The Curse of Potosi

By Keith Brennan

When Grey saw the statue his eyes lit up and Mickey knew there was money to be made.

Young William Thorne gets a job breaking up fights in Billy Grey’s Beer House in London. He has no idea how much how his life is about to change over the next few months. A painful encounter at an illegal dogfight bonds him with ex army officer Rufus Blake.

Why is everyone so interested in the strange silver statue now in the hands of Mickey, an old friend of Will’s father? Is it really cursed? And why does Barmy Pete appear to have strange powers that even Grey is afraid of?

From the local prostitute to several society ladies, they all seem to be drawn into a den of murder and international intrigue. An adventure awaits, taking Will and Rufus to the western coast of France, searching for an answer to the secret of The Curse of Potosi.

An action packed adventure story, interspersed with humorous episodes, appealing to both men and women. Follow this band of friends in another adventure story to be published in November 2011.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aventura eBooks
• Release date: Aug 31, 2011
• ISBN: 9780956972514

Keith Brennan

Keith Brennan was born in London and now lives with his family in Kent. He is a Fellow of the British Internation Freight Forwarders Association and has run several successful international businesses. Keith now has the time to dedicate to his love of writing and has published two books, The Curse of Potosi and its sequel Illuminati. This will be followed by a series of other adventure stories. His novels - The Curse of Potosi and Illuminati - have been launched on Aventura eBookstore, Amazon Kindle Store, Barnes and Noble Nook eBook store, Apple iBookstore and Smashwords bookstore.

Book preview

Acknowledgement

For my dear wife Sylvana,

for her help and encouragement,

without which this book

would not have been possible,

and also our dear friend Pete

for his invaluable help

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

About the Author

Prologue

Coya Cusirimay sat lazily on a golden stool. She stretched her legs out in front of her then raised her arms above her head. She casually lent backwards placing her hands behind her so she could lay them flat against a thick stone wall.

She looked around at the grand palace walls decorated with gold and silver objects set into the many recesses. She turned and counted the tightly interwoven sandstone blocks closest to her, following their line as the sunlight from a window nearby illuminated each one in turn as it crept its way along the wall. An effigy of Inti the Inca sun god with its bright yellow disk and multiple arms shone down at her. The face of Huayna Capac, her husband and brother, peered out from its centre gazing dismissively away from her as he had done in life.

Two priests now moved slowly past her, one chanting a mantra while the other, who remained silent, carried a golden chalice. She looked at the first priest who now stood by a body laid out on a long stone slab covered in a grey drab woollen cloth. Only the head ringed with a gold band and one outstretched hand was visible. This priest bent down and began speaking to the body as though the lifeless corpse was fully aware of his presence and was now ready to answer his pressing questions. The priest placed his ear close to the blue motionless lips and listened intently, nodding as the silent lips gave out further instructions. She knew that priests were supposed to be able to talk to the dead, but she was sceptical of their real powers.

Since her husband’s death and his subsequent embalming, this ritual had been repeated twice daily and now Coya Cusirimay sat there bored and disinterested. She had been expected to remain there, almost motionless, while her dead husband Huayna Capac, the eleventh Monarch of Peru lay in state. However, after the third day she had found it tedious and instead, while the first priest was engrossed in conversation and the other prayed silently, she carefully lifted herself upwards slowly moving into a position close to a large window. There she gazed into the far distance towards the brilliant green hills, broken by stone terracing neatly placed in continuous rows. Her enjoyment of the view did not last long.

One of the priests broke her concentration and moved close to her. She could smell his damp clothing. It was an earthy smell caused by her husband’s body being embalmed in ice. She found it totally repugnant. She turned with a start and looked round.

The priest spoke softly to her, his words carefully formed so she would not miss a syllable.

‘It is time you made your preparation for your husband’s resting place.’

He then tried to touch her hand but she drew it sharply away.

‘I am well prepared for what is about to take place. You may leave me now while I make myself ready.’ She paused and glared angrily. ‘I mean both of you!’

The priest dutifully bowed and with a sideward glance to the other priest still half way through his prayers, both men left.

Coya Cusirimay watched them climb down the steps of the palace for a few moments before glancing back at her husband. She had been one of many women in his life, all now with children by him. She had not produced any sons for him and she knew that among the fifty children he had sired were a number of male heirs. During this period of his reign, and at the height of the fever that had engulfed her husband, a sacrifice of well over twenty thousand people had been given to pacify the gods. Now, at his death, more lives were expected to be taken.

She walked towards his body and stared down at the mass of silver and gold objects placed around the slab. This was just part of his possessions that would travel with him to the after life. It had been rumoured that his life had been cut short owing to a curse set upon him by his greed.

Coya Cusirimay knelt down and examined some of the fine silver and gold piled deep around her. There were many spectacular items including beautifully carved silver llamas, gold cups and golden funeral masks. But the most exquisite object of them all was a silver figurine carved in the shape of woman holding an infant cradled in her arms. She wondered how so much beauty could cause such pain and anguish.

The figure reminded her of how the curse had come about. Some years previously Huayna Capac had travelled to the mines he owned in Ccolque Porco and Andaccaua. While passing through the region he’d chanced upon a place known as Potosi. Admiring its beauty, he ordered his men to return with their tools to begin exploring the hillside to see if new deposits of silver could exist there. His expectation was correct and he was rewarded with rich veins of silver but as the men extracted the samples at Potosi, the hill shook violently. It was said that a strange voice was heard calling out to them, like the sound of thunder, while giving out a dire warning.

‘Do not take the silver from this hill. It is destined for other masters.’

