The Flower Seller ( WAYHAUGHT)

Chapter 11

They weaved their way through the dingy, foul-smelling streets of Limehouse, Waverly attracting stares and whistles from drunks and prostitutes. She regretted not having changed her attire, a little too fancy for where they now found themselves. Nicole grabbed one man by the collar who tried to touch Waverly's dress. "Don't, if you know what's good for you," she growled, holding a knife to his belly.

The first premises they entered drew a blank, the woman serving shaking her head, telling them she hadn't seen Sherlock in weeks. It was the same in the next two ale houses, Nicole beginning to wonder whether he was here. A fourth establishment gave them a little more hope, a barmaid suggesting he might be near the wharves and to ask at The Grapes. Nicole sucked her teeth as they left. "It's not safe for you to go any further," she said, by the pub's entrance. "I will return alone tomorrow."

"We're here now," Waverly replied. "I need to see him."

"Waverly, that area is not for the likes of someone dressed as you are. I will go no further."

"Then I go alone. Someone will direct me."

"Listen to me, the wharves are where the worst of the worst collect. Wynonna would throttle me if anything happened to you."

"Well, she's not here and I am. You either come with me, or not. Your choice."

"Alright. Alright. But, stay close, hold onto my arm. Pretend you vaguely like me."

"I'll do no such thing."

"It's for your own protection."

"Really. I'm not naïve Nic...Archie, whoever you are in this attire of yours."

"And, for heaven's sake don't call me anything other than Archie. Come on."

Thankfully, they made it to The Grapes without incident, although Waverly now understood why Nicole had been wary to venture this far. If the outer edges of Limehouse were seedy and smelly, the area around the pub was a thousand times worse. It stank of urine, of raw sewage, of stale beer and rotting animal carcasses. She retched a few times as wafts of foul air entered her nostrils. The Grapes was heaving, Nicole pushing her way through, earning a few shoves in return. A man behind the bar said something Waverly couldn't hear over the noise, Nicole handing him a coin. "He's in the pit," she said, taking Waverly's hand. "Don't be shocked when you see him."

The roars coming from the void under the pub were primal as they descended the wooden stairs. The smell of sweat and blood overwhelmed her, holding one hand to her mouth. Her other hand gripped Nicole's, edging their way towards the front. There in the centre of the room two men were slugging it out with all their might. She held in a gasp as she recognised one was her uncle, the one with blood pouring from a deep cut above his eye. He was taking a beating, the other man landing punch after punch on Sherlock's body, who appeared to be enjoying the contact, urging his opponent to do his worst, which clearly he was.

Waverly wanted to scream, to bring the fight to a halt, to remove Sherlock from this hell. All she could do was watch in horror. A heavy kick to the stomach sent him flying backwards, landing with a heavy thud on the ground, lying motionless. Someone in the crowd shouted for Sherlock to get up, saying he had two shillings on him to win. He didn't move. Waverly tugged at Nicole's hand. "He's hurt."

Nicole gripped her arm. "We do nothing until they pull him from the pit," she said close to her ear.

"I have to go to him."

"Do as I say."

Two burly men entered the pit, one kicking Sherlock's leg, the other holding out his fist with its thumb pointing down. A roar went up from the crowd, the men dragging Sherlock out by the arms, his head lolling to one side. As soon as he was clear Nicole made a move, pulling Waverly with her. They followed as Sherlock was carried up a flight of stairs at the back and dumped unceremoniously on a dirty bed. Closing the door Waverly ran to her uncle. "Sherlock, Sherlock, it's me. Can you hear me?"