Here we go again
Gala had made his way inside and back to his chamber in the wee hours of the morning. He didn't bother with undressing and simply slumped on the bed. He lay for maybe an hour. Sleep didn't find him and the timid knock on his pantry door had him upright in moments.
"Sir? I´ve seen light under your door, and I thought perhaps you´d like a cup of tea? The other gentleman won´t be up for another hour at least, and I could use some company in the kitchen.", this little lady would be the end of him, Gala thought while he slipped in his shoes.
The tea was hot, sweet and strong. It would have been worth the struggle only for this tea. Gala was on his third of the tiny cups and Mrs. Hudson showed no signs of cutting off the refills. She whirled in her kitchen like a princess at a dance and Gala was mesmerised.
He watched her tinker with the kettle and fire the oven while she talked perpetually:" I hope you slept well. I always find it difficult to sleep in a new bed, but my mother used to say, what you dream in a new bed comes true."
He approved and nodded his way through another cup of tea while she informed him of the terrible ways of her lodgers:" The doctor is a delight to host. Very appreciative of my food, very tidy, and its ever so handy having a physician in the house. But Holmes.", she stirred something in a pot:" He comes home at all times, lets the food get cold - last week he shot at my wall!"
Gala smiled, so there had been bullet holes in the pomegranate wallpaper.
Mr. Hudson seem to catch herself and quickly added:" Of course he is a genius in his own ways. Kings come and ask for him.", she sighed:" But what does one offer a King for tea?"
"Milk and sugar.", said Gala and added both to his newly filled cup.
"By the way.", said Mrs. Hudson and blushed furiously:" I thought this would do until we can find you something real."
She held out what looked like a rather nice blanked.
"You see? It goes over your head, and with a belt…"
She had cut a hole in the middle of the blanket, sewn the hems with little very delicate stitches.
"I´m not much of a seamstress, I´m afraid. But I thought against the cold…"
"This was your blanket." Gala interrupted her.
"Well yes, but I think with a belt."
"You destroyed your blanket."
"You don't have a coat and its freezing."
Gala was lost for words until Mrs. Hudson asked cautiously:" Don't you want to try it?"
"What? Oh of course.", Gala slipped the former blanket over his head marvelling in the thick fabric and soft feeling.
"How is it?", asked Mrs. Hudson.
"Marvellous.", whispered Gala.
Mrs. Hudson beamed with pride:" Now about that belt…"
Later he helped carrying the delightfully smelling breakfast up to the "gentlemen´s quarters", as Mrs. Hudson put it. Gala balanced eggs and bacon and crumpets preciously stacked on very, very fragile looking china up the uneven steps and encountered his creator a couple of times when he nearly stumbled. Mrs. Hudson followed him with another pot of tea, a warm smile and the strict order for him to start eating even if none of the other tenants had shown up yet.
"Letting them get cold, never made any eggs better.", were here final words before exiting the door.
Gala came to like the sob story his new keepers had told the housekeeper. She seemed to had made it her personal duty to feed him up. He would not let her down. He downed another cup of tea.
He had done his outmost to do the eggs justice, to a point where he feared the goods doctor's wrath for unburden him of his breakfast and once again contemplating this strange room.
Without an announcement from Mrs. Hudson or even a knock on the door, an old man came in and sat down opposite from Gala. He helped himself to the bacon and buttered a crumpet. Gala followed his movement with mild interest, not in the least obligated to intervene.
The man resembled a crumpled old prune, his toothless mouth drawn in, his giant eyebrows obstructing his worldview. If he was able to chew this crumpet – he earned it, decided Gala and offered the Orange Marmalade. The pruned took it with delight and lathered the crumpet with the bitter paste.
Gala leaned back in his chair, curious to find out if the crumpet hat found its gummy match, but before this ultimate of all battles could be fought, a rather sleepy looking Dr. Watson appeared, greeted Gala and stopped short at the prune.
"Can I help you?", he asked, tying his housecoat around his waist.
"I'm here because of a message for Sherlock Holmes.", mumbled the prune.
"I will take it, so you can be on your way.", answered the Doctor brisk.