The men told Huayna Capac what had happened but he had thought the men were fools and ignored the warning. She and those close to him were certain this action had brought down a terrible fever upon him and those who he had been in contact with. She had not died as the others had, although she’d been terribly ill with black spots that appeared on her body. But she had survived. Now she was expected to die in the grave of her husband.

Coya Cusirimay picked up the figure of the woman and child and held it close to her, saying a prayer to the Inca god Tezcatlipoca She would die like many others; die in a shallow grave along with her husband still clutching the figurine.

****

The wind caught the billowing sails and the Santa Maria turned hard into the wind as the great ship cut through the mountainous seas as they left the Gulf of Mexico and sailed into the Caribbean Sea.

The pirate François L’Olonnais stood on the quarter deck screaming a curse to the wind as it rushed towards him, spiked with stinging brine. It ate into his thin jacket, now sodden and dripping, as each wave crashed over the ship. He also cursed the nearest man to him, who was struggling with the helm which pulled against him as the ship dipped and rose madly in the raging sea.

He was accompanied by eight other ships, totalling more than six hundred men, all destined for Maracaibo where he intended to attack and pillage the town. All the crew feared L’Olonnais. He had become notorious for his brutality. Those who disobeyed him could look forward to abject torture; from having slices of flesh cut off with his sword to being covered in hot tar and burnt alive.

At last the wind dropped and the Santa Maria calmed itself, drifting gently in the deep swell.

‘Send up a signal,’ L’Olonnais demanded.

‘I want it known a meeting is required with the Blauvelt and the others.’

****

‘It will not be easy to take Francois,’ stated Abraham Blauvelt, a fierce and notorious buccaneer.

He sat in L’Olonnais’ cabin along with two other men, Bartolomeo El Portugués and Michel de Basco, an infamous freebooter who sat peeling an apple with a ferocious looking knife. They had all joined this venture based on L’Olonnais’ wild reputation and the promise of untold wealth that awaited them in Maracaibo, a coastal town in the Gulf of Venezuela.

L’Olonnais turned to Blauvelt first and replied to his statement.

‘It’s all planned!’ he growled.

They all sat around an oak table and L’Olonnais took out a large chart and spread it from one end to the other.

‘Here is the fort.’

His finger moved quickly down from Aruba and on to the straights that narrowed into Lake Maracaibo then finally stopping at the town of Maracaibo.

‘There,’ he said. He then spat exactly where the fort lay on the chart. ‘That is where we’re heading.’

No one spoke nor dared to argue with the plan, only Basco made the slightest sign of acceptance by giving a wide smile revealing a row of rotting teeth.

They travelled along the coast of Venezuela and en-route they encountered and plundered a Spanish galleon laden with treasure. This success only cemented the other’s confidence in L’Olonnais. His credentials were established as a man who was born to succeed.

On examining the treasure, L’Olonnais’ attention was drawn to a special piece of silver.

‘Bring that piece here,’ he demanded, snatching the figure from a seaman.

‘Why you’re a beauty and no mistake!’ he exclaimed as he held up the figure in the sunlight where it caught the sun’s rays, casting white sparkling light that danced across the rigging and the framework of the ship.

A gasp went up as he did this from some members of the crew. Two men in anguish immediately crossed themselves.

‘What’s wrong with you, you dogs?’ L’Olonnais shouted over to them. ‘Has superstition taken you all?’

L’Olonnais looked back at the figure and grinned. It suddenly occurred to him that if this figure could generate such a reaction, then he could perhaps use its power to his advantage. He looked back at the crew that had all stopped working and were now staring directly at him. He then laughed.

‘Nothing scares L’Olonnais,’ he shouted. ‘I will hold this figure as a curse to any man who defies me.’

The crew stood silent, each man looking at the next. Only one man spoke up, an old seaman who either cared little for his safety or felt he might yet receive the support of his shipmates.

‘It’s cursed,’ he called out. ‘It shines its own light and marks each man who receives its rays.’

L’Olonnais looked again at the figure. He knew he had a problem. He could of course kill this man and thereby silence him, stopping this rumour. But he knew that killing him would only confirm the fate that every man might encounter if the figurine remained on board. Sailors were highly superstitious by nature. He must think of a solution.

For a moment he left his station high on the forecastle and disappeared below into his quarters. There was silence among the men, with only a few daring to surmise how the captain might react. They certainly knew he was capable of anything. Mad enough to bring up a brace of pistols or even come among them to kill Porter, the unfortunate sailor that had dared to suggest the curse.

Eventually L’Olonnais returned. A conversation amongst the sailors, that had started prior to his appearance, instantly ceased.

‘If you men believe,’ he began, ‘that this figure is cursed, then I will oblige you all.’

He paused for a moment, staring dramatically at the figure in his hand, playing to the sailors who watched him below.

‘I will send this to the bottom of the sea where it can do no harm. Who says aye,’ he shouted, staring directly at Porter.

The old seaman looked around for confirmation from his shipmates and nodded.

‘Aye captain, we say that is the answer.’

There then followed a low murmuring from the other men in final agreement. L’Olonnais held his hand up high so all the men could see the figure, then turning his back on the sailors, he walked a few paces around the forecastle and threw the figurine high up into the air, watching it splash down some distance from the ship’s side.

‘There!’ he shouted. ‘It is done. The curse you believe has gone.’

The men immediately cheered L’Olonnais, some even throwing their caps in the air.

L’Olonnais smirked in satisfaction as he turned away from the crew to face the ship’s bow. He placed his hand deep in his pocket and felt the cold silver of the figurine. L’Olonnais had substituted it for a similar figure he had meant to discard some months ago.

