Narrator: Imagine if you will, London, 1887. Thick fog rolls in across the city, and somewhere down a back alley in Whitechapel, just a short walk from the Thames, Enid Thickett has just finished servicing one of her regular customers.
He is a portly fellow of good standing who goes by the name of Ichabod White, and fortunately for Enid he has a thick purse and a penchant for grubby women of a particular girth. He also has little stamina to speak of which in Enid’s line of work is a real benefit.
To be sure it is not a night for good people like you and I, this is a night when decent folk are safely tucked up in their beds.
“As ever my dear, it was a real treat!” Ichabod insists buttoning his britches. “have you put on a little weight” He asks, playfully slapping her rather round bottom as she rearranges herself, “You look jolly good in this light I must say.”
“Cheeky Devil” Enid laughs, she knows how to keep her customers happy. As foul breath and fuelled on cheap liqueur as they might well be, they were a means to an end, and regular customers like Ichabod White were becoming increasingly valuable.
“More of me to enjoy I reckons” she continues, fingering the cold coins in her pocket, the taste of him still on her lips. “Same time next week?” she asks, an awkward toothless smile breaking out across her face.
Ichabod reaches into his vest and from a bulging purse pulls out another coin tosses it to her. “Afraid not my dear” he answers tucking his purse back into his vest, I am a man of many appetites and a chap I know from the Lieutenant General’s office has introduced me to a number of his acquaintances.” He grins broadly. “This was a farewell so to speak.”
Narrator: It is at this point where our story takes a turn for the worse. Or perhaps for the better, that depends entirely on your point of view. Ichabod White was for the most part a good man, and as noble a gesture as a farewell might appear to him he was to discover that it was the very catalyst for what was to happen next.
Enid always carried her knife for protection, and as she wiped it on her dress placing it back inside her coat, she considered how he Ichabod had screamed and how he had insisted that it really was not his fault and that he would most certainly be back next week.
She did not care for his screaming or his promises, and she did not one jot care for those that would steal her business.
Want to read more of my stuff?
https://afterwards.blog/2017/07/29/a-collection-of-miserable-limericks/
https://afterwards.blog/2017/07/14/probing-a-cautionary-tale/
https://afterwards.blog/2017/07/03/first-blog-post/
https://afterwards.blog/2017/07/14/we-unlikely-few/
Photo courtesy of Webandi @ Pixabay
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/Foggy/
Afterwards 