Gregory Yates

“Deep in the heart of London, the city lies still…”

“…or so they say. I ain’t seen it lyin’ still – even in the late hours of the night. Y’see, cities in good ol’ England never really sleep. They just... brood, y’could say - dark night coverin’ what daylight don’t want to yield. And it’s never, ever a quiet one. I can assure you. Sounds of creepin’ shadows, and black dealin’ in the alleyways call upon all hours of the evenin’, along with those distant screams we all hear when we’re tryin’ to get some shuteye.

“And then there’s the rats. There’s always the bloody rats.”

“I remember hearin’ once that a man can die a thousand different deaths in London, so long as he has the time an’ the inclination. Lookin’ at the buildings themselves, I won’t disagree. Most folks live in these teeny, tiny red-bricked hovels – they’re far too small to be called ‘ouses – that tend to cling together in worried little clumps, chimneys pokin' upwards towards the sky. Or, at least, the smog. A big ol’ cloud of smoke denies ‘em the real sky, the poor souls; I suppose it’s the price we pay for industry, an’ all that.

“Mind you, though, people keep livin’ there. You’d be hard pressed to find any Londoner who’d want otherwise. ‘Cause it’s all about the money for them, you see - they need it for their families. If Father ain’t bringin’ the bread home, Mother won’t be hangin’ about long. Harsh, but fair I s’pose.

“Though, I ain’t ‘ere to write a pretty little ode to London; I’m here to give you the facts. England needs to know what¢s happening down here – ‘cause we’re in a spot of bother, right now. An’ everyone’s in on it.

“I’ll start with the boys in blue. Y’know, the good ol’ bobbies on the beat? They’re the chaps that should really be callin’ the shots ‘round here – but they don’t. Not by a long stretch; though, it ain’t for a lack of tryin’. They’re well equipped, to say the very least. Guns, cars, dogs… you name it; the police have probably used it to bring a bloke in at some point. They'll do anything to solve a crime. And that’s what matters, in this city.

“Because, y’see, not everyone in London follows the law, Smugglers carry their ill-gained goods in through the old sewers when the scruffers are sleepin’. Thieves, and sneaky cat burglars pilfer goods from shops an’ factories, without a blessed thought for the economy. Why, a man can’t walk four paces in the night without bein’ mugged! It's a bleeding disgrace, it is.

“So, we ‘ave the cops, and we ‘ave the robbers. That’s the only struggle most people see, on the streets. It’s all they know, and most likely, all they want to know. But for me, it’s different. I know the truth, y’see? All the stuff that’s happenin’ behind the scenes. Stuff common folk don’t know about.

“There’s some right rotters around, y’see - even worse than muggers. The sort of people you wouldn’t want to touch with a bargepole, much less be on the receiving end of their foul business. They’re the cultists, in the city. Evil ritualists, an’ dark magicians that skulk around under the city, plottin’ and schemin’ below the ground.

“Rumour has it, they have strange, an’ mysterious powers. Y’hear talk of people burstin’ into flame, an’ weird curses actin’ on the most innocent of us. I certainly won’t be disputin’ it anytime soon. I’ve seen one too many strange things in London to dispute anythin’.

“It’s little wonder people in the city don’t sleep easy. However, they wouldn’t be sleepin’ at all, but for a particular traveler of the night: The True Church.

“Don’t get ‘em mixed up with your local parish. The True Church are the real fundamentals of Christianity, dishin’ out God’s fiery wrath wherever it’s due. And believe me, in a city like London, it's due an awful lot.

“You never seem to see ‘em. They work behind the scenes of common churches, seekin’ and destroyin’ demons, witches and all other things we ain't got a name for. It’s a bitter struggle, make no mistake. Lucifer seems to have all the advantages, y’see? They’ve had to take to old, more traditional methods to combat the devil’s minions; I’m talkin’ stakes, crossbows, an’ holy water here. The good stuff, y’know?

“…well, maybe you don’t. But after my long years in London, I’ve come to realise the merits of all those trappings – strange as they are. The streets do that to you.

“As I said, I’m just your average Londoner. Don’t fit in with many of the gangs; I’m certainly not religiously inclined, or on any real side of the thin blue line. Nah, I’m just an honest man. Common in most places, y’might say.

“But in London, I suppose you could call me unique.”

Originally written by Stanley Hatchinson, 1921.

back