by Tom Becker
“Don’t you see? James’s murder and my mum’s disappearance are connected. This article proves it! She must have found out that the Gentlemen had something to do with the murder. They must have tried to silence her!”
Jonathan stopped short, his stomach suddenly lurching. If Theresa had discovered the Gentlemen’s secret, what would they have done to keep her quiet? Both James Arkel and Edwin Rafferty were dead, murdered in the most dramatic and visible way. But no sign of Theresa had ever been found. She had just . . . vanished.
Arthur laid a hand on his arm. “Listen, Jonathan,” he said softly. “It’s only natural you want to find out what happened to your mum. But this scrap of paper doesn’t prove anything. If Theresa did somehow find out who killed James, why didn’t she tell anyone about it? Why didn’t she speak to me or Lucien? It’s the first rule of investigative journalism, son: don’t try and make the facts fit your theory.”
“I can’t explain it – it just makes sense! It’s like one of your hunches, Arthur. I know I’m right.” He looked at Carnegie. “Did my dad ever say anything to you about this?”
“Boy, I haven’t seen Alain since your mother vanished. I don’t know where he lives in your London, and if he’s visited Darkside, he hasn’t seen me.”
A shiver of excitement ran down Jonathan’s spine.
“That settles it, then. Time to go back to Lightside.”
11
Carnegie was stretched out on the settee in his office, gnawing merrily on a meaty joint of indeterminate origin. The sound of his teeth grinding through muscle and fat filled the room. From time to time he growled with contentment. When Jonathan entered from a side room, the wereman eyed him with undisguised amusement.
“Feel better for having changed?”
Jonathan looked down at himself and shrugged. He had become so used to wearing shirts and waistcoats that his old Lightside clothes felt strange on him, like school uniform. Ever since he had made it over to Darkside, he had become less and less sure what “normal” actually meant.
“I dunno about better,” he replied. “But I’ve changed. You sure you’re not going to come with me?”
Carnegie shook his head, and tossed the joint out of the window.
“Lightside isn’t my kind of place. There’s plenty of things I can do here while you’re away. Besides, you haven’t seen your father for a while. It’s right that you spend some time with him without me hanging around in the background.” He glanced out of the window, gauging the time by the light outside. “We’d better get a cab. Your appearance might draw attention on the Grand, and that’s never a good thing.”
“Where are we going?”
“To a crossing point I’ve used a few times. It’ll take us a while to get there, but it’s the safest way.”
“Boring,” said Jonathan, in a sing-song voice.
“I don’t know about you, but I could do with a bit of boring every now and again.”
“Spoilsport.”
The wereman paused, and then gave him a cryptic look.
“Yes,” he said. “You have changed, all right.”
The hansom cab rattled up steep cobbled streets and down beneath wrought-iron railway bridges, and on through the shadows cast by rows of large factories. Gazing out of the carriage window, Jonathan was dizzied by the sheer scale of the borough; roads that spiralled and intersected around one another in fiendishly complicated knots, the rabbles of people that seemed to congregate on every street corner. He had no idea that Darkside was so huge. It was almost as if it was alive: a grimy, infested organism filling its lungs with smoke.
Finally, the cab clip-clopped into a quiet square. Small bric-a-brac shops dozed in the afternoon sun. In the centre of the square, wealthy ladies walked arm-in-arm around a small, railed-off park. The atmosphere was calm, refined even.
“This is a bit different,” Jonathan said.
Carnegie grimaced. “This is Lone Square. We’re on the very edge of Darkside here. Some of the people here like to put on airs, pretend they’re from a different part of town. At heart, though, they’re the same as the rest of us. Thieves and murderers to the last man and woman.”
At a signal from Carnegie, the cab was brought to a faltering halt outside Rookwood Maps and Globes. Jonathan hopped out of the carriage and stared at the shop window while Carnegie haggled with the driver. An old, weather-beaten piece of parchment map was stretched across the window, showing a strange land that he had never seen before. The place names and the directions were all in Spanish. Hearing the wereman coming up behind him, Jonathan pointed at the map.
