Timecurse

by Tom Becker

  “Hey! Why did you do that?”

  “This is a route my master often uses when he has business on Lightside. By rights I shouldn’t be aware of it – were it not for the special circumstances, I would have travelled another way. There is certainly no need for you to know about it.”

  As the carriage rolled on through the night, Jonathan felt inclined to disagree. Ensconced in the warm interior of the carriage, he experienced a more comfortable journey into Darkside than he had imagined was possible. Even with the blinds drawn, Jonathan knew the exact moment they crossed into the rotten borough – he could feel it in the very marrow of his bones. His head went dizzy, as though he had stood up too quickly, but it was an exhilarating rather than unpleasant sensation. He slumped back in his seat and closed his eyes, smiling. In the past, crossing from modern London to Darkside had caused him pain and sickness, but his body had adapted to the extent that it now welcomed the change. As they continued through Darkside, Jonathan could feel the borough reaching out to reclaim the senses it part-owned: the thick, rancid odour that drifted up from the sewers in search of tender nostrils and soft stomachs; the distant screams and shouts of alarm; the acrid taste of smoke in the air.

  However, even from the confines of the carriage, Jonathan was increasingly aware of something new, a nervous edge to the atmosphere that he hadn’t experienced before. If he hadn’t known better, he would have called it fear.

  Still feeling energized by the crossing, he now ran up the steps to join Raquella, and peered at the bronze plaque by the side of the front door.

  “Dr Hugo La Mort,” he read aloud. “Who’s that, then?”

  “A friend of my master’s. Vendetta visits him before every trip to Lightside. He may know something that could help us.”

  Jonathan gave Raquella a sideways glance. “‘Friend’?”

  “Of sorts,” she replied defensively.

  The maid pulled the bell rope, and a series of chimes sounded within the house. They stood in silence, expecting to hear footsteps, but the front door opened without warning.

  “Oui?” said a quiet voice, through a crack in the door.

  “Dr La Mort?” Raquella asked. “It is Raquella – Vendetta’s maidservant. Please forgive the intrusion at such a late hour, sir, but I was wondering whether you could help me with an urgent matter.”

  “The hour is of no consequence, child,” came the soft reply, in a voice tinged with a European accent. “I am still working. Death and disease do not sleep; therefore, neither do I. Come in.”

  The door opened, revealing a peculiar-looking man. He was small, with an outsized, egg-shaped head sparsely covered with strands of slicked-over hair. Two tiny legs struggled to support the weight of his portly belly, giving him the appearance of a Russian doll. The doctor’s shirtsleeves were rolled up, and he was wiping his hands on a towel. Ushering Jonathan and Raquella inside the house, he locked the door behind them, and drew heavy bolts across the top and bottom of it.

  “You must forgive my precautions, but in this borough one can never be too careful, non? Keeping a nice house requires not only pounds and shillings, but constant vigilance.”

  With this declaration, Dr La Mort led them up a flight of steps to the second floor. The upstairs study they entered was a shrine to biology: bookshelves sagged under the weight of old medical textbooks; black-and-white anatomical diagrams covered the walls; by the window, a display cabinet was crammed with glass jars filled with murky liquid. At the far end of the room, a floor-length curtain had been drawn from one wall to the other.

  After the cold air outside, it was unnaturally hot inside the room. As Jonathan unbuttoned his coat, Dr La Mort settled himself neatly into an armchair and made a grand gesture, like a showman about to introduce his next trick.

  “So, child,” he addressed Raquella, “what ails you? What need have you of Dr La Mort’s assistance?”

  “My health is fine, sir. It is my master I have come to see you about. You are close to him, are you not?”

  The doctor raised a wry eyebrow. “I would not say your master has many amis. There was James Ripper, of course, but we all know what happened to him. Such a tragic affair. But it is true that I am Vendetta’s doctor, and from time to time we have discussed matters over a glass of brandy. In many ways, he is a great man. With his knowledge of the body, he could have added much to the field of medicine.”

