Blackjack

by Tom Becker

  “G’d afternoon, m’lud or lady,” Jacobs began, with a sweeping bow. “And what a fine afternoon it is, too.”

  At the sound of his voice, the figure shrank back into the sheltered darkness of the bath chair. There was no reply.

  “I can’t help but notice that you are outside the world-famous Wayward Orphanage,” Jacobs continued, undeterred. “If you would like a guided tour, please allow me to offer my ’umble services. I am proud to admit that I was once one of the orphanage’s charges, along with my good partner Magpie. See?” Fishing around his dirty vest, he pulled out a metal token with a number etched next to the initials “W.O.” “Number 439: that was me. Magpie’s got one too.”

  “I don’t need a guide,” the voice replied, in a barely audible tone. “I know the Orphanage all too well, though it has been many years since I last saw it. Old memories, recently stirred.”

  Jacobs hadn’t the foggiest idea what the stranger was going on about. He or she didn’t sound quite right in the head. What was it with everyone these days? Rather desperately, he gestured beyond the slumbering form of Magpie at the junk heaped on his cart.

  “Then perhaps I could interest you in some of our high-quality wares. We can meet your every desire: finest lace, priceless antiques, rare curios. . .”

  Jacobs flashed his lone tooth in what he hoped was an enticing smile.

  “No, thank you. I don’t—” There was a sharp intake of breath from inside the bath chair. “What’s that your partner’s carrying?”

  “That thing?” Jacobs said, surprised. “We nicked it from some crazy little blighter who claimed it was the Crimson Stone. Right little joker, ’e was.”

  “It’s very . . . interesting,” the voice whispered. “Could I buy it?”

  “Ah.” Jacobs scratched his head. “You see, we might have a problem there. Technically, this ’ere brick is Magpie’s, and as you can see, he is not quite with it at present. There’s no way I could sell it without talking to him first.”

  “I’ll give you fifty pounds for it.”

  “Done,” Jacobs replied instantly.

  Unwilling to trust Magpie’s compliance in his current mood, Jacobs crept up into the cart and gently prised the stone from his partner’s grasp. Magpie murmured, but didn’t stir. With the stealth of a cat burglar, Jacobs climbed down and tiptoed back to the bath chair. A pair of slender hands reached out from the darkness and exchanged the stone for a wad of notes, the buyer careful to keep his or her face in shadow. Barely able to believe his luck, Jacobs was back in his cart and urging his nag on before the stranger could even bid him farewell.

  As he rattled home, the rag-and-bone man whistled a jaunty air, all his cares forgotten. Magpie never tired of telling Jacobs that he was no thinker. Who was going to look foolish now?

  Their current home was a barge moored on the bank of the Darkside Canal. It sat low in the turgid black waters, perpetually threatening to sink to the bottom. Decades of dirt and rust had long since obscured the name painted on its side.

  At the sound of the approaching cart, a shaggy terrier raced out of the cabin to greet them, barking enthusiastically. Miraculously, considering the squalor, its white coat was clean and free of fleas, its stomach well fed. Jacobs clambered down from the cart and boarded the boat, crouching to ruffle the dog’s ears.

  “Hello, Tinker,” he said. “I hope you’ve been a good dog today and haven’t made any more messes. Uncle Jacobs hasn’t got another pair of shoes to spare, you little rascal.”

  As the dog yapped happily in response, Magpie stirred in the cart. Suddenly aware that the stone was no longer in his arms, he looked about him frantically. As Jacobs gave him a happy wave, he got down from the front seat and stomped aboard the boat.

  “You ignore Uncle Magpie,” Jacobs wheezed into the dog’s ear. “He’s in a right mood today, and no mistake. But I’ve made everything better, just you see.”

  Tinker frowned at the approaching Magpie, and padded away.

  “Good kip?” Jacobs called out brightly.

  “Where’s the Stone?” his partner replied blankly.

  “You’ll never guess what I did with it.” Jacobs’ face broke into a beaming smile. “I sold it.”

  “You did what?”

