Lifeblood

by Tom Becker

  Carnegie nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Though not without a struggle. . .”

  Miss Haverwell’s eyes widened. “Did you have to hurt him to get it back?”

  “Let’s just say he won’t be running around for a while.”

  “Where’s the ring? Can I see it?”

  Carnegie grinned. “Of course you can. As soon as you pay me.”

  Her face fell, and she began rummaging through her purse. “Oh, of course. . . I didn’t mean to. . .”

  Jonathan glared at the wereman, who cut in hastily. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Miss Haverwell. It’s just that I’ve had some problems with clients in the past, and I find it’s best to work by set rules. Your ring is fine, see?”

  He held out a long hand covered in scraggy black hair. The ring lay sparkling in the centre of his palm. Miss Haverwell’s eyes lit up at the sight of it. She reached out cautiously and slipped it on her finger, sighing with relief.

  “Oh, thank you, Mr Carnegie. I never thought I’d see it again. It means so much to me, you understand. . .”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” he replied, bored.

  “It’s the key to my whole fortune. . .”

  “Obviously.”

  “Without it, how could I do this?”

  She pressed down on the diamond, sending a spray of mist out from the heart of the jewel. The air was immediately filled with thousands of tiny iridescent bubbles. Jonathan gazed at them in wonderment, feeling them brush lightly against his skin as they drifted down towards the ground. He was just thinking that the ring was the most amazing toy he had seen, before the room went suddenly and violently black.

  He was dimly aware of a hand shaking him by the shirt.

  “Come on, mister. Get up,” a voice pleaded through the fog.

  Jonathan was in the middle of a deep, mysterious dream involving his family, and he seemed so close to understanding everything that he really didn’t want to wake up, but the voice wouldn’t go away. Reluctantly, Jonathan came to, groaning.

  He was lying where he had fallen, in the corner of Carnegie’s office. The wereman was slumped face down on his desk, emitting soft, guttural snores. While they had been unconscious someone had ransacked the office, overturning furniture, pulling out drawers, and scattering pieces of paper all over the floor. A small boy was leaning over Jonathan, wide-eyed with concern.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  “Not sure yet. Who are you?”

  “Jimmy Dancer. Arthur Blake at The Darkside Informer sent me here to give a message to an Elias Carnegie.” He looked dubiously at the snoring detective. “Is that ’im?”

  Jonathan nodded, the movement making his head throb. Groggily, he got his feet and went over to the desk.

  “I’ve tried everything to wake him up,” said Jimmy. “Even screamed down his earhole.”

  “Glad you didn’t try that with me. Hang on a sec.”

  Rubbing his face vigorously, Jonathan tried to collect his thoughts. He knew that there was only one thing that would stir Carnegie from his stupor.

  “Look for a dirty brown bottle on the floor. It’ll be somewhere amongst the mess.”

  After a couple of minutes of scrabbling around on his hands and knees, Jonathan located the bottle underneath a broken chair. On the fading, peeling label, someone had scrawled Carnegie’s Special Recipe. He didn’t know exactly what the ingredients of the recipe were, and he didn’t want to. He did know that the concoction functioned as a potent high explosive, and he had a horrible feeling that Carnegie occasionally drank it.

  Gesturing at Jimmy to stand well back, and firmly clamping his nostrils shut, Jonathan uncorked the bottle and wafted it under Carnegie’s nose. With a roar the wereman shot bolt upright, his claws protruding. Jimmy screamed with fright.

  “It’s all right, Carnegie! It’s me!” Jonathan shouted.

  The wereman blinked with surprise. “What . . . what happened?”

  “That woman – Miss Haverwell. Her ring must have contained some sort of sleeping spray. It knocked us both out. She’s gone through all your stuff. Probably taken anything valuable.”

  Carnegie muttered a foul oath, and rose stiffly to his feet. “What did I say? First rule, boy. Never give them what they want until they pay you. I don’t care if they’re five years old, or ninety-five. Come on, then. Time to find the good lady and have a quiet word with her.”

