by Karl Fish
Inside the room, there sat a desk. A single plant and Newton’s cradle were the only items that were upon it. Behind the desk, a library of books from floor to ceiling dominated the walls, which ran in a half hexagon and saw a flat back to the room with two angular sides. The weasel-featured man, he of the half-moon glasses, rounded the desk and took his place behind it. He sat there with his angular arms joining at the fingertips to form a triangle while tapping his index fingers together as if contemplating a chess move.
‘So, you decided to come in at last, Nathaniel?’ the weasel-faced man began, his tone was soft and subtle.
‘How could you be sure it was me?’ the cautious man wheezed.
‘Well, I doubt very much the world’s greatest prosthetic surgeon could quite replicate your grotesqueness, Nathaniel, do you?’ He smiled.
Nathaniel smirked on his right-hand side, the burns scarring on his left-hand side had left neither muscle or nerve endings to replicate a smile across his whole face.
‘Welcome to The Department,’ the weasel man said as he gestured his outstretched arms.
‘It’s been a long time, Draper,’ Nathaniel Noone replied, through his asthmatic breath.
Chapter 9
Serkets and lies
The ‘All-Seeing-Eye’ was lit up by Sabine’s torch one last time as she and the Professor found themselves at the rear of the Museum. It had taken almost half an hour straddling and navigating fallen bricks, glass, and rows upon rows of filing cabinets of fallen exhibits. The inconspicuous plain oak door and its subtle brass ironmongery could have been an entrance to a lavatory or janitorial cupboard, it was certainly something you would not easily notice against the surroundings.
Ms Erket lowered the lever and the door opened smoothly, untouched by the bombing campaign that had seen such destruction so close by. She extended her arm towards the room beyond, and Meticulous obligingly entered.
The stone building that sat to the west of the Museum, and just outside the official boundary, had been built to house a recreational room for guards and porters when the Museum was the thriving hive of activity prior to the war. It was now a mini treasure trove of the items those guards had kept and maintained, which previously the curators had wished to dispose of. A giraffe’s head on the wall, but with only one eye, Victorian glass flasks full of formaldehyde and peculiarities from the deep, a broken tusk from a Narwhal, and even the top half of a skull belonging to a particularly large species of crocodile. It was a curious little place and even Meticulous had been unaware of its existence.
Sabine crossed the room and gazed out from the window. A large black car waited outside, its engine revving, and exhaust fumes puffing smoke into the autumn chill. One quick flash of her torch and the chauffeur left his seat. The engine remained running, as he made his way towards the building. From the outside, this ‘keepers’ cottage maintained the same brick-and-stone feel of the mighty Museum but with ornate lattice ironworks adorning the entrance porch where on top there sat a slender stone cat. Not as large or as impressive as the sabre-tooth that protected the main building, but in its own mischievous and malevolent way equally as impressive.
Sabine Erket allowed the Professor to be guided to the car by her driver. It was a bright, crisp day and a far cry from the darkness and debris from inside the corridors of Entomology. Squinting, as the chauffeur forcefully led him to the already-open passenger side door, Meticulous turned and smiled one last time at the Museum. He wasn’t sure if this was to be the last he saw of it.
Ms Erket approached him with her cigarette case open
‘Smoke, Professor?’
Meticulous Malcolm Meredith moved his head from left to right, politely refusing.
‘Shame,’ she responded. ‘It might have helped with the pain!’
The professor looked up stunned just as Erket pinched the pincer clasps together. The motion retracted the gilded scorpion sting and then clamped down onto the Professor’s arm, piercing his linen suit and penetrating his skin. A small globule of blood seeped into the white fabric before the Professor swayed and took a stumble backwards. The chauffeur caught him as he fell, using his momentum to lay him into the back of the car. Through the windowpane, the Professor convulsed until he was left staring wide-eyed into space.