  “I sold it! To some head case in the street. And look what the duffer paid for it!” Jacobs pulled out a wad of notes from his vest and waved them about excitedly. “Fifty notes, my old friend. You wouldn’t believe it, if they weren’t all here before your eyes. ’Ere – what are you looking at me like that for?”

  There was a dark look in Magpie’s eyes.

  “You sold the Stone,” he repeated dully.

  “For fifty pounds! And it was for the best, Magpie! That thing was making you right funny in the head. You’ll thank me in the end, I tell yer.”

  Magpie didn’t look very grateful. As he took an ominous pace towards him, Jacobs backed away across the narrow deck of the barge.

  “Listen here – seeing as you were the one what took it in the first place, you can have forty pounds,” Jacobs bartered, somewhat desperately. “I’ll keep ten, on account of me selling it. Fair’s fair.”

  He held out the money with a tentative hand. Without even glancing at it, Magpie swatted the notes from his hand. Jacobs gasped in horror as the money fluttered over the side of the boat, finding a soggy grave in the murky waters of the canal.

  “Are you off your bleedin’ nut?” he screamed. “We could have lived off that for years!”

  Magpie wasn’t listening. As he advanced, Tinker came scampering in between the two men, taking up a protective position in front of Jacobs’ ankles. He barked angrily at Magpie, who aimed a vicious kick in the dog’s direction. Yelping with fear, Tinker scurried back to the safety of the cabin.

  Jacobs retreated down the side of the canal boat, making frantic pacifying gestures with his hands.

  “It was just a stone, Magpie!” he sobbed. “A harmless brick!”

  With a snarl Magpie launched himself at Jacobs, who toppled backwards into the canal. Water closed in over his head like soup – spluttering, he felt ten strong fingers close around his throat. Jacobs reached out in a desperate attempt to break free, only succeeding in ripping Magpie’s Wayward Orphanage token from the chain around his neck. The last thing Jacobs ever saw, through the grimy waters, was the face of his oldest friend, murder in his eyes.

  Samuel Northwich cried out in his sleep.

  It felt like his brain was on fire. He clutched at his temples, screaming with agony. Visions of the Crimson Stone flashed through his mind. Even with it no longer in his grasp, he could still feel its rough edges in his hands, its intoxicating control over his mind. At that moment, moaning pitifully, Sam knew that the Stone had been taken somewhere far away.

  His stay in the Bedlam had been one of unending horror. Numb with shock at the Stone’s sudden removal from his grasp, he barely remembered the journey from the front entrance: a blur of staircases, pleading cries from behind cell doors, the deathly cold touch of the warden as it pushed him onwards. Eventually Sam had been stopped outside an open door and flung headlong into the cell beyond. The door was slammed shut behind him with the finality of a coffin lid.

  When his eyes had finally acclimatized to the darkness, he found himself in a sparse cell, with no furniture save for a cot and a coarse blanket, and a metal pail to relieve himself in. The window had been bricked up. Sam was utterly alone. The atmosphere of the asylum warded off the most basic of creatures – despite the cell’s unsanitary conditions, no insects scuttled up the bare walls or crept across the floor.

  Sam would have been glad for any sort of company. He had been scared of the dark since he’d been a baby, and the horrors his mind imagined lay in wait for him there. Now he was alone, his fears grew until he scrambled into bed and hid underneath the blanket, his whole body shaking.
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  With the Crimson Stone gone and no one to talk to, Sam tried to lose himself in daydreams. But no matter how hard he tried to imagine himself in sunlit meadows and busy, cheerful streets, he could never escape from the screams and gleeful, insane cackles that echoed around the Bedlam. Some of the inmates imitated birdcalls, others the hollering of monkeys. At times, Sam felt an urge to join in with them, to abandon himself to madness. Only the thoughts of the Stone kept him going. If he was going to escape and reclaim it, Sam knew that he had to stay sane. No matter how far away the Stone had been taken, he’d get it back eventually.

  “Hello?”

  At the sound of the woman’s voice, Sam nearly fell out of bed with shock.

  “Who’s that?” he called out fearfully.

  “I’m in the next cell,” the woman replied, her calm, lilting voice washing over Sam like a cool mountain stream. “I heard you cry out. What’s wrong?”

