Intimidation

“Henry are you here?” Tom calls out as they enter the tenement.

With no response they rush into the house each man calling names into the structure, “Athena, Albert and Elizabeth.” No answer comes to their harried yells.

“Blast it chap where could they’ve gotten too?”

“I’m at a loss my friend.” Tom responds, “As I see it we have two answers, either they’ve gone for lunch or a walk or…” The other option sticks in his throat as it if is distasteful to even think of it.

Looking his friend in the eyes Alfred responds, “Let us hope it’s just a quiet walk along the promenade friend.”

“Lets, now where the devil has Henry got too?”

“Lets do a quick sweep of the house and then we’ll think on that.”

The two divide up and search each room with cursory glances; their eyes weary from the day’s activities. On finding nothing disturbed or afoot they meet at the front door.

Tom speaks first, “I assume from your silence you found nothing, well neither did I, it would seem the girls and Albert are safe. Now where might we find Henry?”

“If I were in is position I might seek out a busy place, a bar or tea house.”

“Knowing that fellow I’d assume a tea house, it’d be just like our Henry going for a spot of tea after a fight.” Tom says with a smile.

“Then we should wait here for him to return, if it’d been a bar we might have stood a chance only several thousand of them to search, tea houses, every corner holds one these days and every second one of those is a front for bordellos or poppy dealers.”

Settling into a beaten red velvet chair Tom says, “Well all this talk of tea has made me thirsty.”

“Righto old chap I’ll go and steep some for us.”

As if signalled by the sound of Alfred’s voice the door busts inwards, the delicate pane of glass framed by wood shatters across the entryway, tiny crystals spraying as if riding the wind to far off places.

As the shards of glass and splinters spins and tumble across the floor heavy leather boots raid inwards, great swathes of dirt and filth tumbling off them onto the floor, both men jump to their feet at the sound, each of their faces showing the utter shock that it deserves.

Four impressive figures cloaked in black, including heavy black wool caps and heavy sunglasses, fall into the room. Their leather boots, each identical to the mans beside, are calf high and laced all the way, the soles clearly heavy and solid, each foot fall dense enough to shake the furnishings and rattle any unbroken glassware.

“I don’t like the look of this friend.” Alfred says almost coyly, his keen sense of humour not able to disguise the genuine fear building in his heart.

“No not at all.” Tom responds in much the same way, “So what’s all this then?” he extends rather loudly, his voice sounding frail against the tromping feet.

The four men, standing side by side as best they can, move forwards and stop mid-room, their footfalls several octaves quieter but their forms looking like a breaker squad.

“Well you might ask.” An accented voice utters from behind the wall of black men. “For some reason I distrusted your old comrade, but what do you know he was telling the truth.”

“And what truth might that be stranger?” Tom quickly yells, uncertain as to how he should respond.

“That we’d find you here of course.” The voice says with some gayety.

“And may we have the pleasure of knowing who you are?” Alfred asks in that ever so polite English way.

“I see no harm in that now my pale little friend.” Stepping forwards an imposing figure, dressed in much the same way as his fellows, pushes through the gathering. “My name is Marcov, and if you have not gathered I am Russian.” He says while removing his sunglasses to show keen blue eyes that all but light the dim room, the man’s face carrying enough charisma to do most of the work for them.

“What of it?” Tom says without hiding his spite, yet somehow drawn into the mans eyes.

“Hmm, well I guess your not to know with your… limited vision.” The man all but laughs at the two, his moist lips pressing together as if tasting a new cigar. “I am part of the coalition and I plan to take you in.”

“On whose authority?” Alfred gingerly asks, his voice sounding put out for the first time.

“Why our leaders naturally.” The Russian says by curling his tongue around the English words as if they were food.

“I hope you’re prepared to take them with a fight.” A familiar voice calls from the smashed doorway.

“Who’s there?” Marcov yell back towards the street, as he turns slightly on his toes while trying to look after his goons, “Another friend no doubt, how wonderful, now I can have the whole collection!”

As if the words in his mouth were a command the four men break into two groups, one group of three and a lone man.

The single man dashes towards the door, hoping to capture and subdue Henry while the three remain to approach and contain the two men.

As the jackboots rub mud and horse shit into the old mat Marcov moves to a nearby seat in the fond hope of getting a good view of the battle, there he finds a cold half drunk tea and an uneaten shortbread biscuit. Making himself comfortable he watches the situation unfold with a subdued humour that barely touches his face.

⚅⚀thoughts