第 22 页

I left and headed back to the familiar streets of the East End. My aimless wanderings through the poverty-stricken streets led me back to the only way I knew how to survive other than thieving.

I walked into a brothel and offered my services in exchange for a bed and money for food. I didn’t need anything else, material things were meaningless to me now.

The brothel owner was a haggard woman of late middle years. She had clearly been handsome once but now gravity had taken possession of her features. She circled me assessing my assets. I was very pale, accentuated by my deep red hair and bright icy blue eyes.

“Off!” she exclaimed, indicating for me to remove my soiled white dress which was now the only garment I owned. A skinny and shrivelled little man who I presumed to be her husband was watching. For a moment I felt overwhelmingly sad that another man should see my body after I had given it to the one I loved. But I knew such thoughts were pointless and survival was the priority. I threw off my dress to reveal my toned body and full breasts.

“What special things do you offer? All my girls need to have something special, you see?” the madam asked.

Just then, her husband walked up to me and pointed to the ring Holmes had given me which was still hanging on my neck chain.

“Worth a bit I’d say,” he exclaimed and tried to pull the chain from my neck.

I was furious and punched him so hard that I heard his nose crack. Then, like a demon possessed I hit him again bloodying his face and a kick to the stomach saw him crumble to the floor like a broken toy. I clutched the ring tightly, my one tangible reminder of Sherlock Holmes.

At first, the madam’s face looked very stern but, suddenly, she burst out laughing and started to clap her hands.

“My God! I’ve wanted to do that to him for years.”

She turned to the whimpering heap on the floor. “Get up you pathetic old lump! Beaten by a woman!”

She continued to chuckle as her husband rolled around swearing and cursing, then turned back to me.

“You can start tonight. Punters pay the house and we give you ten percent and a room.”

And so I returned to the oldest trade known to man, or more precisely, women. I was a whore once again. A numb apathy passed over me. I was still so full of grief but didn’t have the luxury of being able to wallow. I had to earn to survive.

I missed Jude so much, I saw him around every corner and in every dream.

I could not stand to even think about Holmes. How could I when I had to lie with all these men so ugly, dirty and vile? Now that I knew the true meaning of a sexual encounter, the only way I could cope was to be as cold and distant as possible.

I was harsh with the punters and didn’t conceal my disgust. But my clients would come back for more, just the same as when I was a bald-headed arrogant little girl giving pleasure down by the docks. The men always chose me rather than the flirty painted ladies desperate for their business.

So life settled into a pattern; the house had its own gin-house downstairs and we girls would walk between the tables to attract business. Then we would take the men who chose us up to our sparse rooms and give them whatever pleasure they required.

One night I walked down into the bar and to my surprise, I saw Watson sitting at one of the tables, looking very uncomfortable indeed. He stood and walked over to me.

He punctuated my world; making me think of all the things I was trying to forget.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I whispered angrily.

“I have found you. I have been searching whenever I could, applying Holmes’ methods. Please, you can’t stay here, it isn’t right.”

“How dare you interfere and pass judgement on me. My life is no business of yours, get out!”

Watson looked rejected and embarrassed as various eyes turned to him.

“Go, just get out, please!” I implored.

Watson looked at my cold, determined face. He finally replaced his bowler hat sadly and started to walk towards the door. He paused briefly and looked back at me but by now I was exercising my whip across the hand of a client looking every inch the professional cold-hearted whore and he left me to my fate.

The doctor returned a few times over the following weeks but always lost his nerve and left before speaking.

Finally, late one evening, he decided to make a concerted effort and sat with a stiff drink in his hand at a table in the smoky light of the bar waiting for me to make an entrance.

Life had become increasingly difficult for me by this time. I barely ate and I drank heavily. I felt utterly lost. My once sharp mind was idle and I was still grief-stricken.

I walked into the public rooms drunk and almost naked. I just wanted to put all the goods on display and hope for a quick easy sale. Then I saw him, sitting right in front of me with his bowler hat and cane on the table. I stormed over to him angry that he had intruded on my world again, angry that my world was so desolate, angry that he had lived when those I loved had died.

“Get out, now!” I demanded. He put down his drink and folded his arms defiantly.

