An Evening at The Ten Bells

 

by D.R. Miller

 a full shot of Mother’s Ruin

 

Mary glared at the surrounding crowd. She held her glass in front of her like a weapon as her eyes darted around the room, daring anyone to argue.

‘There is no such person as Jack the bleedin’ Ripper!’ she stated matter of factly. Mary knocked back her gin, smacked her lips, then sighed a satisfied Aaaaah.

The denizens of the packed Ten Bells pub cheered and jeered in equal measure as she slammed the empty glass on the table to complete her row of eight.

‘Then why, pray tell, is ‘e on flyers stuck to every lamp post across London!’ Dotty demanded above the hubbub.

Dotty’s words were dangerously slurred. As she swigged back her own shot of Mother’s Ruin, her legs came up to leave her horribly unbalanced on her stool. Alarm rippled round The Ten Bells in the form of a pantomime gasp but, remarkably, the crowd’s expectation of calamity was quickly replaced by a burst of rapturous applause as Dotty clumsily managed to pull herself together and place her glass on the table to complete her own row of eight empty shot glasses.

Another four shots were delivered to each woman amid a fanfare of clapping as the two combatants glared at each other across the sticky round table. Mary’s flame-red hair was reflected in her eyes as she watched her opponent tilt and sway. She had this in the bag, she knew. The gentlemen’s club she used to work for in the West End all those years ago had taught her how to drink hard while staying lucid enough to do whatever was necessary to relieve a man of his hard-earned money. Poor Dotty though, ten years Mary’s senior with jaundiced skin and a glazed expression from years of drink, well, she had only ever known the grog houses of Whitechapel where the cheap liquor could leave you blind. Or worse.

Mary carefully picked up one of the new glasses and narrowed her eyes at her opponent. She waited for the crowd to quieten before saying her piece.

‘He’s made up, so ‘e is. A bogeyman to force us into the workhouses!’ Mary saluted the crowd, swallowed the drink, then delicately placed the glass on the end of her row to the loud guffaws of the baying mob.

Dotty was not to be beaten. With almost miraculous luck, she grabbed her glass at the second attempt, then waited for the chuckling at the back of the bar to stop. They should be more respectful of their entertainment.

‘Then oo killed four women these last coupla months, yer dozy tart?’

A smattering of laughter, then expectant silence as Dotty slugged the gin, rammed the glass into the table, coughed, sputtered, then drooled into her bodice with a victorious but toothless grin.

Raucous cheers filled the air along with several half-empty mugs of ale. Mary screwed her mouth up tightly as several fingers pointed at her, their owners laughing at her obvious ire. A theatrical swipe of her arm silenced them again and this time she stood; her tenth shot held delicately between her fingertips.

‘The murders was all committed by different men. Husbands and pimps,’ she said snootily, careful to pronounce the words correctly.

Mary downed the drink, wiped her mouth on her sleeve and placed the glass at the end of her row.

Before the crowd even had chance to cheer, Dotty was on her feet, swaying like autumn leaves in the wind. She steadied herself against the table with the fingers of one hand, reached for her next drink, then quickly thought better of it as she almost fell face first into the collection of glasses in front of her. Pulling herself together with a determination that only free drinks could have mustered, she leaned heavily on the table using both hands. Suddenly she looked wistful, mournful.

‘I knew Polly Nicholls. And Annie. They weren’t for sale. Not like you!’ She said bitterly. Dotty’s emotion was lost on the crowd as hysterical laughter and applause broke out in The Ten Bells. But expectant silence quickly replaced the mirth when the onlookers remembered she needed to drink her glass.

Dotty, still swaying, looked at the little glass in front of her. Even in her inebriated state she could see Mary smiling triumphantly. Two Mary’s, in fact. She would not be beaten. With a sly grin, Dotty braced herself on the table, then bent her arms to lower her head to the glass. Grasping it between her gums, she clutched the table for dear life as she flicked her head back and shot the burning liquid down her throat. As she went to spit the glass into her line, a gasp went up as her lips lost their grip. The Ten Bells held its breath as the glass bounced onto the table in front of her, then jittered to a rest, upside down.

