Blood Diary

By Antonio Jesus Fuentes Garcia

As the city of London began to recover from the terrible crimes that took place three years ago, a bizarre murder set off alarm bells at Scotland Yard. William Brassey, inspector of the police is forced to keep it secret, but letters sent by the killer and the discovery of a mysterious diary will bring a new approach to the investigation. Brassey goes in search of John Nesbit, a policeman cut off from his job and addicted to drinking and slums from the underworld. No one knows the mind of this type of assassin better than Nesbit, but will he be able to dive back into the game of a new assassin?, has "The Monster" returned or is he a simple impersonator? Nesbit must go in search of its past trying not to lose touch with the present. A harrowing journey that will take us into the most absolute decadence of the emerging city of London.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Antonio Jesus Fuentes Garcia
• Release date: Aug 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9781667410975

Book preview

Prologue

London, year 1891

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The night was truly unpleasant. A fine rain endlessly drenched the sloping roofs of the houses, and a thick fog swept the streets turning them into a sea of white cotton. The cobblestone street shone because of the rain, which made venturing into it even more dangerous than usual.

Dorset Street was not London's most visited street, let alone at that time of night. The absence of lanterns, its heist rate, and its dangerously wet cobblestones made anyone stand by. 

One figure emerged from the night trying to protect himself from the annoying rain that was almost constantly falling in London. His passage was propped by his left leg, which he dragged like a dead weight behind his body. A broad overcoat completely covered his body, and a narrow bowler concealed his fledgling baldness. He circled the corner of White's Row and waited hunched under a portal that someone had forgotten to close.

Within a few minutes a sound of hooves resounded over the slippery cobblestones, and a black carriage appeared at full speed. The man who had been waiting in the portal left his makeshift shelter and walked to the place where the car had stopped its crazy path. The horses, as black as the carriage, snorted uneasily blowing out thick clouds of steam.

The man in the overcoat turned his nervous head to one side and the other, making sure no one was watching him. His dead leg made it quite difficult for him to pass. The stones polished by the years of the roadway, had made him fall on more than one occasion.

When he reached the height of the carriage, he put his hands under the trench coat and pulled out a vermilion-colored box from his soggy clothes. A gloved hand in leather appeared through the narrow window of the carriage, making gestures of impatience, indicating the man to approach. The figure moved and faced the black vehicle like night.

Sir, I'm playing with my life. That man's voice was even more unpleasant than the night. You know that if someone...

The hand pressed him again, and the man handed him the box, which was the size of a tobacconist stream of cigars. Again, that voice, like a fabric tear.

Now it's up to you to do your part.  That voice was really on edge, the owner of his gloved hand thought.

Almost the same moment that man finished saying those words, a Rémington Double Derringer peeked out the window. The weapon, too small for that hand covered in leather, was comical, but lethal from that distance.

The detonation was deafening, bursting in the face of the man in the overcoat, and throwing him several meters through the air. It was hard to believe that such a weapon, normally used by prostitutes hidden in their garters, could produce such a wreck.

Before that son of a bitch's body hit the ground, the black car was already going through the thick fog. Inside, a hand freed itself from its leather prey, which was the glove, and slowly opened the pink wine-colored box. There rested a small book of worn pages. A small cloud of steam escaped from the passenger's mouth of the carriage, as he groaned with pleasure.

Chapter 1

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Despite the officers' containment measures, a small crowd had gathered around the body found that morning. Murders in that part of London were quite common, but that didn't make the curious give up from taking a morbid look at the bodies.

A fine rain dampened London relentlessly, which, coupled with the usual everlasting haze of September, forced passers-by to close the thick tweed barges tightly.

Among the group of onlookers, a narrow corridor slowly opened, and from it a figure spred up to the eyebrows in an old sack layer. When he reached the crime scene, he opened his coat and removed a small pocket from his vest, a thin pipe. He kneaded the tobacco between his thick fingers and put it inside the pipe. He brought the tinder closer unhurriedly, and the tobacco began to crackle until dense white smoke arose.

Well, what do we have here? the words reluctantly emerged from his mouth.

One shot sir, one of the younger guards replied. In the face. It was with a Derringer, we think.

The smoke from the pipe escaped through the man's dense moustache and melted with thick fog.

A Derringer, double-barreled?

Yes, sir.

I see. He gave a long puff of the pipe and left his yellowing teeth in sight. Pick up the body and transfer it to the morgue.

He closed his already very old-fashioned coat again and left the place without saying another word.