What was to follow was two months of burning and pillaging Maracaibo. It seemed now that L’Olonnais’ ferocity increased ten fold. When the residents, who had hidden their gold, refused to reveal its whereabouts, L’Olonnais invented new tortures to assist him in revealing where it was hidden. The town was burnt to the ground. L’Olonnais and his companions then moved on to Gibraltar on the south side of the lake, where again his ferocity knew no bounds. Stories of these vicious attacks soon spread rumours. He became known as Fléau des Espagnols – the bane of the Spaniards. L’Olonnais continued his venture, moving back to Central America where finally his luck ran out and he found himself blockaded by the Spanish.

****

‘You will show me an escape route through this blockade,’ L’Olonnais demanded of the two Spaniards he’d caught while making his escape from an ambush set up by Spanish troops. One of them laughed at L’Olonnais, not knowing what cruelty he could inflict. The remnants of his crew drew back, awaiting their captain’s response. They were not to be disappointed.

‘Refuse me, will you?’ he screamed.

L’Olonnais drew his cutlass from his belt and cut deep into the man’s chest. He plunged his hand into the wound and to the horror of the surviving Spaniard he withdrew the man’s still beating heart and bit into it, gnawing it with his teeth like a wild animal. With blood dripping from his chin he turned to the other Spaniard and warned, ‘I will serve you the same if you do not show me the way through.’

With the sight of this horror, the surviving Spaniard conceded and offered to show L'Olonnais an escape route through the Spanish blockade.

On retreating back to his ship, L'Olonnais, along with his few remaining men, ran aground on a sandbar. Unable to free themselves they abandoned their ship and made their way inland on foot. While seeking food and water they were captured by the Kuna tribe in Darien. The tribesmen searched them and became agitated when they discovered the silver figurine in L’Olonnais’ pocket.

Porter, who was still amongst the surviving men, looked on in horror at the sight of the figure.

‘You said you’d thrown the figure away!’ And without fear he cried, ‘you’ve done for us all now captain!’

‘You are a Devil!’ the men shouted at L’Olonnais.

The statue which he’d always believed was his good luck charm would now turn out to be the instigator of his death. L’Olonnais screamed at the crew to save him, as the natives, who also believed that L’Olonnais was a devil, began their gruesome task of tearing him to pieces, eventually throwing his body limb by limb into the fire to be cooked and then eaten. The crew looked on, offering no assistance, knowing his betrayal had sealed all their fates.

As L’Olonnais died he shouted out a curse, that he would one day take back the figurine and kill anyone who dared possess it. The crew watched the natives as the meal was consumed. Then at its end, one tribesman walked over to the fire and sweeping up some ashes, he threw them up into the air, removing the last vestige of the pirate L’Olonnais.

The figurine was hidden, as was the custom for all evil objects, rather than destroyed. Sometime later the village was sacked by a group of Spanish deserters searching for gold. They attacked the tribe, killing indiscriminately, while taking as many valuables as they could, including the silver figurine.

****

Chapter 1

Each Saturday night after the pubs closed, screaming and hollering could be heard up and down the street. William Thorne’s house was no exception. He opened the front door to see his stepsister Flora, having a violent confrontation in the hallway. For the last six weeks Flora, a powerful girl with biceps to match, had taken part in female wrestling competitions at Hord’s Portable Theatre, set up on Woolwich Common. This was a new Parisian import, a sport that attracted a considerable amount of local interest. Each Friday night accompanied by the jeers and cat calls of the mainly male audience, she would tear into an equally ferocious opponent who would be either thrown bodily out of the ring or pinned down to the canvas floor until submission or at least until the promoter thought it prudent to break them apart.

Here she was performing again, spitting, kicking, and punching, and in the process, tearing a jacket clean off an unfortunate adversary, who was not only the promoter at the portable theatre but also Flora’s latest lover and was now on the receiving end of her venom.

‘Oh it’s you!’ she said, as she locked the man’s head in her vice-like grip.

The head now protruding out of Flora’s grip, grunted a greeting the best it could, then gargled out some defamatory statement aimed at Flora, inaudible to Thorne.

Thorne patted the head sympathetically and nodded to Flora, then walked around them into the back room where his stepmother sat nursing a near empty gin bottle; an upturned glass in her other hand. She grunted under her breath as Thorne entered the room.

‘Flora’s moving out yet another bloody boyfriend. That’s the bleedin’ third this month! For Christ’s sake shut that bloody door; it’s so noisy when she starts all that rough stuff.’

Thorne returned to the door in time to see Flora lifting up the man bodily and with her arms outstretched to full height she hurled him up into the air, to disappear over the steps, and into the street.

‘That’ll teach yer!’ Flora cried as the man defied gravity.

Thorne looked away for a moment aghast, as her victim thumped into the street, but could not resist the temptation to watch further. The man, unharmed but somewhat dazed, quickly picked himself up and brushed himself down while all the time looking up and smiling at Flora. Finally he straightened his tie and gave her a sly wink followed by a low mocking bow. His expression however quickly changed to horror as he realised that Flora was coming down the steps to show her appreciation of his gracious gesture and to continue where she’d left off.

‘Now calm down Flora! Let’s not be too ‘asty,’ the man said putting up both hands towards her as she approached.

Realising that no amount of pleading would make any difference to Flora, he took the decision to cut his losses and move off as quickly as possible. His speed would have impressed an Olympic runner. With his feet appearing not to touch the ground, he furiously ran down the street, chased closely by Flora. Handicapped by her bulk, it wasn’t long before it dawned on Flora that she was not going to catch him. Bent over with both hands on her knees, her face red with exhaustion, she stood in the middle of the street, gasping for breath. After recovering slightly, she eventually stood up, smoothing and straightening both sides of her frock by pulling at it on either side. She then spat in both hands and began patting her hair down, as if gazing into an imaginary mirror. Satisfied she was presentable, she turned and began scanning the windows of the houses opposite; glaring up at each one in turn, trying to catch any movement in the net curtains covering every window, knowing that behind each stood a nosey neighbour, fascinated by the entertainment that she had provided. Even though her assailant had long gone she had no desire to disappoint her audience, especially now she was about to perform her finale. She stood with her hands on her hips and roared.

