Delivery

Mr Ellis glanced down once more at the watch he held in the palm of his big hairy hand. More than three hours, he'd been standing. More than six since they'd come through town at dusk.
They had driven their wagon at a workaday pace, sitting side-by-side on the driver's platform with collars turned up, bowlers wedged down. An unremarkable passing, no discernible difference between their own covered load and that of the brewery's delivery wagons, or the coal carts returning to their black dusty yards.
Down from Hampstead, through Camden, Holborn, and finally out of the teeming East, bumping over vegetable-strewn market streets, onto the teardrop island, part of the great river-sprawl fortress that sucked in the ship-laden wealth of nations, hoarded it, then dispersed it reformed, priced and packaged into the greedy city.
They had passed beneath cranes, chains and winches still on the swing, sliding doors two storeys up clanging home on the final slam.
Day's loads pulled in, lights snuffed as the rats came out and the pubs filled up.
Which meant there was nothing now to accompany the clacking and clopping of the horses' hooves on the cobbles, as loud as a blacksmith's anvil. Two bowler-hatted heads swivelled, wary, left right and back again as this lonely clatter lent their passing a conspicuousness previously avoided.
Even so, they reached their destination free of any circumstance: a smaller side street, its cobbled camber as steep as any hill.
The warehouse itself was no trifling affair: rising up four storeys, each one as high as a house, it was the greatest in a row of great feats of construction.
But its own cranes and winches hung dead from the façade, unused and seized up years before.
It sat hunched and unwelcoming, shunning its hard working neighbours, keeping its secrets, discouraging the curious with an air of cold hostility that clung to the edifice like a damp web.
Not used, then, in the regular sense, empty but not forlorn: still owned, and watched over, money invested to secure its unassailable detachment; and an old, deep-seated power to enforce it.
A hole in the street; a dead space.
Ellis and Wilbur had temporary licence to enter; they felt no more welcome because of it.

Their wagon now stood in a deserted loading bay the size of a barn, doors as tall as the house-high ceiling and as wide as the street outside, and barred shut by a railway sleeper.
The load awaited its midnight delivery.

Having slipped off earlier to a local dockers' boozer for their tea and a slosh for Dutch courage, Mr Wilbur and Mr Ellis had returned to the wagon, to wait, more than three hours ago.
In that time, neither had spoken.
Mr Ellis and the two dray horses took turns to hoof the ground, all anxious and impatient to get to work. He stood wedged between the two great horse heads, leaning on their harnesses to keep the beasts calm and to take the weight off his aching tree-trunk legs. On occasion all three would snort out their white breath into the sharp night air. The shed offered no warmth.
Mr Wilbur sat dejectedly on the wagon's platform, the reigns limp and useless in his hands.
Mr Wilbur was ill at ease, he had things on his mind.

"He's got us, he said finally, breaking the long silence.
Mr Ellis ignored him, hoofed the ground.
"He's got us both, by the bollocks.
Mr Ellis stopped his hoofing.
"He's led us wrong, Mr Ellis, Mr Wilbur was determined to make his point. "He's had us doing things that ain't right, things I'd never thought about doing, leastways not before he came along and took us over - things that ain't natural, Mr Ellis, and he's got you too, he made us ¦

"Shut up Mr Wilbur. There was no anger in his voice. It was a plain statement, best adhered to.
But Mr Wilbur wasn't the sharpest of tools: "It's running round me head, though, Mr Ellis, all those nights, all those things¦