Ms Erket turned away as the car drove off without her. She re-entered the cottage and removed the long blonde wig that was now infuriatingly tight and sweaty. Her dark black plaited hair fell down neatly between her shoulder blades. She kicked off her shoes, unscrewed and discarded the heels, so her new footwear was flat and as prescribed by the government. The vivid tiger-skin coat was reversed and the outer layer torn from the inner to leave a pea-green regulation trench coat. She tossed the tiger skin across the room. It looked perfectly at home amongst the unwanted and damaged exhibits. Finally, she pulled out a pair of black, horn-rimmed spectacles, they were as dark as her eyes were bright. The distinguishing sapphire glare was now all that remained of Sabine Erket.
Discarding the blonde wig and remnants of her disguise behind her, she left the cottage and walked south to where she hopped onto the back of a bright-red double-decker. At the front of the bus, just above the driver’s cabin, set against a black background and with white lettering, read ‘Route 101 – Oxford Street via Piccadilly, Leicester Square and Shaftesbury’.
The Route 101 from Kensington to Shaftesbury was a swift journey of no more than ten minutes; little time for Ms Erket to compose herself. Being of significant height even without the heels and trying to blend in as swiftly as possible she undertook a stooped demeanour.
Her regulation pea-green coat, the thick prescriptive lenses that unnecessarily magnified her steely blue eyes couldn’t be further away from the tiger-skin temptress she had been just moments before. Sabine now adopted her humble, timid analyst personality; Ms Jennifer James.
As she hopped off the rear of the double-decker, opposite the boarded over statue of Eros, she checked herself over one more time. Her identification card, accompanied with a few shillings and pence, being the only few obvious possessions she kept on her. Other than that, she was a regular worker in any office or shop anywhere across London. That is, with the exception of the unusual belt buckle she wore around her waist. It was jade with a gilded pattern that ran horizontally across the face. For all onlookers, it was a simple buckle; the size of a small cigarette case. It was attractive but not ostentatious. On the reverse, it hid its little secret. Two golden pincers intertwined, leaving just enough space for the belt to run through them.
Ms Jennifer James made her way to the turquoise-and-gilded facade of the shop where Nums’ the word. Passing through the revolving walnut doors, she headed for the lift where all staff had to report. The lift itself also had a walnut surround where, via thick glass, an elaborate metal lattice could be seen straight through it. She pressed the arrow for downwards and waited.
The whirring of a motor and the creaking of cables could be heard as the lift slowly travelled upwards from the basement. Jennifer James studied the brass arrow and numbers that sat above the walnut doors as the arrow moved from B, the Basement, and then to G, the ground floor.
‘Ding!’ a crisp hammer on bell chimed. The concertina metalwork was pulled across and the doors were then opened outwards.
‘Good Morning, Miss,’ came a rasping welcome from within as an elderly gentleman in concierge dress greeted her.
He wore red tails adorned with exquisite brass buttons, tapered grey trousers, and upon his head a neat circular hat embossed with ‘Concierge’. He couldn’t have stood more than five foot high. He seemed to be the oldest bellboy there ever was, and Ms Jennifer James dwarfed him. As was protocol, and as he had done so for the past few months, he held out his left hand. Jennifer duly obliged him and placed her identification into it. He glimpsed at it briefly before handing it back. Then, reaching around her, he pulled the metal cage back until it crisply locked in place. With his right hand, he lowered a brass lever, and wit
hin moments, the motors began to whir, cables began to creak, and they were on their way to where secrets were kept deep in subterranean London.
Chapter 10
Cairo
Aggie’s initial enthusiasm was quickly offset with scepticism as she left the bedroom so beloved of her earliest childhood memories. What little information Florrie had divulged to her about her parents, had never quite satisfied her curiosity.
She followed Gideon and Nan downstairs and into the lower servants’ quarters. In the middle of the room was a solitary chair with several tea cloths scattered beneath it.
‘If you don’t mind,’ said Gideon, and gestured towards the chair.
Aggie took her place as Nan removed the large shearing scissors from the bucket. They were much larger than conventional coiffing scissors and from the glint on the edging, they looked like they could slice through human flesh pretty easily.