  He turned to leave, then paused, noticing Jimmy for the first time. “Who the hell are you?”

  “I’ve got from a message from Mr Blake at The Informer,” he squeaked, carefully passing Carnegie a folded scrap of paper. The detective read the note, glanced at Jonathan, and then read it again.

  “I guess Miss Haverwell’s going to have to wait,” he said finally.

  The Informer was Darkside’s only newspaper, and was almost as old as the borough itself. Given the prevailing attitude towards people asking questions and prying into the business of others, it was amazing it had kept going for so long. Its survival was partly due to its audience’s insatiable desire to read about audacious crimes and villainous schemes. The newspaper also provided a more practical function: in a world without television, the best way to sell something was to advertise in its brown, crackly pages.

  Though the newspaper was tolerated, it was by no means popular. In Darkside, journalism was a perilous way of making a living. The offices of The Informer were based far away from the centre of the borough, tucked away amongst the great tanning factories in the east. Jimmy led Carnegie and Jonathan there on foot, never managing more than a few yards in a straight line before turning off down another shortcut. Behind Jimmy, his head still fuzzy, Jonathan kept his eyes peeled for trouble. He might have become a little more familiar with the Grand and Fitzwilliam Street, but there were still large swathes of Darkside that remained a mystery to him. And anyway, he knew that no street here was truly safe.

  The smell of burnt leather announced that they had entered the tanning quarter, a stench so strong that it threatened to overwhelm Jonathan’s nostrils. Imposing, black-bricked factories swamped the surrounding streets with poisonous clouds of smoke. On the wall of the nearest building, someone had daubed a ten-foot-high pair of bull horns in red paint. Jonathan shuddered. Even by Darkside’s standards, this was a grim part of town.

  “Are we nearly there yet?” he called out.

  Jimmy pointed out an anonymous, dilapidated building sandwiched between two factories. There was no sign over the front door, no clue to what took place inside.

  “That’s it there.”

  Carnegie strode purposefully through the front door and into a deserted office. Inside it was dark and cool, although the smell from the neighbouring factories seeped through the cracks in the windowpanes, tainting the air. The floor shook with the clatter and rumble of machinery in the room below. Jonathan shot Jimmy a questioning look.

  “Printing presses,” he explained. “They run through the day, so we can get the paper out during the night. Mr Blake’ll be upstairs.”

  As they headed up a rickety flight of steps, Jonathan tugged Carnegie’s sleeve. “Working for a newspaper round here doesn’t look like much fun.”

  “It’s not. To be a journalist in Darkside, you’ve got to be pretty strong, or pretty desperate.”

  “What’s Mr Blake like?”

  “He’s a little bit of both.”

  The windows in the upstairs offices of The Informer had been boarded over, and in the candlelight Jonathan could make out a handful of people hunched over their work. They spoke to one another in terse, wary sentences. No one looked pleased to see the new arrivals at the top of the stairs. Jimmy led them over to a battered writing desk, where a reporter was poring over some proofs.

  Jonathan blinked. Arthur Blake was a small barrel of a man. Rolls of fat sprouted up above his collar and poked out fr
om the end of his sleeves. At any minute, it seemed as if his shirt buttons would lose the battle to cover his enormous belly, and shoot off through the air like bullets. A permanent sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead, and he breathed in loud gusts through his nose. Looking closer, Jonathan was struck by his dark brown eyes, which hinted that a keen intelligence bubbled beneath his physical ungainliness.

  Arthur addressed Carnegie without looking up. “You took your time.”

  “We had some problems back at the office. Anyway, we’re here now. You left me a note. What’s going on?”

  “There’s been a murder. Nasty one, too. Come up to the editor’s office, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  Arthur hauled himself up from his chair and waddled over to the far corner of the office, where a small staircase led up to a private room. As they climbed up the steps, he called out to Carnegie over his shoulder. “Who’s the boy?”

  Carnegie sighed. “His name’s Jonathan. Jonathan Starling.”