"You ain't done nothing that weren't in you already, Mr Wilbur. He just brought it out is all. He knows his work. He knows people, and you can't be going guessing what a man like that does, or why he does it. You just do what you're asked Mr Wilbur, if you want no trouble.
Mr Ellis settled back into the wait, but Mr Wilbur wasn't done.
"I want out.
"You might want to take that up with the boss.
"And just how would I do that, Mr Ellis?
Ellis sighed at his partner's lack of irony. The man's constant company was becoming wearing.
"I am not unaware of the difficulty, the impossibility even, of what I was requestin' Mr Wilbur. If I was you, I'd direct your querying to your good self and see what you come up with.
And let that be an end to it.
But Wilbur wasn't done.
"We should leave. While we can. Now. Why don't we? Wilbur was getting all excited at the prospect; Ellis ground his big slab-like teeth and gripped his watch so tight the winding piece dug into the fleshy part of his palm.
"We could head into the rookeries, continued the animated Wilbur, "no-one ever got us there. We'll get back to the old game; breaking and entering, knocking them over and snatching the tom. We did well enough.
Ellis had let him run on long enough.
"Shut up Mr Wilbur, this time said with menace, something of the growl to it. A warning even Mr Wilbur could pick up on.
"Too much has been done, Mr Wilbur. Do you expect to step back out unscathed and unaccountable?
"I'd keep me mouth shut, Mr Ellis, you know I would.
"I know what I know and it don't count here. Your word ain't worth the breath to him. Hiding in the rookeries? The boss has got his fingers into everything and everywhere. Just 'cos he's a bit of posh, don't think he won't come and get you in the rookeries. There's enough bound over to him in there who'll happily turn you over. I told you, he knows his people. He knows how to work 'em.
No. you stay up there like a good boy and do what you're told. That's what you're good for, Mr Wilbur, not the thinking.
The horse on his right hoofed the floor and nodded its head. Ellis looked over, and now saw the tall figure stood in the corner by the big hinges, hands clasped, watching them impassively with his owlish eyes.
Despite his brutish manner Ellis was a man for noticing detail, it was one of his talents; so the Lord's unnatural ability to ghost himself into corners silent and unannounced made the thick black hairs on the back of his neck to stand up and prickle: there was very little that could do that to him these days.
Confident he hadn't said anything to damn himself, he straightened up, and muttered out of the corner of his mouth:
"On top."
Wilbur glanced round the barn. On clocking Rathbone, he sat bolt upright and stared straight ahead with a reign held tight in each hand.
Ellis scowled under his bowler at his partner's lack of subtlety.
Rathbone remained impassive, taking in the wagon, horses and two men with the same detached, bored air.
Both men held their positions under the gaze.
Rathbone left them another minute.
Ellis could sense Wilbur's discomfort. A hardly audible squeak escaped from somewhere near the smaller man.
Perhaps it's his arse on the seat, thought Ellis.
Perhaps it's just his arse.
Hold yourself together, Wilbur, you ain't got long to go.

Rathbone stepped out of the corner, walked solemnly towards the horses, still clasping his hands. He passed Ellis without looking at him, but said quietly: "follow me.
Ellis turned, snapped his fingers and pointed to the ground, and at the signal Wilbur clambered down and fell in behind him and they followed Rathbone out of the loading bay and into a small side 'office.

They stood gathered round a long plain wood table. Rathbone placed a folded square of paper on its scarred surface, and pushed it across to Ellis with two fingers.
Ellis picked it up and unfolded it.
"You see the marks I have made, Mr Ellis?
"I do your 'Ordship.
"There are ten of them. They are your delivery points. They are also individually marked with your times of arrival and departure from each site.
Adhere to them, and you will not be interrupted. Not by anyone of importance. If anything should blunder into your path during the night's itinerary, then please be sure to remove it.
Rathbone now looked up from the table, fixed his gaze on Ellis, and then on Wilbur, and then back again to Ellis, who held the gaze, as he'd learned to, but felt his thick black hackles rise again. He heard his partner swallow hard.
Rathbone let them stand a minute.

"So, how are we tonight, gentlemen?

Ellis didn't answer straight away, not wishing to sound too keen, but another small squeak emitted from Mr Wilbur, accompanied by a nauseous, almost palpable smell.
There's your answer, thought Mr Ellis.
Rathbone appeared to agree: he reached into his jacket and pulled out a long mahogany box, about the length of his forearm.
The sight of it brought forth another, louder, longer squeak from Wilbur.
The smell was worse.
"Fucking sort your arse out, whispered Mr Ellis out of the appropriate corner of his mouth.