Sir, but what do we do with...

Cover that son of a bitch for God's sake! He snorted by taking on the guard. And get all these people out of here!

But...

Agent, do as I say.

His voice had become glacial.

The boy hurried to flee that guy's sight by giving orders to his comrades to cover the body.

Another strong pipe suck, and the plump figure was lost inside a dark brown carriage.

Is it him, Inspector? asked a voice from the gloom of the carriage.

Bah, it's a matter about whores.

Chapter 2

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Scotland Yard was a hotbed that morning. Brassey misled the young guards, while Edward Shaw, the chief inspector of the CO (central office) sweat copiously under his pristine three-piece marengo-grey suit. It was only two months before Shaw left active duty as a representative of Scotland Yard, so he didn't want last-minute complications.

Brassey! Shaw roared, Come here immediately!

Sergeant William Brassey expelled small volutes of steam from his nose, and his bald head shone because of the agitation. Hearing his superior's call, he left a pack of crumpled papers on the table and went to Shaw's small office.

Sit down, Sergeant, Shaw said irritatedly, and close that door!

Brassey did as he was told and took a seat on one of the wrists of two fluffy armchairs that dominated the office.

Sergeant, you know I'm retiring in December, don't you? He went on without waiting for an answer. I want to leave without big goodbyes, but not with any burden left on my shoulders either.

Sir, I don't know what car...

Sergeant, how is it that a member of the nobility has been shot in the face?

Brassey's eyes turned blank, and he sighed more vigorously than he would have wanted. That sigh infuriated the inspector.

What's the matter, you think I'm boring, Sergeant? Shaw's face was starting to turn purple. Because if so...

I'm sorry, sir, but I wasn't a member of the nobility.

Ah no, and what do you call Lord Bernard Ellis.

The guy was a servant of Mr. Ellis, not a member of his family, Brassey knew he shouldn't contradict his boss, but that was above him. Besides, that poor bastard died for reasons... let's say less noble.

What do you mean, less noble?

A matter about whores.

The chief inspector's face changed from red to purple, and from purple to pale. He sprawled out in his dejected chair and tied his thick moustache.

Sergeant, for three years, when that son of... that butcher..., the powers that be have asked for my head, and now that I'm leaving. The voice broke in his throat. Brassey, I don't want games; I want my name cleaned by the time I get out of this miserable mousetrap.

Sir, the murder was committed on Dorset Street, very close to the shipyards. That's a dirty district full of prostitutes and troublemakers.

And what about it?

The shot was fired with a Rémington Double Derringer. We know it from the heinous wounds that the dead man's face suffered. That's the gun that whores keep under their garters.

Brassey, I want you to tell it personally to Mr. Ellis.

Why? That's what we have the people of...

It is vitally important that you do so. The inspector's tone hardened. The Lord has insisted very much on a thorough investigation of the case.

I don't understand why...

Stop fooling around and go to Lord Ellis' house. It is located on Oxford Street.

Sergeant Brassey left Scotland Yard's newly opened headquarters to head to that damn nobleman's mansion. He called a carriage and gave the driver the address.

I hope that aristocratic squeamishness doesn't mortify me too much, he complained.

Excuse me? The coachman said.

I said go ahead.

The carriage was lost with a loud sound of hooves down the newly cobbled Union Street Avenue.

Chapter 3

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The recent expansion of the mansion had not disrupted the old outbuildings at all. That's what its owner had specified. The reforms had been concluded only for the construction of the north and south wings. It had been difficult to find employees, as the last finishes of the Tower Bridge kept the workers quite busy.  That bridge had indeed been leading London engineers, head on for more than five years.

The gloved hand hit the lever behind a luxurious painting of Paul Gauguin's The Annunciation. He didn't like that particular painting, but he created some admiration among his guests.

The wall, behind the oil, opened and showed access to a narrow corridor. It was amazing how the house seemed newly built, and yet within it, in its deepest bowels, a myriad of corridors and rooms had been winding for more than a century. London's humidity was evident in those in the mansion. The walls excavated directly from the rock of the subsoil, oozed raindrops that surfaced on the paving in the corridor.

Every time he entered the narrow twists and turns of the house, he felt acute pain in his bones, a reason for his growing rheumatism, but still enjoyed the solitude of the cold and dark corridors, which only he knew.

