The Camden Tales

2 - Out Of The Darkness

-=₪ January 1922 ₪=-

Home / 150 Camden Street / 8.24pm

Malka was in the drawing room, reading a novel while the heavy rain pattered against the two large floor-to-ceiling windows. The generously sized room, stately decorated with crimson red walls and white wainscoting, housed an eclectic mix of ornate furniture, plants, and knick-knacks.

She sat in a Victorian ornate wooden framed armchair, upholstered in rich red silk sporting a subtle floral design. The generous stuffing made it very comfortable. Flames crackled in a marble surround fireplace nearby. A clock with a deep ticking sat on the mantle, which echoed around the room. Malka held a book in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

Alfie sauntered into the room and sat on an equally ornate chaise longue opposite. The deep red upholstery of the sofa, featuring crushed velvet rather than silk, was littered with various cushions and discarded items. The dog had followed him and curled up in front of the fire.

He observed his wife as she turned a page of her book. She then picked up her gin glass from the end table, took a sip, and then returned the glass to the table's neat and clean surface. He watched as she flicked her cigarette into a heavy-cut crystal ashtray and puffed, her eyes never leaving the page. He felt ignored. He wanted her attention.

Rolling his lips between his teeth, he listened to the rainfall and rumble of the fire. He was so used to the clock ticking that it barely registered with him anymore.

"Dinner was disappointing," he mumbled, looking at his filthy and overburdened end table.

"They are doing the best they can with what we currently give," Malka confirmed flatly without looking up from her book.

He sighed and looked back at her as she turned another page. Malka had removed her wig and scarf. Instead, her straight raven hair was down for the evening. It looked silky, neat, soft, and longer since he last saw it. Her dress was flattering, especially around the waist and neckline. The lowcut crepe fabric of the peach-coloured dress fell elegantly over her crossed legs and almost reached the floor. Over the top, she wore a sheer black chiffon gown. He tilted his head, his eyes following the lace edging which rested along her cleavage. He then continued down her curves, reaching the tips of her toes. She wore simple and delicate-looking black slippers with intricate embroidery.

"Fancy a fuck?" he asked casually.

Malka's eyes flicked up to Alfie over the top of her book. He was slouched on his sofa with his legs crossed and fingers interlocked. His hair and beard were scruffy and looked far from clean, which was developing flaky skin along the hairline. The white cotton shirt he wore was soiled and stained; his brown trousers were no doubt the same, and god only knows when he last changed his long johns. He most likely stank of sweat, rum, and tobacco, a mixture certain to offend the nose and water the eyes. The pride in his appearance had taken a dive since the war and even more so over the previous six months.

She lowered her book, "Do you not have work to do?" she asked rhetorically, "If you want a different task over the gipsy, how about you sneak into Clerkenwell, smash a jewellery shop window and grab what you can," she said, waving her cigarette around while explaining the job in Darby Sibini's core territory.

"Funny," he replied sarcastically.

"I am not laughing," she said, straight-faced and steely-eyed.

He held her gaze for as long as he could before sighing. "Been ages," he mumbled, breaking their silence and eye contact.