by Rod Rees
Moynahan hopped up onto the window ledge, looked down the roof and hesitated. Understandable: the slope of the roof as it ran down to the gulley between Mary Jeffries’ house and the adjoining one was very steep and very long. It took a shove from Shelley to send him on his way, tumbling down the roof, landing battered and bruised in the gutter. He was just levering himself to his knees when Shelley smashed into him.
‘Wuined!’ Shelley exclaimed as he inspected the tattered seat of his trousers, but a bullet whizzing inches from his right ear persuaded him that now was not the moment to be overly concerned regarding matters sartorial. He fired two quick shots back towards the pursuing Checkya. ‘Over there!’ he yelled. ‘That window. Smartly now.’
The dormer window wasn’t open but a savage kick from Moynahan made it so. As bullets pinged around him, smacking into the roof and smashing tiles, Shelley dived through the window, landing on the rather attractive young lady cowering in her bed. Her screams were truncated by the arrival of Moynahan, but then, Shelley supposed, sixteen stone of fugitive landing on your head would put a crimp on anyone’s vocal inclinations.
With Moynahan at his heels Shelley rammed his way out of the bedroom and raced down the stairs, swinging around the banisters, ignoring the loud complaints of the man who he assumed was the master of the house as he went.
‘Kitchen?’ Shelley demanded of a maid he encountered in the hallway and then charged down the dark passageway indicated by the girl’s trembling finger.
Once there, he headed straight for the back door but even as he struggled to unlock it, the Checkya arrived. There were two of them and they looked big and brutal, but what they didn’t have was Shelley’s aplomb. He loosed off two shots, the first catching the leading man in the shoulder, making him drop his pistol and sending him spinning around. The second shot missed its target but it was near enough to send the second Checkya agent diving for cover.
Most estate agents would have described the house’s back door as ‘substantial’ and as ‘oak, reinforced with steel furniture’. It might have been all of these things and more but it wasn’t sufficient to deal with a rampaging Moynahan. He gave it one almighty kick and it yielded.
Breathless, the two men found themselves in a courtyard where a chauffeur was just putting a final sheen on the beautiful black paintwork of a huge Daimler steamer. Shelley didn’t hesitate; he stuck his pistol up the man’s nose. ‘Keys, Comwade?’ he demanded and the man with an equal lack of hesitation handed them over. ‘Can you dwive one of these contwaptions, Moynahan? I ain’t overly familiar with things mechanical. Too dirty and smelly, don’t cha know.’
Fortunately Moynahan could drive. He had just clambered into the driving seat when a bullet starred the rear window. Shelley fired a couple of shots in return as Moynahan twisted the key in the steering lock and released the brake. For a long, heart-stopping moment nothing happened and then the steamer panted uncertainly into life. Moynahan hit the steam pedal and they were away.
*
When Moynahan and Shelley finally found their way back to the hotel, Maria – a fully clad Maria – was waiting for them. It seemed the Checkya were as inept at apprehending half-naked women as they were pistol-packing desperadoes.
Shelley looked around the room and sniffed. ‘It comes to a sowwy pass when wevolutionawies are unable to fund more appwopwiate and sanitawy diggings.’ He sniffed again. ‘No matter. Sacwifices must, I suppose, be made to wemove the verminous scallywags who lead the ForthWight.’
‘We are incognito, Mr Shelley,’ answered Maria, ‘and hence I felt it injudicious to take rooms in a more salubrious neighbourhood where the scrutiny of our provenance might be a tad more intense.’
‘Indeed,’ conceded Shelley with a vague wave of his hand. ‘But that bwings us to a somewhat delicate subject, the vewification of your bona fides. To put no finer point on it, Miss Steele, you could be a Checkya agent masquewading as a Visual Virgin in order to awwest Norma Williams.’ And with that he produced Skittles’ revolver from his jacket pocket. ‘I would be pleased to have pwoof that you are who you say you are.’
A halo of determination flickered around Shelley’s head which told Maria that under the man’s somewhat comical, powder-puff demeanour there was a core of steel. He was in deadly earnest.
‘We have the passphrase from George Villiers.’
