Needy's Destiny II: The Legend of Fox Cipher

Chapter 3: Ain’t No Place For Boy Whores

I may have been young but I was not a fool. I knew full well that Sharpe, like the rest of Tamsborough, was a dangerous place for people like me. It was a town of scoundrels and inbreeds, of criminals and traitors. I was a clean-cut companion, an atheist unlike my parents, but moral and law-abiding all the same. Dealing with white hat-wearing loyalists was first on the list of any morning’s agenda to the townsfolk. They didn’t like people like me coming to their town, and why should they? It’s because of people like me that they were there in the first place, thrown into this hellhole like rats. Even then, they should count themselves lucky; some would just stamp the rats outright. “How dare the rats walk where we walk, polluting the air with their foul talk, spreading diseases like vermin, threaten the lives of our offspring…” Edward Stellar might not have been a stellar poet, but he certainly was an accomplished mass murderer. Little wonder then that these people hated us, especially when racist leaders like the aspiring poet took the lead in banishing these abominations from respected society. Of course, he was more in favour of the “drowning them like the rats that they are” defence. Even so, I’d say that, contrary to popular opinion, the townsfolk weren’t the vicious murderers some officials would have you believe. They wouldn’t have won any “Nicest Person in the Verse” award, just as the majority wouldn’t win any beauty pageant, but they were far from the two-dimensional bad guys often seen in fictional stories. Life rarely is as simple as a story. Sometimes I wish it was.

Sharpe was a town of people, unlucky, sick people maybe, but individuals nonetheless. Even so, taking a train to Tamsborough was not exactly in my best interests, but I got on it all the same. You see, I knew that even if you did manage to avoid the wrath of the locals, you were still prone to catching the sort of disease they don’t make injections for. More than that though, a trip out there would require more than a new wardrobe to blend in and a hefty portion of guts. It would require something more legitimate – papers. With so many stowaways and refugees slipping into Londinium under the radar, the feds had really started to crack down on journeys across the border. Whether travelling to or from the district, one needed ID, without it, you were pretty much screwed Fortunately, as well as providing me with a location, Bek also made sure I was equipped with the required papers. Certainly being a companion grants one respect from the majority of educated people, but I am still surprised by the access it affords too. Requesting official papers apparently was easier for a companion than it was for one of any other profession. Yes, the job certainly had its perks. Of course, “perks” is the last word I’d want to associate with my stay there.

*****

The inn, like much of Sharpe and the local area, was dirty and wreaked of repulsive odours. The Bell happened to smell like piss and the piss-flavoured alcohol the bartender served. Public places wherein the community could drink their worries away were the most logical place to start, and The Bell seemed to be the only one in Sharpe. The village apparently consisted of two main roads, intersecting in the middle so that from the air it might resemble a cross, staying off any vampiric pirates hoping to leech from them what few provisions they had. The centre of the town, namely the four corners upon which the roads met, was where one would find the hardware store, the aforementioned inn, a church and a small store which distributed the food that had been delivered to the village via drops. Whilst a mechanic worked further down North Street, there was nary a medical facility in sight, not even so much as a doctor’s office – though apparently one medically-trained man in his forties served as the village’s doctor, a professional that spent most of his time drunk and sleeping with girls barely old enough to leave school… if there had been a school for them to go to.

Finding one person in this deadbeat of a town should have proved a lot easier than expected. Well that was good for me, because one look at this place and my inner gut told me to leave before things turned ugly. I was a man of high regard in the big city, but out here I was nothing but an outcast, a representative of The Moral Man that had abandoned them decades ago. I had intended to dress my worst, but unfortunately the clothes I had worn during my life in The Dirts had long been discarded. Still I tried my best, attiring myself with worn and beaten clothes, clothes that Bek’s assistant had had imported especially for me. Upon examining the village’s inhabitants of however, and the clothes that they wore, I soon realised that I was still dressed far too respectful for their liking. My clothes may have been cheap to produce like the rest of theirs, but mine were clearly newer. The fact that I had spent a good deal of my time there with my shirt tucked into my trousers did nothing to help me blend in. Back at the companion house, the sight of me wearing an old shirt, patched up at the elbows, short trousers with holes in the knees and frayed ends; and a simple pair of boots with tatty laces would have been more than enough to identify me as “unwelcome.” Out here though, I could have been a priest for all they knew, a man of God dressed modestly, a man holy - delivering a message that nobody wanted to hear. Whatever they thought, they certainly didn’t make me feel welcome as I stepped through the doors of the inn. It was as if they could smell new blood, their noses sniffing me out as they turned their heads to face me as I entered the premises. They stared intently at me, judging me by my hairstyle and tanned skin, not to mention my frankly laughable attempt at hiding both beneath shoddy clothes and a dusty bowler hat. Whilst some, after a good loooong stare, eventually returned to their drinks and coarse conversation; a handful continued to remain fixed on my presence, determined to intimidate me with their crazed eyes and purposeful scratching of their stubble. Let me tell you, it worked. They sure made certain that I understood I wasn’t one of them, that I was, like they used to say, “a fish out of water.”

