by Doug MacLeod
Charlie pulls away and sits cross-legged on the hard floor, facing me. It is not like Charlie to sit on the floor of a tannery. But he seems almost a new person after the night’s escapades.
‘I tripped him,’ he says, smiling. ‘That’s why he fell.’
‘How did you trip him?’
I’ve never seen Charlie look so proud. He slides on his backside and reaches for something. It is a small sphere of glass, like a marble. It is Mr Atkins’ glass eye.
I laugh loudly.
‘I souvenired it,’ says Charlie, ‘when Mr Atkins met his demise.’
‘That’s rather barbaric of you.’
‘I didn’t pluck it out of his head. It rolled out when he hit the floor. And since it landed at my feet I fancied that God had made a gift of it for me.’
‘It seems an unlikely thing for God to do.’
‘The Lord moves in mysterious ways.’
‘He does indeed.’
‘When I recovered from the ether,’ says Charlie, proud of his adventure, ‘I overheard your conversation with the madman, and thought it best to pretend I was still unconscious. That way I could surprise your assailant at the appropriate moment. He presented it when he ran towards you. I flicked the glass eye and –’
‘Yes, Charlie, I know how you did it.’
Charlie looks disappointed.
‘And you were utterly brilliant,’ I hastily add.
Charlie smiles again. ‘It was nothing. What do we do now?’
‘I often find myself asking this question,’ I say. I roll the eye around in my palm. It is lighter than I expected and is clearly hollow. But I suppose that if artificial eyes were made from solid glass they would be forever falling out of people’s sockets and into the soup.
‘Did you hear the things he said about Plenitude?’ I ask.
‘Not really.’
‘They were disturbing.’
‘Ah, but do you think they were true?’
‘I’m not sure. I will have to find out for myself.’
‘He’s very charming. Mr Plenitude said nice things about my hair. No one but you has ever done that. And he said he enjoyed meeting me.’
‘Indeed. But he also hacked off Mr Atkins’ head and dropped it in a barrel, which means he isn’t quite the perfect gentleman. You can keep the head along with the eye for a souvenir, if you like.’
‘The eye will suffice. May I have it back?’
I return the eye to Charlie while keeping the gun pointed at Tolerance’s inert form.
‘You know, Charlie, this is most singular. I have been watching Tolerance throughout our conversation.’
‘Is that his name?’
‘It’s the name he chose for himself. Or it chose him
‘What is the singular thing you have you noticed?’
‘His chest has been rising and falling, slowly, as if he were in a deep sleep.’
‘Isn’t that what you’d expect to happen?’
‘Speaking as a potential doctor, I would. But his chest stopped rising and falling two minutes ago.’
‘Ah.’ Charlie looks uncomfortable as he pockets the glass eye.
‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say that Tolerance is deceased.’
Charlie hangs his head. ‘This is not good news.’
‘Let me make doubly sure,’ I say.
Keeping the gun poised, I walk cautiously over to where Tolerance lies. He definitely looks dead. I squat and feel his pulse. Nothing. I fancy I hear the distant sound of a bolt sliding.
‘Did you hear that?’ I ask Charlie.
But he is too distressed to think clearly. ‘Thomas, if the man is dead, then that makes me a murderer. I forced the ether onto him. I gave him the whole bottle. It was probably enough to kill an elephant, let alone a man.’
‘Relax, Charlie, you’re no good to me if you won’t concentrate. Keep your ears open for any peculiar sounds.’
‘But it was first degree murder.’
‘Charlie, you had no idea that the ether would kill the man. And you are not a murderer because it was self-defence.’
‘But he was going to kill you, not me.’
‘Then it is best-friend-defence and that is even more important. And I’m afraid that Tolerance is most extremely dead.’
There is a wail from Charlie. ‘I am a sinner. I am damned.’
‘Oh, don’t be silly. You are not damned at all.’ I creep back to sit with Charlie and calm him. ‘We must stop dwelling on such negative thoughts and look forward to more enjoyable, positive things. What are we going to do with the body?’