The resulting cheer was audible on the other side of Spitalfields Market.

Mary was not to be outdone by this old soak. She lifted her eleventh glass high, then turned to salute the patrons of The Ten Bells. In an instant, Dotty’s applause changed to chants of Ma-ry, Ma-ry, Ma-ry. When the chants finally died down and Mary could almost hear a pin drop, she finally spoke.

‘Jack the Ripper? Us women get ripped off by every man Jack o’ you bastards every day!’ As the bar burst into an odd mixture of confused laughter, cheers and even jeers from some of the men present, Mary quaffed her gin, then slowly placed the glass down, her little finger extended daintily.

It was uncertain for a time whether Dotty would even be able to find her next drink, but, to the astonishment of all present, she managed to lift it shakily. Concentration was etched into her forehead as her head rolled alarmingly around her shoulders. Yet again, the noise died in anticipation.

‘I a-agree. You sh-should see the s-size of my r-rent!’ She hiccupped, then promptly fell backwards over her stool and landed heavily on the ground beside it.

Mary threw her arms in the air in triumph. There was another round of cheers, then she paraded the room in a victory lap. As she accepted the congratulations, she held open the pocket of her apron to accept ha’pennies and pennies alike from any punter who was willing to pay her for their evening’s entertainment. Barely five minutes had passed before her circuit was complete. Mary peered into her pocket glumly. Barely enough coins to afford the rent. Forlorn, she looked around the bar at the backs of all the patrons who had already gone back to their glasses and conversations. The same patrons who been cheering her on just a few minutes ago had already forgotten her.

A knot of desperation was growing in her belly when she noticed a man in a black wool coat sitting alone at the bar. His face was obscured by a thick cloud of pipe smoke, but there were no holes in his shoes and his trousers showed no signs of repair. A man with money perhaps? Mary silently offered a prayer of hope, exhaled, then approached him with a gin-soaked smile, playing with her pocket provocatively.

‘A penny for ze winner, mishter?’ She flirted, trying her hardest to lay on a French accent for added allure.

‘My name’s Marie,’ she continued. She preferred Marie to Mary after her time in Paris.

‘Aren’t you going to look after your friend on the floor over there?’ The man’s voice was a smooth, authoritative baritone, well-spoken with the hint of a northern accent which Mary barely even noticed.

‘She’ll be alright until closing. Are you looking for somethin’ more by chance?’ Mary coolly kept eye contact with the cloud of smoke as she pushed her chest forward and swung her shoulders back and forth playfully.

Through the haze, she saw a thick moustache twitch briefly as the man glanced around the bar.

‘Do you have somewhere to go?’

‘I do. I ‘ave a room at Miller’s Court,’ Mary replied proudly, forgetting her French accent.

‘Then I have a guinea for its use,’ the man replied, suddenly holding up a shiny coin to prove his words.

‘A girl is always happy to open her pocket for a guinea,’ Mary teased lasciviously, adding a smile and a wink for good measure.

As the man playfully dropped the coin into her apron, Mary tried to smother a trembling sigh of relief with a giggle of satisfaction. She leaned in close to him.

‘Come on then mister, while the fire’s still hot,’ she whispered, close to his ear.

The man stood, then bent down to pick up a bag which she had not noticed before.

‘What you got in there then?’

‘Tools of the trade, my dear, tools of the trade.’ The man’s smile was empty, but Mary did not notice through her drunken haze.

Without even a glance from any of the other patrons, Mary looped her arm through her customer’s elbow as the pair stepped out into the cold, unforgiving streets of Whitechapel.

About the author

D.R.Miller published his first novel, Victorian Gothic: The Uncanny Death of Katherine Kramer in February 2021. The sequel, A Most Perilous Name, was released in June 2021. A free novella is available at www.drmillerauthor.co.uk and he is on Instagram @drmillerauthor. He loves anything historic and is a keen photographer. 

 

First Date

 

by D R Miller

salted caramel milkshake

 

I glance to my right again.

