Something rather foul and grim. She and I had both caught wind of it, the stench of something rotting on the cold Whitechapel breeze. And here it is, we had found it at last.
This is a Photograph. Bluetooth’d in from modern technology…
A pile of carcasses. Garbled corpses of chicken; plucked, congealing and getting sodden in the rain. Who leaves a pile of meat like this? The Butcher? This time, not so ritualistic, but it isn’t uncommon to see other meats laid out, without plastic wrap or explanation, on the last market trolley outside the Blind Beggar. Someone leaves it, particularly arranged in shapes and angles, adorned with bananas, leaves and other market fruit. In times gone by, Colombo’s pointed all of this out to me, I might ask him about it next time I see him.
It is cruel, and this sight just made me think: what life had these chickens? Where had they come from and why had they deserved this lack of ceremony, bodies left for days on a traffic island on Sidney Street.
Dead meat scattered on Ratcliffe Highway, reeking. Ghosts crowd the young child’s fragile eggshell mind