  “It’s my stone,” Sam said, his voice drenched with misery. “Someone’s taken it out of Darkside. I felt its pain as it crossed the boundary.”

  “Oh,” the woman said. “I take it this stone was important to you?”

  “It meant everything, miss.”

  A sigh drifted through the wall. “Believe me when I say I know how you feel. I lost some very important things when I was put in here. But I haven’t given up hope of seeing them again, and so neither should you. What’s your name?”

  “Sam, miss.” The boy sniffed. “I’m scared.”

  “Well, don’t you worry, Sam,” the woman said kindly. “I’ve been here a lot longer than you, and I’ve survived. We can keep each other company. Look down by the floor.”

  There was a soft scraping noise, and then a pale, slender hand appeared through a hole in the brickwork like a ghost. Tumbling out of bed, Sam took hold of the hand and squeezed it tight. He prayed that it would never let him go.

  “What’s your name, miss?” asked Sam.

  There was a pause.

  “Miss?” Sam whimpered. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” the lady replied faintly. “I’m fine. It’s just that it’s been so long since I spoke to anyone that I’ve almost forgotten my name. But you can call me Theresa, Sam. Theresa Starling.”

  10

  Even given the wintry dawn outside, the atmosphere inside Vendetta’s townhouse was a chilly one. If Jonathan had been hoping that Carnegie’s rescue would put him in a good mood, then he was to be sorely disappointed. The wereman paced up and down the morning room, muttering curses under his breath.

  Stifling a yawn, Jonathan wondered if he was ever going to get to bed. It had taken them all night to come back from Bleakmoor, carefully skirting the busier parts of the borough. Outside an abandoned cotton factory, Jonathan had reluctantly said farewell to his Night Mare. The horse gave him a final searching glance before tossing its yellow mane and cantering away over the cobblestones. They walked the remaining distance, keeping to the shadows lest a Bow Street Runner should appear.

  They had returned to find the rest of the group waiting for them: Raquella and Alain leafing through Vendetta’s books while Marianne and Harry played cards. There was no sign of the vampire, enabling a happy reunion to take place.

  “Did you have any problems finding the others?” Jonathan asked Raquella.

  The maid shook her head. “They were hidden in a dip close to the wood. In the chaos, it wasn’t difficult slipping away.”

  “Last I saw, the hunters were still chasing after Lucien’s horse,” laughed Marianne. “They’re probably still out there now.”

  “That was a pretty impressive distraction,” Jonathan said. “How did you know Carnegie was going to go through the wood?”

  The bounty hunter favoured Jonathan with a sparkling smile. “I didn’t know. But that place was the only cover for miles around. If you keep going across open ground, then the horses will catch up with you in seconds. It’s what I would have done, anyway. It would seem we think alike, Carnegie.”

  The wereman sniffed, unimpressed. “Wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he rumbled.

  Carnegie was restless and irritable, his mood only darkening when he learned the fate of Theresa Starling. He glanced at Alain but said nothing. Then he began to pace.

  “Now I’ve got two reasons to kill Lucien,” he muttered. “Don’t usually need more than one.”

  “Lucien can wait,” said Jonathan. “My mum can’t. We have to get her out of the Bedlam.”

  Raquella put down her book and caught Jonathan’s arm.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked softly. “Your mum has been locked in the Bedlam for over a decade. You don’t know what that would do to a person, Jonathan. She might not be the woman you and Alain remember.”

  “She’s right,” Marianne added, unexpectedly. “This is a dark place you’re going to, and there’s no telling what you might find in there.”

  “I don’t care what’s happened to her,” Jonathan said defiantly. “She’s still my mum, and I’m getting her out of there whether you help me or not. If I have to, I’ll do it on my own.”

  The bounty hunter gave Alain an arch look. “Awfully determined when he gets going, isn’t he?”

  “You have no idea,” Jonathan’s father replied meaningfully.

  “This is all well and good,” Carnegie cut in, “but it isn’t going to get us into the Bedlam. We can’t just knock on the gates and ask to see Theresa. The place is built like a fortress, and we aren’t much of an army.”

  “It can’t be that hard,” said Harry. “People don’t usually try to break into asylums. Usually, it’s the other way round.”

