Blackjack

by Tom Becker

  Marianne wrinkled her nose. “Charming,” she murmured.

  A ladder led down from the sewer entrance to the tunnel floor. Aware of the danger of lingering too long in the street, Jonathan took a deep breath of fresh air and then plunged into the sewer, clambering hand-over-hand down the ladder, the smell making his stomach recoil. On reaching the bottom of the ladder, he found himself standing in a dank tunnel with curving walls. A narrow walkway ran alongside the left-hand side of the tunnel, next to a dirty brown river. Water lapped gently against the brickwork. In the distance, he could hear the eager chittering of rats.

  As they congregated on the walkway, Marianne produced a torch from her bag and carefully set it alight. Carnegie removed Sickheart’s folded map from his pocket and studied it thoughtfully, his craggy skin a landscape of scars and pockmarks in the torchlight. Eventually the wereman looked up and nodded along the tunnel.

  “This way. And keep your eyes peeled. I’ve heard some nasty stories about creatures lurking down here, and I’ve got a feeling they might be true.”

  Thinking back to Sickheart tracing the long scar that ran down his face, his eyes wide from some hidden memory, Jonathan could well believe it. He trailed after Carnegie, trying to ignore the sewer water splashing up over his shoes. Behind him, he could hear Raquella trying to bite back sounds of revulsion.

  They crept through the labyrinth of sewers for what felt like hours, trusting the unsteady guiding hand of Florian Sickheart. Jonathan’s mind was filled with images of the crazed artist splashing through the same tunnels, blindly fleeing from the Bedlam and the voices that haunted him. Shivering at the thought, Jonathan moved closer to Carnegie – nearly colliding into the back of him as the wereman came to an abrupt halt.

  “What’s going on?” asked Marianne, from the back of the group.

  “Might be a problem,” Carnegie replied.

  Peering over the wereman’s shoulder, Jonathan saw that the pathway sloped down into the water, disappearing beneath the surface. The tunnel continued beneath a low archway covered in brown lichen.

  “Looks like we’re going to get our feet wet,” Carnegie called out over his shoulder.

  “You’ve got to be kidding!” Harry retorted. “You want us to wade through that?”

  “If Sickheart’s map is right, then we haven’t got any choice. It doesn’t look too deep – we should be all right.”

  The wereman drew his long coat around him and splashed down the slope into the water. Jonathan held back, reluctant to follow the wereman through the yawning archway and into the filthy darkness beyond. Then, remembering who might be waiting for him on the other side, he gritted his teeth and plunged into the sewer water. Though his nose had slowly become accustomed to the foul odour, the sensation of the cold, slimy water around his legs was still disgusting. He shuddered as something brushed against his legs. Jonathan couldn’t see through the scum on the surface, which was probably a blessing in disguise.

  They were swallowed up by the archway, disappearing into a dark so profound that Marianne’s flaming torch barely made an impact. They waded in single file, the waterway deepening until the water lapped Jonathan’s waist. He kept his chin up, determined to keep the water from splashing in his face, his mind trying to think of happy memories.

  Jonathan jumped as something grabbed his arm. It was Raquella.

  “What was that?” she whispered.

  “What was what?”

  The maid paused, looking warily from side to side. “I heard something.”

  “Probably just a rat.”

  “Sounded like a very big rat,” Raquella replied, looking unconvinced.

  To his immense relief, Jonathan saw a pinprick of light up ahead. Gradually the tunnel widened, coming out in a large underground cavern where three sewers came together to form a glassy black lake. At the far end of the cavern, a walkway had been built into the rock, and an iron ladder led up from it to the ceiling. Lanterns hung on the walls at even intervals.

  “We’re here,” Carnegie exclaimed with satisfaction. “That ladder should take us up to the Bedlam.”

  “That’s a shame,” Harry said, his tone suggesting precisely the opposite. “I was really enjoying wading through all that—”

  “Yes, thank you, Harry,” Alain cut in testily. “Given that the end of this horror is in sight, do you think we could get a move on?”