Rathbone paid no heed. He placed the box on the table, turned the small brass key in its side and opened the lid.
Ellis and Wilbur kept silent but watched intently as Rathbone performed the ritual.
The box was actually a near-solid block of mahogany, sliced in half, with three perfectly measured grooves hollowed out in the lid and base to hold the contents.
Rathbone reached in and removed a brass cylinder nearly as long as the box itself. There was a break around the tube two thirds along, and Rathbone turned the smaller end halfway clockwise. It came away from the rest. He placed both pieces carefully on the table.
He then removed one of the two remaining, smaller brass cylinders.
He pulled out a brass-tipped cork from one end, took up the larger piece of the big cylinder, and poured liquid into it from the smaller vessel.
He replaced the cork, then repeated the procedure with the matching one.
Having replaced the lid to the larger cylinder, he held it out in front of him with both hands and twisted.
With some careful unscrewing, he removed first the bottom, then the top of the outer casing, revealing its full contents and purpose.
Ellis and Wilbur stared longingly at the apparatus, the precision-made steel holding reinforced glass, which in turn contained the clear innocuous 'looking liquid. From one end protruded a steel plunger, topped with cork for better purchase.
At the other, a two-inch long steel needle, surgically clean.
Ellis' heart beat fast with anticipation. He tried to remain composed , but dark patches of sweat were fast spreading out from his armpits. His bowler hat itched.
Wilbur gripped the edge of the table, and squeaked out his longest, most timbrous and pungent, fart.

Rathbone held the apparatus up, pointing it at the high ceiling.
"Roll your sleeves up, gentlemen.
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Wilbur and Ellis grimaced in unison, lips pulled back to the gums.
Ellis was hyperventilating, dragging the air between the gaps in his big gritted teeth; it sounded like sawing wood.
Wilbur was also panting, in little puffs, like a little boy blowing a thousand candles out, one by one.
"You sharp, Mr Wilbur? Ellis managed to hiss.
"Sharp and keen eyed, Mr Ellis, sharp and keen eyed, Wilbur gasped back, his previous concerns annihilated by the chemicals now raging through his veins.
They swung the sack onto the back of the wagon where it joined the other eight they'd brought down with them.
The bent down to grab the tenth, and last sack, one of the two Rathbone had fetched to this cold deserted place.
The Lord appeared behind them now as they put themselves into the swing, putting both men off their stroke.
"Once again, Mr Wilbur. On the count of three, hissed the still grimacing Ellis.
"Wait. Put it down, said Rathbone.
They did as asked, and stood, twitching and fidgeting under the combined influence of their contaminated bloodstream and the Lord's unnerving close proximity.
The Lord held up a large, curved knife.
"This is designed for cutting through canvas; it will tear through those sacks. Take it, Mr Ellis.
Ellis took the blade, examined it, fascinated by its shine, its cruel curve.
"Don't leave the sacks behind. Just the contents. Understand?
Both men nodded vehemently.
"Carry on.
They swung the last sack up, then climbed up themselves to cover their load again with the large canvas sheeting.
As Ellis tugged on the fastening ropes, he dropped the curved blade. His sharpened instinct enabled him to catch it before it hit the wooden deck of the wagon, but it had snagged in one of the sacks. He pulled it up to free it, and ripped a small tear in the sack.
Poking out of the fresh-torn hole was a foot, smaller then the width of Ellis's hand. It was clad in a tiny, shiny black shoe with a shiny silver buckle, a flash of white sock at the ankle and open toe.
Ellis ducked down sharpish and pushed it back into the sack.
"Everything alright, Mr Ellis? gasped Wilbur.
"Everything fine, Mr Wilbur, hissed back Ellis, and finished securing the canvas sheet.
He jumped off the back and joined his partner up on the driver's platform.
The door was still barred.
They both leapt down again, and walked quickly, but with odd jerky movements, over to the sleeper, and together they lifted it out, and pulled open the giant doors.
Rathbone appeared once again at their back.
Ellis quelled any reaction, apart from the obligatory rising hackles. Wilbur let slip a barely audible gasp.
"Get gone, gentlemen. I shall finish up here.
We shall meet as arranged.
The Lord's voice was as monotone and impersonal as ever, his visage didn't waver from the trademark cold stare, but Ellis could always sense when his boss's tolerance was on the wane. With no further ado he jumped back on the wagon, Wilbur by his side, and they rode the wagon out of the warehouse and into the cold London night.