Angela laid in bed, ravaged by a fever. The world beyond her immediate surroundings was a haze. Every little movement was agony and her only salvation was the small cup of water placed at her bedside.
She knew the hour was starting to grow late, even for a woman of her profession.
It made her sister’s absence even more pressing, concerning even. London was a tough city and that was especially true for the women who sold their bodies on the street corners near the harbourfront and in the factory districts.
Angela reached for the cup, with a shaky hand, grabbing it. There was only a small ration left, floating at the bottom. She took a sip from it, sighing as the lukewarm beverage cooled her, maybe even temporarily breaking the fever.
“Where are you Rebecca?” she asked aloud.
Her lips were cracked and voice hoarse, wheezing through a windpipe that was ravaged by soreness.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t just linger here for the rest of the night. She groaned and forced herself to her feet. Her legs wobbled under her, threatening to topple her over and knock her back down onto the battered mattress. It was the only one in their small single room flat.
She stumbled over to the bucket on the table, clutching the blanket tightly as she did so.
Even this short walk felt like a marathon, leaving her heart racing and complexion caked in a sickly sweat.
The bucket was, thankfully, nearly full and mostly clean. She dipped the beaten metal cup into it and took another hungry sip, finishing nearly half of it.
After refilling her cup again, she stumbled back to bed.
Where was Rebecca?
That was never a good question to ask in this city. Especially with their profession and the heightened hazards that had been inflicted upon it as of late.
“Surely, a client just paid extra to have her spend the night,” she whispered.
Though that would’ve been a first. No one really shilled out for any experience that lasted beyond the normal five-minute exchange. Not even the bookkeepers and clerks who could’ve easily afforded such a luxury.
Before she reached the bed, she felt her stomach growl. It was the first sign that she desired sustenance in two long days.
Angela changed direction to a small pantry off to the side. Upon opening it, she saw that the contents were rather sparse. A few pieces of bread, some preserve, and a little chunk of heavily salted meat.
She took one of the pieces of bread and bit into it, happy that it seemed to settle her ravenous gullet. At least, for now.
With her hunger sated, she closed the pantry, trying to drive down the mounting guilt inside of her. There was no time to spare for illness, in London. No time for idleness. Her fever was a bane upon this household and she couldn’t stand to be a bane.
It also didn’t help that it fed into her worrying about Rebecca.
“If I were out there, she wouldn’t be alone,” Angela whispered, finally returning to the bed and laying down upon it. “If something happens to her, it’s all my fault.”
She sighed and closed her eyes, taking little nibbles from the bread. That’s all she could afford to take in her current state.
Hopefully, sleep would soon come, and when she awoke, Rebecca would be there at her side. Probably tan her hide for getting crumbs all over the place.
She breathed slowly, trying to tune out the rasp in her voice.
Slowly, she felt herself start to fade.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
Her eyes snapped open and she groaned. “I’m coming, I’m coming.” She slowly got to her feet. “That better be you, Rebecca. This cold has already left me half dead and I wouldn’t doubt that worrying about you would get the job done.”
She stumbled towards the door, clutching the blankets like a robe.
Rebecca had never lost her keys before. It’s probably bad news.
“Shut up,” Angela whispered to her rebellious mind.
She reached for the lock and turned it, opening the door. As it swung open, there was a gentleman on the other side, dressed in a fine suit.
He smiled at her. “Miss Broadbank?”
“One of them,” she replied. “Is there something I could help you with?”
He took off his top hat and held it against his chest. His hair was black with specks of grey, his complexion pale, and face weathered and old. He looked nothing like her usual clientele, yet he was oddly familiar.
Far too much money and sense to be one of her usuals…
“I was wondering if I could partake in your services?” he asked.
She snorted. “My apologies but I am feeling incredibly unwell, tonight, Mister…”
“Fairbanks,” he replied, holding out his hand. “Anthony Fairbanks.”
She took it and shook it gently. “Maybe we could convene once I’ve overcome this nasty fever?”
“I am just looking for a discussion, tonight, dear,” he said. “Normally I would employ the services of a priest but they are terribly difficult to find at this hour. Plus, between you and me, people frown more upon Catholics than those who dabble in your trade.”
This made Angela smile. She looked him over, biting her lip.
He seemed to sense her apprehension and reached into his pocket, producing five coins.
“Five shilling for your time,” he offered.
Five shillings was not a small amount of money. Hell, it was about what she could hope to make during a usual evening.
Angela nodded and stepped away from the door, inviting him inside. She motioned towards the dresser and he placed his coinage atop it.
“Well, I’m not a priest but what sins do you have to confess?” she asked, a teasing edge to her voice. She then smiled. “Am I supposed to add, my son?”
Anthony locked the door and turned to her, offering a polite smile. “Well, I suppose I should start by admitting that I dabble in prostitutes.”
“Truly a crime that you will have to do penance for,” Angela said, chuckling. “You’ll have to tell me how that goes.”
“It has… not been a painless process,” he admitted. “God requires a high price for such a crime.”
Angela rolled her eyes.
“Anything else?” she asked
“I have laid my hands upon my fellow man in a violent fashion,” Anthony said as he shook his head. “And I have… committed murder.”
This made Angela tense. “Murder?”
He nodded and placed his hat on the nearby table, reaching inside. “It’s a part of the penance, dear. For I may have sinned, by indulging in their flesh, but those who sell it are temptresses. Sirens that Homer warned us about and the bible reinforced.”
Anthony sighed and looked at her with utter pity in his eye. “Would you believe me if I said this wasn’t personal, dear?”
He drew forth a knife, a proper blade, inspecting it closely.
“If you’re quiet, this will be painless,” he said. “But if you scream then I will be forced to act with haste, which only makes the process much more painful.”
Angela of course screamed, doing so to the best of her abilities. Though it came out as little more than a troubled wheeze as she started to cough, hacking on her own illness.
“I have also committed one final crime,” Anthony admitted, sighing. “Sins are so easy to get started on. All it takes is one and the next thing you know you’re up to the neck in penance.” He advanced on her. “I’m sure by now you’ve figured out that I told you a lie.”
Angela tried to slide back but all she found was a wall to her back as she bumped into it. There was no weapon here, just peeled paint and blemished paper.
“My name isn’t really, Anthony Fairbanks,” he said. “Though I’m sure you’ve figured out who I really am.”
sereminar· Feb 19, 2021
