DEDICATION: To Jenny for the beta and with special thanks to Isabelle Beaulieu for all her help with my lousy French!! You’re great girls!!

AUTHOR’S NOTES: All historical references have been checked. If I’ve made a mistake I’m sure someone out there will tell me. The Telegraph Boy Scandal or the Cleveland Street Scandal was actually later than I have here and came to light in 1889. I first read about it in a book on sex scandals a good couple of years ago but it does turn up every now and then. The Wicked London series mentions it somewhere and there are web sites in the Gay History sections that give further details. I have simply lifted the idea of a callboy racket using the delivery of telegraphs as a cover as a plot device. It is not meant to be the actual events or characters.

Lastly Spike asks for an awful lot of money for his services at the end of this piece. A guinea was a rich man’s pricing system and represented a pound and a shilling or 21 shillings. The first boy to be caught in the Cleveland Street Scandal had 18 shillings on him that represented several weeks’ wages but he had actually received for one job! Another client had given a mere 4 shillings. Spike finally gets a crown or 5 shillings just under a quarter of what he asked for! That’s enough on with the show.

Chapter 3: I am a Telegraph Boy.

Can I come in? Please? Oh don't be soft; I'm just lonely that's all. And so are you. Don't lie, that's why you said you were like me. Tell you what, you make me hot chocolate and I'll tell you my life story part three. Thank-you. Now sit down here and I'll begin. Where was I? Yes - on the streets again.

The streets of London, now there's a song. 1873 or there's about. You'd call it cruising now or hustling. I just called it trade. I worked everywhere from Vicky Dock to the fancy side of Vicky Park. It was built a plague barrier between the cholera-ridden slums of Bow and the posh houses of Hackney. Yeah, it were posh then. The houses were huge four storey jobs, with steps up the front and carriage drives. There was plenty of business. I always saved a penny for the bathhouse so's I could wash, and found lodgings above a butcher's stable, round the back of Spitalfield's Market.

Life was sort of okay. Touting for custom wasn’t easy mind, lots of near scrapes with all sorts including the rozzers. Oh, peelers, bobbies, coppers, pigs, filth, law. Sooner or later I was going to catch something, or get beaten, or worse, and it was a ten stretch in clink if convicted of the ‘unspeakable act’.

Yeah that's right ten years for love and three months or less for stifling your unwanted offspring with dough, or soot, or stuffing them up flue, or down the potty. In the open sewer of the Thames, I was lucky.

One day, I was on my way out for lunch near Holborn Viaduct, when I heard screaming coming from an alleyway. The lanes round there were full of the tides of people that ebbed and flowed into the city. Jewish families from as long ago as the Spanish Inquisition, Huguenot’s with their lace works, Indians and Chinese coming in with the boats, as the Empire continued to expand. They were all headed for them gold paved streets to find nothing but horseshit. Now someone was getting murdered.

More out of curiosity than anything, I stuck my head into the narrow passageway. I could see a lad, not much older than me, and a bloke, with his trousers down, ready to do the business. “Oi,” I yelled, “The runners are coming.” Well the bloke hoiked up his trousers and legged it, but the boy just slumped against the wall.

“You all right, mate?” No answer. “Ain't really no filth, just made that up to get rid of the sod.”

“Ta.”

“Well I'll be going then?” I turned, but something in me recognised the desperation on his face, “Say, you want a Shangri?”

“Come again, tha speech's strange.” Mine!! The bloody cheek of it! He was from up north and it was all thees and thous. You know what they say about the other side of the Watford Gap, there dwelleth demons!! No! Not literally! Oh my God, it's a joke based on fifteenth-century maps - blimey mate, do you need educating or what? Okay, I s’pose it’s just being born and brought up on a hellmouth. You may well have a different take on things.

I asked again, “A cuppa? - Come on.”

We sat down in the eel shop at the end of the lane. “You know,” I said, trying to moderate my accent, “Not wise being in Tinpan Alley. This lane is notorious.”

“What’s tha doing here then?”

“Frank the Fourbe has the best mash and liqueur in the city. But you really need to be more careful. Newgate one side of you and runners on the other, and Justice may be blind but the Beak sure as ‘ell isn't. Do you really fancy dancing the Tyburn jig?”

He may not have understood but it frightened him enough. He told me his name - Jack Pascoe - and he was from Halifax. He was a bit cagey as to why he was in London. I got the feeling he’d run away. Something in his manner said he was a bit of an iron like. He definitely had something to hide. I told him that contrary to popular belief, the streets of the city were actually paved with horseshit. It raised a slight smile.