There were plenty of seats spare in the establishment, but not one of them looked friendly, each empty table being situated far too close to at least one shady character - rough-looking folk that seemed to be the staple of this district. Even the women had stubbled faces and their children (youngsters that had not yet even reached their teens) were downing the inn’s finest liquor. I walked aimlessly for a second or two, stepping cautiously through the threshold, before I spotted the bar and its handful of interested customers – customers far too focussed on their drinks to pay me the slightest bit of attention. It seemed a seat there would be the safest bet for the time being and so I made my way over, grabbing a stool next to a man with sandy-coloured hair. The man didn’t look up nor seem to acknowledge my presence at all. Still, the bartender certainly did, eyeing me like just about every other man, woman and child had since my arrival to the village by coach. He sauntered towards me, his arms swinging and head bobbing up and down as if his body was being motion controlled by a puppeteer. “What can I get ye, boy?” the bartender uttered loudly so that it might be heard by all over the idle chatter. His voice had a commoner’s drawl that seemed to be shared by most of his neighbours. I, on the other hand, had been trained for over a year to speak and act like a gentleman, being taught in the ways of conversing in a proper and respectful manner. But that sort of talk had no place here, just like I had no place here. The Bell wasn’t a place for companions. Sharpe was no place for companions. But I hadn’t always been a companion, and if my background was good for anything, then I figured surely it would serve me some good here. “Ye can get me a Tom Brown, if that’s good with you.” I replied confidently, returning to my roots as I delivered the request with the same slanted inflection I had fought hard to get rid of. “A Tom Brown?” the bartender asked, staring at me directly in the eye, unconvinced. “Yeah.” I replied, staring right back at him. He smiled out the corner of his mouth as his eyes blinked involuntarily “comin’ right up” As he walked off with the same bouncing motion as before I began to relax somewhat, slouching in the stool whilst I rested my elbows on the bar. The chatter of trivial conversations soon sparked off again as the majority of the inn’s occupants decided to ignore my intrusion into their society. And yet, I could still feel eyes burning into the back of my head and whilst waiting for my drink, I occasionally caught sight of one or two shooting me a spiteful glare.

The sandy-haired man, on the other hand, seemed different to the others; an outsider like me – alienated from the rest of them – sitting at the edge of the bar, stools away from anyone else. At least, he had been, until I had decided to park myself beside him, with a mere single stool between us. “What you drinkin there mate?” I leaned over and asked - a poor attempt at engaging him in conversation. “That a blue brew?” I asked, eyeing the brightly coloured drink contained in a grubby glass. Suddenly another glass slammed down in the space in front of me, splashes of the dark brown whisky spilling over the edges. “16 credits” the bartender said holding out his other hand. As my heart returned from my throat back to its place in my chest, I felt for the money in my pocket and handed him his cash. “Enjoy” he mumbled sarcastic as he walked over to another customer.

“Pleasant fella eh?” I uttered to my silent friend, but still to no avail. The man merely picked up his drink and swigged it down, gulping down a good portion of its contents in one.

“Ain’t no use talkin to Bob there.” A voice called to me over the loud chatter of others. I spun around in my stool and spotted the man that had spoken, sitting mere meters away on a nearby table. The man was grubby, much like the rest of them and was seated with whom I presumed was his wife, or his husband, I couldn’t really tell either way. Then, when he knew I was paying him attention, he continued, “Ain’t said a word since he came in here last week”

“Is that right?” I replied smiling at him, glancing at his partner again in a vain attempt at figuring out its sex.

“Gorram straight, I wouldn’t lie t’ya” the man replied with a grin “I ain’t no lawman.”

I looked over my shoulder at Bob who, it seemed, couldn’t care less about what people said about him, his eyes fixed firmly on his own beverage.