I loosened my brassiere so that my breasts started to spill out, lifted his cane and held it at each end. I leaned forward over him holding the cane across the back of his neck and sashayed my breasts in front of his face. The crowd were clearly enjoying this display and all eyes were on us now. I put my lips to his ear and whispered, “Had enough yet?”

Finally, Watson’s embarrassment got the better of him and he pushed me aside. He rose from his chair snatching back his cane and made his way out through the crowd as I laughed victoriously.

I could see his bowler hat disappearing through the door and was overcome with sadness and realisation. As the drunks tried to paw me, I understood I would probably never see Watson again and my last link to Holmes was gone. I believed I must be evil to my core.

My client was an obese little man with a cherubic ruddy face, bloodshot eyes and an offensive smell. He was a perverse old lecher whom I found particularly repulsive. He took great pride in slapping my bottom as if I was an animal recently acquired from the meat market.

I was relieved a commotion broke downstairs. I pushed him away and walked towards the door straining my ears.

A gun-shot rang out followed by screams then footsteps pounded up the stairs.

My client retreated to the bed. His ugly nakedness wobbled as he walked. To my surprise, I heard a vaguely familiar voice calling my name. Then the door burst open to reveal a wide-eyed, dishevelled and frantic Doctor Watson, standing before me with his service revolver in his hand.

“Get dressed now Red, you’re leaving with me. I have had just about enough tragedy.”

“Have you shot somebody?”

“No, of course not. They wouldn’t let me up here so I shot at the ceiling to distract everyone. Then I ran up before they could stop me.”

I was shocked but never the less impressed by Watson’s uncharacteristic departure from his usual self restraint.

“I’ve paid for my hour so if you want her just wait your turn,” complained my client as he attempted to shift his bulk off the bed.

“Just shut up, shut up!” shouted Watson, firing a perfectly aimed shot just above his grotesque belly which caused him to scream and fall back onto the bed as the bullet lodged into the wall next to him.

“You nearly killed me you maniac! If you want her that badly, bloody well take her! I hope you both be damned!” he shouted.

Watson reached into his pocket and took out a handkerchief and a small medicine bottle.

“I’m sorry Red but I mean it, no more tragedies,” and before I had chance to protest he emptied the bottle onto the cloth, grabbed me and gagged my nose and mouth.

I struggled but as the chloroform took hold I became weak until finally surrendering.

Watson carried me over his shoulder down the stairs and away from the brothel, waving his revolver at anyone who tried to stop him.

I woke hazy and disorientated, with a throbbing head and blinking against the weak afternoon sunshine streaming in through the window. Then I stretched in the cool, crisp, clean sheets in which I lay before sleeping again until after dusk had fallen.

This time when I woke, my senses returned with a jolt. I was relieved to see that I was wearing some kind of shirt, although modesty was the least of my worries. Watson was sitting in the corner of the room gazing forlornly out of the window.

“What in God’s name did you think you were doing? How dare you chloroform me!” I shouted across to him as I struggled to sit up.

Watson stood slowly, lifted his chair and brought it over to the bedside. He calmly sat down.

“I apologise for my method but your resistance to my help and the terrible nature of your circumstances rather justified my actions.”

“I am not, and have never been, a victim of my circumstances,” I replied. “I live the way I choose and don’t need your help. Does it make you feel heroic? Well good for you. Bravo good old Watson!”

“You’re punishing yourself because you think you are responsible for what happened to Holmes. This has to stop; his duel with Moriarty would have ended in tragedy even without your intervention. They were each other’s single biggest threat and the contest was always destined to be a fatal one. I can see that now. You may not be a victim of circumstance, but you are a victim of yourself.”

I couldn’t stand his kindness. It made me feel uncomfortable. I felt tears sting my eyes and all my private devastation, pain and loneliness straining to break free. I shouted at him in fury; wishing to hurt him, send him away so that he wouldn’t see me cry.

“You are a pathetic and impudent hypocrite! You know nothing about me or how I feel. All you are is a weak, boring man who has spent most of his time feeding off the personality of someone else to fill the void in his own. Happy to stay in someone else’s shadow for fear of the light.

“Holmes has always been the only interesting thing about you, and you say I’m a victim! Take a look at your own mistakes Watson before you start analysing mine.”

