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| He’s restless. Itchy. That’s almost a given, really; it’s just part of the greater glory of Being Jack Shaftoe, and most of the time it exists as a low level irritation, deep down underneath all the more interesting things that are constantly presenting themselves to him. But today’s, or rather tonight’s, itch is something different. Intense and irritating, driving him away from his usual haunts and down to the Southwark docks, where anything might happen; a fight (bound to release some tension) or a fuck (ditto) or something even more distracting. All those travellers and strangers and all their ships, every one of ‘em bound for somewhere different, something new. A great floating hive of potential adventure. At the very least, he’s likely to meet some acquaintance or other, and be able to convince them to stand him a round or three. So on Jack strides, dodging nimbly aside when a carriage hurtles around a corner (threatening his one decent coat with another layer of splashed street muck), whistling jauntily between his teeth, bestowing smiles on pretty girls, and gen’rally waiting for something to happen. And lo, it does! There, through the warped and grubby panes of a tavern window, he glimpses his mate Tom Cox, deep in conversation with a stranger; and at the very same moment he’s hailed from across the street by good old Mick Gully. Does Jack head in to see Tom? Or cross the street to see Mick? |
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