

"What do we do now?" said Michael.

"Dump this at my place," said Thomas, "Tomorrah, you drop by and we'll sort it out and then sell what else we don't want, eh?"

"Right!"
"Ere! Give it to me! You go scarper!"
"Aw yeah? An' leave you 'oldin' the bag with awll the jangles innit? Don't be daft! I'll take my 'arf and..."
"And hock it all on booze? Not before me y'don't! Now give it 'ere you dozey dolt!"
"Now Tommy..."
"Don'tcha now-tommy me nothin'!" said Thomas, pulling out his razor, "Now I told you before Mikey, blood's blood and don't matter whose it is, see..."

"Alright alright...But I'm walkin' back with you to your apartment first".
"Suit yourself..."

The two men started walking back to Thomas's apartment. It was better that Squawker dropped them off a little away from the place...anyone in Whitechapel who could afford a journey by cab halfway across town surely had SOME money on him.

They kept walking. They had three blocks to go. They turned the corner onto Buxton Street and started walking towards the apartment, their shoes clicking quietly on the pavement. The gas streetlights burned dimly and uselessly in the almost pitch-black London street.

"Nurrgghhh...Huyuurrrkk..."

"Fuuuuck..." Thomas whispered to his brother as they watched some homeless drunk hock up the results of two bottles of cheap, shithouse gin onto the pavement. Michael wrinkled his nose. The smell was repulsive!

They passed the first dark alleyway and kept walking. They didn't notice a group of four men hiding in there, watching their every move. They kept walking. They didn't notice the men eyeing the bags which they carried over their shoulders. They kept walking. They didn't hear the men stepping out behind them, carrying knives and walking-sticks.

*crunch!*

One of the men stepped on some broken glass.

"Keep walking..." Thomas whispered. Thomas put a cigarette into his mouth and lit a match. He lit the cigarette and then, with the light still burning, he pulled out his pocketwatch and popped the front cover open. In the light of the burning match and the highly-polished inner cover of his watch-case, Thomas percieved figures behind them.

"Take out the barker," Thomas whispered at his brother. Michael knew better than to ask questions and reached into his trouser-pocket.

Suddenly, all hell broke loose! The four men pounced just as Thomas wheeled around! Thomas dropped his sack and slashed the first man across the face! Two and a half inches of razor-sharp steel! The man screamed as blood gushed out! Mike's revolver roared! The third man slashed at Mike's hand and he dropped the gun!

"OI!" a voice shouted, "CLEAR ORFF!"

A tall, burly-looking man in blue came running towards them! He pulled out a solid, wooden truncheon and clunked one man on the head before getting the last one in an armlock and wrestling him to the ground! The constable pulled out a pair of steel, Darby-style handcuffs and locked the man's arms behind his back! He got up with a bit of blood on his face and he was panting.

"Well," he said. "Good evening, Messers Clarkwell and Clarkwell".

"Good evening, Constable White," said Michael. "May we thank you for your timely intervention".

"Of course," said the policeman. He noticed the two bags on the ground. "Been shopping, have we?"
"In a manner of speaking".
"I shall have to...inspect...your purchases".
"Of course".

Michael handed the constable a pouch with twenty pounds in gold inside it. The policeman smiled.

"I'm much obliged, Mr. Clarkwell, much obliged...Mr. Clarkwell...Sir..."

The policeman dragged the last man to his feet and was just about to leave when he saw blood on Thomas's hands.

"Oi," he said, "What's that?"

Thomas stared down. In the scuffle, he hadn't noticed that he'd been stabbed in the abdomen! Fortunately the knife wasn't a big one, but he was still bleeding pretty bad!

"Fuck a duck..." Michael said, "Lissen brother, I gotta get going!" he said, "I'll put the stuff at your place! Peeler, you get him over to the London!"

"Right," said P.C. White. "Come on, Tommy!"

"Oi!" said Thomas, "Where's you takin' me!?"

"Your brother'll look after the goods. I'm takin' you to the London".
"The London fucking what!?"

"The hospital down the Whitechapel Road! You're lucky it's just a couple of blocks away!"