He asked me what I did for a living. I told him straight up. His eyes widened like saucers. “Sorry,” He said, “‘Ave I stopped thee working?” His accent really emphasised the ‘g’ on the end of the word. In Tinpan Alley? Please! Even I ‘ad a little more class than that! And a lot more brain!!

“Listen, have you got somewhere to stay?” He shook his head. I paid and we left. I wasn't totally unaware of the irony of the situation. But I weren’t gonna bugger off an’ leave ‘im. Misplaced loyalty rears it’s ugly head again. By the time we entered my lodgings, I had a proposal for him. Marriage! Tut! I knew I shouldn't have started telling you this.

It was simple. If he could face the job, then we could work as a team. I would guard his back. He’d guard mine. We'd split all takings. He smiled nervously but agreed. Not quite as green as he was cabbage looking, I’d say. Then he glanced around the room. It was a bit of a two and eight. “Tha's a reader?”

“Aye.” I mocked.

He bent to pick up a volume. As he stood our nose's almost touched. I took a step back and eyed him carefully, “This thing, we do, you and me. It’s business - trade. That's it, end of story. You have the bed. I'll take the floor. Clear?” I know. It was harsh.

We carried on that way for about eighteen months. We relaxed into each other’s company. It was nice to share my life with someone again. I really hate being alone. Then one day he came home all spruced up. Uniform, titfer, the works and I said to him, “Ooo look at you, going out tats?” Okay, going out with our hats on. Out tats is better, it's certainly shorter. He said he'd got a job. He told me about this Telegraph malarkey. Ostensibly you were delivering Telegraphs – which yes, go back that far and yes, you may put your head in my lap - but really i’twas a callboy racket. It was excellent, no rozzers, no beatings, just discreet meetings in hotels and houses, with clean sheets and good tips. What’s more he’d made an appointment for me to meet the big noise an’ all. So I cleans up, puts on me Sunday whistle - you're not supposed to use the last bit of the rhyme, it's not a code if you do.

We went into the offices. I went straight up to the clerk, bold as brass, and said, “I've come to see a man about a job.” The clerk disappeared, but was back almost straight away. He led us down a corridor and through a red velvet curtain. There, seated at a desk, was a chap I was sure was Whitaker's brother. Family resemblance? Yeah - the smell!

This bloke, Fenning, asked me several questions and then said, “So you're a chirpy cockney. They're ten a penny round here. What makes you so special?”

I looked around the office. Behind him was a bookshelf. Ignoring the confused stares, I went to the books and took one. Opening it I read, “Cesar le debauche, qui vole le tresor public de Rome pour asservir sa patrie; mais dont la clemence egale la valeur, et dont l'esprit egale le courage;” I skimmed the page and then carried on, “Mille contrastes se presentent souvent en foule, et ces contrastes sont la nature; ils ne sont pas plus etonnants qu'un beau jour suivi de la tempete.”

“Or a guttersnipe that can read French. Bravo, a very apt quote.”

“Always liked Voltaire. Mind you Candide is still the fucking best, China.”

“Vrais. Tout est pour le mieux dans le meilleur des mondes.”

More front than Brighton that's me, but it got me a job. That and the fact that I wash up cute. My hair is darker than this - and yes I do say so - and my eyes and really blue, see. Oh, that’s kind of sexy, you looking at me that intently. I'm fine so long as I don't open me mouth and I only needed to do that for one reason.

Jack and I carried on living together. We managed to save enough to find rooms in Tooley Street over London Bridge. The real one. You know, the one that was sold to an American and put in a desert. We also began to share a bed. Didn’t do nothing, it was just friendship, company.

Down the hall lived two sisters. They were in service as daily maids. They spoke right nice. I’d spend hours imitating their accents and then practicing by chatting them up. Sometimes Jack would join in but I got the feeling he was somehow jealous of the attention I gave them.

He commented on it one day. “Just what the fuck d’you mean by that remark?”

“Nowt, just a joke that’s all.”

“Well it’s not funny. If you’re such a comedian, go do music hall.”

“Eh, no need to take on, tha know I loves thee.” Talk about Freudian slip. I struck him really hard across his cheek. He must have bit the inside of his mouth ‘cos instantly there was blood. He wiped it with the back of his hand and said, “I’m going to work.” Then he vanished.

I went in later that day, hoping to see him in the offices and apologise. I’d planned to go out somewhere nice. Thought maybe even the theatre. I hadn’t meant to hurt him. I guess I was just shocked. He’d always been the quieter and shyer out of the two of us and yet he had managed to voice, what I hadn’t even dared give thought to. He wasn’t there. I finished all my clients for the afternoon and still he hadn’t come in. Fenning said he’d probably gone straight home. He seemed shifty, like he was hiding something.

