@augustuspowell
Peck dealt in flesh. That was an irrefutable fact. They also dealt in drugs; potions and poultices and balms and snuff. Poisons. But far beyond these two material things, the greatest thing Peck dealt in was intrigue.
They had built their humble, ramshackle, filthy empire on being unknowable. On treading the line between man and woman, blurring the boundaries between pleasure and pain, evaporating the divide between right and wrong. It was Peck’s bread and butter. It was what made them tick.
Having long been the master of it, it was rare that Peck found themselves out-done in the arena of mystery.
Their cloaked client had been dropping coin in their pocket for a long time. But it was not for any of Peck’s usual wares. He did not partake of cunt or cock. He did not savour the bite of a whip or the sting of a palm. Though Peck had been proud to serve him from their pharmacy, such transactions were not the basis of their relationship. And as for intrigue; well, he was rich in it himself.
Mr Winchester, as he called himself, came to Peck for something they had never really thought of selling before: the pleasure of looking. When he had first arrived on their doorstep, Peck had been lucky enough to have a crack in a wall through which he could peer. By his fifth visit, and the fifth payment, Peck had bored peep-holes in every single one of the rooms in their house. Ever so many visits later, the sounds of Peck’s whores grumbling about the drafts in winter was drowned by the music of coin falling into their hand.
Just as sweet as it always was, Peck could not help but rub the coins together as Mister Winchester deposited them, smiling at their glint. “I trust you found tonight satisfactory?” they asked, and offered him a cup of wine to take the place Winchester’s purse had once occupied.