Shelley’s lip twitched to indicate his disdain. ‘My dear young lady, it could be that George has been taken by the Checkya and subjected to torture.’ He gave a rueful shake of his head. ‘I am all confusion, bedevilled by the thought that perhaps you are the Checkya and now by subtle twicks and artifice – and feminine wiles, lest we forget – you seek to beguile me into an indiscwetion. Perhaps the escape fwom Mawy Jeffwies’ establishment was merely a pantomime to twick me into betwaying my beloved Norma.’ He wagged a finger towards Maria. ‘But though you have found me, I will not betway my lost angel of a wuined Pawadise. First, I must be made to twust you.’
‘You know that Norma Williams is a Daemon?’ asked Maria quietly.
‘Norma told me as much when we first met and, I will admit, it took me a while to accept her for what she was. I had thought such cweatures to be merely myth and make-believe, never having an inkling that they might be weal.’ Shelley poured himself a glass of Solution and took a long swig. ‘But I tell you this, do not seek to turn me fwom her because of her stwange pwovenance. I know that Norma is no Lamia, no serpent disguised by beauty. She is goodness itself, as she has shown by her bwave pwomotion of Normalism.’ He sighed. ‘Woe is me. Was there ever such an ill-omened mésalliance than that of versifier and Daemon?’
‘We have no intention of traducing your good opinion of Norma, Mr Shelley,’ counselled Maria, ‘quite the opposite, in fact. But you should understand that Mr Moynahan has been sent from the Spirit World to find her.’
‘Spiwit World?’ Shelley turned his blue eyes towards Moynahan. ‘You are a Daemon? You are another twaveller fwom that stwange wealm that lies beyond our imagination?’
‘I am,’ answered Moynahan and as proof he clicked open his switchblade and dragged the blade along his palm. A thin trace of blood oozed from the cut.
‘I should have guessed … no normal chap would have worn that cwavat with that suit. It ain’t wight, don’t cha know.’ He gave a shrug. ‘But why do you seek Norma?’
‘My mission is to lead Norma Williams back to … well, we call it the Real World but you Demi-Mondians call it the Spirit World. Unfortunately, she has been a mite elusive and that’s why I need your help to find her. She’s the daughter of a very important man, the President, and he wants her brought back to the Real World safe and sound.’
‘Vewy well. I will help you find Norma Williams but not because she is the Pwesident’s daughter nor yet because of my tender feelings towards her. No, I will help you because she is important; important not just to change this world but also, I suspect, Comwade Moynahan, to change yours. I believe Normalism is the way in which both our worlds may be saved. Normalism is the hope of the Demi-Monde and the Weal World.’
‘So you know where Norma is?’ prompted Moynahan.
Shelley shook his head. ‘No. You must understand that the intelligence I have wegarding her wheweabouts is scant. I know she is here in the Wookeries – I saw her but thwee nights ago in the Canterbuwy Theatre – but finding exactly where in London she might be hiding will, I suspect, pwove to be an intwactable puzzle.’
Now this was a development Moynahan hadn’t been expecting. He had thought that by finding Shelley they would find Norma Williams, but it seemed that the poet had no more idea where she was hiding than he had.
‘But wather than perplexing as to where she is in the Wookeries, perhaps we should have been wondewing why she is in the Wookeries.’
‘Why she’s in the Rookeries? I don’t understand.’
Shelley smiled. ‘There can only be one weason, Comwade Moynahan: to pwomote the cause of Normalism.’ He picked up the co
py of The Stormer – the ForthRight’s daily newspaper – that was lying on a table and opened it to its centre pages, which were headlined ‘Lammas Eve Victory Celebrations: a Souvenir Guide’. ‘This is the weason she’s come to the Wookeries: to embawwass the Gweat Leader in the Cwystal Palace.’
1:09
The Crystal Palace, London, the Rookeries
The Demi-Monde: 90th Day of Summer, 1005
Much as I hated the man and all he stood for, I admired Reinhard Heydrich as a great manipulator of public opinion. Heydrich was supremely talented when it came to moulding what Émile Durkheim calls the collective effervescence, the energy created when large numbers of people gather together. He understood better than any that once individuals coalesce into a crowd they become collectivist, their individuality melding to the extent that they believe that they are at one with ABBA. It is this quasi-religious euphoria that Heydrich sought to make his own, in order that allegiance to the Party could be transformed into deification of the Great Leader. Indeed, there is only one person who was more skilled than Heydrich at crowd manipulation: Norma Williams.