‘Don’t move!’ Nan ordered in her thick accent. Aggie wasn’t sure but it could possibly be German or Polish. It had an authoritative monosyllabic tone.
Aggie was shaking slightly as the first huge snip lacerated her fine long chestnut curls from the back of her head. It felt as if she was being prepared like a convict as the shears made light work of many years of fine grooming. Florrie would have been horrified she had always insisted her niece took pride in her appearance.
Within minutes, the shearing was over. Where once well-kempt hair flowed freely and was in essence long with loose curls, it was now just above shoulder length. The bobbed cut was not straight and ran at an angle from an inch below her left ear to an inch just above her right shoulder.
‘Thank goodness for that!’ Aggie sighed. Though she was yet to see how she looked in a mirror.
‘Not so fast,’ Nan replied. She was stirring black tar within a large mixing bowl.
‘Yes, sorry Aggie, we need to dye your hair too,’ Uncle Gideon explained.
Aggie was not happy but sat there and endured it all the same. It was wretched. The tar-like substance smelt of boot polish and wax. it was vile. Again, after several minutes the ordeal was over.
‘Am I free to go now?’ Aggie sarcastically directed her remarks towards Nan.
‘It will be set within the hour,’ Nan replied sternly. ‘Do not touch.’ The older lady then squinted her eyes and removed all the objects, placing them into a large ceramic butler sink where the steam was evaporating off of the water.
Uncle Gideon helped her up from the seat and gestured with his head to follow him into the basement corridor.
‘Here,’ he said, offering her a small parcel wrapped within his handkerchief.
Aggie unwrapped it and there was half a pork pie. She looked up at him as if she had unwrapped the greatest Christmas present ever.
‘Go ahead.’ He nodded.
Aggie wolfed it down without so much as a breath. All of a sudden, her nostrils flared with a sharp burning and her eyes watered.
‘Sorry, I forgot about the mustard,’ said Uncle Gideon and laughed as he handed her a small bottle filled with an opaque cordial.
Aggie paused. she was beginning to remember he had played the same trick on her when she was very young and had stolen his beloved pork pie during Sunday tea. That time, the drink was soapy water and was to teach her a lesson. This time she refused.
‘I assure you, it is not soap this time.’ He smirked and took a swig.
Aggie smiled and took a huge gulp before finishing it with a second. Elderflower, her favourite. Far more palatable then soap. For the first time in several days, she felt relaxed but was still anxious to talk about Cairo.
At the end of the corridor was an unassuming wooden door with a light bulb just above her head height attached to the front. Gideon pointed to the bulb.
‘If this is ever on Aggie, you cannot enter the room. It will be bright red, so you cannot miss it. Do you understand?’
Aggie nodded, still removing pastry crumbs from inside her mouth.
Gideon pulled a set of keys from his inside pocket. It was like a gaoler’s set of keys; a round iron circle with keys of varying sizes and metals hanging off of their own metal bows. How on earth he had managed to keep them quiet and out of sight all this time was quite intriguing. He unlocked the door and Aggie followed him in before he locked the door swiftly behind them. It was as black as pitch. Not even the slightest chink of light to capture surface reflections could make its way inside. Once in there, Aggie heard Gideon pull on a suspended chain before a crimson-hued tube flickered and lit up the room into deep reds and scarlet.
Suspended across the room by string, and attached by small-hinged clips, were photographs of various shapes and sizes. There were lots of them and a great deal to take in. Aggie flashed her eyes around the room and saw images of what looked like aircraft, maps, even landmarks she thought she recognised. Though squinting and focusing as much as she could, it was difficult to fathom the images out in such peculiar light.
‘This is my very Top-Secret work, Aggie, and no-one in this village needs to know, OK?’ Uncle Gideon said directly to her.
Aggie nodded and then recalled a saying Florrie loved to use.
‘Loose lips sink ships!’ she said aloud.
