Devils And Unicorns

Chapter 11

She was careful, but there was still little Florence could do to shield herself completely from the darker side of Witchmill. Homelessness was at its peak, and with it came increased levels of prostitution, petty crime and disease. She chose Jersey Devil to accompany her on her journey. She was not certain what the outcome of her meeting with Charlie would be, should she catch up with him at all. She may yet end up selling him the mare outright, and wanted to be prepared for that possibility today so that she would not have to engage with him again in the future.

They trotted through the main gateway into Witchmill just before midday, having set off on the four-hour journey early that morning. Jersey Devil was chased through the entrance by a cloud of flies, all eager for a taste of her sweat, and she was becoming quite crabby with their constant buzzing. As Florence kicked her on towards the shore, the mare stamped her feet, lashed her tail and kept tossing her head.

"Steady," Florence muttered to her mount, not that it would help. She had not really thought about how she would locate Charlie in this overcrowded village, but stopping to ask at the local tavern was probably as good a bet as any.

Leaving Jersey Devil to her battle with the flies outside the inn, Florence stepped into the dingy bar room. It stank of cooked onions and sweat, and the whole place looked dirty. Just ask around, and get out as quickly as possible.

"Excuse me," she said to the bartender, a buxom middle-aged woman with bright red lipstick and too much green eye-shadow on her eyelids.

"Yeah, honey?" the woman asked, continuing to wipe the glass in her hand with a grubby, stained cloth. Florence made a mental note never to drink in this bar.

"Have you seen someone called Charlie Trent around these parts?"

"Charlie who?"

"Trent."

"No, love, sorry." The woman shrugged her shoulders and shook her head with a vacant look.

"Oh... alright, thanks anyway."

Florence turned to leave, but she found her way blocked by a rather ill-looking man wearing a tattered baseball cap and no shirt. Florence noticed that his entire chest was riddled with scars, almost as if he had been flagellated repeatedly with some sort of whip. She did her best not to stare.

"You looking for Charlie Trent?" he asked in a gruff voice.

"Er... yes."

"He lives up on Sea View. Do you know where that is?"

"No."

Sea View. It sounded beautiful, romantic, expensive. Had it been located in Bailey's Point or even Marsh Crossing, it probably would have been. But, down here in Witchmill, it would probably be just another slum.

"Go up towards the highest cliff, and at the top of the road is an old millstone. Turn right, and that's Sea View. He's right at the end."

"Thanks..." Florence said, hoping that the trace of suspicion she felt at the man's spontaneous display of helpfulness had not come across too strongly in her demeanour.

"You're welcome."

Florence left the dirty tavern and climbed back up onto Jersey Devil's back. They made their way down the main road through the settlement, sending scruffy children and balding chickens scattering from their path. The air was surprisingly quiet; against the soft background noise of the waves below, the silence was broken only by the distant beat of a hammer and the dulcet tones of a young woman singing as she hung washing outside her wooden shack.