The Grind

PROLOGUE THE HUMAN CONDITION London, December 1889 London’s population was exploding. Humanity had never witnessed anything like it. The endless fields and orchards of twenty years before were no longer green, they were grey. Paved walkways and magnificent buildings stretched from St. Paul’s Cathedral west as far as Chelsea and Paddington. Mile after mile of solid stone structures had been skilfully erected by master craftsmen. Beautifully decorated homes, offices, shops and theatres. The advent of public transport had given birth to the commuter. These residents of the newly created outer suburbs took it all in their stride. They thought their surroundings befitted the worthy occupants of the world’s most important city. London was awash with shiny new centres specifically designed for entertainment, amusement, business, and above all, money. The citizens had never had it so good and they thanked God and Queen for their fortune. But on the city’s eastern side, once past the surviving remnants of the Roman wall, respectable civilisation was conspicuous by its absence. Progress had yet to march east of the Aldgate pump. If you found yourself this far east of St. Paul’s, it paid to know where you stood. A lot depended on one’s precise location. From Aldgate to Hoxton Square, makeshift hovels waited to be replaced by stone structures. Sunlight had difficulty penetrating the dark shadows. Not even weeds grew amongst the filth and squalor. People spent their entire existence in the few streets surrounding where they were born. Not through lack of curiosity about the outside world, but because every waking moment was consumed by the fight for survival. Those East Enders who did roam were viewed with suspicion, bordering on hostility. Any journey beyond what you knew had to show potential profit to be worth the risk. It was far safer to stay put and let the good citizens come to your natural habitat. If asked, the God-fearing citizens of London might acknowledge the vastly differing existences in their city. They didn’t care to discuss or analyse too carefully, though. They preferred to suppress the feelings that arose when thoughts turned east. Far better to mistrust one’s own eyes and concede that the Almighty knows what he is doing. It was a mystery to all why East Enders insisted on living like savage beasts. Why they made no attempts to conform. To take the path of the righteous. To accept the role society had allocated them. Decent folk denigrated the misfits. They justified segregation, ignored awkward truths, accepted official announcements that teetered between misleading and outrageous. Did whatever it took to ensure they could justify standing idly by while fellow humans were ruthlessly crushed for the good of the Empire. No stock was given to the notion that these people were the victims of terrible circumstance. There was very little understanding that the exodus from rural to urban living was creating casualties, ghettos. The very first modern metropolis produced the very first urban slum. Nowadays, this story could happen anywhere to anyone. But in 1889, it could only have taken place in the disorganised chaos of London’s East End. The decades – nay, the centuries – go by, but when all is said and done, people are still people. Sometimes we make wrong decisions, get caught up with a bad crowd. Circumstances can lead us into the most unusual situations. Those who benefit from the misery of others rarely seek change. The human condition can justify many outrageous notions in the name of self-gratification. However, by 1889, the voice of reason could no longer be ignored. The Whitechapel murders of the previous year had sent local church leaders and conscience-stricken philanthropists rushing to the area. They had worked doggedly, ensuring most of the ramshackle structures were finally fixed with demolition orders. In the meantime, as a temporary measure, the dwellings were filled to bursting. Every last penny of rent was to be extracted from the cash cow before the taps were turned off. In bureaucratic circles, nothing happened straight away. Demolition could not commence until the owners of these multi-occupancy slums had been traced. This was proving not to be easy. It required patient trawling through complex legal departments, often in more than one language. Paper trails involving multiple properties travelled around the globe via lawyers and shell companies. It was slightly odd that the agents should feel comfortable using business practices designed to stretch the letter of the law to breaking point. But there it was; eventually, they were all traced to the owners. Not real companies, just shells. Nondescript addresses in godforsaken corners of the Empire. Coincidentally, most of the title deeds to these putrid slum dwellings rested in the asset lists of the Holy Church. God’s messengers were prepared to take in the weak and needy. As long as they could charge an extortionate fee and pay no tax. This world, rarely mentioned in polite society, was known as the East End. It consisted of uninviting alleys and badly signposted narrow streets. Lamps were few and far between and gave off little illumination. Conditions were unkind to the inhabitants, perilous to the visitor and unlikely to change any time soon. Squeezed halfway down the busy main thoroughfare of Commercial Street was a little cobbled cut-through that you could walk from end to end in two minutes. It led to the night refuge on Crispin Street. It was 130 paces in length. At first glance, it was no different from many other filthy, insignificant stretches of land this side of the money-crazed city. It was different, though, very different and everybody who lived nearby knew it. Dangerous currents emanated from the blackened walls, from the grimy cobbles underfoot. High, intimidating lodging houses were perfect for criminals wishing to hide in plain sight. Transients guaranteed a constant stream of new faces. The doss-houses were flea-infested from one end of the street all the way to the other. These squalid hovels swallowed 1,200 anonymous lost souls every single night. Here, anyone with fourpence could claim temporary use of filthy, crowded bed space, whilst for tuppence a man could sleep upright, shoulder to shoulder against his fellow human beings, a rope holding them all in place. This was Dorset Street and it came with a fearsome reputation that was entirely deserved.