New Flash Fiction: Between the Bridges

We go back to the days of gaslamps and hackney carriages in old London town in our latest flash fiction. The tale is by Sandra Unerman, a fantasy writer, with short stories recently published in Legends and theBFS Journal. She is a member of the London Clockhouse Writers Group.

Between the Bridges
by Sandra Unerman

On a cold autumn evening, in the days of gaslamps and hackney carriages, two men rowed a boat upstream between London Bridge and Southwark Bridge.

Inside the boat, a quarrel smouldered.

‘We should have taken a couple of nags,’ said Bill, at the rear oar.

‘Horses bite,’ answered Jim from in front. ‘And they kick.’

‘At least we’d be on our way by now.’

‘Not if we fell off.’

They spoke slowly, between breaths as they pulled at the oars. But their struggles only just prevented the boat from being swept downriver.

* * *

Under London Bridge the trolls lurked, great nodules of blackish grey. As the daylight dwindled their bodies quickened and they grew faces, eyes red and small, mouths black and jagged. Their voices were hoarse and thick.

‘When does the tide turn?’ asked the oldest.

‘Too late for them,’ answered the biggest. ‘They’ll weaken soon and the current will bring them to us.’

A third said, ‘Not much flesh on them though.’

‘Better than nothing,’ answered the biggest. ‘And we can crunch up the boat for afters.’

* * *

Bill said, ‘My hands are blistered.’

‘You told me you could row.’

‘I rowed at school, I said.’

Jim half turned round, glaring at Bill and at the way they wanted to go. The boat lurched sideways. ‘Don’t stop now. The tide must turn soon.’

‘If the police don’t get here first. What if the Bank has secret watchers?’

‘They’d have picked us up when we lifted the gold. Keep rowing.’

* * *

Under Southwark Bridge the ghosts gathered as the night thickened. In the shadows they built up the memory of their bodies, swollen and drowned, nibbled by fish or gashed by knives. Their eyes glittered and they spoke in cold whispers.

‘When does the tide turn?’ The Lady had once been a leader of fashion, elegant and wild, before her lover deserted her.

‘Before midnight.’ The Roarer had been a sailor, rumbustious and strong. ‘Once the tide turns, they’ll come close enough for us to grab.’

‘We don’t need to grab,’ the Lady said. ‘We can tip the boat over and watch them drown.’

‘Harry Hunks wants to grab them and sink his claws in, don’t you, boy?’

Beside the Roarer lay the ghost of the great bear, bigger than he had ever been in life, when he fought in the bear pits of Southwark. He lifted his head and growled.

* * *

Bill said, ‘Someone’s bound to spot us out here.’

‘Two swell coves in a filthy boat? They’ll think we’re drunk.’

‘My feet are wet.’

‘Keep bloody rowing!’

* * *

The trolls said, ‘Not much longer now.’

The ghosts said, ‘Hurry up.’

The boat began to sink.