  Carnegie smacked his hand into his palm. “That may be the most useful thing you’ve ever said, Pierce. If we want to find out how to get into the Bedlam, there’s only one man to ask.”

  “You don’t mean Sickheart, do you?” Marianne asked. Noting the inquisitive looks in the room, the bounty hunter explained: “Florian Sickheart is a painter who lives down in the Nook. Years ago the Informer ran a story that he had escaped from the Bedlam in his youth. Sounded like a load of hogwash to me, even if Sickheart is crazy enough to have been committed. You know what artists are like.”

  “Well, it’s worth the trip,” Carnegie rumbled. “The boy and I will go and ask him a couple of questions.” He looked up sharply. “Where d’you think you’re going, Pierce?”

  Harry froze halfway up from his seat. “I thought you might want a hand.”

  “You sit tight and finish your card game,” the wereman said curtly. “I’m the detective round here – me and the boy will be more than enough. Lucien’s going to be combing Darkside for us, and the fewer of us out on the streets, the better.”

  Setting his stovepipe hat firmly on his head, Carnegie marched out of the room without another word. Shrugging at his friends, Jonathan made to follow. It seemed he wasn’t going to sleep after all.

  Jonathan waited until they were safely in the back of a hansom cab before venturing to break the silence. Carnegie was staring moodily out of the window, watching the houses flash past. The pavements were jammed with Darksiders, who had gathered in shocked huddles around posters proclaiming Lucien’s new conspiracy tax. Voices rang out in disbelief as they tried to digest the news; scuffles erupted as some tried to tear down the posters, only to be stopped in their tracks by the brutal intervention of the Bow Street Runners.

  Word of the Night Hunt spread through the packed crowds like smallpox or cholera, on the backs of urchins’ whispers and the tittle-tattle of fishwives. Cowed by the watchful Runners, most Darksiders were careful not to show their pleasure at the Ripper’s humiliation – but not every bitter laugh was stifled.

  “What’s Lucien up to?” wondered Jonathan. “At this rate the whole borough’s going to want to kill him.”

  “They can get in the queue,” Car
negie replied darkly.

  “Is everything all right?” Jonathan asked the wereman tentatively. “You seem a bit . . . narked.”

  Carnegie harrumphed, not looking away from the window. “I’m over the moon, boy. Just not sure about this merry gang you’ve put together. Marianne may be handy in a scrap, but I trust that woman about as far as I can throw her. And as for Vendetta. . .”

  “I know it’s strange,” Jonathan replied. “But we can’t take on Lucien on our own. If Marianne or Vendetta can help us, we’ve got to accept it.”

  “Perhaps. But mark my words, boy, this is going to end badly. I can feel it in my bones.”

  The wereman didn’t speak again until they had reached their destination – an alleyway running down between two derelict houses. When Carnegie instructed the cab driver to wait for them, the man simply laughed and drove off.

  Looking into the dark opening, Jonathan drew his coat around him. “Doesn’t look very welcoming down there.”

  “This is the Nook, boy. What were you expecting, balloons? Come on.”

  Jonathan hurried after the wereman as he trudged along the snowy alleyway. The roofs closed in above their heads, the last light of the winter afternoon fading as the sky disappeared from view. During his time in Darkside, Jonathan had witnessed poverty and deprivation. But the Nook was something else. A frantic confusion of blind alleys and intersections, it was a world of permanent night. One overcrowded dwelling followed another, their smashed windows staunched with rags and cardboard in the vain hope of keeping out the wind. Some of the houses weren’t even made from brick, but were flimsy lean-tos composed of scavenged wooden planks. Above their heads, washing hung limply from poles thrust out into the air.

  Everywhere Jonathan looked, he saw the signs of illness – corpses of dead animals in the streets, the foul overspill from blocked sewers, and packs of feral children clad in rags. The children stopped as he and Carnegie went past, eyes as wide as saucers, staring at Jonathan as though he were an alien. Some cupped their hands together in a plea for money; others tugged beseechingly at his sleeve. For the price of a copper coin, one lucky child was chosen to lead them to Florian Sickheart.