At the end of one of the galleries stood a imposing portico that gave access to an arcade decorated with hundreds of balustrades. There, at the end, a wrought iron gate covered in rust stood majestically. He inserted a heavy key and entered the room. On a heavy cedar wood lectern a book had been resting open for more than a century. He came up to it and breathed in its scent. A groan of pleasure escaped from his bowels, from the depths of his being.

Don't worry, my friend, you're with me now, whispered a hoarse, broken voice.

Chapter 4

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William Brassey had been waiting in the spacious living room for more than twenty minutes, gradually he was running out of patience. At first, he entertained himself by looking at the rococo furniture of the mansion, but that had ceased to interest him many minutes ago.

The sergeant approached an ancient chair with claw-shaped feet and gave it a slight kick.

Nice, isn't it?

The voice came from behind his back. The sergeant couldn't help but be startled; he could have sworn that a few seconds earlier there was no one with him in the spacious living room.

What do you mean?

The chair. It is a beautiful masterpiece made by Thomas Chippendale in 1750. The melifluous and melodious voice continued the explanation. It’s made of walnut and was one of the first models to use wooden backrests.

Beautiful.

It's part of my heritage.

A man in his fifties descended the last steps of the staircase and strolled gracefully through the extensive hall.

This sideboard, for example, was the work of William Vile, he continued to put his thin hand in a voluminous cupboard full of cornices and garlands. It was a crownbanist from 1750 to 1760. I hold it in high esteem since it was a gift from my grandfather, Robert.

Lovely, but I'm afraid I'm not here to talk about furniture, Brassey twisted his quite beaten-up hat between his hairy hands.

Of course, I'm afraid so, in the Lord's voice there was a halt of disappointment, and Brassey thought he also sensed contempt. I suppose you're here for my dear Fenton.

That's right. Fenton was shot in the face...

Take a seat.

What do you mean?

If you would be so kind, take a seat.

For a moment Brassey opened his mouth to say something, but in the end, he chose one of the armchairs elegantly upholstered in red velvet. It was quite fluffy, so the sergeant's plump body sank comically.

Lord Ellis chose one of the chairs. He crossed his legs in a pretentious way and sighed deeply.

You know, Sergeant, the truth is that I've been suspicious of business for a long time, let's say... Fenton's murkiness. He was an extremely helpful man, but devoid of ways. Well, you can expect from an Irishman!

Was Fenton Irish?

Unfortunately, yes, Bernard Ellis took a hand theatrically to his forehead. His family arrived in England in 1830, when Fenton was only nine years old.

Lord Ellis's mellow way of expressing himself was getting Brassey on his nerves. You could tell that guy was well paid. The sergeant was just getting sick of listening to him.

For years I've taken it out of some little... grievance, but nothing special.

Did Fenton have enemies?

Not that I know of.

What business were those murky ones?

Drinking, the hand-to-forehead gesture came back again. You know, he was Irish!

Well Lord Ellis, the thing is, Fenton died from a gunshot wound to the face. The weapon used was a Derringer, like the ones prostitutes use.

For a moment Brassey believed that Ellis was going to faint, but the Lord recomposed himself with visible effort.

I would never have believed it!

The thing is, that's how it occurred, the sergeant got up. And now I must leave, Lord Ellis. If you need anything, just get in touch with Scotland Yard.

Brassey left the mansion, sighing and groaning over Lord Ellis. The sergeant really hated the nobles.

Chapter 5

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The night was really turning into torture. Her feet hurt, and the corset wouldn't let her breathe like the other nights. She had been feeling well for a few days, but until now she had blamed her ailments on the hard work, she had that week. They had really increased their customers quite a bit, but that night, not even one appeared.

She walked a little further along Tower Bridge, trying to reduce the size of her feet inside those hideous purple shoes. How her feet hurt!

During her hard-working walk, she crossed into some of her fellow professionals, but none of them even looked her in the face. When she reached one of the bridge's huge fastening beams, she observed the gigantic pulley above it, and sighed that the works would finally be finished. That bridge left the workers exhausted during the day, and at night they preferred to sleep with their women.

She made her way back and went down to the main streets. She called one of the cabriolets who performed the shuttle service at those times, but none of them decided to pick her up. Mary knew it wasn't at all well seen that a woman took a cabriolet alone, let alone at that hour, but well, she was a prostitute, who gave her more than they thought! Apparently, the coachmen didn't think the same way.

Suddenly a dark-knit coach appeared like the same night and stood next to her. It wasn't showing any identification, and that was mandatory for a Hackney Coach. In the driver’s seat, the uniformed coachman looked ahead, as if she wasn't there. What the hell, she hadn't earned a penny that night, and the point car would cost her only a shilling, not the eight of the cabrioles!