‘I have no idea. What do you think?’
‘We should probably do something. Plenitude may not return tonight. We can’t just leave it out for the tanners to find in the morning.’
‘Should we hide it?’
I consider this. ‘There are certainly plenty of crates into which the body would fit. Tolerance said so in no uncertain terms. But it would mean chopping off Tolerance’s head and bending him in half. There must be another solution. Let us put our heads together.’
There is a new smell in the air. I recognise it instantly. It is Jagar’s spirit. I sense a shadowy form to my right and suddenly the gun is snatched from my hand. I look up to see who is responsible, but am kicked in the back of the head.
‘There is another way to get rid of a body,’ I hear the voice say. ‘You can always burn it.’
A second person laughs in a rasping way. Charlie and I have been careless. It is apparent that our silent visitors have been pouring the spirit about the tannery, while we have been worried about disposing of Tolerance’s body. I struggle to get to my feet and one of the men hurls spirit into my face. Charlie is likewise kicked over and dowsed. There is the clatter of a can being tossed aside. The men no longer need to work in silence.
‘That’s me finished.’ I recognise the voice, even though it is curiously distorted. ‘A fire will be very cleansing.’ The speaker seems to be wearing a sack over his face. He is the giant who appeared at the graveyard with Clemency. ‘Good evening, Thomas.’
‘Good evening. I’m very sorry about your eye,’ I say. My own eyes are stinging and blind from the spirit.
‘Oh, there is nothing wrong with my eye. The spike went elsewhere.’
‘That is good news,’ I say.
Charlie splutters. Some of the spirit has gone into his mouth. We are both debilitated by the stuff.
‘It is not good news at all,’ utters the giant. ‘Before you die, shall I show you what you have done?’
‘You’ll have to light a match,’ I say. ‘And if you do that now, we’ll all be incinerated.’
‘Come.’ Clemency is losing patience with his colleague. ‘The whole place is done. Let’s go.’
‘But I want him to see.’
‘The plan is very simple, Intellect, and it doesn’t involve showing off.’
‘Don’t call me Intellect. I don’t like that name. I should be allowed to make up my own.’
‘He’s right,’ I tell Clemency. ‘He should choose his own name. Or it should choose him. It’s the rule, you know.’
I am babbling to buy time.
‘Ooh, I’m going to love killing you,’ says Clemency. I notice that his fingers are adorned with rings of gold and silver, no doubt stolen from the corpses of wealthy ladies.
‘I’ve forgotten the plan now,’ says his colleague.
Clemency takes a slow breath. ‘We leave, we bolt the door, we throw in the incendiary, we walk away. Problem solved.’
Charlie splutters again. ‘I think I’ve been poisoned,’ he gasps.
‘When the whole place goes up, that’ll be the least of your worries,’ says Clemency. ‘We’re going to walk out that front door and bolt it. Every door is locked. You’re going to burn to death in here, you two darlings.’
Charlie cannot stop coughing. We are two wretches soaked in the most combustible chemical on earth. Our executioners walk away.
‘Wha
t about Magnificence?’ asks the giant. ‘That’s a nice name.’
‘You can’t call yourself that,’ says Clemency. ‘It makes you seem up yourself.’
‘Prudence?’
‘Don’t be stupid, that’s a girlie name.’
‘It means being careful.’
‘I know that, idiot. It’s still girlie.’
I hear the sound of the bolt as the front hatch is locked.
‘Do you have a plan, Thomas?’ asks Charlie, between coughs.
A bottle with a blazing wick is thrown through the high pulley-hole. The front part of the tannery bursts into flame. The fire roars as it reaches out for us.
‘I really hope you have a plan,’ says Charlie.
CHAPTER 17
I yank open the trapdoor to Plenitude’s ‘tidy-hole’. It is just big enough for us to fit. There is no time to explain the plan. We are nothing but fuel and the conflagration advances with unearthly speed. Keeping hold of the rope attached to the trapdoor, I pull Charlie towards me.