  The reporter stopped in his tracks. Then he shuffled round and shot Carnegie a meaningful glance. “Starling as in Theresa’s son?”

  The wereman nodded slowly.

  “What is it?” asked Jonathan. “How do you know my mum?”

  Arthur Blake paused for a second, before answering sombrely.

  “Everyone here knows Theresa Starling. This is where she used to work.”

  4

  Jonathan gripped the banister tightly, suddenly fearful that he might fall. His head was spinning. His mum had worked here – spent hours, days, weeks of her life here. How many times had she walked up and down this very staircase? As Jonathan struggled to take in the information, another, darker, thought occurred to him.

  He turned and faced Carnegie. “You knew this,” he said. “All this time, and you never told me.”

  The wereman sniffed loudly, and looked away. “Time wasn’t right,” he said eventually.

  “It’s never bleeding right, though, is it?” Jonathan shouted. “You’re just like Dad – hiding things from me. Why won’t you tell me about my mum?”

  Anger pounded his heart like a hammer on an anvil. Jonathan drew himself up to his full height and stared balefully at the wereman. Who smiled a cold, shark-like grin in response.

  “Have you got a problem with me, boy?” he growled softly. “If so, I’d advise you get over it very quickly.”

  For a few seconds neither of them flinched. Muscles stayed taut, eyes didn’t blink. Then, with a small sound of disgust, Jonathan broke away and carried on up the staircase. Behind him, Arthur raised an inquisitive eyebrow at Carnegie. The wereman shook his head, and said nothing.

  When he reached the top of the stairs, Jonathan saw that a man was seated behind the desk in the editor’s office. With his head in his hands, and a look of intense concentration on his face, the man looked as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. His face was lean and sallow, and there was a haggard look in his eyes that hinted at late nights and snatched hours of sleep. A stubbly beard roamed over his chin, while his wiry black hair had been cropped closely to his skull. The creases and crumples in his clothing suggested that the man hadn’t changed them for the best part of a week.

  “Gentlemen,” said Arthur, “this is Lucien Fox, editor of The Darkside Informer. Lucien, this is Carnegie and Jonathan Starling.”

  Lucien looked up at the mention of Jonathan’s surname, and subjected him to a keen inspection. Then he glanced at Arthur, who nodded.

  “Come in,” the editor said, in a surprisingly strong baritone. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Your mother was a fine reporter, Jonathan.”

  As he came out from behind his desk to greet them, Jonathan saw that Lucien’s left foot was splayed slightly inwards, restricting his movement to a shuffling limp. He shook their hands, and smiled.

  “Now, what tales has our star reporter been telling you?”

  Arthur winced, dabbing at his damp forehead with a handkerchief. “I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” he said wearily.

  “It’s true, though, isn’t it?” For the first time, a wry smile appeared on Lucien’s face. “And exposing the truth is what The Informer’s all about.”

  “So you keep telling me,” Arthur replied. “I thought it was about trying not to get killed.”

  The editor hobbled over and clapped the large man on the back. He turned to Jonathan.

  “Arthur loves to pretend he’s modest and nothing special, but don’t believe a word of it. He’s got a keener sense for a scoop than all the other journalists in Darkside put together. He’s uncovered hundreds of the foulest deeds in this borough. Remember the plague epidemic at the MacPherson Cotton Factory? Workers were dropping like flies, but no one could work out what was causing it. That was until our star reporter turned up and deduced that a disgruntled employee was poisoning the water supply. And that’s only one of his more famous stories! I could go on. . .”

  “I’ll be amazed if you don’t,” Arthur replied sourly, although Jonathan suspected that the reporter was secretly quite enjoying the eulogy.

  Carnegie grinned slyly. “Most of the people round here prefer their crimes to remain uncovered. You must be a popular man. How many people have tried to kill you?”

  “Enough,” Arthur replied gloomily. “They’ll probably get me one of these days.”