"No thank you.", said the prune and nabbed the tea pot:" I´ll wait."
Watson seemed to swell with honest indignation.
The prune smiled at him, and ripped his own nose off.
Thunderstruck watched Gala the prune putting his nose in Dr. Watsons hand. The Doctor eyed the nose before he exploded:" I´ve told you a thousand times not to do that! And before breakfast!"
The prune giggled.
Now Gala could see a rather distinctive hook nose sticking out of the fake wrinkles in the face of his opposite.
Homes pulled the fake gums out of his mouth and discreetly wrapped them in a napkin before biting in his crumpet. He chewed while the doctor worked himself up only to interrupt him with the question:" Tea old chap?"
The Doctor growled, but took the offered cup, only to excuse himself to his room.
Holmes followed his departure with a mischievous glint in his eyes.
"Poor man", he said:" But I can never resist a good spectacle. And he is such an appreciative audience."
Gala only raised his eyebrows.
He watched Holmes eat with what looked like a brutish hunger and waited. For such a bony man he came horribly close to swallowing the plates.
Without warning the detective jumped from his chair, opened a cupboard next to the queen´s portrait, and returned with a tin box.
"Would you mind?", he asked Gala and made him hold it.
Gala watched interested as Holmes took a lot of medical oddments out of it. A couple of empty syringes, some envelopes, some blades, a glass bottle, and finally a flat wooden case. He put it down on the table and started rummaging through the room while he took of his belt, only to wrap it around his upper left arm. With a triumphant noise he found the brandy bottle that he brought back to the table. He sat down, drenched a corner of his napkin in brandy only to rub it over his inner elbow.
The wooden case reviled a filled syringe.
Gala involuntarily crossed his arms over his chest while he watched Holmes jab the thing in his own arm. He emptied it completely and sunk back like someone had taken a hot poker from his back.
Something in Gala was nearly disappointed by the scene. It surprised him. His normal state of mind was to real to be disappointed.
It got him angry enough to ask the dozing mainliner: „So, no work for me today?"
Holmes surfaced slowly but gained speed while he got his bearings: "Ah, yes, I want you get a job at the docks. Ideally at the East Indian Import. Stevedore if possible."
"That won´t be a problem.", growled Gala. They could always use muscle.
"Of course, you can keep the money, but I want you to work late. Do the extra shifts. If possible be the last there in the evening. And try to see what they unload that is not part of the cargo."
"For example?"
"Rations. Hammocks. Medical equipment. Sails. Ropes. Wood. Whatever. And even more important, try to remember who is unloading that."
´Shall I pick something up on my way back? Bread? Milk? Coke?´, thought Gala but he said: "That will bring you closer to the kidnapped son?"
"Son? Oh yes. No, no, I don't think so, but to be perfectly honest, I´m not searching for the son.", Holmes had started to peel the wrinkles of his face. It was a rather disturbing thing to watch.
Doctor Watson reappeared, this time smartly dressed.
He came to the table and was in the move to greet Gala when he saw the trinkets on the table. His face darkened and he threw them back in the tin can, growling while he more tossed than put it all on the writing desk.
He sat down and snapped:" Did you at least wash before?"
Holmes held up the bottle of brandy.
"That's not the same."
"It was clean."
"It will kill-"
"We had this discussion.", interjected Holmes. Watson glared at him.
"Back to our conversation.", emphasised Holmes, ignoring the looks from his friend:" We are not searching for the son."
Gala had observed their little quarrel with interest and was brought back rather sudden: "We are not?"
"He is either on the run or dead I would presume."
"Why would he be on the run?", barked Watson.
"I think if he stayed his father would try to pin the smuggle on him."
That made the Doctor look up from his tea: "On his own son?"
´Most of my neighbours sell their own sons. ´ thought Gala. But horror seem to convert with money.
"Sadly.", answered Holmes.
"You think he knew?", asked Gala.
"I can´t say.", said Holmes:" I don't think it will matter."
"And if you would find said son, say by accident, what would you do with him?", asked the Doctor snappish.
"Depends.", answered Holmes.