His face turned as white as my bed sheets and I realised I had achieved my objective but it gave me no satisfaction. He looked so terribly hurt and I hated myself even more. But, to my surprise he didn’t walk away. He reached out for my hand.

“You are not the only one to have lost someone you love, to feel that there is more you could have done. Boring I might be, but made of stone I am not. You do not have the monopoly on guilt, mistakes and pain.”

Years of friendship with Holmes had taught Watson to take criticism well, and his calm, gentle voice made me feel even angrier with myself for saying what I had.

“I can’t accept that I’ll never see him again,” I whispered, tears flowing freely down my cheeks, all pretension to strength quickly slipping away. As Watson handed me a handkerchief I noticed that his own eyes contained tears. He became embarrassed at my realisation and stood up.

“I’m sorry, perhaps you should rest now.”

He gave my hand a gentle squeeze then hurriedly left the room.

I wanted to leave, run away to the unpleasant life I deserved. I opened the wardrobe in the corner of the room and was relieved to find it full of women’s clothes. I pulled on a simple dress and decided to sneak out of the house to save us both the embarrassment of another emotional confrontation.

I quietly opened the bedroom door and crept down the stairs. As I tip-toed past Watson’s study, I noticed that the door was open slightly. Watson was sitting at his desk, head in hands, and a large glass of Scotch in front of him. He seemed such a sad, lonely figure that I couldn’t bring myself to just sneak away. I pushed open the door and stood before him.

“I don’t doubt the sincerity of your kindness, not really. I’m sorry for what I said. But how can I stay here? It will cause such a scandal for you, and what were you going to tell your wife when she got home? Hope you don’t mind but I’ve brought a whore home, she’s upstairs asleep in the spare room?”

I managed an awkward laugh, but he did not respond. “No, it’s better for everyone if I leave. I’ve borrowed some of her clothes and I’ll return them as soon as I can.”

Watson didn’t reply. He just stood up, took hold of his glass, and turned away from me to look out through the window. I was beginning to find his behaviour increasingly out of character.

After a long, silent pause he spoke.

“She’s not coming home, my wife, she’s never coming home.”

I stepped into the room, a chaotic mess of papers and books, stinking terribly of tobacco.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“She died three days ago. Heart failure. Funeral’s tomorrow.”

He put down his glass on the window shelf, still with his back to me. I could tell that he was softly crying. I felt so terribly guilty for all the things I had said, for being so preoccupied with my own grief. He was right; I did not have a monopoly on pain.

“I’m very sorry, truly I am. So is that what you meant when you spoke of no more tragedy? Now I understand.”

I wanted to go to him, tell him that I understood exactly how he was feeling. I knew that Holmes would not want me to abandon his dearest friend.

“I admit that I brought you here partly for selfish reasons,” he said suddenly. “It’s just that I thought, perhaps mistakenly, that you and I had found a friendship of sorts. As I’ve lost my closest friend, and now my wife, I don’t believe I’ve ever felt as lonely as I feel at this moment. I can’t make you stay, neither can I stand to think of you suffering, so please at least stay tonight. Have one night safe and warm, then if you wish to leave tomorrow I won’t try to stop you.”

I left the room and stood in the hallway considering again the possibility of leaving but decided to do as he asked and wait until morning. I returned to bed, replacing the clothes carefully in the wardrobe and drifted into a fitful sleep.

Chapter Fourteen

I woke to the sound of men shouting and furniture being moved. I heard Watson cry out in distress, pulled on his shirt and went to look over the banister where I saw two burly men carrying a chest of drawers out through the front door. I recognised one of them and slowly a realisation started to develop. He was a debt-collector, a ruthless agent who worked for a nasty small-time crook who I had once had dealings with. Watson’s problems clearly extended way beyond the loss of his wife.

With the element of surprise as my weapon, I crept to Watson’s bedroom and peered round the door. Watson stood by the bed, shaking with fear and anger, as one man held a gun to his head while another emptied drawers.

“Where’s the jewellery! Come on man, she’s only been dead a few days so you haven’t had chance to pawn it yet. If I go back without it I’ll be in the ground myself,” said the man with the gun.

“Leave those things, please, how can you be so callous?” protested Watson.