I went home at a run but he wasn’t back. Didn’t come in the next day, or the one after that either. Jack was missing.

I went to Fenning and demanded to know who the last client was. “Now you know I can’t tell you that. You two have a spat? Maybe he went back to Yorkshire.”

“Don’t be a prick.”

“Now there’s no need for that.”

“JUST TELL ME WHERE HE WENT!!!!!” It was no good. Just got meself kicked out by the bullies.

As I was leaving one of the other lads came up to me and said, “I know where Pascoe went last.”

I hauled him to the side of the building. “Okay, sing.”

“Mayfair. Fenning’s been sending boys there for the last month. None of them ever come back. He always says they’ve gone back home.”

I bided my time. Hanging round the offices, making sure I heard all the clients booking appointments. It wasn’t long before the one came in I’d been waiting for. Mayfair.

“I’ll do it, Mr Fenning, Sir.”

“No boy, it’s a long way and it’s late, you are already an hour over your shift.”

“Really, I don’t mind.”

“No!”

“Why?”

I faced him out, daring him with my stare to answer me. He gave in. “Listen to me, three hours. That’s to get there, do your job and get back here or I’m sending out the peelers.” He wasn’t messing, something had him really shitting bricks.

The building was a large hotel overlooking the Royal parks. Someone liked a room with a view. The front desk was deserted, but there was a blond man, sitting on a sofa by a large aspidistra. “Telegraph for Mr. Butler.”

“You don’t want to go up there.”

“Just tell me the number.” I didn’t want to get into lengthy discussions.

“Father, forgive me for I have sinned. The sins of the father are visited upon the child.”

“If you say so, Mate. Number?”

“101. Beware the sins of the father. Forgive my father for I have sinned.” I shook my head. The nutcase had got that last one wrong. Or maybe he hadn’t. I headed up the stairs.

When I got to the room, this dark-haired girl opened the door. A bird, well that was a turn up for the books. This was really new but I was game. She spoke funny and I was a little worried, she might of been an actress. Why was that a problem? Well gonorrhoea was rife in the city and prostitutes had been the targets of the blame. This had spread to include all working women, much as all irons were targeted during the AIDS thing. See a hundred years ago, I was in the safe set and it was the hets that had the lergy.

I stepped in. “Ooo he's pretty,” cooed the girl, “Like cup cakes with sugared violets. Can I eat him, Daddy, please?” I'd come to the loony bin - I thought - but as long as they pay me.

A large, male, Irish voice boomed out of the darkness, “Let's see how good he is on his knees first, shall we Dru?” Yeah that’s right, Drucilla.

Was I afraid of him? I'll reserve comment for now - Are you afraid of me? The bloke I'm telling you about is dead, you know. You're playing with fire. Yes, I was very afraid of him. He was large, vicious and cold. A soulless demon looked out from those chocolate coloured eyes. More romantic penny rag shit, I know - maybe I'm not such a good poet.

There I stood trying not to shake and looking defiant. “Where do you want me then?”

“I'm not so sure I do want you.” Said a much posher female voice. I jumped a little and turned towards the blonde.

“Look,” I said, “I’m game for anything. Tell you what, I’ll charge you one fee and drill the bints for nothing, my treat ladies.”

Well, when all three vamped out at once, you could have knocked me down with the proverbial, but I was still Wil' Hayter, I was hard, had been around and I could handle this. Quite frankly I just didn't care if I died or not. I had no belief in a soul and no self-worth. I could do anything for a sixpence and I mean it. How? I don't know, you just bury yourself deep inside. Become cold and unfeeling. Just shutdown then no one or nothing can hurt you. It's like you leave and the fucking done to your body without you. Oh no! Please don't cry - I won't go on if it upsets you - you mustn't cry for Wil’ pet, he's dead - really he was dead long before this. Please.

There now, are you sure you want me to carry on? Well they didn't kill me. Dru began to sway. “Look into my eyes, Dearie,” she crooned. “That's right, look at me.”

I was enthralled. “Did these creatures kill my Jack?” I thought. She kissed me hard and bit at my lip. I went to hold her, but found my arms pinned by the blonde, who began to lick and nibble my earlobes. Sucking, not piercing, but I knew I'd have a great bruised love bites in the morning.