Reinhard Heydrich: Biography of a Bigot: Percy Shelley, Normalist Publications
‘And now, lads and lasses,’ Sporting Chance bellowed, ‘I ’ave a special treat for yous. This lovely little lady ’as come a long way to be wiv us tonight so I want you to give a right big ForthRight welcome to … MISS AALIZ HEYDRICH!’
‘That’s Norma Williams,’ an excited Maria shouted to Moynahan.
Being half-asleep, it took a moment for Moynahan to react. Sure, the Victory in the Coven celebrations had been an eye-popping experience, the whole evening reminding him of the opening ceremony of the Rio Olympics – though with rather fewer semi-naked women on display – all marching, clapping, flag-waving and speech-making. Marvellously choreographed too – he was in the ForthRight and Heydrich was famous for his love of mass rallies – and mind-bogglingly huge. There were, according to The Stormer, one hundred thousand soldiers on parade, and, as he watched the regiments wheel flawlessly around the arena, Moynahan had no reason to doubt this estimate.
The problem was that the acres of glass used in the construction of the Crystal Palace made it not only visually astonishing but unbelievably hot. And the heat plus Heydrich’s seemingly never-ending speechifying meant that Moynahan had nodded off.
He was awake now, though. ‘You’re certain it’s her?’ he demanded as he used his opera glasses to study the girl. ‘Surely that’s Aaliz Heydrich? The blonde hair—’
‘A wig! No. I’ve seen Aaliz Heydrich before and her aura is a mass of hate and ambition. This girl’s is quite the opposite. Forget the blonde hair: the girl down there is Norma Williams, her aura is unmistakable. She is suffused with a halo of gold … she is the Messiah!’
Not only a Messiah, but a damned fine orator! Although she employed none of Heydrich’s histrionics, her message came across very powerfully. It might, of course, have been that her very vulnerability demanded that everyone listen to her: she was, after all, just a young girl dressed in a white gown marooned in the centre of a vast stage, confronting the massed might of the ForthRight. Or it might have been that what she said – that violence was wrong and that men and women should live in harmony with their fellows – had a deep resonance with an audience heartily sick of the deprivation and death associated with war. But whatever the reason, the whole auditorium went silent as the people crammed into the place listened to her … which was why Heydrich moved to shut her up.
There were shouts from the balcony where Heydrich and his cronies were seated and immediately platoons of black-uniformed Checkya began to rush towards the stage. The problem they faced was that with so many soldiers packed into the hall they met a veritable wall of red-jacketed opposition. As was their wont, the Checkya overreacted and began beating at the soldiers with their batons, and the soldiers, as was their wont, began to fight back wielding chairs, bottles and anything else that came to hand.
Even as Moynahan watched, the fighting escalated and by sheer weight of numbers the soldiers began to push the Checkya back. And that was when the Checkya decided it would be a good idea to fire on the protesting soldiers. The rifle fire that crackled around the Crystal Palace had two effects: it panicked the non-combatant part of the audience and seriously annoyed the combatant part. The soldiers began to return fire and in an eye-blink the hall had been turned into a battleground.
‘We’ve got to get Norma to safety,’ Moynahan announced and with Maria and Shelley racing at his heels he took off in the direction of the stage. Being so big, he was able to bulldoze his way through the chaos, but a good five minutes elapsed before they found themselves backstage, arriving just as Norma was in the process of being arrested by a Checkya detachment.
Moynahan didn’t hesitate. He pulled tear gas canisters from his shoulder bag and tossed them towards the Checkya, who began reeling about coughing and retching. Then, wrapping a handkerchief around his face, he plunged into the smoke, grabbed Norma by an arm and dragged her clear.
‘Hiya, Norma. I’m Corporal 1st Class Dean Moynahan of the 5th US Combat Training Regiment. If you’d just keep your head down, we’ll try to get you out of here.’
Hands on knees, spluttering and choking, Norma blinked back her tears and took a good look at her saviour. ‘We?’ she asked and that was when Percy Shelley stepped forward.
‘Ah, sweetest Norma. Such is the desire of the moth for the star that I am come to you, bwaving all the alawums of this wild and wilful world.’