‘Don’t you dare try an’ lay yer hands on a defenceless woman again!’

She paused awaiting her applause. When none came, she turned and again began scanning every window, examining each one in turn for the slightest movement. She knew only too well that dozens of eyes were hidden behind the lace. Flora was well practiced in the art of net curtain movement. She was an expert in detecting the slightest quiver. The look she gave when she discovered a pair of eyes would cut through the thickest curtain and make any neighbour tremble. This normally was enough to stop any twitching curtain. A timid neighbour would not dare allow the curtains to even quiver. Only the very boldest would let them drop back down in defiance.

Flora now returned to the house and pushing Thorne back inside, slammed the door shut.

‘Nosey buggers,’ she growled. ‘They all want to know yer business, don’t they?’

Then she disappeared into the back room to join her mother for what she considered was a well deserved drink. Thorne could hear Flora whining to her.

‘That’s it. I’ve ‘ad enough of the men around ‘ere. If I mention another bloody man’s name in this ‘ouse again, I want yer to get that bloody gin bottle and break it over me head!’

‘I might just do that,’ her mother replied, ‘providing it’s empty!’

****

Thorne worked at many of the taverns in the local district, breaking up fights. The late hours took their toll on him and he found himself constantly exhausted. He would often work two taverns a night, sometimes even three, and on occasions he would also work at Bell’s Wharf, unloading the weekly graphite barges. He would then come home black from head to toe and he would have to wash outside in an old tin bath; in winter breaking the ice already formed there. He would fill it again, to watch the ice quickly reappear.

On such an occasion he had just returned home from work, when his stepmother, who was forever digging large holes for vegetables that needed only half the space, began moaning about creaking floorboards in her bedroom, demanding that he fix them immediately.

‘I can’t afford to bring in a carpenter,’ she shouted. ‘Where’s the money to come from, eh? Anyway, why should I pay out for workmen when I’ve got a big ugly lump like you ‘ere? Go on, make yourself useful. Fix those bloody boards after yer bath.’

She then turned and sneered at him.

‘You’re a disappointment to me. Just look at you, covered in black grime. Is that all the employment you can find? You’re just as useless as yer father was and I expect you’ll end up no better.’

He was used to her insults. She had nagged him from the day his father had brought her home, announcing she was to be his new mother and pointing to a gruesome teenager standing alongside, introducing her as Flora. This squat overweight teenager, stood there with long straggly hair pulled down over her face, bunched in several lumps, hiding a turned up nose and narrow eyes, only pushing her black hair aside to stick out her tongue in a grotesque defiant gesture.

His real mother had died of tuberculosis the previous year when he was just eleven. He now found himself being presented with this new person who was meant to take her place. Before him stood a fearsome looking woman and an unpleasant looking girl, and Will was told they were to be his new family. Over the years he had accepted the situation, with his stepmother Joan taking more control as the health of his father declined.

Since his father’s death, the insults and incriminations had slowly increased to a point where he accepted them without protest. Today was no different. Her moaning and insults as usual came flying in and as usual he took little notice and continued to fill the bath from a bucket hanging over the tap. An oak water main in the street supplied the water, a luxury in this area, something he was also constantly reminded about. When he’d finished, he dressed and discarded his blackened overalls, tossing them into the dirty bath water, letting them soak and dissolve some of the grime. He then went into the scullery, first steering around Flora standing in the middle, ironing a pile of her own clothes. Thorne ignored Flora, and opened a small cupboard behind her. The cupboard was in a total mess and as he opened the door, a variety of items thrown inside, came spilling out.

Flora had clearly been inside to gain access to her endless collection of bric-a-brac. Thorne cleared away the immediate debris and saw she had damaged the floor tiles inside and had attempted to fix them. However, she had made a poor job because the tiles were uneven and some were split and cracked. No doubt Flora had hastily tried to cement them back into place, to stop her mother complaining of the damage that was caused by her storing so much junk in the cupboard.

Thorne eventually found his father’s tool bag lying in one corner, its contents scattered around the floor and covered in earth and cement. However, when Thorne complained to Flora about how she’d used his tools to repair the floor, she shouted back:

‘I know nufing of what you’re talking about and what’s more, it was probably you that didn’t button up the tool bag proper. And yer never clean those bloody tools anyway.’

There was little point in arguing with her. Thorne knew he took great care to clean any tools after use and he always re-buttoned the bag to stop any accidently falling out. He was too tired to argue with Flora, so being satisfied he had the tools he needed, he wearily climbed the stairs to his stepmother’s bedroom. As he entered the room he heard voices and moved towards the window, pulling the net curtain to one side. He looked down on the backyard to see his stepmother outside talking over the fence to a neighbour, Mrs Evans. They were both engrossed in conversation. Clearly he was the topic, so he stood at the window and watched them prattle on, occasionally catching an odd sentence or word.

‘E’ll never amount to much and you try getting ‘im to do anything. His father was exactly the same, useless at everything!’

The neighbour casually glanced up and saw him at the window. His stepmother, following the neighbour’s gaze, gave out a shriek, stamped her foot on the ground, folded her arms and shouted:

‘What are you doing staring at us? Why aren’t yer getting on with what I’ve ask yer to do?’

She then turned back to Mrs Evans.