The heavy petticoats rose to her knees, and the two steps that separated her from the inside of the vehicle climbed with difficulty. As soon as she climbed, the coachman tied the whip, and the two horses began to gallop.

Chapter 6

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Brassey felt the air escape from his battered lungs when he arrived at the crime scene. A shiver sensation swept through his spine, and almost mechanically he took out some tobacco, and ground it between his plump fingers. He didn't feel like smoking, quite the opposite, but doing something so familiar injected him with a little sanity.

The victim was lying on a corner on Fieldgate Street connecting to busy Greenfield Street. It was impossible for anyone to have seen anything!

The sergeant approached very slowly even a man who worked laboriously crouched on the corpse.

What do we have, Hope?

The man looked up, but unanswered turned and continued with what he was doing. Brassey thought he hadn't listened to him until Hope spoke quietly, almost a whisper.

Chilling.

What do you mean?

This murder, it's creepy.

Tell me something Hope for God’s sake! Brassey noticed her body being removed inside.

Sergeant, the victim is a Caucasian woman. From her clothes I guess she worked at night. The coroner refused to pronounce the word prostitute. The body is... ‘sectioned’.

Sectioned?

That's what I said, her head has been cut off, he said, scratching his chin, staining a little dry blood. Well, maybe not quite.

Explain yourself, Hope!

They tried to rip her head off, but the traffic stopped him, he breathed in. She also has small cuts on arms, legs and abdomen, but the most interesting thing is...

Hope, I swear on my badge that if you continue with this halo of mystery, I’ll downgrade you as corpse makeup artist. Brassey couldn't take that bad omen anymore.

What I'm saying is, her bladder's been removed.

The...bladder, the sergeant gaped without being able to pronounce a word.

Completely, but I'm afraid it won't do you much good. It's been a pretty rough job. If the killer was looking to get a game out of him, he'll have a shattered organ.

So, no one would want a woman's bladder!

The thing is, he cut her skin with some knife, but thick enough to tear the stolen organ.

Brassey had had enough; he didn't want to listen anymore. He gave instructions to cover the body and continue the exploration at the Scotland Yard offices. He filled his pipe, and with energetic sucks he walked away from that place.

An idea incircled his head, but he tried to throw it away. He got in the police car, and when the horse hooves echoed in the damp streets of London, a single phrase occupied his thoughts: It could not be him.

Chapter 7

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The Bell was not a tavern to his liking, but all the others had already closed. After his time at The Feathers, The Green Man, The Old Hats and The Half-Way House, only The Bell remained. Not that John Nesbit cared much where, he just wanted to keep drinking.

The rough tavern owner looked badly at the man as he leaned on the filthy, sticky wooden bar. A raised finger indicated that Nesbit wanted a pint, which was served in an unpleasant manner. He raised the huge glass, and one drink left it empty. After a slight shudder and a wobble, he asked for another one.

Hey drunk, you got money on you? the owner wasn't in the job of trusting any undesirables.

Nesbit pulled a handful of pennies out of his ragged vest and threw them at the counter without looking at the frowning owner. After that demonstration, he continued to drink alone without being disturbed.

After several jugs of warm beer, Nesbit called the bartender again, and asked for a glass of brandy. The owner observed that guy's deep degree of intoxicity and refused to serve him. The drunk stood up at his tallest, which was more than ninety meters and threw another handful of pence in clear defiance. The bartender walked away with the coins inside his clenched fist and returned with a bottle containing a brown liquid.

All I have left is Grog, added the bartender leaving the bottle in front of Nesbit.

It's good for me.

A slight dizziness almost made the guy's bones hit the ground, but at the last moment the drunken bounced back. He grabbed the bottle of Grog, and half-filled his pint. It was amazing that a liquor invented for sailors like Grog served in taverns as the best of liquors. Nesbit knew that liquor was held in such high esteem in London for being created by a British admiral, but from there to producing a product made from hot water and rum seemed far-fetched. Anyway, the British always with their patriotism, besides, he served anything that carried alcohol.

Suddenly a murmur grew among the drunken parishioners like vats crowding the filthy tables of The Bell. A sort of corridor opened in the crowd as someone entered the bowels of the filthy tavern. Nesbit returned to the warmth of his glass of Grog. He didn't care at all who had entered the tavern creating that stir, he just wanted to keep drinking until he lost consciousness.

John Nesbit! cried out a voice behind his back.

