A first person account of the London underworld

It was on Wednesday night that my demand for knowledge led me from my smart Marylebone townhouse and took me to some of the most notorious rookeries of infamous characters in the metropolis. In truth, this is not the first time that my thirst for truth has led me into Godless danger, but it was still a momentous night in any book.

On my journey eastward, I swallowed down two tabs of the most piquant LSD, in order to make the learning experience all the more startling. And so it was. Arriving in Whitechapel I entered a public-house on Union Street, where I ordered a low drink. Fully aware that I was in sotadic zone 2, I remained on guard for dark deeds at my elbow.

Indeed, I immediately noticed four brutal-looking men loafing about the bar. I studied them, fascinated, from a quiet corner - their coarse, meat-like flesh, their stench of stale perspiration, the cruel look in their eye. As these features toughened and quickened before me, I guessed the medication was taking effect, and steadied my nerve with a handful of quaaludes.

So bolstered, I made my way through a door into a small yard behind the house, where I found a number of dogs chained to their kennels. These, I presumed were the dogs of the scented gentlemen. I swam through, their rotten maws snapping at my flinching face, and passed into an outhouse behind. There, between thirty and forty persons were assembled round a wooden enclosure looking on, while more rotten dogs were killing rats.

Hiding myself in the rear, I spied on the crowd - they consisted of burglars, pickpockets and the associates of thieves. Shouting oaths of encouragement as the dogs tore into the rats, they had the rough stamp of the criminal in their countenances and were enflamed by strong drink. Furthermore, the room began to pulsate with an unholy logic, as if breathing like a giant lung. I collapsed against a wall, shuddering. The cacophony of villainy seemed to rise to a crescendo, and I fled in terror, a handkerchief clasped to my mouth.

I passed through a tiny squat passage that seemingly carried on for eternity. I felt as though the dogs were barking at my very heels all the way. On emerging, I found myself on a street corner, where there were three women talking together. They were innocent of crinolene, and their countenances stolid. Gathering they were prostitutes, I walked over to make further my understanding of London's underworld.

After some discussion - I know not what - I was taken from that place with the three, to a house on Frederick Street. I imagine I had meant to develop my knowledge of their home life, although I am uncertain of my mental processes, having on the way inhaled an impressive helping of cocaine from a delicate glass orb tied around my neck.

After a dizzying array of bodyless faces passed by me, I found myself in a wretched tumble-down hovel that passed as a bedroom. There was not a chair to be seen, nor a bed-stead, and the whore lay down upon palliasse placed upon the floor. She introduced herself as Emma. Hastily, I prepared a spliff, and asked to know her story.

"My father and mother," she said, "kept a grocer's shop on Goswell Street. Mother died when I was twelve years old, and father took to drinking. I went to live with a sister who was bad. One day I met a sailor. He died of yellow fever in the West Indies. One of his mates brought me a silver snuff box. We lived in Gregories rents. When I was drunk, he used to tie my feet and hands and take me into the street. He'd throw me into the gutter, then throw buckets of water over me..."

And so it continued, dear friends! The banal patter of the low street walker! Shushing her so that I might learn more about the actualities of her trade, we were surprised by a loud knocking through the hallway. "Police!" came a scream, and all hell seemed to break loose, with bodies rushing hither and thither, many naked, both male and female.

I must admit I was most taken up in the moment, and when the peelers rushed through I did hastily remonstrate with them about their uninvited entrance. Slavvering somewhat, I beleive I did strike one of the fellows, flinging his helmet against a cracked tea pot. At this, he brought his truncheon down upon my brow and the rest is darkness.

When I awoke, I commenced what would be a terrifying but ultimately instructive Easter weekend. Allow me to explain further, tomorrow. But now, to bed.