‘I don’t ask ‘im for much, as God is my witness. He’s good for nothing, that what ‘e is. Why if I had a penny for the………’

Thorne let the conversation drift over him as he moved away from the window and sat down on the bed. He could still hear his stepmother in the background, carrying on talking with the neighbour, but now they had lowered their voices. Obviously, whatever was being said was of a more confidential nature.

He looked around the room. It was large compared to the other bedrooms, but it had a musty stale smell about it that never seemed to be present in any other room. In later life his nightmares would be haunted by that room, it would take him back to his boyhood and how he had always been forbidden to enter. Once he had defied that rule by being caught in there with a friend playing with some toy soldiers on the floor. The punishment culminated in him spending hours down in the dark coal cellar situated under the stairs, left to ponder his crime while hearing the movement of mice scurrying about, his small body hunched up in one corner, terrified.

The room was richly furnished compared to the rest of the house; with a fine French dressing table set with an array of brushes and hand mirrors all adorned with ivory handles. A double fronted walnut wardrobe stood against one wall with a large double bed against the other. There were a number of religious paintings on the walls; one above the bed depicting a scene of John the Baptist, another two showing the crucifixion and finally, one large painting of Christ, who was standing on the edge of a cliff being tempted by the devil. However, the contents of the room held little fascination for him, his only interest now was the task at hand.

Thorne began by stamping on the floor, examining each board in turn, listening for movement. Finding two or three loose, he hammered them down into place. He was about to finish when by the skirting and below the largest picture, he trod on a board that creaked as it took his weight. He bent down to look and indeed he was right, it was loose. So having put his tools away he reopened the bag he’d laid on the bed and reaching inside, took out his hammer. Then taking a long nail suitable for securing the board, he began hammering it back into place. He placed the nail as near as he could to the wall, making sure to avoid damaging the skirting board, hammering it hard down on what he thought was the floor joist below. Having finished, he stood up, but on rising, accidentally caught his arm on the frame of the large painting that rose almost to the ceiling.

He expected the picture to either fall or to be pushed over to one side, but it did neither. Instead it clicked and swung slightly away from the wall. Placing his hand on the frame, he swung it open further. In the middle of the exposed wall was a recess, set back and covered with a wooden door. The door had no lock and with a simple press click, it opened. Thorne then peered into the alcove to examine what appeared to be rolled up papers. He reached inside and pulled the contents towards him, causing some of the papers to spill out onto the floor. He stooped down to pick them up and to his amazement realised that it wasn’t paper at all, at least not the writing kind, but several packs containing ten and twenty pound notes, all individually rolled into separate neat bundles, wrapped in paper sleeves. Each sleeve stated the amount enclosed and all were written in his father’s handwriting. Some packs had been broken into; the sleeves left discarded to one side, others lay loose as if stuffed back into the recess in a hurry. There also appeared to be some deeds of property, probably belonging to his father’s house, together with a variety of similar documents related to it and a number of share certificates, all mixed up together. There was also a set of marine charts, folded carefully and unopened, tied together with a cord, the makers label still proudly attached to the front. At the bottom, under the documents, Thorne thought there was a shelf. But on further examination he realised this was a tin, jammed into the recess. He pulled this out to reveal, wedged at the back of the alcove, a document wrapped in gold lace with a large wax seal that had been broken. He pulled the document out into the light and untied it, unfolding it flat on the floor.

It read in a large hand-written script.

‘Le Testament de Fredrick Thorne’

Suddenly an ear splitting scream came from downstairs. He quickly stuffed the tin and all the documents back into the recess including the money, except for the will and one bundle of cash, which he secreted in his tool bag. He then closed the door of the recess and swung the picture back into place just in time to hear the banging of feet charging up the stairs and to see his stepmother and Flora burst into the room.

‘What ‘ave you bloody done now Will?’ they both cried.

At first he didn’t know what to say. Had he been discovered? Had the picture swung away from the wall revealing what he’d been doing? He dared not look behind in case by doing so, he gave himself away.

‘You stupid fool!’ his stepmother shouted. ‘You’ve only gone and put a nail through a pipe! There’s water everywhere downstairs.’

He looked at the both of them, soaked in water. He had indeed hit a small copper pipe under the floorboards fed by a tank in the roof. Flora weeping, cried, ‘All my lovely clothes! I’ve just bleeding ironed them. They’re ruined, that’s what they are!’

‘Now see what you’ve done!’ his stepmother shouted. ‘You’ve upset Flora. You know how delicate she is! You’re good for nothing, that’s what you are. I can’t even give yer a simple task to do without you even mucking that up!’ she continued, adding a series of profanities.

He looked at them incredulously. Flora, her hair now frizzing up, being dried by her hot temper and the exertion of jumping up and down. His stepmother, wet through and dripping on the floor, while still shouting a string of abuse; attempting to try and calm Flora. Thorne looked at the two women and found the scene at first comical then suddenly hilarious. He could control himself no longer. He lost his balance and collapsed on the bed, shrieking with laughter. Flora continued to jump up and down in anger, and with one final jump she slipped in the puddle left by her mother and collapsed on the floor, legs in the air and started to bawl. Thorne now recovered, grabbed the tool bag off the bed and pushed past them.

‘And where do you think you’re bloody well going?’ Flora screamed, crumpled on the floor.

Thorne, who was half way down the stairs, stopped and called back.

‘Seeing as its raining downstairs I thought I might get you an umbrella!’

‘What did you say?’ she screamed.

Then, to a tirade of screams and further abuse, he pulled his soaked great coat off the banister, and taking the money and the will he’d hidden in the tool bag, he stuffed them both into his coat pockets, throwing the bag over the banister to splash heavily onto the floor below. He had at last walked out of their lives; this time for good.

