The Crimson Petal and the White Read Online Free PDF Page A

follow her towards Arthur Street, walking briskly along the line of litter left in the wake of the cab: first the blood, then a trail of seat-stuffing and wood-splinters. Perhaps they’ll lead all the way to The Mother’s Finest tavern, where hot pies are served from dawn and no one is going to ask you if you knew the woman who died.

TWO
    A ll along the burnished footpaths of Greek Street, the shopkeepersare out already, the second wave of early risers. Of course they regard themselves as the first wave. The grim procession of slop-workers and factory drudges Caroline looked down on from her window, though it happened only a few hundred yards from here less than an hour ago, might as well have happened in another country in another age. Civilisation begins at Greek Street. Welcome to the real world.
    Getting up as early as the shop-keepers do is, in their view, stoic heroism beyond the understanding of lazier mortals. Any creature scurrying about earlier than themselves must be a rodent or an insect which traps and poisons have regrettably failed to kill.
    Not that they are cruel, these industrious men. Many of them are kinder souls than the people you came here to meet, those exalted leading players you’re so impatient to be introduced to. It’s just that the shopkeepers of Greek Street care nothing about the shadowy creatures who actually manufacture the goods they sell. The world has outgrown its quaint rural intimacies, and now it’s the modern age: an order is put in for fifty cakes of Coal Tar Soap, and a few days later, a cart arrives and the order is delivered. How that soap came to exist is no question for a modern man. Everything in this world issues fully formed from the loins of a benign monster called manufacture; a never-ending stream of objects – of graded quality, of perfect uniformity – from an orifice hidden behind veils of smoke.
    You may point out that the clouds of smut from the factory chimneys of Hammersmith and Lambeth blacken all the city alike, a humbling reminder of where the cornucopia really comes from. But humility is not a trait for the modern man, and filthy air is quite good enough for breathing; its only disadvantage is the film of muck that accumulates on shop windows.
    But what use is there, the shop-keepers sigh, in nostalgia for past times? The machine age has come, the world will never be clean again, but oh: what compensation!
    Already they’re working up a sweat, their only sweat for the day, as they labour to open their shops. They ease the tainted frost from the windows with sponges of lukewarm water and sweep the slush into the gutter with stiff brooms. Standing on their toes, stretching their arms, they strip off the shutters, panels, iron bars and stanchions that have kept their goods safe another night. All along the street, keys rattle in key-holes as each shop’s ornate metal clothing is stripped away.
    The men are in a hurry now, in case someone with money should come along and choose a wide-open shop over a half-open one. Passers-by are few and often queer at this hour of the morning, but all types may stray into Greek Street and there’s no telling who’ll spend.
    An embarrassment of produce becomes available to Caroline as she walks towards The Mother’s Finest; it’s offered up to her in an indecent manner by the shop-keepers who, having thrown open their strongholds, now busy themselves selecting the most tempting wares to display on the footpaths outside. It’s as if, having unlocked the chastity of shutters and doors, they can’t see the point in maintaining any shred of modesty. Trays of books are shoved into Caroline’s path, some of the volumes laid salaciously open to show off their colour plates. Stuffed manikins hold out their stitched hands, imploring Caroline to buy the clothes off their backs. Heavily curtained windows disrobe without warning.
    ‘Morning, madam!’ yelps more than one of the men as Caroline hurries by. They all know she’s