  He waded out of the tunnel and into the lake, Raquella and Carnegie close behind him. Although the surface was as still as a mirror, the water was deeper than before. Jonathan made slow progress, his feet feeling out foothold after foothold on the bottom.

  He was halfway across the lake when something brushed against his leg. He froze.

  “What is it?” Harry called out.

  “There’s something down here,” Jonathan reported, through clenched teeth. “Something alive.”

  Marianne drew her sword.

  “I felt something too,” she said crisply. “There must be a shoal of fish down here.”

  They had all stopped now, watching the bounty hunter as she peered down through the water. Then Harry cried out, suddenly sinking from view. Before Jonathan could reach him, the boy came bouncing back up again, coughing and spluttering.

  “What is it?” Marianne asked urgently.

  Harry shook his head, hair plastered to his face.

  “Something grabbed me! I managed to kick out but it’s strong!”

  “To the side!” roared Carnegie. “Move!”

  Jonathan tried to run, but with the water high up around his neck, it was like crawling with lead weights attached to his feet. Frantically he scanned the surface for a sign of movement, but the still waters gave no clue to what lay beneath them. Carnegie had reached the side of the lake and was helping Alain and Raquella out when Marianne suddenly cried: “Jonathan! Look out!”

  There was a roaring sound all around him, and then suddenly a giant red island rose up between Jonathan and the lake’s edge. As the water cascaded from it, Jonathan made out a bulbous, conical head, with mottled flesh that was a deep, angry red colour. He found himself staring into the same giant eye that he’d seen painted on to Florian Sickheart’s ceiling. Marianne had been wrong – there wasn’t a shoal of fish in the pool, only one: a giant octopus.

  Though every muscle in Jonathan’s body was screaming at him to run, he remained rooted to the spot, mesmerized by the black, unblinking eye in front of him. The octopus’s head was surrounded by a writhing mass of long tentacles, suction cups gleaming in the light. As a tentacle came whipping towards Jonathan, Harry charged across the pool and barged into his left side, sending him toppling into the water. The foul liquid closed in around his head, threatening to drown him. Flailing wildly, he burst up through the surface, only to see that one of the octopus’s tentacles had wrapped itself around Harry and was hoisting the boy high into the air.

  Jonathan ducked as another fiendish tentacle sliced over his head. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Marianne toss him the flaming torch.

  “Catch!”

  Jonathan dived forward, clutching the torch handle before it fell into the water. He held up the flaming brand, waving it above his head in the hope of drawing the octopus’s attention. The creature’s skin had darkened with fury until it was almost black. As another tentacle coiled towards him, Jonathan jabbed the torch against its mottled skin. The creature flinched in pain, and with a cry Harry tumbled down from the air, hitting the water with a splash. Dropping the torch, Jonathan dived back beneath the surface and hauled the boy on to his feet.

  “Come on!” he shouted.

  As the two boys half stumbled, half swam for the shore, Jonathan heard Raquella shout out a warning. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw a tentacle spearing out after them like a malevolent snake. Just as Jonathan was about to dive back under the surface, the octopus made a piercing sound
of distress and hastily withdrew its tentacles.

  Friendly hands reached down from the lake’s edge, lifting Jonathan and Harry to safety. As he lay panting on the ground, Jonathan could see that one of the octopus’s huge black eyes now had a dagger sticking out of it like a splinter. Marianne had remained in the shallows, her sword raised for a follow-up strike. As the octopus shrieked again and began to retreat, she took a threatening step after it.

  “Marianne!” Carnegie roared. “Leave it!”

  The bounty hunter stopped, giving the octopus a lingering glance as it sank back beneath the waves. Then, sheathing her sword, she turned and hauled herself out of the lake and up on to the pathway. Back on dry land, Marianne brushed at her clothes in disgust, trying to remove the sheen of filth.

