The Camden Tales

1 - Message From Eden

⚜️ THE FIRST TALE ⚜️

Darkness lingers in all of us. For a few, it is a shroud to walk the path undetected, but for most, it is the subject of nightmares.

We all fear the unknown, and nothing inspires foreboding greater than the dark, but without it, we sacrifice much, for without it, we cannot find what we most ardently seek.

-=₪ 1911 ₪=-

"Please, Mr Solomons, there's gotta be anotha' way?" begged Lee Ingleby, a local businessman, as he snivelled across the desk from the casual-looking Alfie Solomons.

The two men shared a storage room filled with stacked barrels, crates and disused tables and chairs. What the darkness beyond the clutter concealed or where the room ended was not discernible. Only the dim light of the oil lamp that burned on the desk illuminated the immediate space around them.

"That's the rub though, Lee, innit? There ain't."

The snivelling increased. Alfie bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting a headache while Mr Ingleby observed the top of the Jewish King's black hat.

Depending on who regarded him, Alfie Solomons had many names to mark his reputation. The Jewish King of Camden Town was common amongst those who benefited from Mr Solomons or were keen to gain his favour. Those less enthusiastic about the Jewish King's reign were likelier to call him a Crimelord of the London Underworld, whereas the Metropolitan Police went with something more on the nose. Alfie Solomons was a gangster.

"Why yer doin' this to me?" Mr Ingleby sobbed.

The black hat rose, the cold blue eyes of the crimelord were stern, his countenance appearing offended.

"Me? You're all confused, treacle. You brought this unto yourself. All I'm doin' is makin' sure you stick to your word, Lee. For what is a man without his word, eh? Nothing, that's what."

On Lee's right, some three feet away, stood a large, stocky man. He dressed similarly to that of Mr Solomons, in dark trousers, a white shirt, a long dark coat, and a black hat, but minus a waistcoat and cane. He was enormous too, much larger than either Mr Ingleby or Mr Solomons. Mr Ingleby remembered not feeling threatened by Mr Solomons' average, arguably small, stature when he first met him and later took the deal. But then he heard the rumours, the threat of extreme violence should you break the terms of the agreement. He trembled on the small wooden stool, feeling smaller than he had ever felt, his breath shaking with fear of what was surely coming.

"You needed money, Lee, to keep your business afloat on account of your dumb fucking cake parlour ideas. I, bein' the generous soul I am, offered you what ya needed to keep a roof over yer family's head and grub on the table. I lent you that dough so you could keep your business and them safe."

His words were delivered conversationally, but there was no mistaking the crimelord's tone.

"Your son only has clothes on his back 'cause of me. Your missus has a house to clean 'cause of me. You only had a business to run 'cause of me. Without me, yer family would be fucking destitute 'cause you're a pathetic waste of space."

The sobbing renewed, and tears tumbled down Mr Ingleby's cheeks. Mr Solomons and his large male companion watched the businessman raise a shaky hand to wipe the tears away. With a sigh, Mr Solomons pulled a large white handkerchief from his belt and threw it into Mr Ingleby's lap.