Razors & Ruin (Rare Horrors #1)

Chapter 18

18

Ten minutes earlier…

Sweeney

“ Y ou are him. I know it.”

The young man jabs a finger at me. “Mrs. Bellefonte told me all about you. I took a room at her place last night, and she heard some wonderful tales from one of her friends, including lovely grim stuff about the barber’s apprentice and murder most foul!”

I’m aghast at the cunt’s cheek. If he thinks I’m a killer, why the fuck is he baiting me, alone in my own establishment?

I suspect it’s because he assumes I’m a broken, no-dick old man, cowed and on a tenuous parole, and he’s come to gawk at the freak.

Turns out it’s worse.

“I know how it is with blokes like you, Todd. Been in the system, yeah? Got out by the skin of your teeth, and now you’re trying to keep your head down and make an honest living. I’ve met plenty in my time. They’ll do just about anything to stay free—except kill again. You’ve had your fill of that, haven’t you?”

He leans back in the chair, grinning as if he’s already won. “But me? I’ve got nothing to lose. Men like me know how to survive. We don’t make waves—we find the ripples, ride ’em, and take what we can.”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, sir,” I say as I pass my blade over his jawline. “You aren’t from around here, clearly, or you’d know this city is full of lurid rumors.”

“Shame.”

He throws me a smirk, and I’m tempted to ‘accidentally’ cut his lip, but I maneuver around it. “But whatever you say. I saw the Beadle leaving. I’ll bet he knows for sure, right?”

No, he fucking does not. I have to believe he doesn’t, at least.

“The Beadle Higgins is a customer. It would be indiscreet of you to pursue him with questions. Now,” I wipe his face with a towel, “what is your business in London? If it’s not too personal a question?”

“I’m looking for a situation.” He grins. “In fact, I may have found one.”

“Already? How fortuitous, Mr…?”

“Uriah. Rotherwood.” He holds out a grubby hand, and I take it. “My pleasure.”

Good for him. I could have gone to my grave cheerfully and been glad to never meet this arrogant chin, but here we are.

“Let’s get to it, Mr. Todd.” Uriah Rotherwood crosses his hands behind his head and watches me. “You are Currer Brook, somehow alive and back when you should have been hanged for your crimes. If I’m a liar, you will throw me out this instant and fear not what I have to say next.”

Shit . I can’t respond to that; I’m not sure enough what he wants. I stand still, polish my razor, and let him talk.

“I’m not scared of a murderer. I’ve known a few; I’ve been in jail several times myself.”

He narrows his rat-like eyes, and I’m reminded of the pieshop bitch and her plague-flavored savories. “I get it, mate. Modest shop, a quiet life. You’ve gone straight, haven’t ya? No more bloodshed for Mr. Todd. You just want to play with your razors and snip away like a good little barber.”

I remain silent, and he sniggers. “Yeah, as I thought. You’re no threat anymore. That’s why I’m here. You need someone to keep your secret, and I need to eat. Simple as that. A few bob here, a few bob there—no one gets hurt. You get to stay cozy in your chair, and I get to move along without a care in the world.”

He sours, piqued by my stillness. “It’s easier than the alternative, Todd. Which is me telling the law you attacked me. They arrest you, your identity is revealed, and the screws put you back beneath the lash. If I really work up the story, maybe God will reward me for seeing to it that His mistake is sent to the gallows this time!”

I face the window, unable to bear the sight of Uriah’s sneering mouth as it moves. I tighten my grip on the razor, but he’s too busy gloating to notice, and all I can hear is the beating of my own heart, like the steady drum of a war march.

I should cut his tongue out. But not yet. Not until I’ve heard enough. A few more ill-chosen words, and I’ll shut him up for good.

“Aren’t you afraid something might happen to you?” I ask, raising my voice. “You’re threatening me. You don’t regard that as a risky course of action?”

“Nah.” Uriah sits forward, matching me for volume. “You won’t do anything to me; not worth the risk to you, that’s my hunch. You can’t dispose of bodies when your shoddy room is above some poor lady’s business. Can’t get a feather in your hat past her door without her seeing.”

Aha . Of course—the dozy prick doesn’t know that Nellie is mine, under my control, and, naturally, somewhat kill-happy herself. She’s the wildcard, and it’s my great good fortune to have her in my deck.