Gideon looked her squarely in the eyes and smiled. ‘You remind me of her so much!’ he replied.
‘Aunt Florrie?’ Aggie questioned.
There was a brief pause. A tiny tear escaped from Gideon’s eye. ‘No, Aggie. I meant your mother.’
Aggie nodded humbly and then Gideon switched the light off, plunging them into darkness. She heard the jangle of the gaolers’ keys once again before a doorway was opened and a muted light streamed in from a room at the opposite side of where they had entered.
This room was more like a carpenter’s workshop. Pieces of wood lay scattered everywhere and a lathe was set up in the corner. Wire mesh and old newspapers were stacked up around them, and there was a long wooden bench, with a large vice attached to it, which had many drills, drivers, and files sprawled across it. The smell of fresh wood shavings was ever-present.
‘This, Aggie, is my day-to-day work,’ Gideon said without breaking stride, and headed for the small circular wooden staircase in the corner. ‘This is what the village think I am and what I do. Come with me and I promise you that very shortly we can talk about Cairo.’
Aggie’s anxiety was replaced with a keenness to understand exactly what her uncle was talking about and what he knew.
‘Ding, ding.’ The chimes of the church bells of St Joan’s broke the morning silence, and from outside they could hear the congregation dispersing.
Gideon dashed up the stairs, closely followed by his niece. The blinds in the room were shut and only the faintest flickers of sunlight crept in between the gaps. Aggie looked around her and took in a deep breath.
‘Wow! I remember this place now. I remember!’ she said excitedly.
As Aggie perused her surroundings, Gideon peered out of the blinds and kept an eye on the crowd of people now filtering down the Steep.
She couldn’t believe it. The room was still full to the brim with antiquities and curiosities. Quite how anyone could manage to move around the place or even know where to look for anything was beyond her. There was a fair sprinkling of dust across the many exhibition cases. A smile stretched across Aggie’s face, for the first time in days, as she relaxed and found solace in familiar surroundings.
‘Where is he?’ Aggie asked after searching, pointing upwards, for something she so clearly remembered that used to hang there.
‘Who?’ Gideon responded with a mischievous look on his face.
‘The giraffe. You used to have a giraffe’s head. It sat right up there looking down on everyone. I remember it being ginormous.’
‘Well, you were so small the last time you came.’ He smiled. ‘Alas, old Geoffrey has gone to pastures new.’
‘I remember him because he only had one eye. You used to say he was winking at everybody and it used to make me la
ugh.’
The two of them chuckled. Then there was a banging on the shop door front. Several small shadows cast themselves onto the shop window from behind the blinds.
‘Aggie, I need you to go hide in the back somewhere, out of sight. You can observe but don’t let yourself be seen, OK?’
Reluctantly, Aggie agreed. Her hair still smelt like a tar bucket so she was relieved, to some degree, to hide herself away.
Gideon pulled a pair of round spectacles from his top pocket and placed them loosely over the bridge of his nose. He looked quite different from how Aggie saw him. Somehow, he seemed like an older professor or teacher and not the daring uncle she felt he had always been.
He released the blind from behind the shop door window but kept the closed sign visible. He looked over the eager crowd of small children that had gathered on his steps outside. What at first was a small gaggle had now manifested into a full-on herd.
He continued to peer over them as if they did not exist.
‘Gideon! Gideon!’ they all began to shout. ‘Open up. It’s freezing out here!’
Gideon then looked down at them and smiled. Opening the door, he was met with a wave of enthusiasm as several small children ran under his arms and into his shop of paraphernalia and delights.
Aggie hid out of direct sight behind a poor reproduction of a human-sized stone Sphinx and watched eagle-eyed as little hands rummaged everywhere.
With a swift clap, Gideon’s enthusiastic class stopped and formed a cross-legged semi-circle around him on the floor or perching wherever they could find space. It was cramped and dusty but all of them managed to find a spot.
Reaching behind he pulled out an old box, covered with a filthy rag. He leant in and whispered quietly as his class paid absolute attention.