  Struggling with the notion of a vampire doctor, Jonathan tried to stifle an incredulous laugh.

  Dr La Mort fixed him with a sharp look from across the room. “That amuses you? Child, there is nothing funny about medicine.”

  “Please forgive my friend,” Raquella cut in. “He does not know Vendetta well enough to appreciate his gifts. I came here tonight because my master has unexpectedly disappeared. Naturally, I am concerned about his whereabouts, and hoped you might be able to shed some light on the matter.”

  The oddly shaped little man sat back in his chair, thoughtfully pressing the tips of his fingers together. Jonathan’s attention drifted over to the glass jars in the display cabinet next to him. Idly he tapped one of the jars, and was startled when there was a movement within the liquid. Jonathan took an instinctive step back. Whatever was inside, it was alive.

  “Mais oui,” Dr La Mort said finally. “Vendetta came to see me two nights ago. He desired certain special infusions that only I make.”

  “Infusions?” queried Raquella.

  “From time to time, there are some Darksiders who wish to travel beyond the borough’s edge. For a small price, I provide medicines that help counter the side effects of the journey.”

  “Did he say why he wanted to go to Lightside?” Raquella pressed.

  Dr La Mort shook his head. “It did not seem right to ask, non? He was very impatient – demanded that I make the infusions right there in front of him. When he had what he needed, he swept out of the door with barely an au revoir. The only thing I can tell you, child, is that wherever your master has gone, it is on a matter of the utmost urgency.” The doctor stood up. “Now, please forgive my rudeness, but I must return to my work.”

  Smiling, he reached behind the curtain and pulled out a white porcelain bowl. Looking down into it, Jonathan saw a collection of sharp implements staining the porcelain with blood. His stomach turned. The doctor carefully rummaged through the bowl before selecting a large scalpel. The blood on the blade glistened in the soft light.

  Dr La Mort slowly passed the scalpel beneath Jonathan’s nose, whispering, “Tell me, child, how can a doctor – even one as skilled as I – hope to succeed without tools such as these? There was a time, years ago, when I possessed the finest medical instruments in Darkside. Then no operation was too complex. I was an artist, and now I am forced to hack and slice like a butcher!”

  As Jonathan swallowed nervously, Raquella pulled at his sleeve.

  “Thank you so much for your help, doctor,” she said hastily. “We should be leaving now.”

  “You don’t want to stay?” The doctor leaned towards them. “I could show you some of the marvels of the human body.”

  “Another time, maybe. . .”

  “It is really getting late. . .”

  “Of course, you are free to go whenever you please,” Dr La Mort whispered. He gestured towards the window. “But the weather is closing in fast. You would be much more comfortable here, non?”

  Following the doctor’s gesture, Jonathan saw with a sinking heart that fog had descended upon Jackdaw Square, a grimy blindfold obliterating the other houses from view. The only thing he could make out was the wispy glow of the street lamps.

  “It’s all right – we’re not far from home,” Jonathan lied, retreating towards the door.

  “We’ll let ourselves out,” added Raquella.

  The pair of them backed out of the study and hurried down the stairs, desperately fighting the u
rge to run. Following them to the landing, Dr La Mort watched every step, the scalpel still in his hand, menace in his eyes. Jonathan felt the doctor’s gaze boring into the back of his neck like a drill. As he tried to draw open the bolts on the front door, he found that his hands were shaking.

  “Quickly, Jonathan,” Raquella murmured, out of the corner of her mouth.

  The top bolt was sticking fast. He pulled on it again, harder, but it wouldn’t budge.

  “Having problems, child?” Dr La Mort called down. “Let me help you.”

  “No! We’ll be fine, really. . .” Jonathan assured him.

  “It is no trouble for me.”

  The strangely shaped man began stepping slowly down the stairs towards them, scalpel raised in his hand. Abandoning any pretence of calm, Jonathan slammed his shoulder against the door and threw all his weight into working the bolt free.

  “Jonathan!” Raquella shouted, as Dr La Mort reached the bottom step.