“I’ve dealt with tough blokes like you before, Todd. Been down this road plenty of times—hard men with sharp blades and everything to lose. But they all end up in the same place: needing a clever chap like me to help them stay afloat. It’s just business, after all.”

I grind my teeth, my knuckles white around the razor. The blade’s edge gleams, begging to split that smirking face from ear to ear.

But not yet . I need to hear him talk. Let him dig his grave a little deeper; I’m actively enjoying watching him jabber himself to death.

“So how about it, Currer?” Uriah rolls the r’s obnoxiously. “Let’s start at ten bob a week and see how that suits me? Or shall I run down the Beadle right now and?—”

The red veil descends so fast it almost makes me pass out. I turn sharply on my heel, flicking the razor from the housing and scything it through the air fast enough to make an audible whistle.

The accompanying wet swish is almost genteel in its discretion, but it cuts the hateful hectoring words stone dead, the man himself shortly to follow.

Fascinating to watch the blood fall in such a uniform sheet of color. It’s a solid wall of vermillion, and it looks curiously like a cravat, brightening against the dying man’s rapidly fading throat.

A fissure beneath the flow gurgles as the pressure adjusts, and Uriah gives a shuddering cough, his eyes drifting.

“Tell me,” I ask, leaning down to look at him, “you fancy your judgement now? Because you misstepped here, my stupid friend.”

Needless to say, the regretful Uriah has little to add to the conversation. I regard the blood-spattered floor ruefully; if this is going to be a regular occurrence, some cheap rugs might be in order.

One body now, but somehow I doubt I’m done. How many more before someone starts asking questions?

Piss and blood staining my floor every week, the stench of death hanging over my shop. There’s got to be a better way to clean up this mess. Something more permanent than burning or burying.

My erstwhile blackmailer may be the first of many; if so, I will need a system. Bodies are significant, and yes, they burn, but running a prominent charnel house on Fleet Street is not a long-term strategy.

Uriah sways unsteadily, and I give him a kick. He topples from the chair like a sack of shit, and I notice he pissed himself.

Great . Adds to the ambiance, I suppose.

The door opens. Nellie looks from me to the dead man and back again.

“For fuck’s sake. Just like that, eh? I have so much on as it.” She shakes her head. “But I suppose you’ve got your reasons. Tell me it wasn’t just because he was rude?”

“You killed Marianne for what exactly?”

“Oh.” She has the grace to appear chastened. “Alright. I have to say, though, Mr. T—you’re gonna have that problem more often than I do. I don’t have any fucking customers anyway, and you hate everybody.”

I have to concede her point. “Reasonable. I’ll put some rush matting down.”

“And the piss .” She gestures at the chair. “All over what I’m sure was once Marianne’s left arse cheek, and he didn’t even buy her a drink!”

She slaps her forehead as she looks down. “And the ruddy floor! I don’t even have sawdust. And how are we going to get him out of here? It’s the middle of the day!”

Her domestic concerns amuse me, but not as much as seeing the hapless Uriah geysering his precious life force all over the place.

I could get used to it. Such satisfaction there is in silencing someone forever with one poetic gesture.

A flash of steel, and it’s tatty-byes.

As I stand over the body, something primal surges in my veins. The room is heavy with death, yet there’s something else beneath that. The heat that coils in my gut, tightening like a noose.

I look at Nellie, at her pale throat slicked with sweat and the way her eyes darken when she steps closer. And suddenly, I need her. Need to claim her, just as I claimed him.

The blood still drips from my fingertips, warm and thick, and it quickens my pulse. I look at Nellie, and all I can think of is how soft her flesh is, how it would yield beneath my hands. It’s not love—it’s hunger. Pure and simple.

“Jesus, love.” Nellie’s voice drops to a hoarse whisper. “I think you enjoyed that a bit too much. Fucking look on your face.”

“Literally.” I take a step toward her, dropping my razor in the congealing pool. “Come over here and give me some relief, my treacle. You’ll do that for me, won’t you? Let me work it loose.”

She drifts as though borne on a pillow of air, gliding toward me like a ghost. Her feet slosh through the blood at our feet, and she pirouettes prettily, drawing a chuckle from me.

Such a deviant. What joy she is. What a beautiful, precious horrorshow.

As her face turns back to me, I grab it, printing her face with my ruby fingertips. She freezes, and my other hand wraps her throat, lifting her onto her tiptoes.

“Let’s dance, my pet.”