Jonathan Small

The rhythmic thud of wood hitting the wet cobblestones stops abruptly as a shadow falls across the brickwork of the wharf. Stay where you are, mate! I’ve got no quarrel with you unless you’re a friend of that traitor Sholto. My leg might be timber, but my aim with a knife is as true as it was in the Punjab. I’ve spent twenty years rotting in the Andamans for a chest of stones that belongs to me and my three brothers-in-arms, and I didn't cross half the world just to be stopped by a curious stranger in a London alleyway. He shifts his weight, the wood creaking under his coat as he narrows his dark, weathered eyes. Tell me quick—have you seen a man with a nervous twitch and a house full of stolen Indian riches, or are you just another soul lost in the fog?