Free Dream London by Tony Ballantyne Page A

you give me a penny for it?”
    “I shouldn’t stay here, little miss,” I said. “This is not a place for children.”
    That’s when my mind finally registered what she had drawn. It looked like something Hieronymous Bosch might have drawn, if had he decided to turn his hand to hardcore pornography.
    “What the...” I began.
    “The Daddio sends his regards,” said the little girl. She stared up at me, open mouthed. I felt a shiver of horror as I saw two eyes set in her tongue, looking back at me.
    She stood up. I guessed she would be about six years old.
    “Did you draw this yourself?” I said, looking down at the picture.
    “The Daddio wants to know where you were last night. You didn’t return to your flat.”
    “I... I was with a friend.”
    “Ah! You were fucking a whore.” The little girl nodded wisely. “The Daddio said it would be something like that.”
    Now, as you can imagine, Captain Jim Wedderburn has heard much worse language in his time. But hearing it from the voice of such a sweet little thing made it seem all the more obscene. I almost blushed.
    “I bet your mother wouldn’t be pleased to hear you talking like that,” I said, weakly.
    “My mother can go frig herself.” The girl reached up and patted my stomach. “Listen, the Daddio wants you to do something for him.”
    “Does he now?” I said, rather weakly.
    “You’re to go to the docks. The Daddio has a shipment coming in. Some new friends for you. You’re to bring them back here and set them up in rooms of their own. He’ll send further instructions on how you’re to pay the Daddio his cut of their earnings later on.”
    “I don’t have time to go right now, sweetheart,” I said. “Maybe tomorrow.”
    The little girl smiled at me.
    “You go now, or the Daddio will send someone to cut open your stomach and shit in it.”
    She stuck her tongue out, and the two malevolent eyes there stared at me.
    “That’s a pretty turn of phrase,” I said, carefully. “What’s your name, poppet?”
    The little girl spread her pink skirt and performed a curtsey.
    “My name is Honey Peppers and I am six and three-quarters years old.”
    “Well, Honey, you can tell the Daddio that I am going to the docks right away.”
    And at that I spun on my heel and set off at a great pace. I heard the flip of little footsteps behind me as Honey Peppers ran to keep up.
    “Hey! Wait for me! I’m to come with you!”
    “Hurry up then,” I called over my shoulder. “We can’t keep the Daddio waiting!”
    “Hey! Slow down!”
    “What was that? Go faster, you say?”
    I strode as fast I could, pumping my arms like a speed walker. I had left the perfumed shade of Belltower End behind and was already walking down the gentle slope of Crapper Road. The gutters here were filled with the translucent shells of Dream London prawns. Many of the residents of the street earned their money doing piece work for the seafood processors down at the dock.
    Honey Peppers squealed at me.
    “If you don’t wait I’ll have your dick sewn inside your ball sack then I’ll watch you try and piss!”
    This final threat was so extreme it broke my concentration and made me stumble, but I strode on nonetheless.
    “I can’t hear you!” I called.
    I was jogging now, half skipping through the streets. I turned down a street at random and broke into a run. The houses to my right were derelict. Golden trees sprouted through their windows, arching over the road. I heard the chatter of blue monkeys coming from the houses and I stepped up the pace again.
    I ducked to the left and the right, plunging down alleys where the rubbish slicked the floor, walking over spongy green moss where I swayed as if drunk, then into a street where three blue monkeys sat torturing a cat. One of them looked at me, considering. I held its gaze as I walked on.
    All the time I was heading downwards, heading, whatever my intentions might have been to the contrary, towards the docks. Somewhere up