by Peter David
“I don’t know. I . . .” His voice tapered off and he scratched his head, letting his outright confusion show.
“You have a choice,” Dodger spoke up. “Either you can help us try t’save the Princess Alexandrina Victoria from the hands of the right bastards who have taken her. Or you can stand aside, return to Mr. Brownlow, without havin’ done what you were s’posed to do. It’s up to you.”
“Fine. Get out,” said Quinn.
That was not the response that either of the lads expected, but they obediently clambered out of the coach as Quinn jumped up to his seat and snapped the reins.
The boys remained where they were as the carriage started to roll away down the dusty road. It got about fifty feet, and then Quinn yanked the horse to a halt. The animal appeared mildly confused but otherwise was not especially put out.
“What is he doing?” asked Bram in a low voice.
“He’s figuring it out,” Dodger replied.
For about ten seconds, nothing was said. Then Quinn stepped down from his place atop the coach and landed once more in the dirt road. He strode toward the two lads and folded his arms. “I was in the army, ye know. Wasn’t much older than you. Lied about me age.”
“Very brave of you,” said Dodger.
“Weren’t nothing to do with brave. Just didn’t have any other job. And I served. And then I was mustered out. I used to ride horses into battle. Now I ride them around town.”
“And now you ride them to save royalty,” Dodger told him. “That seems like a step up to me.”
“Aye, it is.” Quinn was as straightforward as possible about that. “You sure this is the princess we’re talking about? You wouldn’t be making that up, would ye?”
“Swear on me mum’s name,” said Dodger. It was a harmless swear, with his mother being long dead. But Quinn had no idea of her demise. Nor did it occur to him to ask. “So are ya with us or not? I’d really like t’know.”
Quinn slowly nodded. “Bethlem, eh?”
“Yes. Assuming,” said Dodger with a touch of dread, “we can figure out how to get in.”
“Shouldn’t be an issue. It’s Tuesday, after all.”
The Artful and Bram exchanged confused looks. “Why should that be making any dif’rence?” asked Dodger.
“Because Tuesday is visitin’ day.”
“Visitin’ day?”
“Aye. It’s a regular fund-raising activity. Me uncle used to be a resident there, and some days I’d go to see him, so that’s how I know. Bedlam is open to the public on Tuesdays. Anyone with half a crown to spend can walk around inside, and see what’s what. Used to be that they were open every day, but they cut back on that because . . .” He shrugged. He really didn’t have any idea why. That was simply the way it was, and Quinn wasn’t much for questioning the way things were.
“So all we each need is half a crown and we can just stroll in!”
“Exactly right.”
“Um . . . ” The Artful scratched his pockets as if he had an itch there. “Do ye by any chance happen t’have a crown or two on ya?”
Quinn made an impatient face. “Do ye have any money on ye at all?”
“Not enough to do us any good. Not really in the habit of carrying a lot on me.”
“Why not?”
“There’s thieves everywhere. Don’t fancy makin’ meself a target.”
Quinn stared at him, his jaw dropping open and just hanging there for a long moment. Then he let out a roar of laughter that startled Bram. The Artful, however, didn’t react in the slightest other than to scratch his nose for a moment.
“All right, then,” said Quinn, shaking his head at Dodger’s audacity. “Get back in the coach. Off to Bedlam then.”
Feeling the need to ask, Dodger inquired, “Um . . . what happened with your uncle?”
“Killed ’imself. Happens a lot to people there.”
“Ah. Well . . . sorry.”
“Don’t be. He was a bit of a git.”
Moments later they were barreling down the road. It had been awhile since the boys had eaten anything. Bram reached into his pocket and withdrew a few apples that he and Dodger quickly devoured. “Where did you get these?” Dodger asked.
“Mr. Brownlow’s kitchen.”
“You stole ’em?”
“I don’t like to think of it that way, but yes, I suppose I did.”
In spite of himself, Dodger smiled at that. “So it seems there’s hope for you after all.”
“I hope not,” Bram replied.
The Artful wasn’t sure how to respond to that comment, and wisely let it pass.
Instead, he turned his attention to the sun. The fog had settled back in and was partly covering it, but he was still able to discern its rays as it crept across the sky. It was odd to him; he had never previously had any strong feelings about the sun at all. Why would he? It was just a glowing orb in the sky.
Now, though, he saw it very differently. He saw it as an ally against the forces that waited for the dark in order to launch their various schemes. It wasn’t a knowing ally, of course. It was inanimate. Except, for all Dodger knew, perhaps it wasn’t. Perhaps the sun was alive in a way that a simple London street lad could never understand. Perhaps it comprehended that it was the greatest warrior existent in an ongoing battle against creatures that had lurked in shadow since the days that humanity was cowering within caves and staring out at the darkness in fear.
(At least, we think he was thinking this. Perhaps he was not, because it is a rather deep consideration for a street urchin. But let us allow for the possibility that he was so that we can then examine it.)