  “Really, it’s something of a miracle he’s still alive,” said Lucien. “Good job, too. Without Arthur, The Informer would be sunk.” He limped back behind his desk and sank into his chair with relief. “Well, now that we’re all acquainted, why don’t you tell Mr Carnegie why you called him over here?”

  Arthur went over to the window and peered outside, before carefully closing the blinds. Satisfied that no one could see them talking, he settled himself down in a stiff-backed chair, which groaned under the weight.

  “To be honest, I stumbled across this by accident.” He glanced up. “I was down at Devil’s Wharf, questioning one of the dockers about some decidedly fishy night-time deliveries that were taking place around the Rafferty warehouses. As we were talking, word started flying around that a body had been found in the Lower Fleet. Seeing as I wasn’t getting any useful information, I thought I’d take a chance on the scoop and see what I could find. Now I almost wish that I hadn’t.”

  There was a haunting, lyrical quality to Arthur’s voice. Jonathan found himself leaning in closer to listen to him. The clatter of the printing presses below them faded into a background hum.

  “I was on the verge of giving up and going home when I came across a tiny alleyway in the middle of the Lower Fleet. Its contents were . . . not a pretty sight.” He paused. “A man’s body was lying in the middle of the alleyway. Or what was left of it – he looked like he’d been ripped apart by a pack of wild animals. The sight of it was nearly enough to make me sick.”

  “At that time there was no one else around. The alleyway looked derelict – there was no guarantee that anyone would come to claim the body or take it away. So once I’d caught my breath, I made a search and tried to find out who the poor soul was.”

  The thought of rifling through the pockets of a dismembered corpse sent a shudder of revulsion down Jonathan’s spine. By contrast, Carnegie’s ears pricked up, and the bored expression on his face vanished. “What did you find?”

  “The usual stuff: loose change, matches, a bunch of keys. Nothing that could help us identify him.”

  Lucien leaned forward. “Which is where you come in, Carnegie. We want you to help us find out who this man was, and what happened to him.”

  The wereman tapped his fingers together thoughtfully. “Well, this is all very interesting, but before we talk business I need you to answer a question for me. People get murdered in Darkside all the time. You write up what happened, people buy your newspaper, life carries on. So stop messing around and tell me why you’re
taking so much trouble over this one!”

  Suddenly his voice was as cold and hard as steel. Lucien and Arthur glanced at one another, and eventually the former nodded.

  “Look,” said Arthur, “I’ve spent the last few years of my life documenting murders and going over old case files. Of all the hundreds of corpses I’ve seen, only one body has ever looked the way this one did. And that was James Arkel.”

  The temperature in the room dropped by a couple of degrees. Carnegie sighed and rubbed his eyes, while Lucien bit a fingernail pensively. Arthur looked regretful for even having mentioned the name.

  “Sorry, but who’s James Arkel?” asked Jonathan.

  “Good question,” an amused voice answered from the doorway. “You should be a reporter.”

  A boy was leaning idly against the doorframe, hands in his pockets. His sleeves were rolled up, and a couple of shirt buttons left undone, in order to display as much of his muscular physique as possible. Despite looking the same age as Jonathan, he carried himself with an easy arrogance, and his voice dripped with condescension.

  “Harry Pierce, I’ve told you a million times to knock before coming in here.” Lucien said sharply. “This isn’t a good time.”

  “Sorry, boss. But come on – he’s got to be the only person in Darkside who doesn’t know who James Arkel is. We could put him on the ‘Believe It or Not!’ page in tonight’s edition!”

  “I’m not from around here,” Jonathan shot back coldly.

  “Well, let me fill you in.” Harry pulled up a chair before anyone could stop him. “James Arkel is the most famous murder victim in the history of Darkside (and you’d believe there’s been a fair bit of competition for that title). Twelve years ago he was found dead on the roof of the Cain Club – and however he’d died, it hadn’t been pretty. Anyway, word got out that this wasn’t any old corpse, but the son of Thomas Ripper, grandson of Jack the Ripper, and the current ruler of Darkside (though for how much longer that old boy’s going to stay around is another question. . .).”