  “You want to leave that thing to get us on the way out?” she asked the wereman.

  “I’d dance with the Ripper before going back through these blasted sewers again,” Carnegie growled. “We’ll find another way out. Everyone ready?”

  Jonathan glanced at Harry, who shrugged. “I’ve got a feeling today’s going to be one of those days. We might as well get on with it. After you, Carnegie.”

  The wereman grasped hold of the ladder and began climbing towards the Bedlam. As Jonathan followed suit, he took a final look back at the lake, its waters now as glacial and still as when they had entered, with no hint of the horror that lay beneath them.

  13

  The Bedlam was coated in taut silence: the sound of a thousand people holding their breath. As they crept along a dark corridor, with every step Jonathan expected an alarm to start ringing, or a guard to step out and challenge them, but no one did. It felt as though they were the only people in the entire world.

  “Doesn’t look like anyone’s expecting us,” Harry whispered.

  “This one time,” Carnegie growled softly, “I could do without a welcome party.”

  As they emerged from the corridor into the asylum’s main hall, Jonathan gasped. The vast chamber was filled with a network of small platforms connected by interlocking staircases that ran off in different angles and directions. Here and there, cells had been built in seemingly random places: some on top of platforms; some beneath; others built into the walls themselves, somehow reached by stairways lying on their side in mid-air. The layout seemed to defy all logic, and in places, gravity. There was a tortuous magnificence about the architecture that made Jonathan feel both awed and afraid.

  “Well, we’re here,” Marianne said briskly. “Now what? Start knocking on doors?”

  Jonathan shrugged. “I guess.”

  Now that they had made it inside the asylum, he wasn’t exactly sure what to do. One thing was clear – judging by the scale and the complexity of the Bedlam, checking all the cells was going to take a while.

  Carnegie sniffed, and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Well, one thing’s for sure: we’re not going to find anyone down here. Let’s start looking, shall we?”

  Keeping to the shadows by the asylum wall, the wereman led them up the nearest staircase, his footsteps echoing loudly in the hush. They came out on to a suspended stone platform, with staircases branching off from every edge.

  “Which way now?” asked Harry. “Toss a coin?”

  “What is going on here?” an imperious voice said.

  As one, they whirled round, to be confronted by a small woman standing at the top of the stairs behind them. Dressed in a starched blouse with a buttoned collar and a long pleated skirt, she looked like a prim schoolmistress. Her hair was pulled into a severe bun, and a pair of small reading glasses rested on the bridge of her nose. In her left hand she carried a long cane.

  “What is it to you?” Carnegie rumbled back.

  “I am the Bel Dame,” the woman replied. “This is my asylum.”

  Marianne stepped forward. “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” she said, with an ingratiating smile. “We were just visiting a friend of ours. Perhaps you could tell us where she is?”

  “No visitors are allowed in here,” the Bel Dame said sharply. “I won’t allow them. You must be inmates. What are you doing out of your cells?”

  “No, we’re not inmates,” Marianne replied patiently. “We’re not insane, you see.”

  “Everyone inside the Bedlam is insane. Those are the rules.”

  “Apart from you, I’m guessing,” Carnegie growled.

  The Bel Dame chuckled merrily. “Oh, quite the contrary. I am the maddest person here.”

  There was a certainty in her voice that left Jonathan in no doubt that she was telling the truth.

  “It stands to reason,” the Bel Dame continued. “How else could I control the wardens?”

  The wereman frowned. “Wardens?”

  A movement in the darkness above his head caught Jonathan’s eye. As he looked up, the hairs on his neck rising in horror, he saw that the staircases above their heads were covered in creatures clinging to their undersides: spindly, man-sized beings whose skulls had been completely stripped of flesh.

  “Look out!” he called. “They’re all around us!”

  Carnegie swore loudly, and Marianne drew her sword. They began to warily circle the platform, necks craned as they prepared for the wardens to drop down on to them.