What was the most disconcerting to Dodger was the sun’s progress. As it made its way across the sky, it was signaling the amount of time he had left before the vampyres would again be able to wander out and begin committing their crimes. They would be able to inflict their horrors upon Drina, not to mention anyone else. The notion was inwardly terrifying to Dodger, and it was everything he could do to keep his fears repressed. It was not an easy endeavor. Part of Dodger desperately wanted to leap out of the coach that was taking them to Bedlam, to vault clear of it even though it was moving. To take his chances upon escaping the moving vehicle and run in the other direction, leaving Bram to deal with this entire mess. And why not? This was Bram’s business, after all. This was something he was raised to fight. His father had taught him how. There was really no reason for Dodger to have been pulled into this madness at all. Even the fact that he now knew Drina’s true identity didn’t make all that much of a difference. Since when did the royals give the slightest of damns about people like Mr. Jack Dawkins? She was the head of a way of life that would have been perfectly happy to ship Dodger off to Australia if he hadn’t been able to escape.
Stay, he found himself mentally pleading with the sun. Don’t leave. Stay where you are, and keep bathing the world in your rays so that the vampyres will always be trapped within their coffins or wherever they rest during the day. Don’t abandon us. Stay . . . .
But he knew that he was wasting his time. The sun could not be stilled in its movements, even though he found himself wishing that he had some sort of biblical ability to halt it by blowing a trumpet or some such.
“You have a lot on your mind,” said Bram. The Artful had lost track of how much time he had been silent.
“How can you tell?”
“You seem lost in thought.”
“Can you blame me?” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying to adjust to the constant swaying as the carriage made its way down the road. “We have to get into Bedlam, find the future queen, and rescue her. What are we doing here, Bram? Why can’t we just turn this over to the authorities and bow out like right gen’lemen?”
“Is that what you really want to do?”
The Artful thought about it for a moment
and was surprised at how quickly the answer came:
“No. They took Drina from us. It’s our responsibility to get ’er back. Hell, the authorities would probably think we’re nutters. This is our job and no one else’s. Besides,” he added grimly, “I still want to dish out some personal payback for what they did to the nuns.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” said Bram. “I was starting to get a bit worried there for a minute. You’re the hero of this adventure, Dodger. I hope you understand that.”
“Bloody right, I do. So let’s get it done.”
Dodger allowed his head to slump back. This time when sleep came pounding for him, he did nothing to resist it. Despite the bumping and swaying of the coach, he was unconscious in a matter of seconds.
The next thing he knew, Bram was shaking his shoulder, and Dodger realized that the coach had ceased its forward motion. “We’re here,” said Bram in a low tone, his eyes narrowed as if he were concerned that a vampyre might somehow sneak up on them during broad daylight.
Except the daylight was not, in fact, as broad as it had been. It was not quite sundown, but nevertheless the sun was most definitely approaching the horizon line. This fact alone was enough to put a sense of dread into Dodger’s awareness, but he quickly shoved this fact out of his brain as hurriedly as he could. He could simply not allow for any distraction.
He twisted the handle of the door and swung it open, clambering out of the coach, with Bram right behind him. Quinn had been in the process of climbing down from his perch. “We’re here,” he told them, as if they were unaware.
The Artful didn’t let Quinn know that the fact he was standing on the ground was indication that such a pronouncement was unnecessary. He simply offered a brief nod.
The large building popularly referred to as Bedlam stretched out in front of them. It was a vast, two-story brick structure with windows dotting the exterior; Dodger could not help but notice they were barred. That did not bode well for endeavoring to undertake an escape attempt.
“All right,” Bram said briskly. “If this is where she’s being kept, then in we go.”
The Artful looked to Quinn. “Lend a lad a crown?” he said with a tone crossed between genuine hope and mild sarcasm.
With an unamused grunt, Quinn reached into his pocket and carefully pulled out a change purse. Opening it, he fished around for a moment or two before extracting a gleaming crown. “Should I assume I’m never going to get this back?”
“I wouldn’t make that assumption,” said Dodger. “Life is full of twists and turns that—”
“Am I getting it back?” demanded Quinn.
“Not bloody likely, no.”
Quinn grunted once more and then flipped it to Dodger, who caught it easily enough. “Well, at least ye were honest about it.”
Without another word, Dodger and Bram headed toward the large entrance to Bethlem Hospital. As they approached, Artful imagined that he could hear distant screams emanating from within . . . .
No. You’re not imagining it.
From within the halls of Bedlam, he could indeed hear the mournful cries of residents. England’s sickest and most depraved people had been herded into one spot, and there they were being kept clustered together like rabid and depraved animals.
“Dodger . . .?”
The Artful wondered why Bram sounded puzzled, and then realized that he, Dodger, had stopped walking. He had been so overwhelmed by the depressed howling coming from within that it had halted his progress completely.
“Dodger,” Bram said again, plucking at the sleeve of his coat. “Are you coming?”
The Artful stared at him. “How do you do it?” he said, and only when he spoke did he realize his voice was just above a whisper. “How do you just deal with everything? There’s nothing what throws you for a loop. How is that possible?”
“You keep asking me things like that. Haven’t I given you an answer you can accept?”
“No.”