  With a final furious effort, the bolt slid free, and they tumbled out on to the street, racing away from the house. The fog had fallen as swiftly as a portcullis, and Jonathan could barely see beyond the fingers on his outstretched arm. Realizing that he was running blind, he came to a halt by the side of a wall.

  “Raquella?” he called out.

  The sound of his voice echoed around Jackdaw Square, but the maid didn’t answer. Jonathan was about to shout even louder when a scraping noise behind him made him turn. Peering through the fog, he saw to his horror that the bricks in the wall were rumbling and shifting into a shape. He took an instinctive step back, but it was too late. Suddenly, the bricks formed into a large hand, which thrust out towards Jonathan and grabbed him by the throat.

  4

  Maintaining a savagely tight grip around his neck, the hand raised Jonathan up into the air, forcing him to stand on tiptoes. With his throat held, he was unable to cry for help, and trying to struggle out of the vice-like grasp was futile. Jonathan watched helplessly as the wall continued to writhe, the patterns in the brickwork taking on increasingly defined, recognizable shapes – a burly arm, a heavy boot. Eventually, with a loud rumble, a creature pulled itself free from the wall and stared down at him.

  It was at least eight feet tall, and composed entirely of blackened, sooty bricks – even down to its uniform of jacket, trousers and boots. Despite its ungainly frame, the creature’s movements were smooth, bricks scraping into position with surprising fluidity. Now it craned its head towards Jonathan, subjecting him to a blank, stony gaze.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” the creature said, soot spraying from its mouth like saliva. Its voice was deep and grating, as though someone was running a washing machine filled with pebbles and slate.

  “Please. . .” Jonathan gasped, his feet scrabbling to touch the pavement. “I can’t breathe. . .”

  The creature ignored him. “Who are you?”

  “Jonathan . . . please let go. . .”

  The pressure on his neck was unwavering, inhuman. Jonathan could feel his limbs weakening as the oxygen drained from his body. Still the creature held him.

  “What are you doing hiding in the fog? Looking for a purse to cut?”

  “No! I was visiting someone. Please. . .”

  Jonathan’s head was swimming, black spots exploding in front of his eyes. From somewhere on the other side of the square, he dimly heard the sound of hurried footsteps.

  “Wait, officer!” a female voice cried out.

  The creature’s hand snapped open, dropping Jonathan to the pavement with a crash. He clutched at his neck, fighting a rising tide of nausea. Suddenly Raquella was kneeling next to him.

  “Jonathan! I lost you! Are you all right?”

  Unable to speak, he nodded numbly. The maid rose and turned towards the creature, which was watching the two of them impassively. Through watering eyes, Jonathan saw her greet it with a respectful curtsy.

  “Good evening, sir. What is the problem here?”

  “It’s late to be wandering the streets. Too late for respectable citizens.”

  “It’s my fault, officer,” Raquella replied. “I was conducting urgent business on behalf of my master – I had forgotten that the Bow Street Runners were abroad.”

  The creature gave her a hard stare. “The Runners are always abroad when Darkside’s throne is empty.”

  “I know – I should have remembered. It will not happen again, I promise.”

  There was a rippling movement across the Runner’s shoulders that Jonathan guessed was some sort of shrug.

  “It’ll be your funeral if it does.”

  With that, the creature stepped back into the wall, its limbs dissolving with a rumble into the brickwork, until it had been swallowed up entirely. Jonathan climbed gingerly to his feet and ran a hand incredulously over the now-smooth wall.

  “What the hell was that?” he asked, looking back at Raquella.

  “A Bow Street Runner,” she replied thoughtfully. “Part of the Ripper’s personal police force.”

  “It moved through the wall, Raquella.”

  The maid nodded. “They’re brick golems. They can move faster through walls than you or I can run. With no Ripper on the throne, some Darksiders might see an opportunity to seize power for themselves. The Runners tend to make them think otherwise.”

  “No kidding,” Jonathan replied ruefully. “I thought Darkside was feeling a bit jumpy – I can see why now. This has been quite a night. First that nutty doctor, and now this.”