‘Jump!’
Coughing violently, Charlie jumps through the hole to whatever lies below. I follow, still grasping the rope so that I may pull the trapdoor closed from underneath. I drop six feet into a bed of unidentifiable sludge, hoping not to land on Charlie. I yank the rope and the door slams shut. A moment later there is a roar from above as the fire engulfs the tannery. I see the underside of the floor glow orange in places. It will be a matter of seconds before the burning floor collapses on us, and we are still soaked in the Jagar’s spirit.
‘Are you all right, Charlie?’
‘I’m all right, Thomas. What is this filth?’
‘I don’t know, but we must roll in it immediately to remove every trace of the spirit from us.’
‘It’s too horrid.’
‘Being incinerated will be worse.’
‘I think I’m going to be sick.’
‘Of course you won’t.’
I reach out and touch Charlie’s face.
‘You are brave, Charlie,’ I say.
‘Thank you, Thomas.’
Then I place both my hands on his head and force him under the sludge. He thrashes about. Five seconds later I release him and he pops up his head, spluttering.
‘You rotter!’ he cries.
‘I’m sorry, Charlie. My intention was to make you fire-resistant. You may do the same to me if you like.’
‘I shall. Where are you?’
But I have already ducked below the cold slime. I rub it against my face and into my hair, to banish the inflammable chemical from my body. When I stick my head up again I get a better view of Charlie, now illuminated by the orange glow from above. He looks like a homunculus of swampy ooze. His eyes are wide.
‘Something happened,’ he says, in a low voice.
‘What is it, Charlie?’
‘I reached out for your head. I could not find it.’
‘No matter. We must get away from here before the floor collapses.’
‘I found another head,’ says Charlie. ‘And another. And another.’
In the orange glow I look around and see that we are mired in a stew of human heads. They are in various stages of decay. Some are little more than skulls, others look fresh. It shouldn’t surprise me. Tolerance revealed to me where Plenitude throws the heads. I just hadn’t expected to come face to face with the reality.
The air grows warmer and the roar above is louder.
Charlie speaks as if in a trance. ‘We have washed ourselves in a bath of human heads.’
He is in a bad way.
‘This is what I want you to do, Charlie. I want you to take my hand. Hold it tight.’
Charlie, almost catatonic, doesn’t offer his hand. So I grab it and wade through the human murk, pulling my friend along. I talk as calmly as I can.
‘We are wading through a swamp,’ I say. ‘We are bold explorers in the Limpopo. Above us is a tree that hangs over the swamp. There are snakes in the branches and they will fall on us. It is vital that we move away as quickly as possible.’
I continue to wade. A face looks up at me from the ooze. The eyes are not decayed yet, and the lids are opened wide. I fancy it is the disembodied head of a young woman, probably the same age as the milkmaid we tried to take. The gaze is haunting, condemning. Even I can’t help but pause. I am brought back to reality when, not far behind us, a section of the tannery falls into the pit. It is not extinguished. Rather, the surface catches alight and the flame spreads. Charlie and I have left a slick of the Jagar’s spirit, which feeds the fire. The slime in which we have found ourselves no longer offers protection from the inferno. Another burning portion lands and brings the flame closer to us. There is only one thing for it.
‘Charlie,’ I say, very quietly, ‘the snakes have fallen from the branches onto the surface of the swamp. But we will be safe if we duck under the swamp and continue to move away from the tree. The snakes cannot harm us there. Take a deep gulp of air, then we’ll submerge.’
Charlie does as I tell him. The flame is nearly upon us. I duck under and pull Charlie with me. With all my strength I push forward through the ooze. It seems to be getting thinner, more like soup than a stew. It is also becoming colder. My lungs feel as though they are about to burst. We have no choice now. We have to put our heads above the surface. I yank Charlie to the surface. We splutter and take huge gulps of air. It is as I suspected. The slime under the tannery feeds into the river. We are now in the frozen, putrid depths of the Albion.