Then they were undressing me. I found it hard to think at all, but from somewhere came, “Don't damage the uniform, I’ll have to pay for it.” Dru was so gentle with the buttons of the jacket, pushing it back across my shoulders, running a hand across my naked chest. No, no shirt. Darla, for that’s who she was, ran her lips along my back, as Drucilla raked her nails down my front. She drew blood and lapped at it greedily. Darla reached around for the button fly of my trousers and dragged them down. Dru stroked me erect and ran her nails over my balls and cock. I could think of nothing but these two women working on me. Oh yeah, right, every man's dream, this was every man's nightmare, enthralled and shut down, unable to move, think or respond.

I was lost. Then I heard him. “Enough.” he roared. The girls parted to reveal Angelus, naked on the bed, cock of his own dung heap! “Come here boy.” I moved and immediately stumbled over my trousers. They laughed and made no effort to help me.

I picked meself up, took off my boots and stepped out of my trousers. Naked now, I stood in front of him. I was rudely shoved from behind. I hit my chin on the footboard and was pushed down by one of the girls. “On your knees.” He introduced himself to my lips and I opened my mouth. Difficult, as someone had hold of my hair. “Open your eyes boy. You have beautiful eyes, they're crystal blue and I want to see them weep.” He said it so gently, yet when I opened my eyes, he was brutal and cold.

The girls had all but gone. I tried to peak in the mirror, on the wardrobe door, to see what they were doing but of course they didn't reflect. I could see myself in a grotesque attitude, I could see the bruises and other injuries already appearing and I could see clothes materialising out of nowhere. I could hear them too. The moans and snarls. Then I felt the biggest belt around the head. “Concentrate.” He bellowed.

Blowing him proved difficult, even for a seasoned professional like myself. He wouldn't let me use my hands or move my head so it was throat and tongue only. If you're lucky you may get to feel my tongue. This story is really turning you on, isn't it? Don't lie. I can smell the arousal. No, I'm not insulted. It's better to make you hot than to make you cry.

Well now, our Peaches wasn't getting his jollys watching Darla and Dru sixty-nine with my boat wrapped round his hampton, so he drags me off, lifts me bodily and dumps me on the bed. I really prayed, one, that I'd got enough saliva on him to act as a lube and, two, that I was well used enough that this wouldn't matter. But that dratsab, he might as well have had a spiny one and he had about as much finesse as a navvy with a pickaxe. I refused to cry. “Bury yourself deeper Wil',” I thought, “And he can't get you. He can kill you but he'll never get you.”

It hurt. He slammed my face into the headboard. He didn't move, just dragged me, by my hair and cock, up and down his pole. Then he turned me over and I caught a quick glimpse of the girls, still fucking and sucking for all they were worth. There was a lot of blood.

He pushed me up almost double and drove down. That time I begged. I couldn't breathe or speak or move. My entire world was the pain in my hole. Yes – the thing you let into your houses, rapes prostitutes!

He seemed to pound for an eternity, with no change in pace, until he finally came and then just tossed me aside like some rag doll. “Clean it up.” He ordered and Dru and Darla came eagerly to lick my wounds and drink my blood. Dru licked all around my hole, tasting her sire and me.

I had to move; when I was finally left alone I thought, I must get out of here. So I gathered myself together and got off the bed. Now here’s the reason for only wearing trousers, jacket and boots, easy to get back on, see. They totally ignored me, but I thought if I made a break for the door, it would be the last thing I ever did. So I smoothed back my bloodied hair and put on my hat. Then I turned to him, who was still fiddling with his cravat, and said, “That will be a guinea, please.”

“What!”

“Well I ain't charged you for the girls, but you got blown and a fuck, and beating me's extra. Plus, I won't be able to work for a week, so I figures I need comp...thingy. Still, if you want, you could ask for me in particular, and I could give you special rate next time.”

“Next time! What is this? Whores in a union now, are they? The whole world's gone mad. What make you makes you think there'll be a next time? Your just fodder, boy.”

“Maybe, but I've been here nearly two hours and I think I've earned me money.”

I think my god damned, barefaced cheek won that round ‘cos he laughed and chucked me a crown - and no it wasn't what I'd asked for, cheapskate - and said, “Now bugger off, before I change my mind and eat you.”

There, and now you're horny and happy, so I'm going. No, not yet, next time may be. We'll make it a proper date, I'll cook. Okay? Okay.

(PS. The French used was translated from English using Babel Fish. It may not be exactly as a native speaker would say it or exactly what Voltaire wrote. Hopefully though it is spelt right and grammatically correct. I’m sure someone will tell me if it’s not!!)

>>> Chapter 4

<<< Chapter 2

Back to Puppy Dog Tales

Dead and Kicking