Mayhem by Sarah Pinborough

aware of my dimly lit surroundings, Chi-Chi, with that innate sense peculiar to the Orientals who ran these establishments, silently appeared by my side and began the job of replenishing my pipe, knowing my habits of quantity perhaps better than I did.
    The room before me had filled with more clients and I wondered how many hours had passed since I had arrived. Time means nothing in the dens; indeed, I believe it moves at a different pace for each smoker. For those whose visions brought sudden, unwanted terrors, the minutes could feel like eternities, while for others who smiled and drifted more pleasantly, surely the reverse was true, and an hour could be over in a heartbeat – just as it had been so for me.
    My arm felt incredibly heavy, but still I raised my hand as best I could, in a bid to stop the old Chinamanin his work for a moment. Although my subconscious might have very recently taken flight, my body was very much anchored to the bed.
    ‘No want?’ he asked. His dark eyes stared at me, endless pools of alien thought.
    ‘There is a man who comes here,’ I said. ‘He wears a black coat. It’s long, and coated in wax. He has a withered arm.’ My words slurred as I tried to keep my sentences short and focused, as much for my own confused mind as to ensure the Chinaman understood me.
    ‘You talk of him last time,’ he said, and I wondered how much this man remembered of all his clients. We came here and dreamed in front of him – perhaps he was the guardian of all our souls.
    ‘He is looking for someone,’ I said. ‘I might be able to help him.’ This was only a partial lie – until I knew for whom he was looking, I did not know whether I could help him or not.
    The Chinaman remained still, his expression unreadable.
    I continued, ‘He takes the pipe and then wanders amongst those who lie here. He studies them.’ I felt as if I were talking to myself. Perhaps I was. Maybe this was all part of the opium dream. ‘Although how he has the wherewithal to move at all astounds me,’ I muttered, thinking of my own weakened state. ‘He must have the constitution of the devil.’
    ‘He does not smoke this. This , but not this .’
    The Chinaman spoke quietly, and the words took a moment to filter through my dulled senses.
    ‘What?’
    ‘More expensive.’
    For the first time, the Chinaman looked slightly awkward, a moment of universal humanity on the wrinkled foreign face.
    ‘Is rare. He ask I no tell.’
    ‘But you’ve told me,’ I said, ‘and I must try it.’
    ‘Very expensive.’
    ‘I have money.’ I reached into my pocket and pulled out a handful of shillings. I had more tucked inside my shirt, but I had no intention of revealing that, not in a place like this. Although the Chinaman seemed like a decent enough sort of chap given his situation, I had no desire to find myself robbed, murdered and thrown into the stinking Thames on my departure.
    He looked down at the palmful of coins and selected three before disappearing behind the curtained doorway that separated his place of business from what I imagined must be his home.
    I wasn’t sure quite what I was expecting, but Chi-Chi returned with a small silver container, about the size of a thimble, containing a liquid of much the same consistency and colour of that which I had smoked earlier. Was this some kind of ploy? As there was only one way I was going to find out, I lay on my side on the cot. Once the preparations were complete, I drew in a deep lungful of the smoke.
    At first the sensation was familiar to me, but then it changed and settled into an excited tingle in my veins. The world did not blur about me, and my body was no longer heavy – if anything, I felt as if I could walk on air, should I so wish. I smiled and drew in more, until Chi-Chi, watching me carefully, took the pipe from me. For the first time in our acquaintance I saw how sharp those dark eyes really were. Previously, the world had become a swirl of colours and