Chapter 2

Thorne’s new freedom didn’t start at all well. It introduced him to a life of sleeping in empty doorways and walking the streets at night searching for work at the taverns.

Although he’d taken thirty pounds from his stepmother’s room, he felt no guilt. He guessed that some of the money had been for him anyway and suspected he was owed a lot more. But for now it was enough. He would find work and perhaps after a few weeks, buy a passage on a ship and leave behind all these bad memories. But not all memories would go so easily. His feet sometimes unwittingly took him towards Bell’s, a small wharf that had originally dealt mainly with deck cargo of all descriptions, but now found it more profitable to unload graphite and sugar cane transhipped from the West Indies. This was where his father had worked.

He would stand there looking through the old iron railings and beyond to the warehouses and sheds. Sometimes he could hear in his mind the sounds of the wharf; the shouts of warning as cargo was swung away from the ship’s derricks to be placed on the dockside and the neighing of the horses as they protested at pulling the over-laden carts. It was all another time; a generation long gone. Haunted by these echoes and realising he could never return to his past life, he would move quickly away. However, each evening he would return to this same spot and resume staring through the gates, dreaming. This was how he spent most evenings having exhausted all the local inns for the chance of employment. Eventually, his regular visits to the gate came to the notice of the night watchman, who, with cosh in hand and always prepared for trouble, came marching up to the main gate.

The wharf gates attracted a variety of human flotsam. The watchman would often have to endure the shouts and jeers of the local prostitutes, vagrants, and even thieves, who some nights, would try to climb the walls. He would sometimes find vagrants hidden in some corner or other, as they would often use the open warehouses as shelter for the night.

‘Go on, clear off!’ he shouted at Thorne, as he ran his cosh along the gates bars, making a descending musical clanging as he went. ‘What’s the matter with you? Keep coming down here! Go on clear off!’

Thorne needed these visits. This was his only link to a better time. It was like an anchor that pulled him back, time after time. Thorne was even tempted to start up a conversation with this man; to try to explain to him he meant no harm, how he was once connected to this place in better times, a boy coming through these gates with his father on a Friday night. The calls, the greetings, the jokes – a better life he’d known - all existed behind these gates.

The cosh running across the bars brought Thorne back to reality. He now stared at the man, finding no words to say. Instead he turned to walk away, but the watchman couldn’t resist one more jibe, one more insult before he disappeared.

‘There’s nothing here for your sort,’ he shouted. ‘Scum like you needs stringing up! If I had my way,’ he said, ‘your kind……’

Before the man realised what had happened, Thorne had jumped back at the gate, stretching his arms through the railings. Thorne was now in a wild frenzy, his temper almost out of control. He moved forward putting both his hands around the watchman’s throat, all thought and reasoning now gone.

‘Look here you little turd!’ Thorne screamed. ‘You want your way do you? Well if I had mine, I’d stick you and people like you on top of these gates and hang you upside down to see what nasty mess comes out!’

It was as if all the anger he now felt was captured in this one moment. The disappointments, the frustrations of his life had now erupted and were targeted at this man.

The man gasped under Thorne’s grip, going blue with the pressure of his fingers around his throat. He gurgled, unable to speak, dropping his cosh with a clatter on the cobbles and by doing so alerted the dog, asleep in the warm gatehouse. The ferocious beast sprang out and jumped at the gates, gnashing his teeth and tearing at Thorne’s coat, protruding through the bars. Its saliva dripping down its jaws as it wrestled the coat in its teeth, ripping it to shreds. Thorne broke his grip on the man and withdrew his arms through the bars, leaving the watchman gasping for breath, collapsing on the floor. The dog, still snarling and wrestling with his coat, held him against the bars as he tried to get free. Eventually Thorne pulled the coat free in one ripping tear leaving the remainder still between the dog’s teeth. The dog, realising that this was all he was going to get, stood there, chewing this fragment of coat into tiny pieces.

Thorne ran away from the gates, surprised at the anger still boiling inside him. The night watchman, now recovered, stood up on one knee, massaging his throat with one hand while pulling out a brass whistle from his jacket with the other. Then he placed it in his mouth, blowing as hard as he could, causing his face to go red with the exertion and the veins of his neck to protrude out. A high shrill sounded out and Thorne ran faster.

He ran without knowing where he was going, until his breath failed and he collapsed, bent double against a wall, gasping. It was then that fate decided to lend a hand. It took the form of a dark empty street, not chosen nor recognised, just a street like any other, offering no clue as to where he was. After finally catching his breath he lifted himself up and looked around.

In front of him he saw a dark alleyway and at its end, an ale house. Even from where he stood he could hear a commotion going on. Glass breaking, shouts, cheering - all mixed together in one crescendo.

Thorne walked down the alley towards the noise. On either side, there was a row of old dilapidated terraced houses, with semi-basements, guarded by spiked railings that led up three steps to the front door. Many of the windows were either boarded up or smeared with dirt collected over the years; unclean and neglected.

The windows he could see through, revealed dim candle light where some sort of human life existed, with only the slightest attempt at privacy provided by old potato sacking fashioned into curtains and hung over the windows.

The houses, although neglected, were of a good structure but appeared silent and sad as though they had fallen under a spell, waiting to be woken up in the distant future.

The alley had once been part of a busy high street with a thoroughfare of shops buzzing with life. Poor planning and lack of foresight had turned it into a cul-de-sac, cutting it off from the busy high street leaving it forgotten and neglected, and with that neglect, a sceptic boil had grown in it midst; a cheaply constructed building of ugly proportions, used as a quick solution for blocking the street. This was now Thorne’s destination.