"On what?"
"If he would be willing to testify against his father."
"At what court?", asked Gala flat.
Holmes smile widened, he nearly beamed:" Very good!"
"This is preposterous!", roused Watson:" This is England! What do you mean in what court?"
"This is England.", answered Holmes:" Everyone has a right. But who made you think they are the same?"
Gala had a love hate relationship with the docklands. They were the only place in the whole of London where he would not attract attention. Sailors from every part of the world, in all sizes, shapes and colours swarmed the ships and the port. On the other hand, waited a past to catch up with him as soon as he stepped back in the alleys between the giant stocks. In the early morning sun it looked like his personal genesis.
He made it to the jetty till a punch let him stumble backwards into a stack of ropes as thick as an arm. They were piled up precariously close to the harbour basin with its dirty foaming waves. Gala shook his head like he tried to get water out of his ears.
"You two faced little muck.", growled a voice.
"Hi Vince.", answered Gala, gripped the coat collars of the man and unceremonially pulled him straight over his head. The man went flying, head first into the muck. He plunged with a scream and a splash and Gala grunted with satisfaction before he started to free himself from the tangled ropes.
Laughing had erupted around the scene, what Gala took as a sign that nobody would try to shove him in after the man. He plodded to the edge of the pier, ogling into the swirls below him. The man tried desperately to stay afloat, screaming at the same time.
Gala signed and lowered one of the ropes into the basin. The man needed three tries to hold on to it and Gala pulled him up under the whistles and whoops of the stevedores around him.
"Asshole.", managed the man as Gala heaved him back on the solid stone of the landing.
Gala grunted agreeing.
"Jackie!", called a voice down the pier.
The assembly scattered and Gala saw a figure in a dark blue coat strolling along the mooring, he walked with purpose and stopped here and there to greet people. When he saw Gala his eyebrows climbed a couple of inches but there was no alarm whistle and no `Stop right there´. What was a real Jackie knew when to ignore and when to investigate.
`Jackies´ were what the stevedores had named Mr. Tar´s troop. Jack Tar was a permanent part of the docks. Like a beacon. It was much more effective to operate in his name, than the city of London's. London was slow, far away and faceless. Jack Tar was likely right behind you. Depending on what you were up to this could be a curse or a blessing. Either way. There was no getting around Jack Tar.
This particular Jackie slandered over to Gala and his soggy fiend, his thumps hooked behind his belt:" Problems, Sir?", he asked.
"This poor soul tripped over the ropes and fell in.", said Gala, thumping on Vince back.
"Is that so?", asked the Jackie.
"Yes Sir.", Vince teeth chattered while he spoke:" Got me out, Sir. Terrible cold, Sir."
The Jackie nodded, entirely unconvinced:" Get him somewhere warm."
"Sure.", answered Gala, and hoisted the shivering man over his shoulder, drenching his cloak in the process as well.
He heard the Jackie chuckle while he hurried down the pier as fast as he could.
Gala soon Vince started to struggle:" Let me down!"
Gala ignored him.
"Let me down."
"Shut up, or you´ll go down.", growled Gala.
"Your manners haven't improved one bit."
"I´m not the one running around punching people."
"You had it coming."
"That so?"
"Leaving me with a ton of these stinking squids to shovel.", grumbled Vince:" Took me three days to get rid of them."
"I got sacked.", answered Gala.
Vince chuckled this time:" Serves you. For what?"
"Loitering."
To this Vince full out laughed.
"Oh, shut up."
Gala hauled him down the quay until they reached a house that seemed to consist of the harbours ship wreckage. Skewed and crooked it leaned against the stone building next to it. Figureheads supported the doorframe. On the left side, a mermaid, beautiful and terrible, with her hair waiving and a majestic tail whipping around her. On the right a ship´s kobold, his teeth long and sharp, hands with webs over his scaly body, his fins raised belligerently around his face.
Gala had to duck through the door, Vince protesting loudly.
The conversation stopped when he straightened up, only a bellowing female voice deadpanned:" Oh hell no."
Gala grinned.
