Chapter 3

The church clock struck the eleventh hour and still Janey lay awake, listening to the soft, peaceful breathing emanating from the beds of the two younger boys she unfortunately shared a room with.  She often had trouble sleeping and on nights where The Land of Dreams didn’t beckon her through its golden gates as quickly as she’d have liked, she would lie there, quite content to just mull over new ideas for a half-finished novel or a few fresh lines of prose.  But sometimes the images that flashed before her mind’s eye would grasp hold of her brain and seem never to release their intense hold; in these instances, she would tune out of the world of reality and slip into a mesmerising trance.
    A dog barked as the clock struck the half hour; a strong, chilly wind swept through the trees, scattering clusters of dying leaves gathered at the edge of the pathway in a desolate park, in wild, separate directions.  Aside from these forceful gusts that seized everything up in a whirl of surreal colour that seemed to defy all the rules of gravity, everywhere was still.
  Several rows of houses down from this scene, in a more dismal area of Dagenham, was situated a dark and dingy public house on the corner of a particularly filthy street.  The Ten Bells had a reputation for being the haunt of many crooks and criminals down the line and Janey knew it well. It was a place she generally avoided; the landlord cared not about the welfare of the business that provided him with his living. He was all the more concerned about the disastrous string of events that threatened to occur should he ever run out of change to secrete and later spend on tobacco for his frequently used clay pipe; therefore the already shabby building sank further into dilapidation.  The weather beaten, faded sign hanging outside the door, creaked and groaned for all it was worth as the fierce wind caught it by; the windows were thick with grime and the inside wasn’t any cleaner.
  At around a quarter to midnight, a figure appeared as suddenly as if he had transported himself straight from one place to another; not a soul saw him arrive and not a soul would see him depart.  He was dressed from head to foot in a black travelling cloak that obscured his face, rendering him unrecognisable in the darkness. Hurrying down the street, he paused outside The Ten Bells before pushing open the grating door and passing over the threshold.
  Thrashing his way through the throng of people gathered near the door, the figure made his way through the dingy, smoke-filled room, crowded with locals, to reach the wooden bar, where a man dressed in a similar fashion was sitting. He scowled as the approaching figure drew near enough to be recognised.
  “You’re late,” he growled, slamming the rusty tankard from which he had been drinking onto the dusty surface of the bar with such ferocity that he succeeded only in spilling half its contents and in making his companion start violently.
  “Got held up in Barking,” the other replied, in a low, steady voice. “Travelling across the capital in the dead of night is harder than it might seem.”
  “Never mind your dodgy travelling methods, what’s the message?” the first man barked angrily.
  “You’re to wait by the bridge when the clock strikes four,” the messenger hissed, glancing surreptitiously over his shoulder to ensure their conversation could not be overheard.
  “The bridge? You are certain about that?” the man replied, suspiciously.
  “Of course,” the messenger smirked. “Why, you don’t trust me?”
  “By heck I don’t and well you know it!” the man retorted. “Why the boss sends you here, there and everywhere, I can’t think!”  He drained his tankard and rose to his feet, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand as he did so.  He straightened his cloak, pulling the folds of the dark material tighter about him. The messenger followed his example and stood up too.
  “Better be on my way if I’m to be at London Bridge for four,” the first man said gruffly, striding towards the door and wrenching it open, as though he was only too familiar with the habit the door had of sticking to the rotting frame surrounding it.  The messenger followed, sighing as they stepped out into the sharp night air, where not a soul passed them by. The liveliness inside the public house situated behind them had not prepared them for the stillness beyond the creaking door.
  The first man paused in his step, staring up at the dismal, cloudy sky.  “Got to be on my way,” he muttered, more to himself than his companion.
  “Look sharp then,” the messenger replied. “There’s not a second to lose if you want to get to the bridge for four; and I’m prepared to bet all my savings he’ll have been and gone by the time you reach it!” Considering that the messenger’s savings consisted of two pounds, three shillings and sixpence, it was hardly surprising he seemed so indifferent to the risk of a loss. The other man shot him a look as filthy as the gutter beneath them, though it was lost in the darkness of the surroundings.
  “I’ll get there; don’t think twice about it. What’s more, I’ll manage it faster than you ever could, you disgusting specimen. And you’d do well to keep your pitiable savings for yourself; God only knows, you need them!”  With a sneer and another look of distaste, the man turned on his heels and strode off down the street, his cloak billowing behind him as the wind took hold.
  In Janey’s dream, the messenger looked after him until he had turned the corner, before hurrying the opposite way, keeping close to the shadows, as was his custom. Then, he disappeared into the darkness as though it had swallowed him whole.  And reality had not been any different.