The soft light from the movie screen lends an enticing glow to her long, shapely thighs. Her slender arms are wrapped around the huge tub of popcorn sitting in her lap and as the screen brightens, I can make out goose pimples on her bare skin.

I wonder again at how lucky I am she said ‘yes’.

I feel like I should do something, show some affection to let her know that I like her. Or at least to show I haven’t forgotten she’s there. The seats are too wide to slip my arm around her, but that’s far too cliched anyway. The sort of thing my parents would have done.

Should I put my hand on her leg? She looks amazing in those cut-off shorts, but now I’m sitting here, it doesn’t feel right touching a bare leg. Besides, that tub in her lap would make it awkward.

A few minutes pass and the film is into the final act. If I am going to make a move, I am seriously running out of time. I glance over at her again and I think she clocks me from the corner of her eye. I wince with embarrassment, but she immediately rubs her left arm with her right hand. I don’t want to be obvious and turn to look, but I think she’s being gentle, sensuous.

Is she sending me a signal? Or am I reading something into nothing? Damn it, I don’t know her well enough to tell!

This is becoming stressful. I hate first dates! Show too much affection and you’re forever labelled soppy or a groper; too little and you’re cold and uninterested.

It’s the last chance saloon and I really want to see her again. I need to show her some affection. Something; anything! Time to step up and take the plunge. My hands are warm where I’ve been sitting on them, so I tentatively rest my elbow on the arm between the seats. With my heart thumping in my chest, I casually lower my hand on her side of the armrest. If I’ve judged it right, my fingers should just about brush her knee. It’s something, but at the same time I hope it’s non-committal; a clumsy attempt to walk that first date tightrope between not enough and too much.

Hang on though - her left hand unravels from the tub and strikes like a rattlesnake, catching my fingers and snaring them between hers just before they reach her knee.

I look up and silently thank God.

Although my heart is still thumping at the cool touch of her fingers, I am suddenly much calmer. I turn and give her my winning smile, but she is glued to the big screen.

Crap. What does that mean?

The cinema was such a bad idea for a first date!

 

 

He’s looking at me again.

He keeps staring at my legs. He’s probably ogling my chest too in this strappy top. It’s a humid night and no one wants to get sweaty on a first date, so I thought this outfit would be perfect, but I completely forgot how these places ramp up the air con.

I grip the bucket of popcorn tightly. It feels warm against my arms, thighs and tummy and I really don’t want to put it down in case I start shivering. Besides, it’s a little trick I’ve learned to prevent wandering hands. Is he the sort of guy who would have wandering hands? I don’t think so, but all those little peeks at me are beginning to make me nervous. Why can’t he just watch the film?

Christ, it’s so cold in here.

He’s looking again. Oh no, my nipples are poking through my top. Has he noticed? Is that what he keeps looking at? I panic and quickly scratch my left shoulder as an excuse to cover my offending breasts with my right arm. I talked myself out of wearing my padded bra after my last date when that cretin spoke to my chest all night.

His arm keeps twitching. I know he’s going to try something. I really like him and don’t want to offend him, but why are men always so insecure that they feel they have to touch all the time?

Oh no. Here we go. He’s going for my knee.

Quick, think!

I quickly intercept his hand with my own. I wince inwardly, vainly hoping he doesn’t misconstrue the act as anything more than what it is: a sacrifice to save my knee - and wherever he thinks that might lead.

His hand is moist, but at least it’s warm.

I can see him grinning at me from the corner of my eye.

Damn it. We’ve been dating for all of an hour in a cold, dark room with no conversation and I just know he’s already expecting a loved-up smile from me. Why do they all get so drippy and needy as soon as they’re with the opposite sex?

With no bright ideas coming to mind, I decide to keep staring rigidly at the screen., It would be the equivalent of kicking a puppy if I let him see my discomfort.

Aaargh! It’s so infuriatingly embarrassing!

Why did I agree to the cinema for a first date?