“What’s this?”
Carnegie looked startled. “Thought you’d recognize it. Haven’t you ever heard of America?”
Jonathan looked again at the unfamiliar landmass. The map must have been centuries old. It didn’t resemble the continent he knew. He thought about saying something, but then decided against it.
Inside, the shop was cramped and dingy. Giant cobwebs hung between ancient navigational instruments: compasses and sextants, even a ship’s steering wheel. Globes squeaked as they spun gently in the breeze. Everywhere Jonathan looked there were maps hanging down from the ceiling, like bedsheets on a washing line. He was surprised by the fact that most of them claimed to show countries and continents on Lightside, slightly less by the fact that none of them bore the faintest resemblance to reality. Some were ancient, inaccurate sketches, while others – such as a star-shaped China – were completely made up. One particularly ornate and unusual map caught Jonathan’s eye: a whirling labyrinth of black streaks. With a start, he realized he was looking at a map of Darkside itself.
An elderly, dark-haired woman was seated behind a counter in the far corner of the shop, humming quietly to herself. Her face brightened when she caught sight of the wereman.
“Elias! I haven’t seen you for so long, my dear!”
Her voice was soft, with the hint of a foreign accent at its edges. Carnegie swept his hat off, and bowed with a grace that took Jonathan by surprise.
“My apologies, Carmen. I have been distracted by certain circumstances. Namely, this boy.”
Carmen rose from her chair, and inspected Jonathan.
“Judging by his clothing, I would say he is not from Darkside. Would the child be looking to return to the other London?”
“As ever, my dear, you are correct. Would it be possible for him to visit your cellar? It’ll be a return journey.”
“By all means. It will cost you two shillings, though.”
“Two? That’s some price increase.”
Carmen spread out her arms in a gesture of helplessness.
“These are uncertain times. Everyone knows the Ripper is ill. Change is in the air. People are not so interested in maps and globes. I have to make a living somehow.”
Carnegie rooted around in his pockets, and eventually located two shining coins. Carmen accepted them quickly, and before Jonathan could blink they had been secreted in the folds of her dress. She gestured to Jonathan to follow her, and headed through a doorway covered with string beads. In the corridor beyond, she kicked a rug aside, revealing a trapdoor set into the floor. With a slight grunt of effort, Carmen hauled up the trapdoor and stepped to one side, making a flourishing gesture with her hands like a magician’s assistant.
“Ta-da,” she said, grinning.
Jonathan peered down. All he could make out was a flight of stone steps leading off into the blackness.
“That’s it?”
Carmen lit a candle and handed it to him. “That’s it. Just go down the steps, and along the passageway. There’s not much more to it.”
And with that, she headed back into the shop, the folds of her skirt bounding around her ankles like excitable puppies. Carnegie watched her go admiringly.
“Fine woman, Carmen. She’s got less scruples than most of
the thieves round here, though. Two shillings is robbery in all but name.”
As the wereman griped, Jonathan suddenly realized that he was going to miss him. They had spent almost all of the last two months together. Jonathan had nearly been killed several times (more than once at Carnegie’s own hands), but every day he had woken up and felt alive, felt the blood pumping through his veins in anticipation of what was to follow. Not only had the wereman saved his life, he had helped create an entirely new and vibrant existence for him.
Carnegie coughed uncomfortably, ending the prolonged silence.
“You even think about trying to hug me, you’ll regret it, boy.”
“Wasn’t going to.”
“Good . . . then, um . . . give my regards to your father. And don’t get yourself killed.”
He said the last sentence very quickly and then looked away, as if he were ashamed. Jonathan smiled.
“Yeah. You too. I’ll see you in a couple of days.”
Cupping a hand round the candle to protect the flame, he cautiously descended the steps, and slipped away into the darkness.