The man didn't even bat an eye. He reached out to the bottle and poured another long drink into the dirty glass.

Nesbit, I'm talking to you! the voice had been tinged with barely contained rage.

I'm busy, he replied without looking away from the dirty glass.

I see it, getting drunk!

That's none of your business. Words were jammed in his mouth.

You’d do us a great favor if you decided to join us.

The man turned around, and first contemplated his interlocutor. A bald, some overweight man looked at him with aversion after an entourage of several agents.

Who wants to know, if I may ask.

Scotland Yard.

What am I accused of.

Nothing... We'd be very grateful if you could give us a few minutes.

Speak.

You'd better come with us, the man asked.

If you have nothing against me, I ask you to leave me alone.

A second later one of the guards approached the bar and held Nesbit by the forearm. With a quick wrist movement, the drunk got rid of the prey they exerted on him and knocked the guard with a particular blow to the temple. With two more moves, he knocked out the other two guards who had come to his partner's aid. A little dazed, he faced the plump man who looked like the boss and urged him to fight.

I didn't come all this way to fight you, the guy turned around and walked away. I just wanted to inform you that He’s back. If you want to know more, look for Brassey at the Scotland Yard offices.

That said, the man disappeared down the lame stairs of the tavern that led to the street. The guards rose with gestures of pain and disappeared after their superior.

Nesbit stood for quite a while looking down the stairs where those guys had disappeared. He seemed dazed, more than usual. He turned very slowly and began again to fill the glass with amber liqueur.

That night he lost consciousness like any other night, but this time the drink failed to take certain thoughts away from his head. Did that guy really tell the truth, he'd come back? It couldn't possibly be him, that was impossible.

Chapter 8

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Edward Shaw was sweating copiously and looked as pale as wax. That morning he had not put on his classic three pieces, but had witnessed the vest, which instead had been replaced with an old jacket.

Thousands of papers were piled up in a messy way at his office table, and for a moment he thought about throwing them on the floor and trampling them. Just two months ago, it was the only phrase he kept repeating that morning. Even his signature cigarettes brought expressly from Spain couldn't cheer him up. In addition, those fine cylinders were already running out, he would have to call tobacco again in Valencia to request a new order.

The chief inspector pulled out flaunt forces and re-released the cardboard-wrapped report waiting on his table. It was unbelievable that the same thing happened again, and two months after his retirement! He jumped out of the chair like a spring and poked his head out of his office door.

Brassey! he said, somebody call Sergeant Brassey right now!

After a minute, the sergeant appeared in the white chief inspector's office as the mother-of-pearl.

Sergeant, take a seat Shaw's tone was authoritarian, but with a stop of anguish. Please tell me you have something new.

I'm sorry, sir, but we don't know more than we knew yesterday.

The inspector's face wrinkled in a grimace of disgust.

Brassey, we must resolve this issue before the press echoes the news. That new editor who took over the Times wants blood, and he keeps harassing me.

We're working every hour of the day, sir, but...

What's the matter, Sergeant?

Murders are, like to say... are a mystery, the agent said. They don't follow any patterns, the victims seem randomly chosen, and we have no indication as to who may be committing them.

We have to do something right away, Sergeant, in Shaw's tone, there was an urgent tone of begging.

I have several agents touring Tower Bridge, day and night. Prostitutes are easy prey for the killer, and most of them are concentrated there. In addition, a coroner analyzes the bodies methodically trying to add some clue that tells us where to go. Brassey took a deep breath. I've also tried to ask for collaboration... External.

External, I don't understand.

Nesbit, Sir.

Sergeant, you're crazy, you're a drunk!

I know, sir, but if the killer is who we believe, there is no one who knows more about his way of acting than he does.

Shaw put his hand under his chin and pondered the sergeant's words. John Nesbit had indeed become an expert in such murders, but on the other hand, he had been out of uniform for three years, and he had also become a drunk, a stripper of society in which he previously participated actively. Shaw knew him well, for several years he had worked under his command, and he had to admit that he was one of the best agents he had ever had, but that was already part of history. Nesbit had succumbed to the worst that could happen to an agent, the feeling of guilt. He had never been able to get over that case, and now he drank to be meaningless in bad-ass taverns and bars. No, he couldn't stand that man re-entering Scotland Yard.

Sorry Brassey, but Nesbit's trick is unworkable.

Sir, we don't have to deny him entry, he didn't want to collaborate.

Better this way. Sergeant, continue the search for that killer, and for God's sake, find him at once!