 

About the auhtor 

D R Miller published his first novel, Victorian Gothic: The Uncanny Death of Katherine Kramer in February 2021. The sequel, A Most Perilous Name was released on 21st June 2021. A free novella is available on his website, www.drmillerauthor.co.uk. He loves anything historic or artistic and is a keen photographer.

A Neighbourly Act

 by D R Miller

Black Sambuca

 

I had just placed dinner on the table when everything went black. Inky black. In the few seconds it took for my eyes to re-accustom, all I could see was a swirling kaleidoscope of lights in an infinite darkness, the fading imprints of the last thing my eyes had seen.

But at the same time, I was suddenly fiercely aware of several noises that seemed to amplify; the ticking of the clock on the wall was pounding in my ears; the leaves at the window sounded like claws scratching to get in and a car somewhere down the road was a growling creature of the night. Luckily, my sight and hearing were calmed by my sense of smell as the mixing aromas of hot salmon, pepper, potato, butter and mushroom teased my nostrils.

The moment of sudden alarm quickly passed as my eyes adjusted to the velvet cloak of darkness around me. The table and chairs emerged as darker shadows out of the blackness and the glow of the hot television screen began to win its battle with the surrounding dark.

Power cut.

I walked to the lounge window with assured steps, negotiating my way through the obstacle course of furniture with ease. I peeked round the edge of the curtain into the cul-de-sac beyond. Yellow light from the streetlamps bathed the road and gardens, but none of the other houses had lights on. Oh well, at least it was not just me.

With a sigh, I weighed up the choice of eating my hot dinner in the window by the light of the streetlamp or rummaging around for some candles while it got cold. There was no rush. I drew back the curtains, pulled up the chair, and held the plate up under my chin, picking at it with a fork. While I chewed a mouthful of potato, I watched Fluffy, Frank and Mary’s cat wander lazily across the parking area outside. Not quite as entertaining as television, but I guess it made a change.

There were six houses surrounding three sides of the parking area. Only two cars were parked in the bays this evening. Most were usually garaged at the rear of the properties. Although I said ‘hello’ to my neighbours at times, I had not lived in the area long enough to get to know them well. Actually, that was a lie. Other than Frank and Mary next door, I had not even bothered to try. I did not particularly want to know their names, their pets or what they put on their lawns to make them green. I honestly did not care. I was happy keeping myself to myself. No bother to anyone. The only reason I had gotten to know Frank and Mary was because of the low fence at the back. They are a nice enough couple, though a little strange. They are younger than me and recently married, though I believe they have been together for years. Whatever it is they like to cook, it stinks to high heaven. They seem to like using a slow cooker because the smell grows gradually worse over the day to the point where it seems to seep through the walls and permeate everything. At first, I thought a mouse had died in the wall, that sickly, acrid smell that lasts for days.

I took a mouthful of salmon as I watched Fluffy pause to lift his head and look around, like a king watching over his domain. A grey sentinel. He looked bored. As I ate another potato, Fluffy sat down and began licking his paw. He was a mean looking beast, the size of a bulldog and almost as thick set. Long grey fur made him look bigger still and gave me the impression that he was some kind of grizzled veteran. A flat, grim face certainly told the story that he had seen his fair share of fights.

Personally, I was wary of the beast. Less than a week ago I noticed over the fence that he had brought a dead squirrel to Frank and Mary’s back door. I remember it well because the squirrel was almost as big as Fluffy! What on earth is in the water round here?

As I sat and watched Fluffy, a second shadow caught my eye under one of the nearby cars. Fluffy noticed it too, pausing mid-lick to peer into the shadows before continuing with his ablutions.

I almost dropped my plate as the shadow moved again, then something big and fast scurried from beneath the car and pounced on Fluffy. I squinted through the window as a ball of grey fur and black legs twisted, turned and rolled around the tarmac like a fight scene from a cartoon. Then, as quickly as it had begun, everything was still again.

I blinked in disbelief as I realised Fluffy was lying on his side while the victor, a huge spider, stood over him. The creature’s fat, black abdomen was the size of a large pumpkin. Six legs spread around the fallen Fluffy, I would guess the circumference of an armchair. Meanwhile, its two remaining front legs began to move Fluffy, effortlessly turning him over and over. It took me a few seconds to realise poor Fluffy was being cocooned in thick, sticky silk.