"Hi Anni.", Vince chattered. He seemed to come to terms with his fate.
Anni only pointed to the other side of the Inn, where a descent sized open fire roared. Gala let Vince plop down in front of it.
"Cooled down?", he asked.
Vince answered with an obscene gesture.
"What is it with you and your drowned rats?", asked Anni who had appeared at the height of Galas elbow. She was a small woman, nearly as wide as she was tall.
"One has to wash them.", answered Gala.
"Who pays?", asked Anni.
"He does.", growled said drowned rat and pointed at Gala.
Gala followed Anni to the bar:" Cut him off after three grogs."
"The money?", she asked.
"I´ll be by this evening."
"I´ll lambast you if not.", said the little round woman.
Gala snorted:" Got dry clothes for him?"
"Sure.", Anni said, already rummaging behind the counter.
"What would I do without you?"
The woman beamed:" Dry your own damn rats."
Gala made it to the East-India-Dock without any more rats or racket.
Like the last time he had been there it was a sight to see. Three ships waited in the docks, their sails billowing in the breeze like captured clouds. The smell of spices forced the stench of the city back, engulfing Gala with a promise of freedom, calling him out to chase the horizon.
Every time he came back to the water the longing hit him with so much force that it got hard to breath.
He closed his eyes, deeply inhaled the intoxicating scents. Carefully not going deeper, not wishing, not acknowledge the raw want.
Shouting opened his eyes again. Like ants, loaded with bundles their own size workers balanced over the slim stages. Their faces red, and despite the cold morning drenched in sweat.
Gala found the loadmaster easily. He leaned next to his adjutant, who stood on two wooden boxes, shouting and orchestrating the swarming around them.
The loadmaster was a small man, with broad shoulders and calm, intelligent eyes. He looked up when Galas shadow darkened the sun.
"Work?", he asked.
Gala nodded.
"Name?"
"Gala.", said Gala.
The loadmaster raised an eyebrow but kept quiet. He noted something on his pad. It was upside down, but it wouldn´t have helped Gala if it had been turned, for he had never learned to read or write.
"Sims!", called the Loadmaster, a boy came running.
"Sir?"
"Bring him to Buck. That should solve his problem."
Sims nodded and Gala followed him full of dark premonitions.
Sure enough, Buck, a foreman with a tar braid and a missing incisor beamed at the sight of Gala. He brought Gala inside the ship in the warm damp semi-darkness that Galas Glasses dimmed even further in the very back of the hold.
"We tried to roll them over the stages, but they are arched and kept rolling of. Lost two then stopped. You´ll see."
And Gala saw the huge barrels bolted to the planking.
"They don't fit on the tap. You think you can lift them?", asked Buck with a pitted smile.
Gala could. Even if he felt like his spine would snap.
Normally he would have told the guy to fuck off. But Holmes pesky words echoed though his head. So, he stemmed the barrels, one after the other. Till his back screamed and his hands ached.
The other stevedores scurried around him, waiting to let him through, giving him enough space to not be caught in the fall out should Gala lose his balance.
It took him eight hours, but he unloaded the damn barrels. When he sat the last one down his legs gave way as well. They just folded up under him and left him wheezing, leaning against the very barrel he just carried.
"Pukka!", came Bucks voice from behind him. The foremen patted him on his sore back and Gala suppressed a moan.
Buck laughed:" When you´re able to walk again, come find me."
Gala growled.
It took him twenty minutes and three tries to get upright again. And even then, he felt like someone had squished him to half his size, like a sponge.
Buck grinned his draughty grin and pulled Gala in a calm nook:" I want you as a permanent crew member of mine.", he kept on explaining working hours and payment but Gala couldn't care less.
He only perked up again when Bucks told him to get his days wages in the company office.
With the money in his pocket Gala wobbled straight the ship yards at Blackwell stairs where the smaller vessels from Scotland discharged their cargo. It didn't take him long to find one with the grubby black dust that indicated coal. He bought as much coal as his wage would give him, hoisted the sack over his shoulder and indulged in the pain that would warm Dunce for at least a week.
How are you guys? I´d love to hear your opinions :)