Norma took one look at Shelley and slapped him around the face.
*
‘And that, Norma, is the story of how me, Maria and Shelley came to be in the Crystal Palace tonight.’
‘Incredible,’ acknowledged Norma as she sat back in the seat of the steamer that was taking them to safety. ‘Then the quicker we get to the docks the better. I think it’ll take a while for the Checkya to get themselves organised but it doesn’t pay to be overconfident.’ She frowned. ‘You’re sure this Portal of yours is working, Corporal? I don’t want to risk our lives just to find that the thing’s out of commission.’
‘Well, we think it works. The fact is, Norma, it hasn’t been used in anger and that’s the reason the Dupes …’ Moynahan looked around the cabin. ‘No offence intended, folks, but that’s what Demi-Mondians are called back in the Real World. Anyway … the fact that we haven’t used the Portal is the reason the Demi-Mondians haven’t found it yet. It seems that powering up a Portal produces a lot of electrical interference and the powers that be in the Demi-Monde have been able to triangulate on this interference and find where we’re hiding. That’s what led to all the other Portals being found and destroyed.’
‘So you don’t know if it works?’
‘Oh, we’ve been running tests, Norma. Low-power stuff that won’t light up a galvanicEnergy-O-Meter, so we’re pretty sure it’s okay.’
‘Well, that’s comforting.’ Norma gave a wry laugh. ‘Though maybe whether the Portal works or not is moot. I won’t be able to go back to the Real World for the simple reason that I don’t have a body to go back to.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Moynahan.
‘The aim of Reinhard Heydrich is to take his hatred back to the Real World. He wants out of the Demi-Monde and his daughter, Aaliz – my twin – was his way of doing that. That’s why I was lured here to the Demi-Monde in the first place, so that the spirit of Aaliz Heydrich could invest my body back in the Real World. I can’t go back there … not while Aaliz Heydrich is using my body.’
‘Unfortunately, my fair Norma, that is not the most pwessing of our pwoblems.’
Here Shelley pointed through the steamer’s window to a newspaper boy selling his papers at the side of the road and shouting ‘Extra … Extra’ at the top of his voice. The scrawled headline on the side of his stand told why there was such a clamour for the papers.
SHAKA ZULU ASSASSINATED
WAR IN THE JAD IMM
INENT
FORTHRIGHT PLEDGES SUPPORT TO CROWN
PRINCE XOLANDI
‘It’ll take a miwacle for us to enter the JAD now.’
Part Two:
Xolandi, And Pobedonostsev’s Treachery
1:10
NoirVille: the Hub
1st Day of Fall, 1005
1.1. In the Beginning there was, like, Nothing, the Ultimate Zero, the Big Fat Zip. Well … almost Nothing. There was, of course, the Cool and the Cool was invested in the Coolest cat there ever was or ever will be, ABBA. And you better dig that only those cats possessed of Cool have the transcendental inner peace to become one with ABBA and be immune to the vicissitudes of the Demi-Monde.
The HIM Book, Book of the Coming: Chapter 1, Verse 1
ABBA wept, signalling the grief in heaven at the passing of Shaka Zulu. But even as ABBA’s tears enveloped the world so the first gong sounded and Xolandi, Crown Prince of the Zulus, together with the host of other Boys competing in the Rite of Passage, stepped forward to toe the start line. HimPeror Shaka journeying to join his ancestors was a tragedy but life continued: as one warrior fell so another had to rise to take his place … and to avenge him.
Xolandi was determined to be that avenging warrior. Today Xolandi would move from BoyHood to ManHood and, by doing so, take the crown of NoirVille.
Or die in the attempt.
Silently he berated himself for entertaining such spirit-sapping doubts. Doubts were unCool. He would not die! He was Xolandi, the Black Prince, and he would not – could not – die. This was his moment, the moment to prove he was the best of the best, the strongest of the strong and the bravest of the brave, to prove that he was ready to take Shaka’s crown and to wreak terrible vengeance on those responsible for the cowardly assassination of NoirVille’s HimPeror. Was that not the reason why ABBA had spared him? Because he was not yet a Man, he had been denied attendance at the Ceremony of Awakening and so had avoided being blown to pieces by the bomb the cowardly enemies of HimPerialism had planted in the Temple of Lilith.