Bram stared at him for a long moment and then said, “My father didn’t give me any other choice. Do you think I wanted this? That I wanted to be this way? I didn’t get to be a boy, Dodger. My father made sure of that. I just want to go to school, to be with other children, to be normal. Instead, I hunt monsters and, right now, try to save England. That’s not a life—that’s just existence. But it’s all I’ve got, so that’s the way things are. And you can waste both our times asking me about it, or you can buckle down and do what needs to be done. All right?”
The Artful nodded because frankly he couldn’t think of anything else to say or do. If this little boy could walk into the fire, then shame alone would keep Dodger moving. “Fine then. Let’s go rescue a princess.”
“Let’s,” agreed Bram.
They headed for the doors. The closer they drew, the more clearly they could hear the cries echoing from within. Even with Bram’s example, it was everything Dodger could do to keep moving, but he kept his feet going with an inward determination. Drina needed them, and Dodger was determined not to let her down, even though the distant screaming—drawing closer by the moment—was extremely disturbing.
They reached the large front doors, and there was a guard standing there with bushy eyebrows and a nose that was thick and veined with the results of a lifetime imbibing more drink than was healthy. He scowled down at them and immediately said, “You boys best be moving along. This place ain’t for the likes of you.”
“I don’t think it’s for you t’judge,” said Dodger. He held up the crown. “We have the means to pay right enough.”
“Most of the day’s gone,” said the guard. “Come back next Tuesday when you can stay longer.”
“We know what we want.” The Artful was more insistent in thrusting the crown forward. “We wants t’go in now.”
The guard’s face twisted in an annoyed sneer. “Get out of here, the both of ye.”
Bram stepped forward. “Can we speak to your superior, please?”
“Me what?”
“Your boss. We wish to tell him that he has an employee who thinks he gets to judge who’s allowed to come and go in Bedlam.”
Bram had spoken with complete calm. It was as if the guard weren’t even really there, and he was already speaking directly to the guard’s superior.
Drina does that, too, Dodger couldn’t help but think. If I could talk like that, there’d be nothing I couldn’t steal. The thought made him perk up a bit.
The guard was clearly struggling between his impulse to send the boys on their way and a vague apprehension that somehow this young boy might actually be able to make life difficult for him.
Finally, with an annoyed grunt, he stuck out a hand. The Artful promptly placed the crown in it and then the guard gestured with a thumb behind him. “Go on in before I change me mind.”
“Right then,” said Dodger, and he and Bram quickly entered the halls of Bedlam.
The very first thing that hit them was the smell. The stench of waste wafted through the air, so much so that Dodger actually staggered and clapped his hand over his nose. Bram was even more profoundly affected, retching audibly and doing everything he could not to actually throw up. For some reason, the fact that Bram wasn’t, in fact, unaffected by everything made Dodger feel better.
In a low voice, Dodger muttered, “I feel like I walked into a corpse.”
“Well, well! What have we here!”
The voice was loud and booming and disproportionately in a good mood, considering their surroundings. The Artful and Bram turned toward the origin that happened to be, quite clearly, a gentleman of some sort. He was wearing a gray suit and had a long, bristling beard. “Are you lads tourists?” he inquired as if he were greeting them outside of the palace.
“Aye, we are, sir,” Dodger said immediately. He removed his hat and held it in what he fancied was an appropriate manner for a
young gentleman inside a posh establishment. “We thought we’d take a look around. Who might you be?”
“Doctor Huddleston,” said the bearded man. He bowed slightly, which, for some reason, made Dodger feel good. “Would you like me to show you lads around?”
The answer, of course, was, Not really. The boys were on a rescue mission, and Dodger very much suspected that having the doctor along would impede their efforts. But there didn’t seem to be any way around it. A brusque refusal or any manner of brush-off might engender suspicion, and that was not what they needed right then. So Dodger said the only thing he could: “Ab-so-loot-ly.”
Doctor Huddleston smiled and gestured for them to follow. They did so, falling into step behind him. The Artful whistled as he walked, doing his best to seem as casual as he could. Bram, feeling under no compulsion to feign being at ease, looked steadily left and right as they walked.
“We don’t get a lot of lads your age in here,” said Huddleston conversationally. “What spurs your interest?”
“Oh, we’re int’rested in everything that happens everywhere in the city,” said Dodger as if being curious about the confines of an asylum were the most natural thing in the world.
“How much do you know about the Hospital of St. Mary of Bethlehem?”
“Pardon?”
“Here,” said Huddleston, looking a bit confused.
“About Bedlam? A little.”
Huddleston stopped and made a face of irritation. “I have to say, Mister . . .”
“Dawkins.”
“Mister Dawkins, I do not especially appreciate the nickname ‘Bedlam.’ It has garnered many negative connotations, and I find St. Mary to be a far more appropriate and, frankly, less disparaging term.”
“Very well,” said Dodger, bowing slightly. “I know very little about St. Mary’s.”
“Well,” said the doctor, and he rubbed his hands together as if about to dig into a particularly attractive dessert. “It has a most intriguing history.”
He proceeded to tell it, and we will not bore you with it because there are many places you could go to read about it if it is of any true interest to you. We will save time by simply saying that Bethlem had a long and frankly somewhat depressing history and had moved several times before finally setting up shop in its current location.