"I don't want no questions asked!"
"Relax! I've a doctor-friend who works there. Everythin's confidential and youse don't have to worry about nothin'...cept that hole in your guts...come on!"

The two men started walking. Within about fifteen minutes, they had reached the London Hospital. He headed up the front steps and pounded on the front doors.

"Oi!" he shouted, "Open up in there you lazy louts!"
"The hospital is closed for the night, sir!" said an orderly, looking out of an upstairs window.

"I don't give a damn if it's fucking on fire! This is official business of the London constabulary! OPEN THE DOOR! NOW!"

"Such language, constable, will not be tolerated within the confines of my hospital, and I'll thank you to remember that in the future".

The front doors had opened and P.C. White saw himself staring at a woman in her early thirties. She stared back at him coldly. "Kindly remember your manners and hold your tongue," she said. "What's the matter?"

"Evenin' *Matron Luckes*," said White, "I've got a friend here wot was makin' 'is way home after a night out with friends. Got jumped in the street! He's bleedin' somethin' awful!"

The matron stared at Thomas and, holding her lamp, knelt to examine his wound.

"He's been stabbed with a medium-sized knife...once in the abdomen..." she said, peering at it carefully. "Yes, bring him into the Receiving Room!...Orderly! Fetch Dr. Hulls! Probationer Warrick, go to your ward and tell the Sister to prepare a bed! Come along now! Careful!...Onto the bench! Lie down...that's right..."


The Receiving Room, London Hospital, Whitechapel, Whitechapel Road, London.

**Eva Luckes was Matron of the London Hospital from 1880-1919. She died in 1919, aged 64**

[Falcon]

Marty woke up relatively early, alone in his apartment. He wondered silently with vague interest where the girl he'd been with the night before was. Must've left at some point. He rolled out of bed and went over to bucket of water in the corner of the room. Above it was a small silver framed mirror he had stolen from a wealthy house at some point, several years ago. He splashed water on his face. He was quite hungover, and the last day was more of a fog than a memory. His brown-blonde hair was tussled and and his face looked gaunt and tired.

He saw two notes had been slipped under the door. Coded requests for opiates were scribbled on the faded yellow scraps of paper in ink.
He peered down at the letters

(Have a drink of water at the south pump just before noon? Maybe two and a half)

and the other read

Flower, 3 bags. and an apartment number was listed.

Marty unslid a drawer next to his bed and took out several paper packages of opiates.
He checked his pocketwatch. It was nearly eleven. He know the nearest pump (to the south, as the paper had said) was a couple of blocks away. First he would stop at the apartment. It was in the southern corner of an apartment across the street.
He placed one of his loaded colt revolvers in a holster and slung it on. He put on his jacket and bowler before heading out into the fog.

Once he was on the street, he crossed it and entered the opposite building. He walked in and, from memory, made his way to the apartment.

He knocked on the door and a frail, sickly skinny man answered.

"Well Come 'n!"

"No, we can do it here," Marty said, he looked either way, the hallway was empty.

Marty handed him three paper packages and the man handed him coins.

Marty headed out and checked his watch. He had time to kill, so he sat in the lobby of the tenemant building and rolled a couple of cigarettes. After the ritual of rolling he made his way to the pump.
He smoked a cigarette as he stood waiting a few yards from the pump. All sorts of people, but mostly women or older children, came to the pump and filled up their buckets. Marty briefly struck up a conversation with a young brunette girl with a doll face and swelling teenage bosoms.

"What's a beatuy like you out filling pails for?" He asked freshly.

She blushed and dropped the pale, straghtening up to reveal two perfectly plump breasts bulging beneath her coat.

"My mother looks after me younger siblings." She said. She had a light irish accent. Her skin was pale and her eyes were bright green like a washed out emerald.

Marty moved closer. "Ohh, I bet you work hard."

"I do." She said almost eagerly in her innocence, as if he was going to give her a shilling for being a good girl.

"I bet you deserve a right good time away from your mum and dad. Why not have dinner with me, and have some liquor."

He pulled her towards him gently but she followed. He planted a deep kiss on her neck and she stiffened but soon relaxed and melted under his touch.