Brassey left the chief inspector's office and took the road directly to La Morgue.

Chapter 9

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John Nesbit felt a bitter, metallic aftertaste in his mouth. He opened his eyes slowly, and a glimpse of nausea went up from his throat to his mouth. He held her, and mechanically rose from the dirty, sticky bed where he had slept. He was no stranger to wake up in the unfested rooms of the dirty slums where he got drunk, but still, he felt disoriented and lost almost always.

He continued the ritual he employed in such situations, which almost always began with a slight bath. He then tidied his clothes—as far as they could be tidied—and had a succinct breakfast in the inn's dining room.

To their surprise, The Bell's dining room had nothing to do with the dirty tavern, as they had arranged rye bread toast, and some bowls of raspberry sauce. Next to it smoked a large teapot, from which came an excellent smell of fruit tea. In the center of the table, they had arranged several cheese sandwich dishes and fine slices of meat.

Nesbit enjoyed a delicious breakfast without anyone bothering him. Just as he wiped his lips with a threaded napkin, a plump woman with a bonnet appeared through the kitchen door. For a second her face showed a sign of surprise, but instantly afterwards she transformed into a sweet smile.

Was breakfast to your liking, Sir?

Everything was excellent, thank you.

The man got up, put a few more pennies in the palm of her plump hand, and swallowed his cup of tea at once.

I hope that's enough to pay for the room and the food. Nesbit's smile widened.

Oh yes, it's more than enough! on the chubby cheeks of her broad face stood out a wide denture. Thank you, sir, come back anytime.

The inn's stairs were the same as those at the tavern, and when he climbed through them to the hazy surface of London, Nesbit couldn't help but think of the conversation the night before with Scotland Yard agents. He shook his head and decided that he should make sure the agent's words were not true. If he'd come back, he had to know.

He swirled into his shred cloak and walked slowly among the morning tumult of the crowded Brick Lane Street.

*****

Brassey felt uneasy inside that mass of stone and mortar that was the morgue. He had been living in London for more than three years, but even if he put on several warm clothes, he could not reduce the cold that took hold of his bones almost continuously. That feeling of endless cold was greatly amplified as he entered La Morgue. The stone walls, of a rigorous straw grey, the tiled floor, impeccably bright, and the unbearable smell of disinfectant products, were nothing compared to the immense cold that enclosed between the walls of that place of death.

A couragious warehouse security employee led the sergeant for ten minutes through an endless network of corridors and aisles with hundreds of doors closed and gloomy. Brassey had already walked those corridors at least a dozen times, but he believed he would never get used to the huge void that took hold of him when he walked through them.

They arrived at a very bright metal door, which served for the autopsy of the corpses, and which the sergeant knew to spare, the third visit he made in less than a week would not be in vain.

The guard seized the shooter, and crossed his way with his wide, enduring equine smile. Brassey was prepared to find himself an open corpse, for the intense cold, or the raw lights that seemed to bathe the room in a bluish color, but he would never have imagined finding the scene that came as long as he entered the marble-scented room.

Chapter 10

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The sanity he had maintained for years was slipping through the cracks of his brain. He knew it, so he decided to calm down and take things more sparingly. The pages of the old book passed under his nose without him understanding a word of them. The writing of the last pages was almost illegible, a sign that it had been hastily elaborated. The ideas, which were so familiar to him, had been embodied by simple drawings and explanatory footnotes, but most importantly, the purpose of that book had been causing his insomnia for more than three years, slipped into his own eyes.  It couldn't be; it had to be there. The missing piece had to be hidden somewhere in those pages, but it was too difficult. For the moment finding the key was trivial, the book was his, and before carrying out the final part, he still had to close a lot of matters. Until now he was having a hard time doing it as needed, but he understood that lack of activity played a crucial aspect, he would end up doing better, for sure. The gaps created in his memories, and which had made him lose part of his life, had also affected the notes of that book, but in the end, he would wind up remembering.

The cold in the basement was starting to cramp his bones, so he decided to leave it for that day. He climbed through shadows and dirty walls covered in a patina of mold and decided that night he would go out and play through the misty London streets.

****

The Green Man Tavern was almost completely empty, so the bartender decided it was enough for that day. He picked up some glasses half-finished from above the bar and began to climb the old chairs above the tables. The damn rats nibbled on the wood and left some chairs almost useless. He resented how the last drunks had grasped the idea and were hugged in hesitant steps into the intense cold of the night. Only one continued