The building seemed to have gone through many changes with various faded signs either painted directly on the walls or affixed to wooden boards that had long forgotten the reason why they were there. Even an old blacksmith’s sign on rusted chains still hung over the front of the building, belying the building’s present use. The current sign, only distinguishable because of its brighter paint, read, more as a statement than a sign Grey’s Beer House.

Thorne now stood by a pair of brown painted doors that seemed to be moving slightly in and out, reflecting the commotion carrying on inside.

Suddenly, with a great jolt, the doors burst open and out tumbled three men locked together, all shouting, and swearing, with fists flying. The men were locked in an embrace that made it impossible to strike each other. It was comical to watch as they danced around the alley, their heads down, each trying to trip each other as they circled around.

Thorne drew near and recognised one of the men as Mickey Thompson a dock master at Black’s Wharf, who had been a friend of his late father.

Thorne, without any sign of anger or malice, walked up to nearest man and drove his knee into the small of his back, causing him to gasp in pain. The man instantly released his grip on the other and swung a wide punch at Thorne, who expecting nothing else, ducked down, allowing his opponent’s fist to sweep the empty air, before rising up again to land his own fist squarely on the man’s jaw, sending him down with one hit. Thorne pushed Mickey aside, sending him toppling; just as a knife wielded low came sweeping in his direction. Thorne used his boot to kick the knife away, causing it spin out of the man’s grip and clatter to the ground. In the same movement, he struck his fist at the man’s stomach, causing him to gasp and bend low, and with the other, he struck a clean blow to the chin, sending him down to lie motionless on the floor.

With just one hand around his collar, he lifted Mickey up off the ground and stood him back on his feet. Mickey, whose nose was bleeding and with an ever darkening puffed eye, stared at Thorne in amazement.

‘Well, Father in heaven,’ he exclaimed in his broad Irish accent, ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Where’s here Mickey?’ Thorne asked, peering inside the doors of the beer house.

‘Plumstead, so it is. Have ya lost your way by any chance, lad?’

Thorne looked cautiously around.

‘You could say that,’ he replied.

‘Let’s be going then, before these two wakes up and calls for more of Grey’s thugs or you may have to do that all over again Will.’

Mickey was a small man in his early forties with fair hair going grey at the sides and temple. He had raised eyebrows and slanted blue eyes that gave his features a permanent look of suppressed laughter and to compliment this, were his thin lips, which were slightly off centre, creating a permanent smile.

‘Oi!’ a gruff voice bellowed up behind them.

They turned to see a squat figure of a man calling out to them. This was Billy Grey, the owner of Grey’s Beer House. He was standing in the alley, waving at them. At first they took no notice and continued walking away, however Grey still bellowed at them.

‘C-c-come back,’ he stuttered ‘It’s all right. I just need to sp-sp-speak to yer!’

Grey had suffered from stuttering as a boy and had experienced the cruel bullying and fun-taking dished out to him. He had grown up to pay back that bullying by organising one of the most dangerous gangs in South East London. Now nobody made fun of Billy Grey anymore.

They increased their pace, ignoring Grey’s shouts and almost began to run when suddenly they saw four men entering the alley, blocking their only exit out to the street. Mickey quickly glanced around looking back at Grey, then gripping Thorne’s arm, pulled him up to a stop.

‘Come on Will,’ Mickey said. ‘It should be alright. We might as well see what it is that Grey wants!’

Thorne was still unsure, so Mickey appealed to him again.

‘Come on. If he wanted to bash us about a bit, he’d no need to ask, had he?’

Thorne looked at the four men standing in the alley, working out the odds, then he turned and strolled back to where Grey was standing, followed by Mickey who came running up behind.

Grey grinned at them as they approached. He stood slouched against a wall; his grey tricorne hat pulled to one side, an open necked shirt with a stud still hanging down; the collar long departed. He smoked a black cheroot that protruded from one corner of his mouth. A silver watch chain hung through an eye of his waistcoat and wound its way into a small slit pocket, where his thumb now rested.

‘You seem very handy with your fists lad!’ he said.

Thorne looked at Grey but gave no reply. Undaunted Grey continued.

‘Su-su-suppose I was to offer you a place here doing wh-wh-what you just did, would you be interested? Seeing as I’ve a vacancy now!’

Thorne gave no reply and looked back at the four men who had now stopped a few paces back. He gave them a look that warned, come no nearer. He then turned back to Grey.

‘What happened to your last man?’ Thorne asked warily.

‘That’s him on the fl-fl-floor!’

Grey grinned as he pointed at the groaning man spread out in the alley.

‘You get board, lodgings, pl-pl-plenty of drink and …’

He sniffed. Then leaning close, he cupped his hand over Thorne’s ear and whispered.

‘And a bit of money on the s-s-side. If you know what I mean?’

Grey then winked at him, clearly awaiting a reaction but when none came, he drew himself up again looking displeased, but undaunted he exclaimed, ‘It’s not a bad place this’.

He turned to look up at the building as though its outside facia would so impress that this would close the deal. He waited for a few seconds more then sensing that this tack hadn’t worked either, he continued in another vane.

‘S-s-sometimes in here they’re as quiet as mice and s-s-sometimes, I admit,’ he said, looking down at the man on the floor, ‘they ain’t! Isn’t that right, Mickey?’

Mickey gulped in surprise at being invited into the conversation.

‘That’s right Mr Grey.’

Grey took out his watch, a gold hunter with a brilliant white dial, edged in gold and with black ebony hands; a diamond was used as a marker for each hour. They sparkled, even in the dull light of the alley. Mickey stared at the watch with interest. It was clearly made of gold and beautifully crafted, probably French made around 1780.