I absently placed my dinner down as I watched in horrified fascination.

It took several minutes for the spider to complete its task before it dragged Fluffy to the nearby car and secured him with more silk to the driver’s door.

How on earth had a spider gotten so big? My mind worked like a 1950’s sci-fi film; no nuclear power stations in the area, no rivers or streams that might be a handy place to deposit toxic waste, no fallen meteorites to my knowledge. I was at a loss.

As I wondered, the spider started to move. To my horror, it started to walk in my direction. It did not hurry, but on it came inexorably, eight thick legs rising and falling in mesmeric rhythm. I almost jumped out of my skin when it triggered the sensor for the front floodlight. Thank God for battery power!

The spider stopped dead.

I held my breath while its long legs rose and fell, one at a time, as though testing the ground beneath it, or deciding whether it was safe to continue. The spider was close and lit well enough by the floodlight that I could see two rows of four black, soulless eyes staring toward me. Small, furry feelers beside its mandible moved constantly, stretching and retracting, rubbing together over and over like a miser with his money. The hair on its head, thorax and legs was long and bristly, a mix of dark, ruddy brown and black. Only the hair on its abdomen had a smooth appearance, like a giant hairy balloon.

When it moved off towards Frank and Mary’s, I exhaled my relief. I watched it as far as I could, pressing my temple to the window as it walked out of sight. Should I call someone? Who? The police? The RSPCA? National Geographic? My mind was a swirl of doubt and uncertainty until a single thought bubbled to the surface:

Frank and Mary have a cat flap.

What if it got in? How poisonous is it? It subdued Fluffy pretty quickly. I had to warn them!

I could have kicked myself for throwing away Frank’s phone number the other week. ‘In case you need it,’ he had said. Pfft! They are right next door; why would I ever need it?

There was only one thing to do.

I rushed to the cupboard in the kitchen and pulled out the broom and a torch, then the biggest carving knife I owned from a drawer. Into the hallway, I pulled on my thickest jacket and was beginning to lace a trainer to my foot when I thought better of it. Instead, I tugged on an old pair of wellington boots.

I took a deep breath and opened the front door.

As I stepped out, the sensor light came on again. My legs were like jelly as I walked the few paces to the edge of the light and shone my torch at Frank and Mary’s front door. Of course, the house was in darkness.

I breathed again when I did not see the spider, but the cat flap on their front door moved ever so slightly.

Was that the wind? There was a breeze…

Broom in one hand, torch and knife precariously held together in the other, I summoned as much steel as I could muster and marched to the door. There was no bell, but I rapped the knocker three times with the handle of the broom.

Footsteps on the other side.

Two muffled thuds.

A scream followed by ‘Fuck! Frank! Get it away from me!’

My stomach dropped to the floor.

Oh no.

With an abandon paradoxical to a lifetime of being careful, I dropped to my knees and pushed my head through the cat flap. When I followed up with the torch as well, I saw Mary on the hallway floor behind a sea of bristling legs and a huge, hairy black abdomen.

The stairs were beside the front door and by luck Frank was coming down them as I shouted.

‘Frank! Use this!’

I pushed the broom through the flap, praying he wouldn’t just trip over it.

‘Phil? Is that you?’

The end of the broom was snatched from my grasp. All I could do was listen with maddening futility at the screams, thumps and grunts from beyond.

Then, suddenly, I remembered they had a larger dog flap on the back door.

Running back through my own house, I dashed into the garden and vaulted the fence with an ease that surprised me. Onto my knees and I pushed headlong through the dog flap, thankful it was not locked.

I was too big!

Thinking quickly, I pulled off the thick jacket and tried again. For a horrible moment, I thought I was going to get stuck as my shoulder caught the edge, but a quick change of angle and I managed to shimmy my way through and into the kitchen. There was that smell again, but I did not have time to think as I ran through the door at the back of the kitchen.