"Just tell your da' your going to a friends house 'till morning"

She was about to squeak out a word when a loud throat clearing averted his gaze to a thickly beared man standing across the road. He glared at marty. He broke his hold on the girl and glared back.

"Help you sir?"

In a quick, fluid motion the man dipped a hand in his coat and pulled out a revolver.
Marty ducked and drew his gun from his holster, the girl gasped and stumbled back.
Shots rang out in sharp bangs as the man fired over Marty's head, but he placed two well aimed shots at the mans chest and he dropped. People on the other side of the block scattered and the girl screamed and clutched at Marty.

"M-my god," She stuttered. "You, k-kiled him."

"He would've killed me just the same," Marty said, standing back up and holstering his gun. In the back of his mind anger swelled at the deal having been a set up.

He grabbed the girls hand and briskly walked her the block back to his apartment. She was so shaken up she went without a word, gripping his arm tightly.
When he got back he put his gun on the table and sat the girl down on his bed.

"I I-was so scared. I thought I was dead." The girl said sheepishly. She looked up him with big, frightened eyes.

Marty sat down beside her and kissed her deeply, soothing her, yet he could tell she was inexperienced and scared. He placed a hand over her breast and caressed it.

"Everythings all right now," He said after his lips parted from hers, and he grinned.

He thought in the back of his head she seemed frightened not horny, but she wasn't pushing him away, and she was getting fucked wether she wanted to or not.

[Shangas]

"Well! You're awake!"

"Huuuh..."

Thomas groaned. He was lying on a bed in a hospital ward. Where the fuck was he...

"You had a nasty one, you did..."

"what..."

"...but we've cleaned it up and the doctor gave it a few stitches. You just rest now".

The nurse moved to where her body blocked the sunlight and Thomas opened his eyes. He smiled. She was hot. She looked in her mid twenties, about five foot six with smooth, brown hair.

"Who's you, then?" he asked.
"I am Sister Ellis," said the nurse, "And you are?"

Thomas noticed she was holding a clipboard and pencil.

Thomas said nothing.

"It's all confidential," she said, "Nobody's going to see this but the matron for our records".

"Thomas Andrew Clarkwell".

"Residing at..."

"Twenty-five Buxton Street".
"Oh how nice! Just up the road".
"Eah..." said Thomas. "How long am I in here for then?"
"Oh a week or two at least!"
"At least!? I gotta get outta here now!"
"Oh no you don't! You need to rest!"

"Aah, our midnight visitor!"

A woman wearing black with a white headcap came floating towards them. Thomas vaguely remembered her from last night. The constable had called her Matron.

"Good morning Matron," said Nurse Ellis, "Here he is. Mr. Thomas Clarkwell".

The matron nodded. "Very good," she said, "You're lucky, Mr. Clarkwell. No serious damage. How did you come by your injury?"

"Livin' in the East End is 'ow," said Thomas, drily, "How else?"
"I see," she said, curtly. "Very well. Nurse Ellis, feed him".
"Yes Matron. We have porridge, ham and eggs, toast and tea..."
"Some buttered toast and tea would be nice," said Thomas, "I'm fuckin' 'ungry..."
"Not with language like that, Mr. Clarkwell, we run a respectable facility here," said the Matron.
"Yessum. Toast, thank you".
"Very well. You heard him, Nurse".
"Yessum."

The nurse went off to get the food.

"Where's all me stuff?" Thomas asked, "Me fags...money...watch..."

"All that's over here," the matron said, pointing to the side-table. "Your clothes are being washed and will be put into storage until you leave".

Thomas nodded. He reached for his cigarette-case and vesta-case. He pulled out a smoke and a match and struck the match on the bed-rail before lighting his cigarette.

"Want one?" he asked. She shook her head.

"You'll have a scar there, you know," she said, gesturing towards his abdomen.

"Capital," said Thomas.

"What do you do, Mr. Clarkwell?"
"Eh?"
"What's your job?"

"Barber's assistant," Thomas said. He indicated the straight-razor next to his bed.

"You give good shaves, do you?"
"Aww some o' the best," said Thomas. The matron smiled. "Here's Nurse Ellis with your food. Eat up and then try and rest".

"Right. Thanks..."