Episode 17. The Man of the Mist (2)
Thus, after the morning meeting ended, we walked along the Thames River for a while. I remained silent, and Liam simply followed me with his hands politely behind his back. Mist was gently creeping in, the river flowed, and people came and went. To be honest, it wasn’t romantic. The morning fog carried a stench. A putrid smell that made my stomach churn, slick and nauseating.
You might not imagine it, but as Henry Mayhew once described, the Thames River, regardless of location, smelled like a cemetery. Though human corpses didn’t float up frequently (though they were sometimes found), it was no different from a river of death. This area was relatively developed, and because it was near Belgravia and Westminster where the high and mighty frequented, it was less pronounced. But if you saw the Thames near the slums, you’d react the same way.
In the slums along the docks and riverbanks, the stench was severe. The most infamous area for this was Jacob’s Island, located at the confluence of the Thames and the Neckinger River. Although called an island, it was actually an area surrounded by a drainage ditch near George Row and London Street, with St. Saviour’s Dock to the west. Typical of British naming, it wasn’t an island in the middle of the river as one might first think.
The Morning Chronicle sarcastically referred to this place as “the capital of cholera” (because those who used contaminated water fell ill with cholera) and “the Venice of drainage.”
Jacob’s Island was a cluster of rickety bridges and densely packed houses. After Charles Dickens made it famous with ‘Oliver Twist’, these slums became fodder for many creators. House sewage flowed directly into the river(!), and rotting animal carcasses were pushed up against the banks. Dead fish piled up in clumps. Some areas of the filthy river seemed to run red with blood, causing fear among the people, but it was due to pollution from nearby factories.
Novelists saw all this ugliness as romantic, but for those living there, their gaze and sharp pens were the real ugliness. Their writings turned the slums into a tourist attraction for gentlemen and ladies, who clogged the old bridges while holding their noses and gawking. Isn’t that a disgusting romance? Romanticising because it didn’t happen to them.
Of course, compared to the 1840s when ‘Oliver Twist’ was written, now (around 1870) it had lost much of its “prime island” reputation. Many buildings were demolished, and efforts to remove the drainage ditch and level the land were underway. The number of houses decreased, and some changes occurred compared to the past when people drank putrid water from the ditch. The city’s maladies continued, but thanks to morally driven individuals trying to resolve these issues.
Liam Moore pulled me out of my reverie as I stared at the Thames flowing beneath the pedestrian bridge. The wet stones from the early morning rain were slippery. If he hadn’t grabbed me, I would have surely had a deep kiss with the Thames’s sewage. His face was urgent as he embraced my waist, perhaps even looking foolish. I didn’t particularly like his face—cold, yet youthful and round from certain angles. Often, I saw the foggy London in his eyes.
But sometimes things don’t go as planned. Always, it seems. The one to break this awkward silence was Liam Moore. He spoke first.
“Be careful.”
From behind, I heard the sound of death flowing. Cold sweat trickled down my back.
“Thanks. Almost drowned on such a fine morning.”
I said, trying to lighten the strange atmosphere, but Liam Moore’s expression showed no signs of improvement. His thick brows slightly furrowed, and a fork-like wrinkle formed between his eyebrows.
Naturally, I shut my mouth, adjusted my posture from his arm, and stood up properly, but even then, Liam’s hand remained on my waist, as if I was someone who would fall and die at any moment. His face looked anxious. I started to walk to escape that vacant expression. When I had almost crossed the bridge, I turned to see Liam Moore still standing there, looking at me as if nailed to the spot.
“Aren’t you coming?”
I asked.
“I’ll come.”
But he still stood there, chewing his lip, looking like he had a lot to say. Was he that startled by my misstep? Anyway, I started walking back to get him, and a sorrowful question floated above my head. Somehow, there seemed to be a faint emotion in his machine-like voice.
Startled, I looked up to see his eyes close to mine. The colour of grey clouds about to rain. Liam Moore asked me, fixing his eyes on mine.
“Why don’t you look into my eyes these days?”
When I first heard this, I couldn’t hide the shiver running down my back. Fear flowed down my spine. Why? Why look at me like that? What is the purpose of this question? Thoughts like that ran through my mind.
Whether he knew my thoughts or not, his eyes still stayed fixed on my face.
After a brief silence, he returned to his usual self. Relaxed, sly, and seemingly living in his own world. As he walked ahead, I felt a sense of déjà vu. As if he wasn’t someone I knew. I wanted to grab his shoulder and shout, “Who are you? What are you doing?” but I kept my mouth shut and followed him.
“Shall we have a warm meal? The food in London is all the same, but you might like this place.”
Liam Moore said.
“…Might as well have tomato stew.”
Yes. Let’s eat. We need to eat to live. I was no longer a player, but an ordinary person trapped here. So I had to keep up my survival activities by eating well and sleeping well.
Liam Moore smiled brightly.
“A very wise choice.”
And I muttered to myself again. Wise, my foot.
＊ ＊ ＊
When we returned after our meal, a man was standing in front of our office, and we exchanged glances briefly. He had a round, slightly short figure, giving a kind impression. His dirty blonde hair was curly, and his shoes and clothes didn’t match, so he didn’t seem to have a good fashion sense. Overall, he seemed like someone who couldn’t say no.
The man, looking at his watch and impatiently knocking on the door, turned his head at the sound of a cough, and his face brightened surprisingly. He spread his arms and exclaimed happily.
“Oh, Liam!”
It was as if he was greeting an old friend.
But Liam frowned for a moment, as if trying to figure out who this man was. His expression clearly said, “Who is this guy?”
“It’s me, Stranden! We took the same class at Cambridge! Professor Hexture was very fond of you. Did you know his acquaintance just joined the university as a new professor? His name is—”
Oh, poor fellow. He seemed to be an acquaintance from Liam’s college days, but it looked like Liam didn’t remember him. Honestly, I also didn’t remember everyone from my college days, but at least I developed the social skill to pretend, yet he didn’t even try that. I guess it’s fortunate he remembers my face.
“…There were just too many people.”
Liam replied curtly, cutting him off, and turned the door handle. The door, which I thought was locked, opened smoothly.
“Come in. Let’s hear your business upstairs.”
As a result, we ended up going to a wedding. Our visitor, Mr. James Stranden, had come with a wedding invitation. He smiled shyly like a boy and said he was marrying a good person. He looked like the very picture of a man in love, so I congratulated him with a smile.
After briefly praising his future wife, he checked the time and stood up, saying he still had many invitations to deliver. Stranden repeatedly asked us to come to the wedding, even if not as groomsmen, at least as guests, before he left.
The wedding was three weeks away. The address indicated a mansion on the outskirts of London. It would take about an hour and forty-five minutes by train.
“By the way, he must have been really close to you in college to remember you and bring an invitation.”
I said, looking at the name on the invitation. Liam, who was examining flasks and beakers scattered on the desk, replied, “I guess.”
Just then, a notification sounded. A small grey window flashed white letters.
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