by Tom Becker
Jonathan peered through the net curtains at the dark, empty street outside.
“Thanks for putting us up like this.”
Behind him, Mrs Elwood – the diminutive family friend of the Starlings, and near neighbour – made a dismissive noise. Since welcoming the Starlings and their friends into her home, the tiny woman had been a bustling model of hospitality: making up spare beds and producing endless plates of food, all the while her ponytail of long blonde hair swinging across her back like a pendulum. A Darksider by birth, it was obvious that Mrs Elwood could tell the origins of her new guests. Mistrustful of anything to do with the rotten borough, she pursed her lips but said nothing.
“You know I’m happy to do anything to help you and your father,” she said now. “Though what on earth he thinks he’s doing sitting outside in the freezing cold, I don’t know.”
Jonathan smiled. His dad was keeping watch in Mrs Elwood’s car, waiting to follow the detectives when they arrived. Marianne was sitting beside him in the front passenger seat. Much to her amusement, the airy bounty hunter had been quick to earn Mrs Elwood’s disapproval, and had swiftly volunteered to keep Alain company on his stakeout.
“Seen anything?”
Jonathan looked up to see Harry and Raquella standing beside him.
“Nothing yet,” he replied. “But they’ll be here, all right.”
“Perhaps sooner than you think,” Raquella said. “Look!”
A brown car had turned off the main road and was slinking up the street, its headlights turned off. It moved slowly past the houses, as though it were a dog sniffing out a scent.
Harry whistled. “Didn’t take them long to track you down, did it? Wonder if the salamanders are still with them?”
“Doesn’t look like it,” replied Jonathan.
The brown car came to a halt outside the Starling house, and the driver turned the engine off. Horace Carmichael climbed out of the passenger seat. A younger man got out of the other side of the car, shivering in the cold. Jonathan recognized him as Sergeant Wilson – Carmichael’s junior. The two men walked up the driveway and rang the doorbell several times. Getting no response, Carmichael checked the darkened windows, then began working at the lock as Wilson kept watch. Within seconds, the door was open, and Jonathan took a sharp intake of breath as the detectives crept into his house. Imagining the intruders rummaging through his family’s things, Jonathan had to fight the urge to run after them and throw them out.
He was suddenly aware that Mrs Elwood had joined them by the window. The little woman’s face was pale, and her hand was over her mouth.
“Are you OK?” asked Jonathan. “Mrs Elwood?”
She started. “Sorry, my dear?”
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“It’s Alain, that’s all. I know how upsetting watching this will be for him. I find it upsetting myself.”
Touching his arm, Mrs Elwood hurried out of the room.
Although no lights came on in the house, half an hour elapsed before Carmichael sloped back out through the front door with Wilson. For all that time Jonathan remained transfixed at the window, a lingering sense of dread washing over him. From the next room, he heard the sound of Mrs Elwood murmuring strange prayers to herself.
As Carmichael’s car pulled away from the kerb and down the street, the headlights of Mrs Elwood’s car flicked on and the vehicle pulled out after them smoothly. As the procession disappeared from sight, Jonathan felt his nerves begin to ease.
“That Carmichael gives me the creeps,” Harry muttered. “I’m not sure jumping him is going to be that easy.”
Jonathan gave Harry a sly grin. “Who said anything about Carmichael?”
5
By the time that Sergeant Charlie Wilson realized he was in trouble, it was too late.
He was fighting his way through the Christmas crowds in a department store on Oxford Street, having taken the day off work to buy his family presents. Even after living in London for years, he was still amazed by the breathless, ill-tempered press of people pushing and shoving into one another, swearing as shopping bags banged into their legs.
Wilson manoeuvred towards the escalator, stifling a yawn. The previous night he had been dragged out of bed by Detective Carmichael to raid a house in north London. Apparently Jonathan Starling was still alive and well, although the only evidence Wilson had seen of that was an empty house. The sergeant was starting to lose patience with the murky world of Department D. An idealist, Wilson had joined the police force because he had wanted to catch criminals and stop crime – but now it seemed as though everyone was a criminal, himself included.
