The Whispering Gallery by Mark Sanderson Page B

would have nodded off if it hadn’t been for his splitting skull – until, at last, he turned the corner into Giltspur Street.
    He rang the bell. Nothing happened. It could have been a matter of life and death. These people were paid to be on call twenty-four hours a day. He rang again. It can’t have been much after twelve thirty. The human body didn’t clock on and off. He kept his finger on the doorbell until, a whole minute later, a buxom, middle-aged woman in a matron’s uniform, a look of thunder on her face, drew back the bolt and, arms folded, looked down her pointed nose at him. Her nostrils flared as the unmistakable tang reached them.
    â€œI’m not a tramp,” said Johnny, aware that if he didn’t sit down soon he would fall down. His battered mouth made it difficult to speak clearly. “Someone’s assaulted me. I’m a reporter on the Daily News .”
    â€œThat explains it then.” She made no attempt to help him. “What it doesn’t quite explain though is the bad smell . . .”
    â€œMy attacker added insult to injury.” What was she waiting for? She must be accustomed to such bodily odours. “Where’s the doorman?”
    â€œHe’s sick.” Before Johnny could make a sarcastic reply, his knees buckled. He was mercifully out cold when he hit the ground.
    St John’s Square was lit by four flickering gaslights that would soon be replaced by modern ones connected to the mains. The thought did not fill the man wreathed in a silk scarf with pleasure. Old London was being destroyed by the march of progress. Every week its nooks and crannies were flattened by the wrecking ball; rookeries were still being demolished by the meddlesome Peabody Trust. There were times when he liked nothing better than to slum it.
    This evening, for example, he had stooped lower than expected. She had turned out to be more than a little rough – and, as the bite marks on his cock would testify, full of fighting spirit – until he had produced the tongue-tearer. When he had finally taken leave of her, a few short minutes ago, she had been only too willing to try and lick the last dew-drop off his tip as it glistened in the candlelight – but, of course, she couldn’t. He’d wiped it on her raven locks instead. The thought of her chained up, the bloom on her naked flesh slowly fading, put a spring in his step.
    Once more he congratulated his parents on their choice of location. The house was perfectly situated for all his needs. Mount Pleasant, for instance, was just two minutes away. Mount Pleasant. Mons Veneris. Mont Blanc. They were the three points in the triangle that now made up his life.
    He was looking forward to a long, luxurious soak, letting the smell of blood and sex leach away. However, before he could relax, he had to do one more thing. Steadman had to be given a gentle reminder.
    If the hack was not taking him seriously yet, he soon would be.
    Johnny’s first thought was that he must be the victim of a practical joke. He was wearing someone’s pyjamas – they couldn’t be his because he didn’t own a single pair; he slept in the nude in summer and wore one of his father’s night-shirts in winter – but it wasn’t this that made him laugh: it was the turban wrapped round his head. He started to giggle then stopped as his battered ribs reminded him what had happened. He turned his bandaged head on the mound of pillows and realised he couldn’t open his left eye. He was in a dimly lit side-ward off the emergency department from which new arrivals requiring further treatment could be transferred to other parts of the hospital when the day shift began. There was only one other patient: a shrunken old lady who was snoring gently.
    â€œThey gave you something for the pain,” said the young nurse. She smiled down at him as she checked his pulse. The gap between her two front teeth was