by Rachel Green
To call London "a town without pity" was to do it a disservice. It was the loneliest city in the country, where you could starve to death within sight of the great cathedral of St. Paul’s or be cut to pieces by a group who didn’t like the way you dressed, or spoke, or held a cigarette. It was also my city, where a chance encounter might result in a spiral of such depravity that the angels would shy away. Cobbled back streets would reveal treasures of shops and houses virtually unchanged in a century, where a fiver would get you a hand job and a tenner enough crack cocaine to make you believe you could fly. And fly they did, those fortunate few who plummeted to die upon uncaring concrete, photographed by passing tourists on their way to the Tower. London thrived upon pity, it filled column inches.
Rachel Green, whose full catalog is here, is an English woman who spends far too much time writing about demons.