As he travelled up the escalator towards the menswear section, he felt a pair of eyes boring into the back of his neck. Wilson looked up to see a boy leaning over the railings, calmly watching him. Dismissing him as just another bored teenager, Wilson got off the escalator at the second floor. He was thumbing through hangers of jumpers when something made him look up. The boy had followed Wilson through the store and was now leaning against a mannequin, still staring straight at him.
The skin prickled on the back of Wilson’s neck – a sudden premonition of danger. This was ridiculous, he scolded himself. All this nonsense about Darkside was making him edgy. He was a police officer, for pity’s sake! He thought about walking up to the boy and asking him to explain himself, but then looking at people wasn’t a crime. Instead, Wilson slipped between the clothing racks and made his way back to the escalators.
At the sparkling white perfume counters the sergeant paused and craned his neck to see if the boy was following him, ignoring the strange looks he received from the impeccably dressed sales assistants. In this part of the store, the air was draped with a sweet aroma.
“Looking for a present for a lady, sir?”
Wilson jumped. He spun round to see a beautiful woman smiling helpfully, displaying a small glass vial in her hands. There was something familiar about her face, but for the life of him Wilson couldn’t think where he’d seen her before.
“Er, no,” he said hurriedly. “I’m fine, thank you.”
“Are you sure? This is a very special perfume, you know.”
“I told you, I’m—”
Before Wilson could finish his sentence, the woman pressed down on the top of the vial, casting a fine mist of scent into the air that settled on the sergeant’s skin like dew. He wanted to tell the woman off for spraying him with perfume, but the scent had made him feel pleasantly light-headed, and it seemed rude to shout.
“It’s nice, isn’t it?” she asked. “Makes you feel happy.”
Wilson nodded, suppressing a sudden giggle.
“Excuse me,” he heard a new voice say coldly. “I don’t know who you are, but you don’t work here.”
The woman gave a silvery laugh and wrapped an arm around Wilson. He wondered why she was being so friendly – beautiful women weren’t usually this nice to him. “Of course I don’t work here! I was just playing a game with my boyfriend.”
The assistant leaned in closely towards Wilson, a suspicious look on her face. “You don’t look too well, sir. Would you like me to call for a doctor? Or security, perhaps?”
“He’s fine, aren’t you?” the other woman said smoothly, launching another liberal dose of perfume into the air. It was all the sergeant could do to nod dumbly in agreement. “He’s not one for shopping at the best of times – bless him. I don’t think you need to worry about us any more.”
The assistant looked as though she was going to argue, and then frowned. She had a look on her face that suggested she had forgotten something very important. Without another word, she turned round and began talking to another customer. The beautiful woman took Wilson by the arm and led him away.
“Phew!” she whispered in his ear. “That was a close one! I thought that busybody would never go away.”
At the back of his mind, Wilson knew that something was terribly wrong, but his mind was still plunged in the rich scent of perfume. He allowed himself to be taken through the store, to where the boy from the menswear section was waiting for them.
“Nicely done,” he murmured to the woman.
“Why, thank you, nephew,” she responded brightly. “I must confess, I’ve had practice at this.”
“It shows. Now let’s get this guy out of here. He’s starting to look a bit dodgy.”
The conversation swirled above Wilson’s head like clouds. He recognized the words the two people were saying, but couldn’t put them together in any way that made sense. Every sentence was a giant anagram. The lights and the background music and the people around him were all melding together in one happy explosion of sight and sound. Wilson had the dreamy sensation that all of this was happening to someone else, that he was merely watching as another Wilson was walked briskly towards the exit.
“Trouble?” the woman said sharply to the boy, who was glancing over his shoulder.
“Couple of security guards giving us funny looks. We need to get out of here.”