“Thanks” I replied to the man, before grabbing my drink and walking over to his table. “The seat taken?” I asked, standing over him. “Free ‘verse…” he replied, gulping down his drink in one. “Well, out here it is at least”

I pulled the chair out and took a seat, suddenly overcome with the strong stench coming off the man. “You liv’d here long brother?” I asked, trying to hide my repulsion

“All my life” he said as my nose told my brain that he probably hadn’t bathed once during that period.

“And it’s a good place here?” I asked in a friendly tone. It soon became apparent though that, friendly or not, asking him that question was a mistake. Without warning, the man suddenly broke out into fits of laughter, guffawing like a maniacal villain in a bad movie. “Good place?” he uttered incredulously. Soon his androgynous partner was laughing along with him and as I stared at both of them I began to wonder a) whether his partner had an Adam’s apple and it therefore being quite acceptable to punch him in the face too and b) what on all of Londinium was so funny.

I guessed that out here comedians were in short supply and I was quite the entertainer. But then again, nobody else got my humour. And I wasn’t trying to be funny. If however I had wanted to be the centre of attention, then I was at least succeeding in that area. Only, yet again, I wasn’t trying to be that either. Tough luck it seemed as a few more looked my way, obviously extremely interested in booking me for a show. I tried to ignore the innumerable glares I was getting and was determined to remain fixed on the couple that sat before me. “Or not?” The man wiped his eyes, catching the tears of laughter that had started to roll down his cheek. “Boy we should let you read the brochure” he said, still fighting off the laughter.

“Great, I’ll put that on my to-do list” I mumbled to myself, irritated now with this joker.

“Sorry lad, but when you been here long as I have, you gotta ‘preciate the simpler things in life.” He sniggered again, wiping his mouth, “and gorram it if you think Sharpe’s a nice place, then you must be one of the simplest boys I’ve met in my life” At this point the laughter broke out again, only this time his partner was even louder, squealing and slapping their legs with the palm of their hand. I could but stare at them, my face scrunched as I wondered what cesspool the ugly mare had crawled out from. It was a woman, I think - either that or the most freakish-looking man with a howl of laughter that would make dogs want to kill themselves.

Just then I felt someone behind me, a hand resting on the back of the chair I had been sitting uncomfortably on. “What you in ere for?” a voice growled over my left shoulder.

The couple that I had “entertained” so much suddenly went very quiet as they caught sight of the man that had taken an unseemly interest in me. “Don’t worry about him Mitch, we’re just havin a chat”

“I ain’t talkin to you old man!” the intruder snapped.

No, he wasn’t. He was talking to me. This man - who was no doubt one of the very same men that had been staring at me for so long – was only interested in what I had to say. What a privilege. And yet, it would take all my inner strength to pluck up the courage to look up and stare at his face. But, inner strength was in short supply in these troubled times and I wasn’t about to waste it on an angry villager. At least that’s what I told myself. “I’m in ere for a drink” I replied clearly, determined that my voice wouldn't falter. Still, my gaze was fixed firmly on the wooden surface of the table in front of me.

Just then, the villager’s other hand reached for my drink, snatched it from my hand and tossed it across the other side of the room, the glass smashing against the wall as a handful of drinkers were covered in splashes of whisky. “No, yeh not in ere for a drink are ye? The man now moved around me and took a seat on the table I had been staring at, quite intent on having me look him in the eye as I spoke. He looked cleaner than most, but ability to wash aside, he was foul as any other, more so perhaps. His beard was just growing in and his hair was dishevelled, though, needless to say, not in a styled manner. A scar tore through his eyebrow and a fresh cut decorated his lip. Mitch, it seemed was no stranger to a scuffle and looked as though he was about ready to start another.

Bernard Needham on the other hand, a foolish companion hailing from The Dirts, had also seen fights, but only from a safe distance of ten metres. Unfortunately, I also never knew when to keep my mouth shut.

“No, I’m not in here for a drink” I admitted, shrugging my shoulders. Completely ignorant of the fact that almost everybody was watching the two of us now, and blissfully unaware that four of Mitch’s most loyal friends were standing behind me, ready to jump, I smiled at Mitch. “I came in here to see your pretty face.” At least, I think that’s what I said. I’ve noticed getting punched in the face does result in some slight memory loss, but I’m pretty sure I managed to get the sentence out before he struck me and his friends proceeded to forcibly drag me out of the inn.

“Gorram huh choo-shang tza-jiao duh tzang-huo” he said spitting the words out, as my body was dragged out the doors and through the gravel of the road outside. I heard a few laughs during my less-than-civilized departure from the inn, but struggled to make out the sound of anyone crying out in my defence. I guess I wasn’t the popular entertainer after all.