Jonathan had become so accustomed to nasty surprises that he was almost disappointed that the journey proved as simple as Carmen predicted: the steps led out on to a passageway that sloped gently upwards for about a hundred yards before abruptly stopping at a door. As he approached the door, however, Jonathan could feel his chest tightening, and a sudden feeling of nausea in his stomach. His pulse started racing, and there was a searing pain in his temple. He knew there were nasty side-effects to crossing. The festering atmosphere of Darkside was as much poison to strangers as it was oxygen to its inhabitants. Being half-Darksider, Jonathan was supposed to cope better than others, but even he was in pain. He thought back to his dad, crossing all those years ago and wondered: how much had it hurt him?
Jonathan dropped to all fours and concentrated on taking slow, deep breaths. After a couple of minutes the pain subsided, although the nausea remained. He got back to his feet, and cautiously pushed the door open. It led out on to a dirty, deserted alleyway, where wooden crates and overflowing bins slumped against the walls. Closing the door behind him, Jonathan saw that the alley was a dead-end, and that the only exit led out on to a considerably busier road. Streams of people were walking to and fro: Lightsiders. He was back. Jonathan took a deep breath and walked up the alleyway and into the fading daylight. Where he blinked with surprise. He was on Oxford Street.
Jonathan had lost count of the times he had wandered down this famous road when he was younger, jostling shoulder-to-shoulder with the crowds as they swarmed along the pavements and into the large department stores. Yet what had once been so mundane and familiar now seemed alien. The Darkside stench of sewers and horse dung was gone, and the air here felt crisp and metallic by comparison. Instead of horse-drawn carriages, a procession of red buses inched along the road, overwhelming Jonathan with the smell of petrol and the chugging of engines. Almost everyone who walked by seemed to be talking into a mobile phone, which they clasped precariously between their ear and their shoulder as they rearranged their shopping bags. Shop windows beamed with electronic displays and vibrant advertisements.
But it was more than just the technology. Whereas on Darkside Jonathan felt menaced and threatened by every passer-by, here no one gave him a second glance. He was just another kid. Couples pushed past him, smiling and chatting with one another, laden down with parcels and shopping bags. Looking up at the festive lights that had been strung out across the street, Jonathan realized that it was early December: people were Christmas shopping. Smiling Santas were everywhere. No wonder it was so busy.
Further down Oxford Street, a section had been pedestrianized to afford shoppers more space. Jonathan joined them in the centre of the road, marvelling at the smoothness of the tarmac. In eight weeks he had become accustomed to the feel of cobblestones beneath his feet. He walked slowly, like a tourist, trying to take in every little detail. Music was blasting from the shopfronts, not the scratchy gramophone records that Carnegie listened to in his lodgings, but the insistent thumping beats of dance music.
Up ahead of him, a circle had formed around a street entertainer introducing his act:
“Ladies and gentleman. I should state at this stage that I can only attempt the following feat after years of tuition from the grand masters of this secret art.” He paused. “So if it goes wrong, blame them.”
There was a slightly nervous titter in response. Jonathan turned and looked as a jet of flame shot up over the heads of the shoppers and into the air. As the onlookers clapped and cheered, the crowd parted just enough for Jonathan to see the fire-eater.
It was Correlli. Even in the freezing cold, he was still only wearing an open red waistcoat, exposing his bronzed chest to the elements. In the fading daylight Jonathan could see more of his appearance than he had been able to during their previous encounter. The fire-eater was older than he had thought. He possessed the thickset physique of a wrestler, but there were flecks of grey in his thin, wiry hair. What on earth was he doing here on Lightside? As Jonathan stood and gaped, their eyes met.
Correlli held his gaze for a second but didn’t react. Then he doused his flaming brand in a bucket and addressed the audience once more.
“And now, ladies and gentleman, if I could ask for a volunteer to help me perform my most dangerous stunt. Let me see . . . there’s a likely lad, right at the back. How about you, sir?”
He smiled, and pointed his firestick straight at Jonathan’s heart.