“Take his other arm.”
Wilson felt himself being almost hoisted into the air. Part of him wondered whether this was entirely normal, or whether he should say something to the security guards, but he didn’t want the happy feeling or the beautiful woman to go away.
As they passed through the main doors and out on to the pavement, the fresh air hit him like a slap in the face. The first pangs of panic gnawed at his brain.
“What’s going on?” he mumbled.
The woman was looking anxiously up and down the street, while the boy watched the department store exit. Suddenly a car screeched to a halt beside them – before he could protest, Wilson was bundled into the back seat alongside his two companions.
“Drive, Alain!” the woman snapped, and the car shot out into the traffic.
“No – stop!” Wilson cried out.
There was a heavy blow to the back of his head, and he felt himself spiralling into unconsciousness.
When Wilson awoke, the intoxicating perfume had gone, leaving him with a searing pain in his head and a parched mouth. He ran a tongue over his cracked lips, and forced heavy eyelids open. Immediately he groaned with pain – a bright light was flashing straight into his eyes, setting the nerves in his head on fire. Wilson tried to cover his face with his hands, only to discover that he was tightly bound to a chair, cords biting into his wrists and his ankles.
Shaking his head to clear the cobwebs, Wilson tried to squint beyond the light, but all he could make out was a dark, windowless room. There was a noise from somewhere in the darkness, and he realized that he wasn’t alone.
“Sore head?” a voice said.
As she approached, Wilson saw that it was the woman from the department store. But whereas before she had been a kindly, comforting presence, now her pale face was set and there was a steely glint in her eyes. She was holding a small dagger in her hand. His head now painfully clear, Wilson recognized her instantly.
“Marianne!” he gasped. “But I saw a wall fall on you. . .”
“And yet here I am,” she replied grimly. “Persistent, aren’t I?” She nodded at the silhouette standing on the other side of the room. “This is Harry. He’s family too – which also makes him a Ripper. You’re not having a very good day, are you?”
“W-Why I am here?” Wilson stuttered. “What do you want with me?”
Marianne absent-mindedly ran a hand through his hair, and tapped his cheek with the flat of her blade. Wilson squeaked with fear.
“Answers,” she said mildly.
Harry stepped forward and joined his aunt’s side. Though he was only a teenager, the boy was well-built and carried himself with a menacing air of confidence. He folded his arms.
“We’re going to ask some questions, and you’re going to be very helpful, or there are going to be problems. Do you understand me?”
Wilson nodded frantically.
“Leave him alone,” a third voice said softly from the gloom.
The Rippers stopped in their tracks. Marianne rolled her eyes as Harry looked behind him, shielding his eyes against the light.
“But we haven’t even started!” he protested.
“I’ve seen as much as I want to.” A boy moved out from the darkness into the light. “Hello, Sergeant Wilson.”
Wilson stared, dumbstruck, and then broke into hoarse, mirthless laughter. “Of course. I should have guessed. Hello, Jonathan.”
The boy pulled up a chair and looked him straight in the eye. “Look, you’re in a lot of trouble here. I don’t want you to get hurt, but I don’t know whether I can stop them. We’re looking for a friend of ours, and we think you know where he is.”
With that, things began to fall into place for Wilson. “You mean Carnegie.”
“Is he still alive?”
Wilson paused, and then nodded. “They’re holding him in the cells underneath Blackchapel.”
Harry swore softly. “I don’t fancy breaking him out from there. That place is a fortress.”
“Is he OK?” Jonathan asked anxiously.
“I wouldn’t know,” Wilson replied. “They don’t let anyone go down there, let alone me. But I did hear Carmichael talking with Holborn about keeping him alive – something to do with the Night Hunt.”
There was an exchange of blank looks around him.
“What’s a Night Hunt?” Jonathan asked.
Wilson laughed bitterly. “Don’t ask me – Carmichael never tells me anything. All I know is, it’s happening tomorrow night in Darkside, and they don’t expect your friend to survive it.”