‘Charlie, are you all right?’ I cry.
‘I’m all right,’ says Charlie, returning to his normal self.
From the Albion, we look at the massive fire on the river’s edge. Warehouses on either side of the tannery have begun to burn. I hear the ringing of bells as the fire brigade speeds to the conflagration. It will take a great effort to subdue this fire. It may even destroy a large part of the town. I hope with all my heart that there is no loss of English life.
‘I am glad we both live in those hideous houses on The Beaufort Estate,’ says Charlie. ‘The fire won’t reach so far up the hill. Our families will be safe.’
‘Yes.’
‘Although if the houses were vacant it would probably advance the cause of architecture if they did burn.’
Charlie wants me to laugh. But I panic as I feel the riverbed disappear from under me. I have carelessly found myself in deep water. I splash about frantically.
‘This is hardly the time for play,’ says Charlie.
‘I’m not playing.’ My head goes under and I swallow a mouthful of the polluted Albion. With a huge effort I breach the surface and spit out the filth. ‘I’m drowning.’
‘What?’
‘I’m drowning, Charlie. I never learned to swim.’
My head goes under again and I swallow more water. I struggle but cannot reach the surface. Then I feel a firm arm around me. I am hauled up. I choke as I experience the air again.
‘Relax,’ says Charlie. ‘Just lie back against me and think of Waterloo.’
I do as Charlie says. He holds me tight with his left arm and propels us forward with his right.
‘Unlike you, I did learn to swim,’ says Charlie. ‘I’m taking us to shallow water where you will be safe. And how is it that you cannot swim?’
‘Mother did not allow me to visit the Wishall Gentlemen’s Baths. She was concerned that all the naked male bodies might turn me into a pervert.’
‘That’s absurd.’
‘As you know, my mother is quite mad.’
‘You’re trembling, Thomas.’
‘Rot.’
‘It’s my turn to be heroic. Let me distract you with a story. I attended the Wishall Gentlemen’s Baths for three years. I learned the breaststroke, the sidestroke and the backstroke. I certainly didn’t learn to be a pervert. There was one man, however, who would never enter the pool but remain fully dressed, observing us as we demonstrated our prowess on the diving boards. He was a disconcerting fi
gure, with huge whiskers and spectacles. There were numerous complaints and eventually he was asked to leave. He turned out to be your mother’s good friend Mrs Tilley in a false beard and trousers.’
‘The woman is nothing if not determined,’ I say. ‘Are we in shallow water yet?’
Charlie lets me go and I find I can stand. He has been sensible enough to swim upstream from the fire, as there is a steady flow of ugly black flotsam going downstream.
We haul ourselves out of the river and catch our breath on the bank. The air is foul with smoke. We stink of far worse things. Even a bathe in the Albion is not enough to remove some vestiges of the human stew from our clothes. I look at a strange grey clod stuck to the knee of my breeches and wonder if it might once have been an ear.
There are hoards of people about the town. Firemen battle with the flames, and are obstructed by socially minded members of the public desperate to get a better view. No one notices Charlie and me as we rest on the bank, two anonymous creatures in a night of great sensation.
Now that half the population of Wishall seems transfixed by the sight of warehouses going up in smoke, I suggest to Charlie that it might be a good time to return to The Beaufort Estate.
More and more people pour from their houses to witness the arsonists’ craft. Charlie and I head in the opposite direction. We hug the shadows and walk slowly up the hill, our clothes dripping.
‘You are in love,’ Charlie says, startling me.
‘Not true,’ I say.
‘I know you better than I know my own cat. You have fallen deeply in love,’ Charlie says, matter-of-factly. ‘Who is the girl?’
‘She is beautiful,’ I say.
‘I have no doubt.’
‘But she loves another.’
‘He must be a man of remarkable qualities.’
‘He looks like a moustached pig in a Saville Row suit. But the man is venerable in his own way.’
