A solitary, dowdy beggar sat alone on the door step of number 26 Elmwood Street, London; a cigarette in hand and a small cup in front of him would be the only company he would get along the almost forgotten cobbled pavements that, merged with the poky flats and the weather beaten houses, made up one of the many streets of London. The whole area was downtrodden and- unlike the more built up areas of London- almost unheard of and unseen to the human eye.
But there was life here; life in large quantities of small things: Vermin; The intruders to the city. The putrid smell of rotting waste was enough to attract the rats and flies which worshipped the undisturbed environment, with its luscious supply of glorious offerings and its cold, abandoned homes which called out desperately for a family.
Enshrined in shadow, the ancient street was full of mystery. The sun was a distant enemy to these parts and therefore a constant chill shivered through the narrow pass; it was soon engulfed however, by the busy, overpopulated streets that lay beyond.
The houses were dead or at least in constant sleep, unable to wake up from the nightmares of its history. There were many rumours and myths concerning how the street came about, how it lost its potential for being the most popular place in London and how it came to be the most hated area for many years until it was nearly completely forgotten.
One generation were very persuaded by the argument that it first started life as a hot spot for crime where illegal trades took place. In fact those rumours weren’t far off from the truth.
Elmwood Street was brought to the spot light in the mid nineteenth century; it was recognised for its potential to be a perfectly hidden and subtle place for the smuggling of drugs and the planning of certain expeditions that would be taking place around that time. Of course the nineteenth century was well known for its daring and almost life destroying missions which is why Elmwood Street was an asset to the groups meeting to discuss the arrangements. The men, for they were usually men, loved the maze like routes and the small crevices hidden amongst the walls and ivy.
Elmwood Street still holds signs of the existence of what it used to be in its former glory. The walls are still (and will always be) rough and bitty, with mould and ivy growing violently out of them. It was a surprise that anything could grow in the old street, but it did. The occasional disturbance to the peace would echo and call out for attention but to no avail as the passage lacked the one capital feature that it used to posses: people.
Taking a look inside the shambled remains of the exhausted houses, it was not obvious to tell what they would have been used for or what kind of family had previously lived here. You can do this, however, anywhere else in London where the paint stains on the carpet or the holes in the floorboards covered by rugs would be a dead give away. The houses used to home around four people- they were not great in size- and they consisted of the usual facilities: bedrooms, living rooms, bathrooms and the like. They were very close to ordinary in fact. They were just stereotyped and made to look as though they were partly responsible for the horrific, murderous crimes that took place here.
The whole area was like a scene out of an adult’s story book; with its secrets and its mysterious past which no one liked to discuss, in fear that the cursed would find them in their beds.
Everywhere you looked you would see remains of once glorious life and you would occasionally come across the debris hidden in amongst the rubble.
Very few street lights remained in the gloom and mist that enveloped the street and looking down on it, you would have thought the fog were spirits, searching for their old homes and hideouts, but you’d be wrong to think so. For there was nothing abnormal left here, nothing but the solitary beggar, sat alone on the door step of number 26 Elmwood Street, London.