Mickey was an expert. He’d fenced many fine watches looted by soldiers taken as booty during the wars and suspected that this watch had been one of them. Grey saw Mickey taking too much interest in the watch so he snapped it shut, placing it back into his pocket without another glance.

‘Let’s say eight on Monday evening, shall we?’

Thorne stared through the doors of the beer house, and smelt the sweet musty smell of stale beer, emanating from the dark murky interior. He knew that smell. This was part of his world, why should he reject it now?

He looked back at Grey and nodded.

‘Good!’ said Grey beaming.

Grey spat on his hand and held it out to Thorne.

‘That’s settled then,’ said Grey shaking Thorne’s hand.

At that he turned around and walked through the beer house doors and was gone.

Mickey, accompanied by Thorne, led the way back down the alley, deliberately pushing past the men who had previously blocked it. It was clear that these men would have liked to make something of this with Thorne, but they were wary of Grey’s reaction, so let them pass unmolested. There would be time to deal with Thorne when Grey wasn’t around.

‘You want to watch yourself there, Will,’ Mickey said. ‘Grey’s a nasty bit of work, so he is. Cross him and he’ll as soon as cut your throat!’

They reached the end of the alley and stopped, Thorne wondering what to do next. Mickey looked at this dishevelled figure standing there and grinned.

‘Do you want to wash up at my place, before you start there Will?’

Thorne looked back at Mickey, pleased with the offer but then thought about what his wife might have to say on the subject.

‘If that’s all right with Mary,’ Thorne replied.

‘Oh, to be sure, she won’t mind. She’ll be away to her bed when we get back tonight, so just kip out on the rug downstairs. We’ll sort out everything in the morning. Mind you, don’t you go telling her I’ve been at Grey’s; she’s not at all keen on the place!’

Thorne laughed, knowing that one look at Mickey’s eye would tell her exactly where he’d been. Mickey read his thoughts.

‘Oh no, this will be down by the morning. She won’t notice a thing!’

The next day was Sunday and the docks were closed so everyone took extra time in bed, enjoying the sleep they had missed out on during the week. At about eight, Mickey’s wife got up, and still half asleep in her dressing gown, she came slowly down the stairs. She was not a pretty sight. A night cap was positioned over her head. Its long pointed pommel, having come loose, was now dangling between her eyes. It swung freely from side to side, occasionally getting caught in her tangled hair that also hung loose over her face, having been released from a bun that had tied it back only the day before.

She dragged her feet into the living room and yawned. Then she gasped as she saw Thorne asleep on the rug. Mary knew his family well and heard he’d finally left that crazy house and she fully understood why, but she was still shocked by his appearance. She looked down on him still sleeping and remembered him as boy, full of enthusiasm for life and here he was, now crumpled up on her carpet, destitute. That stepmother of his was to blame of course. While his father was alive that boy was his shining light. It was her that drove his father to drink; that woman and her daughter. He should never have remarried. Mary quickly concluded that Mickey had found him wandering somewhere last night and brought him home.

‘To be sure, what a fine mess you’re in,’ she said, prodding Thorne in the back with her bare foot. ‘I heard ya’d left home three weeks ago. Now will you look at yer! You’ve been living rough, so ya have!’ she scolded.

Thorne looked up, rubbing his eyes, to see Mary standing over him. He swallowed hard and cleared his throat.

‘Mickey said I could stay here last night, if that’s alright with you Mary?’

‘Oh, he did now!’ she growled.

Mary then frowned, crossed her arms and pointed towards the back garden.

‘Will ya go out the back and wash-up, Will. Mickey will be joining you shortly.’

Thorne obeyed and left Mary in the kitchen, noticing that Mary had shut the door hard behind him. He found his way to the outside wash house and was about to open the door when he heard a cry from one of the bedroom windows above. Mary, having returned to the bedroom to find Mickey still asleep, felt it time he woke up. He heard her voice drift down to him.

‘Are ya asleep, my pet?’ she said, moving close to his ear.

Mickey turned over and gave Mary a self-satisfied smile.

‘Well take that then!’ And with this remark, she lifted a glass of water from the bedside table and poured it straight over his head.

Mickey gave out a scream and bolted upright in the bed.

‘Jesus woman, what did you go and do that for?’ he shouted still dazed, water dripping down his face, his night shirt soaked.

‘Next time ya bring guests home, I’d like to look presentable,’ she yelled back. ‘Now get yourself down those stairs and join yer friend and get washed up or else!’

‘Or else what?’ Mickey said, now standing by the bed trying to look ferocious, his male pride dented by this wanton act by Mary.

Mary walked around the bed and squared up to Mickey, putting her hand down to his crotch, squeezing it firmly, with a grin on her face.

‘Perhaps ya didn’t hear what I said, Mickey?’ she growled. Mickey, now changing colour from pink to a pale blue, controlled by Mary’s grip, nodded enthusiastically, spluttering a reply, ‘Anything you say Mary, dear.’

‘And don’t think I haven’t noticed that black eye of yours. I suppose you’ve been down to Grey’s again!’

Thorne had just finished in the wash house when he was joined by Mickey, looking somewhat distraught.

‘Anything wrong?’ Thorne asked, looking strangely at Mickey.

‘Oh I just had to put me foot down and tell her that if I want to bring people home, then it’s none of her business. A man needs to be the boss in his own home,’ he said sternly.

‘I haven’t caused you any problems, have I Mickey?’ Thorne asked.

‘No, everything’s grand,’ exclaimed Mickey. ‘It’s all settled now.’

Suddenly Mary’s voice came through the opening in the door. ‘I put clean towels in there yesterday Mickey, so don’t you go