12
All at once, everyone was looking at him, smiling with encouragement. Jonathan felt rooted to the spot. A barrage of question assailed him. What was Correlli doing here? Had he known that Jonathan was going to be on Lightside? Surely he wouldn’t dare to hurt him in front of all these people? The fire-eater lit a brand meaningfully, illuminating the sweat glistening on his chest, and gave Jonathan a challenging stare.
Oh, he would dare, all right. He’d positively enjoy it.
“I think the young man’s shy!” Correlli laughed. “Why don’t we give him a round of applause to encourage him?”
As the audience began clapping and cheering, the noise jolted Jonathan into action. With that, he was gone. He sprinted away, knowing that Correlli would go after him, and so was unsurprised to hear the fire-eater cry “Thief!” and begin pounding after him. Correlli was a trained and cunning killer, whose reputation was known and feared across Darkside. Jonathan was just a boy. It should have been over in seconds.
But the truth of it was, the fire-eater didn’t stand a chance. Years of evading truant officers and policeman had honed Jonathan into a sleek, elusive street-runner. The sound of pursuit was a familiar one, calming even. It focused his mind. Jonathan ran smoothly, slipping past people rather than barging into them, trying to look like someone who was racing for a bus rather than a shoplifter. Automatically, he obeyed all the rules he had formed down the years: sprinting east towards Oxford Circus in the hope of losing Correlli in the crowds; running in zigzags rather than a straight line; staying well away from shops to avoid the attention of security guards.
At Oxford Circus he sliced his way through the packs of foreign tourists, turned north and headed up Portland Place. Looking over his shoulder, he knew that he had lost Correlli, but he didn’t stop running until he had passed through the gates of Regent’s Park. He caught his breath by a bench, elation pulsing through his veins. It had been a while since he had been chased through London, and in a strange way, he had enjoyed it. Correlli could push a knife against his throat in the darkness of the Midnight, but this was Jonathan’s part of town.
Shaking his tired muscles down, he could have been mistaken for one of the joggers that laboured past him in the encroaching gloom. Jonathan knew he was going to have to walk home. There were no coins in his pocket, and he had no idea where his buspass was. It wasn’t a problem. It was ni
ce to reacquaint himself with the city he had grown up in: the London of coffee shops, mobile phones and skateboards.
Night was drawing in by the time Jonathan reached his old street. As he neared home, doubt flooded into his mind. Would his dad be pleased to see him? Since Alain’s last darkening, there had been a glimmer of hope that he might finally be able to open up, be more like a normal dad. Jonathan couldn’t bear the thought that his father had once again become the silent, brooding apparition that had haunted their house for years.
Light spilled out from behind drawn curtains in the Starling house. His hands shaking, Jonathan pressed the doorbell. He heard footsteps coming down the hallway, and then the door opened. For a split second Jonathan thought that there was no one there, but then he looked down and saw a tiny woman with long blonde hair staring at him.
Mrs Elwood screamed.
“It’s all right!” Jonathan said hastily. “It’s me!”
She put her hand over her mouth in shock, before crying joyfully, “Jonathan!”, wrapping her arms around his waist and squeezing him tightly. “It’s so good to see you! Such a surprise!” she said. “We weren’t sure if you were going to come back! ALAIN! JONATHAN’S HOME!”
Mrs Elwood took Jonathan’s hand and led him inside, and through into the kitchen. Although the house hadn’t changed in his absence – the floorboards still creaked in the same places, and the air was still tinged with the musty odour of hundreds of old books – Jonathan felt strangely out of place, as if he was a guest in someone else’s house. The electric striplight in the kitchen was too bright; the whirring of the dishwasher was an alien sound. As he looked around the room, Jonathan realized that Mrs Elwood was talking to him.
“. . . and I bet you must be starving. I’ll fix something up for you right now. ALAIN! Where is that man? Probably got his head in a book.” She paused. “Is everything all right? You look a bit spaced out.”
