Noah Kelly left his bedroom, making his way downstairs. The house was still, only the sounds of the river squeezing in through the windows. The faint whiff of coke fumes and tar caught at his throat and he coughed, attempting to clear the rattle of phlegm on his chest. He cursed the congestion and shook his head as if to clear his sight as he shuffled down the cold passage in his slippers. When he reached the kitchen and glanced through to the larder he saw the old nosebag hanging on the peg. It was the last reminder of the old days. On a morning like today, as bright as a button, he would have made a tidy penny on the cart. Samson would have fed early and they would set out at a steady pace. The odd drip from his nose would skate down the reins and the clip of hooves on the cobbles would rouse the streets. The calm before the storm, he always thought. Before the turbans came bobbing under the sashes and the dogs ran barking at Samson’s hooves. Then all hell would let loose.