‘I’m coming!’ I shouted breathlessly. I had never been one for exercise.

As I entered the dark hallway, my mouth was dry. My hands trembled with adrenalin as I aimed the torch at the scene. Like an idiot, I had taken it with me and left Frank and Mary in darkness with the spider! Mary was on her back, kicking and flailing like a mad woman. Frank was poking and jabbing with the broom as he tried to dislodge the spider from his wife. Unfortunately, he was being overly cautious about hitting Mary which meant he was having little effect.

I fleetingly caught the spider in a beam of light as I fumbled the knife from one sweaty palm to the other. The glaring brightness made the spider pause and recoil, a thick leg rising towards the source of the light, as though trying to shut it out.

‘Come on, you can do this,’ I muttered under my breath.

My first attack was a slice at that front leg. I did not particularly want to get too close anyway, but I was also acutely aware that I might strike Mary while she flailed and struggled beneath the thing. The resulting swing and a miss almost caused the knife to slip from my slick palm.

Without realising, I was waving the beam of torchlight all over the place, confusing the scene and making it appear like a fight at a rave. I was suddenly overcome by panic as I appreciated just how big the spider was up close. No, appreciated is the wrong word; I certainly didn’t appreciate it.

Then, a hefty smack with the broom from behind propelled the spider towards me so it was nestled over Mary’s face. It was the catalyst which spurred me on. Muffled screams of terror from beneath the spider resonated in the back of my mind as I sliced again, this time catching a leg which retreated quickly. I was surprised how hard the leg was and yet again I almost lost my grip on the knife.

I needed to get closer but dared not. The spider and I faced each other like duellists in a spaghetti western until, from beneath it, Mary managed to push upwards, raising the creature towards me like a sacrificial offering.

‘Now! Kill it!’ Frank shouted.

It was the prompt I needed. Two steps forward and I dropped the torch to bring the point of the blade down on the spider’s head with both hands, pressing and twisting until I felt it go limp.

I stood there in the darkness, wide-eyed and breathing hard as the beam of light rolled in a circle to capture Mary flinging the spider to one side. I absently retrieved the torch as she scuttled backwards, spitting and wiping at her face. Nonsensical sounds of fright were all she could manage as Frank threw aside the broom and hugged her close, telling her it would be alright.

The spider was on its side, unmoving, legs pulled up close to its body.

‘It killed your cat,’ was all I could think of to say.

With all my senses as acute as they had ever been, I became aware of something scratching behind me in the kitchen. I do not think it had registered yet on a conscious level, but it was there all the same as I finally dragged the torchlight away from the dead spider and shone it at Frank and Mary. Frank looked up at me and smiled. It looked more like a guilty smile than a thankful one. Paranoia made me turn back to the kitchen and point the torch at the scratching noise, just as all the lights flicked back on.

There, in three stacks of two on the worktop, were six large glass containers, like home aquariums. In the first one I saw the source of the scratching: a rat. Its body must have measured a foot long at least and its front feet dug furiously at the bottom of the container with claws the size of a child’s hand. In the container above the rat, a bright green frog was the biggest I have ever seen. I walked along the row to see what was in the others, still absently shining the torch at them despite the overhead lights. A cockroach the size of mouse. Above that, was that a sparrow? It looked more like a crow. At the far end, a broken container with strands of white silk on the glass sat atop the sixth, which looked to be empty. Thankfully.

As I turned around, the remains of the large squirrel which Fluffy had brought home last week were pinned to a board, aptly placed atop the butcher’s block.

I looked back at Frank and Mary, absently shining the torch at them in an accusatory fashion. I was well aware that my jaw was hanging open with shock.

‘I can explain,’ Frank said coyly, squinting in the beam of light. ‘I think,’ he added.

He wore the sheepish smile of a man caught red-handed.

 

About the author 

D R Miller published his first novel, Victorian Gothic: The Uncanny Death of Katherine Kramer in February 2021. The sequel was released on 21st June 2021 and a free novella is available on his website, www.drmillerauthor.co.uk. He loves anything historic or artistic and is a keen photographer.