“You’d better not be messing us around on this,” Harry said threateningly, bunching his fist.
“It’s the truth, I swear! You can beat me up all you want, but I don’t know anything else!” Wilson shouted. “I’m sick of this! Sick of you, and Carmichael, and Darkside! I wish I’d never heard of the bloody place! All I wanted to be was a normal copper.”
“In Department D?” Jonathan said wryly.
“If you let me go,” Wilson shot back, “I’ll put in for a transfer tomorrow. I swear on my family’s life. If I never hear about Darkside again it’ll be too soon.”
His words hung heavily in the silence.
“Well, he’s convinced me,” Jonathan said finally. “I think we can call off the interrogation.”
“Jonathan,” Marianne began, “we’ve kidnapped a policeman! Do you really think it’s a good idea to let him go?”
“I don’t think Wilson’s going to be talking to anyone too soon. What else are we going to do? Keep him down here for ever? Kill him?” Wilson’s eyes bulged with fear. “Even if he does blab, it’s not as though we’re going to be around anyway.”
“You mean. . .?”
Jonathan nodded. “Back to Darkside. It’s time. We’ll drop him off somewhere remote and then cross over.”
Marianne sighed wistfully and put away her knife. “You get less fun by the day, you know that?”
As the three of them turned to leave the room, Wilson called out disbelievingly, “You’re really going to let me go?”
Harry broke into a grin. “What can I say? We’re the good guys.”
Jonathan paused in the gloom. “You can do one thing for me, though. When you see Carmichael, you can tell him where we’ve gone or not. That’s up to you. But pass on a message from me.”
“What’s the message?”
“You’re next,” Jonathan said darkly.
6
In a townhouse on a quiet street in Darkside, the vampiric banker Vendetta stared moodily out through the window, watching the snow as it tumbled down from the night sky. Save for the faint orange glow of the street lamps outside, no li
ghts were on. The darkness lapped over the vampire’s skin like bathwater.
He had been sitting in the same chair for hours, barely moving. Even in a year that had thrown up one setback after another, the last week had proved particularly galling for Vendetta. He had tried – unsuccessfully – to stop Lucien claiming the throne, thereby placing himself in direct opposition to the new ruler of Darkside. Even worse, Holborn had held on to his position as Abettor. Holborn and Vendetta had spent decades nurturing a mutual contempt for one another – each mistrustful of the other’s power and influence over the Rippers – and now the Abettor had the perfect opportunity to destroy him.
With time running out, Vendetta had taken what steps he could. He had fled Vendetta Heights before Lucien’s men came for him, seeking the solace of his private townhouse. Only one other person in Darkside, his maid, knew of this address – and he hadn’t heard any word of Raquella since the night of Lucien’s succession. For the time being, then, the vampire was safe. But he couldn’t hide for ever.
To rub salt into the wound, in Vendetta’s absence Holborn had moved into the Heights and set up residence. The very thought of the Abettor sleeping in his private quarters, eating meals at his dining table, and leafing through the books in his library inflamed the vampire’s lifeless veins with rage. He knew that he had to strike back – but at present he lacked the money and the manpower. The obvious solution was to visit his bank and ransack the vaults, but he was certain that there would be men waiting for him there. Though Vendetta feared no one, he wasn’t foolish enough to presume that he could win a battle against a squad of Bow Street Runners. As long as Lucien ignored tradition and kept the Runners on the streets, any full-frontal assault was doomed to failure.
Over the years, Vendetta had taken the precaution of storing money in accounts with Lightside banks, giving him the option of crossing over and starting a new life there. He had spent enough time on the other side of London to fit in easily enough. But as what? In Darkside, the name Vendetta was known and feared across the borough, used by mothers to threaten unruly children. On Lightside, he would be nothing: a minor businessman, little more than a shopkeeper. An eternity of mediocrity beckoned.