  Raquella bit her lip. “I’m sorry, Jonathan. I should have warned you about the Runners – I truly forgot. Let’s get out of here – the sooner we catch up with Carnegie, the better.”

  She walked swiftly away, the fog threatening to swallow her up.

  “You sure you want to keep going on foot?” Jonathan called out dubiously. “Wouldn’t it be safer getting a carriage?”

  Raquella turned and said, with a hint of a smile, “Didn’t you hear? The Runners are patrolling the streets. This is the safest Darkside gets.”

  “Tell that to my throat,” Jonathan muttered, as he hurried to catch up with her.

  As they exited the square and headed down a broad avenue towards the centre of Darkside, the dank curtain of fog began to lift, almost as suddenly as it had arrived. It revealed a warren of deathly quiet streets, as though the citizens of Darkside had been magicked away. From the arches beneath Eel Pie Viaduct, usually home to a bustling, argumentative community of beggars and cripples, to the distant, wild expanse of Bleakmoor to the north of the borough, there was no one to be seen. Even on the Grand – the epicentre of Darkside’s nightly tremors – the pavements were empty. The unnatural stillness made Jonathan feel uneasy; he jumped when a carriage clattered hastily past him, the coachman whipping his horses into a frenzy.

  Carnegie’s lodgings were located above a funeral parlour on Fitzwilliam Street, a cankerous offshoot of the Grand. Jonathan hauled himself up the familiar staircase, his feet automatically avoiding the loose step halfway up. At the top of the stairs, a landing led on to a thick red door marked with deep scratches. Jonathan marched up and banged on the door, but there was no reply. Beside him, Raquella shivered.

  “What do we do now?” she said. “We can’t go looking for him. There’s no telling where he might be.”

  “Don’t despair,” Jonathan replied. He crouched down and ran a hand underneath the doormat, pulling out a dull metal key. “I spent enough time here to know where the spare key is.”

  Raquella frowned. “Could Elias not have found a slightly less obvious hiding place?”

  “Do you really think he needs to?” Jonathan asked, turning the key in the lock. “You’d have to be nuts to break in here!”

  A grey dawn was creeping in through the windows of the lodgings. Elias Carnegie was splayed out on the settee in his front room, fast asle
ep, one leg trailing out on to the floor. His waistcoat was unbuttoned, revealing a tired white shirt marked with stains. A battered stovepipe hat had slumped down over his face, muffling the wereman’s loud snores. His left hand still clutched an empty brown bottle, and the floor around the settee was littered with a graveyard of gnawed animal bones. The entire room was steeped in a mood of sullen inertia as thick as the animal hairs on the furniture.

  Surveying the scene, Raquella shuddered. “I think you should wake him up,” she said.

  Jonathan grinned. “No need. He smelled us coming up the stairs – didn’t you, Carnegie?”

  “You’re a genius, boy,” a voice rumbled from beneath the hat. “Now get out of here and let me sleep, before I decide I’m still hungry.”

  Jonathan winked at Raquella.

  “He’s missed me,” he said.

  Two hours later, and a weak winter sun was doing its best to illuminate the shabby surroundings of the lodgings. The wereman picked at his teeth with a claw while Jonathan and Raquella enthusiastically attacked breakfast.

  “If you’ve come here because you’re bored on Lightside and you fancy some more adventures, you’ve picked the wrong time, boy,” he growled. “Damn, but Darkside is dreary right now.”

  “It’s like a graveyard out there,” agreed Jonathan, tearing the crust off a piece of bread and dipping it in his egg.

  “Give me a graveyard any day,” Carnegie muttered. “Always a chance of running into a wight or two for a bit of sport. Right now, everyone’s so scared the Runners are going to nab them for something that they’re taking a break from any criminal activities. Those walking hods are bad for business – I haven’t had a new case in days.”

  “Yeah, I’ve already had the pleasure of meeting a Runner,” said Jonathan. “We didn’t exactly hit it off.”