The gas lamps turned the autumn mist into a solid yellow wall, but Nellie didn't mind. She'd walked home in the London fog so many times she could tell by the shape of the slippery cobblestones underfoot which street she was on...and after a full day on her feet, she could feel every single one of them. Still, work was work, and at least making nails kept her in the warm and out of the workhouse. She surreptitiously checked her petticoats to make sure that her purse was still nestled up snug against her belly. She wasn't worried about cutpurses; with the fog this thick, she'd probably go the whole way home without seeing a living soul even if they passed her on the other side of the street. But she had nearly eight shillings' wages in her purse, and she didn't want to lose them.
Nellie was already budgeting the money in her head, divvying out rent and food and thread to patch her worn cloak for another winter, when she noticed that something was wrong. She didn't know what, exactly; the sounds of London were the same as any night. The mist deadened them and made them echo strangely in the night air, but she could still hear the sound of foghorns all the way from the river and the steady clop of horseshoes on cobbles in the distance.
She drew her cloak closer about herself, thinking that perhaps the winter was closing in early, but that eerie, persistent feel of wrongness didn't go away. If anything, it got worse, stretching up from the soles of her feet to send shivers up her spine with every step. She caught herself looking behind her, stopping to listen for the sound of boots on the cobbles that might signal the approach of an unseen assailant. Then, unnerved by the muffled noises in the fog, she sped up again as best she could given the slick and uncertain footing.
Nellie didn't see anybody no matter which way she looked, but she couldn't help feeling like she was being watched. The fog seemed thicker, more oppressive, but somehow she imagined a presence in the mist observing her every movement. She knew she was just frightening herself-the fog was just as thick for anyone else as it was for her. They wouldn't see her unless they were right on top of her, not with a pea-souper like this...
Then it hit her. It didn't smell like a pea-souper. It didn't smell like London fog at all.
On any other night, stuck walking home in a London particular, Nellie would practically be able to taste the thick mist as she walked through it. The heavy, wet scent of water vapour mingled with the thick fumes of burning coal and the smell of burning wood to make an aroma that Nellie almost greeted like an old friend, but this...
She took a deep breath, trying to describe the scent to herself. It had a thick, animalistic air to it, not unpleasant but strong and getting stronger. It smelled a bit like walking past a pub near the steel mill, when all the men got off work and went to have a drink still drenched with the sweat of a hard day at the furnace. Less the booze, of course. Nellie took another whiff, wondering if she didn't have someone following her after all. Have to be a pretty ripe gent, to give off an air stronger than the fog, but she'd bumped into a few in her day.
Now that she noticed it, Nellie couldn't ignore the smell. It seemed to get more intense the further she walked, and more distinct, too. It didn't just smell like sweat, it smelled like a rank animal musk. Like putting her head right down next to a man's John Thomas and taking a big deep breath. (Not that she spent a lot of her time breathing deep next to a man's John Thomas, but Arnold the publican had a fondness for pretty young blonde things and Nellie wasn't averse to giving him a kiss every now and then under his apron. She wasn't no strumpet, but a girl couldn't spend all her money on drink if she was saving up for a ticket to New York.)
She stepped faster, hoping to put a little distance between herself and whatever it was that smelled like an unwashed and randy cock, but all that did was make it thicker and stronger until it practically streamed into her nose and mouth like she was smoking a pipe. She sped up as fast as she dared, glancing down at the rounded cobbles to make sure she wasn't putting a foot wrong in her haste. They were slick and slippery with condensed fog, gleaming in the gaslight and-
Nellie stopped so abruptly she skidded. She didn't recognize these cobblestones.
She looked around, consumed by sudden panic, and realized she didn't recognize the red brick walls of the buildings around her. It was a posh part of town, which left her feeling a little bit relieved-if she was going to get lost, better to be somewhere posh than down a dark alley. But she couldn't ignore the fact that the important part of that sentence was "lost". She had no idea where she was. She had completely lost her bearings in the thick, strange-smelling fog.
She tried to listen for a foghorn, hoping that it would at least tell her which way the Thames was, but the sounds echoed strangely in the mist and she knew she was striking out in a more or less random direction. Still, better that than be arrested for vagrancy; Nellie was starting to get thoroughly exhausted now, and she knew that if she fell asleep she'd wake up in a jail cell somewhere. And that eight shillings would be gone. She struggled to keep moving.
She tried to keep an eye out for landmarks as she walked, hoping that sooner or later she'd see a familiar building or at least an intersection with a street she recognized, but the mist kept getting thicker and thicker until soon she could barely even see her own feet. She felt almost like she was walking in place; no matter how fast she moved, all she saw was that same thick, musk-scented fog in front of her eyes. When she stopped, she felt a strange disorientation taking hold of her, like she was floating in a void of pure white. She found herself wanting to cling to the ground just to make sure she wouldn't start falling up by mistake.