  The Bel Dame smiled thinly. “Now that you understand the situation, are you going to go back to your cells quietly, or are we going to have a disagreement?”

  “I’m a fairly disagreeable man,” growled Carnegie.

  “Very well,” the Bel Dame said briskly. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Then, brandishing her cane, she screamed at the wardens: “Get them!”

  At her command, the Bedlam came alive, wardens swarming over the staircases towards them. They hunched over as they ran, talon-like fingers scraping the floor, skeletal faces glowing in the dark.

  As Carnegie rolled up his sleeves and stalked over to meet them, Marianne grabbed Jonathan’s arm.

  “Get out of here,” she said, pointing at the staircase running off to the left. “Take Alain and Raquella and go look for your mother. We’ll make sure no one follows you.”

  “You can’t take all of these things on by yourself!”

  Marianne raised an eyebrow, tucking a curl of fluorescent blue hair behind her ear. “Oh, really?”

  “Go on, Jonathan!” Harry urged.

  With a final reluctant glance, Jonathan turned and ran up the staircase after Alain and Raquella, the first sounds of battle beginning behind him.

  It was like walking through a nightmare.

  They raced up one ghostly staircase after another, only to discover that the Bedlam didn’t follow the normal rules of other buildings. Corridors branched off at crazy angles, only to end at a sheer brick wall. Flights of stairs had steps missing from the middle of them, making it impossible for anyone to continue upwards. Jonathan had a strange sensation that the building itself was mocking them. As they climbed, at intervals he could look down and see the silver arc of Marianne’s sword as she battled the wardens. The bounty hunter had been true to her word – none of the creatures had come up after them.

  The fighting had awoken the inmates of the Bedlam, who now erupted into a distressed chorus from behind their cell doors: barking and babbling; laughter so hard it must have hurt their lungs; and softer, futile whimpers and sniffles. Jonathan paused at every door, peering through the small spyglasses at the inmates beyond. Some scrabbled around on the floor like animals; some lay rigid on their cots, unable to move. Sometimes the noise was so bad that Jonathan couldn’t bring himself to look through the spyglass, for fear that he might find himself staring at his mum.

  That was the worst thing about this place. Theresa Starling had spent over a decade here. What would that do to a person? How could anyone hope to stay sane here? What if Raquella had been right all along – that it would be better for Jonathan if he d
idn’t find his mum? Jonathan tried to shut the thought out from his mind.

  He was glad that his dad was with him. Even though Alain was no Carnegie, Jonathan still took comfort from his presence, as if nothing bad could happen to him whilst Alain was there. Raquella followed a pace behind them, a pensive expression on her face.

  After coming to a wider platform, Jonathan peered into what appeared to be an empty cell. Checking the shadowy corners for movement, he lingered at the spyglass while Alain and Raquella moved on to the next staircase. He was just about to move on when he heard someone whisper his name.

  “Jonathan!”

  The voice was high-pitched and mocking, like a child’s playground taunt. He turned round, but there was no one in sight. He thought he must have imagined it.

  “Jonathan’s lost his mummy!” the voice continued. “Can anybody find her?”

  “Who’s there?” Jonathan called out.

  “Nobody can find her, and we know why!” the sing-song voice went on.

  Suddenly desperate to get off the platform, Jonathan broke into a run as he made for the staircase.

  “She’s dead!” the voice snarled after him.

  Jonathan hared up the steps three at a time, nearly crashing into Alain and Raquella at the top of them.

  “Are you all right, son?”

  “Not really,” Jonathan panted. “Can you hear voices?”

  Alain nodded, a grim look on his face.

  “What are they saying?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  Raquella shivered, drawing her shawl closer around herself.

  “I’m glad it’s not just me,” she said. “I didn’t say anything because I was worried that I was going mad.”

  Alain patted her hand, and put an arm around his son’s shoulders.

  “Come on,” he said softly, leading them on to the next staircase. “They’re just voices. We’ll ignore them together.”