Dream London by Tony Ballantyne Read Free Book Online Page B

and alligator eggs, mixed bowls of snake eggs, fertilised and unfertilised. And then there was the amphibian room with its pools of frog spawn and then on to the tiny stands selling ant eggs and fly eggs and the eggs of all manner of insects. There was even the hall where only the women went, where jars full of menstrual blood and unfertilised eggs were arranged in lines on tables.
    London is very different to how it used to be.
    “Here we are.”
    We were standing outside a pub: the Laughing Dog . A Dalmatian wearing half moon spectacles and a serious expression looked down from the sign.
    “Take this,” said Margaret, pushing a leather purse into my hand. I could feel the weight of the coins inside. “It looks better if the man buys the drinks.”
    I followed her into the pub, looked around the dim, grubby interior.
    “This place is a dump,” I said.
    “I’ll have a port and lemon,” said Margaret. She placed a hand on my arm. “I’ll be sitting over there.”
    She pointed to a set of wooden booths. Most of them were already occupied by women, sitting alone for the most part, and I had an inkling of what sort of place this was. Now that I came to think of it, I’d been here before, on business.
    “Pint of lager and a port and lemon,” I said to the unshaven barman.
    “No lager,” he said, looking at me with contempt. “Bitter or mild.”
    “Bitter, then.”
    He poured me a flat pint and a glass of sticky port. I carried them across to the booth that Margaret had indicated and slid into the seat.
    “Is that for me lover? Cheers!”
    The woman sitting opposite was not Margaret. Red headed, she had one of the prettiest faces I had ever seen. She drained the drink and grimaced.
    “Strewth!” she said. “That was deadly!”
    What was wrong with her accent? It sounded like she had learned cockney from Dick Van Dyke.
    “I’m sorry,” I said. “I was looking for my friend...”
    “I’ll be your friend, lover!”
    Again, that accent. It sounded so wrong. I rose from my seat, pint in hand.
    “I’m sorry, I’ll just...”
    She took hold of my wrist, jarring it. Thin beer slopped over my hand, onto the table.
    “Don’t be like that,” she said. “Come on, come with me upstairs...”
    Even in the confusion I noticed what a lovely hand she had, what clear eyes. Not at all like the whores of my usual acquaintance.
    “I’m sorry,” I said. “Really, there’s been a mistake.”
    At that she leant close to me, and for a moment I thought she was going to kiss me, but instead she whispered in my ear.
    “Don’t be a fool. It’s me, Bill Dickenson.”
    What made me pause was not the name, but her accent. It was an accent that used to be so common, but was now rarely heard in Dream London.
    “You’re an American,” I said.
    “Shut up!” she hissed
    “I’m sorry...”
    She straightened up.
    Then she called out in that faux cockney accent, “Like them, do you? Want to see more?”
    She led me by the hand to the back of the pub and up the stairs, conscious of the amused, resentful and just plain bored stares of the other customers.
    I wondered if I should play along, put my hands around her, but something made even Captain Jim Wedderburn pause.
    I recognised that Bill Dickenson was not to be trifled with.

 
     

    (A FEELING OF SETTING OUT ON A JOURNEY)
    BILL DICKENSON
     
     
    W HAT BETTER PLACE to meet with someone in private than a brothel?
    Bill Dickenson took me to a small room, the dirty white walls hung with badly executed pornographic paintings. Dusty purple cobwebs decorated the corners of the room like antimacassars.
    “Sit on the bed,” she said, rather unnecessarily. The only other item of furniture in the room was a chair, and she had already taken that. She hitched up her long skirts, and I caught a glimpse of her shapely, stocking-clad legs.
    “Don’t even think about it,” she said in a clear American accent. All the false cockney charm was gone. I wondered what she was doing,