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8.
By the time Higgins' rear end started conducting a concert of Bach for
our amusement, and Bradbury was hopping on the cots, stripped completely
starkers except for his pair of glasses and his socks, I've decided that I
really needed a fag in the clear evening air, and fled the room with a slightly
queasy feeling in the stomach.
So even I had my bloody limits.
The frost had not settled in yet, and the cobble stone streets were wet and
slippery. I made my way through the stinking alleys with the dimmed lights and
the drunk yells, where at every corner there was a whore looking for business.
I stepped over puddles of rainwater and horse piss, ducked beneath wash-lines
heavy with rags, and almost stumbled over a beggar who was fighting a skinny
dog over a rotten meat-bone. I searched my pocket and tossed him a crown,
letting the mutt get away with the bone.
"Oh, thank you, sir! Thank you!" Blurted the old man, and grinned a
grateful, one-toothed grin.
"No thanks mate." After a giving it a second of thought, I added
cheerily. "Complements from my dear friend Bradbury here!"
I wandered off with an inward chuckle while I imagined Old Brad's face if he
knew I had just wasted another five shillings on some poor old homeless hag. I
doubted that he would still keep calling me Darling Dashing Will or Willie
o-Dearie after that, which was all the better, actually. Come to think of it,
perhaps I should tell the crazy old goat.
I reached Cable Street, which marked the end of the miserable maze of poverty
that was the Whitechapel district, and crossed the road with its busy traffic
of handcarts, carriages and wagons down into The Highway, where a long strip of
promenade was looking out over the bend of the Thames. I strolled along for
while, with my hands deep my in pockets, and my collar tugged up to my chin,
clouds fuming out of my mouth and nostrils with every breath. The sun was
setting, darkening the high sky. In the west, a shimmering glow dipping into
the glittering water was all that could be seen. The London docks with its high
cranes, boat-houses and gigantic steamers, and the mighty Tower Bridge at my
right, the entire south side of the city across the river, they were no more
but a series of shades in a yellow smoulder, impressions of the real things
lying hidden inside the pervasive fog. Always that soddin fog.
I leaned over the banister and lit myself a fag, blowing rings of smoke to join
the haze. From out of the low mist that drifted over the dark water like a
ghost, rose a ship, old and battered, blackened by the fumes that pumped out of
the two massive chimneys. My lazy eyes followed it as the big ugly thing made
its way to the west, its bow splitting water while it rear left a trail of
froth and flocks of bickering seagulls in its wake.
It was simply impossible, I thought. The whole idea could easily be considered
outrageous, un-bloody-believable and completely nutters to the point of getting
toenails-chewing paranoid. I knew that the professor was right. There was a sun
up there during the day, and it would actually show itself sporadically. Even
in bloody London with its numerous coal-fumes spitting chimneys of fancy
residents, slumps and factories alike, I knew the bloody thing should be there
and that it should shine from time to time. It's just that I couldn't remember
that I