Occult Detective

by Emby Press

  A moment before impact, the Ford’s windshield blew out completely. Rosario Martini stared at him: her face no longer warped by terrible fury; no longer cold and angry. Her big dark eyes locked with Paladin’s: eyes glazed by fear and loss; regret and longing.

  Paladin’s steering wheel punched into him. Pain tore through his chest, his lungs pistoned out every last breath. He blinked away tears, clinging onto the wheel, keeping his foot hard down on the gas pedal. In front, the Ford was half-turned, running board jammed under his Chrysler’s front fender. Blue wisps trailed from the tires.

  Then it was gone: fallen through the gap in the outer barrier. Paladin’s foot lifted off the gas, searching for the brake; but the pain hammering through his body was too strong. He couldn’t concentrate. Confused, he stamped down on the gas again. Seconds after the Ford had taken its second tumble towards the Hudson, the Airflow followed it.

  *

  Leigh had no recollection of how she got to be standing in the park, sheltered by the George Washington’s Manhattan-side arch: staring at the black river. Last thing she remembered was hanging off the bridge, clinging by her fingertips, watching the Hudson flow over all signs of impact. Waiting for Damy’s head to resurface.

  He’d done it before – first time they’d met: walked dripping and cussing out of the ocean. And that had been from a plane crash – not just a simple, everyday car smash. Walk in the park…

  Leigh was down to her last cigarette. She’d started the evening with a fresh pack of Fleur de Lys – now there was one creased survivor. She took it out, but couldn’t bring herself to light it. She waited for an endless time, unlit cigarette slowly bending and crumbling between her fingers. She told herself the shaking was the cold; same with her watering eyes. Just the cold.

  And then he was right in front of her: staggering out of the Hudson, overcoat black and shapeless, hat gone. He dragged himself up onto the path, flicking away arcs of river water, and paused. He glanced in her direction, face breaking instantly into a rueful smile.

  “So Chrysler threw one off a cliff then drove it away!” Paladin scoffed. He spat out something that looked like a chunk of weed. “My ass!”

  Leigh leapt forward, squeezing his sodden coat, careless of the water that oozed out. She wanted to say something stupid and clichéd – but her throat was too tight.

  “Easy! Go easy, princess!” He took her hands in his own, freezing ones, and eased her back. “I’m no ghost…”

  She snatched an arm free and punched him hard as she could. “Dammit, Damy! I was worried half to death!” She stalked away: wishing she still had that cigarette; furious – though she couldn’t say at what, exactly. She dropped onto a bench and put on her best pout. Damy sat down beside her. After a minute of silence, he put a dripping arm around her.

  “You never liked the Airflow anyhow…”

  Leigh gritted her teeth. She was not going to smile, or laugh, or—

  She flinched as something cold caught the tip of her nose. It was followed a moment later by another. Snowflakes. And from someplace, clear in the cold, quiet air, midnight began to chime.

  “Merry Christmas, princess.”

  She gave in. “Merry Christmas yourself.” She turned and gave his wet cheek a quick kiss. “Just don’t do that again. Hear?”

  Damy was quiet a moment, then he leaned in close and whispered: “Did you get me a gift already, princess? Only it looks like I’m going to be needing a new car…”

  FREAK SHOW

  Russell Proctor

  ‘Mr Barnum!’

  Phineas Taylor Barnum knew it was going to be a long day. It always was when someone called his name in that urgent manner. He put down his pen and exhaled an impressive cloud of cigar smoke; his doctor had advised him to give up smoking, but he wasn’t finding it easy. He looked so much more authoritative when he was champing a cigar between his teeth and breathing fumes over other people.

  His young factotum, Gerald Coleman, burst into his office, hat askew, vest unbuttoned, mouth wide open.

  ‘What is it, Mr Coleman?’ said Barnum. ‘I trust you haven’t appeared before the public in that unseemly fashion?’

  ‘It isn’t opening hours yet, Mr Barnum.’

  ‘Then stand there, sir, and button your vest at the very least.’

  As he complied, Coleman mumbled something that Barnum didn’t quite catch. The entrepreneur let it go. It was obvious Coleman had something urgent to say, and no doubt he couldn’t wait to say it, but there were standards to be applied.

  ‘In my experience,’ said Barnum, gathering some papers on the desk into a neat bundle, ‘nobody ever made money by appearing unseemly in the presence of people who have money. And the public has money, Mr Coleman. And we must remove it from them. Kindly ensure you present a suitably impressive exterior at all times, so that Mr and Mrs John Public feel the inclination to dig deep and transfer that money from their own pockets to mine.’

  ‘Yes, sir. But sir…’

  Barnum could see genuine fear in the man’s eyes. He cast a final eye over Coleman as the young man straightened his hat and flicked a lock of hair back into place.

  ‘A deep breath before you speak, Mr Coleman. In. Out. Now, what is it?’

  ‘There’s been a death, sir.’

  All right. Bad news indeed. Worst case scenario, it was a member of the public. But no, the building wasn’t open yet. So, an employee. A janitor felled by falling crates in the basement? One of the ticket collectors suffocated by leaking gas jets in the box office? Barnum had a thousand possibilities in his head. The building was old; no doubt there were a few hazards waiting for the unwary.

  ‘It’s Jack Left, sir.’

  Barnum coughed on his own cigar smoke. He hadn’t foreseen that.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Dead as a stone, sir. Miss Geoffrey found him. Real scared she was, sir. He’s in his dressing room.’

  Barnum stood up, grabbed his hat and mashed his cigar into a full ashtray. He was halfway down the corridor as Coleman shambled after him, still talking.

  ‘It was just a few minutes ago. When she found him, that is. Not sure how long he’s been dead. We can’t get anything sensible out of Jack Right. He seems to be babbling.’

  The museum building was large, and Barnum’s office was on the top floor. It was a few flights of stairs down to the dressing rooms, and even Barnum’s broad face was flushed, his curled hair unruly above his high forehead, when he arrived in front of a locked door hung with a sign – Strictly No Unauthorised Admittance by Order of Mr P. T. Barnum, Prop. Barnum opened it with a key. A long corridor with doors to either side led away to the end of the building.

  ‘May I ask what Miss Geoffrey was doing in Jack’s dressing room?’ Barnum asked as Coleman entered the corridor behind him.

  ‘Don’t rightly know, sir. But she’s with him now.’

  They walked along to a door marked Jack Right & Jack Left, with a photograph of the two performers below it. Barnum didn’t knock.

  Inside, Miss Gladys Geoffrey filled the room. Her immense proportions were barely constrained by the scant costume she wore. Barnum never ceased to wonder at the couturier who made the woman’s garments – the man was a genius, somehow able to ignore most of the laws of physics. Against all credulity, her clothing kept her enormous load of flesh at bay while at the same time displaying as much of it as possible. The result for the first time viewer was a staggering desire to look elsewhere combined with a total inability to do so.

  She glanced over her shoulder as Barnum entered, and shifted her bulk to one side of the dressing room.

  The two Jacks lay on the floor. Someone had placed pillows under their heads. Jack Left was still, eyes closed. Jack Right, his left arm around his brother’s shoulder, stared at him and whimpered a little.

  ‘Jack Right?’ said Barnum. No answer. ‘Jack, it’s Phineas. I’m sorry, Jack.’

  The man’s eyes turned on Barnum, and there was some recognition at last.
Tears streamed down his face.

  ‘He’s dead, Mr Barnum.’

  ‘I know, Jack. I’m sorry.’

  Barnum felt helpless. What was he to do? This wasn’t just a normal death; nor was it going to be the only one. It took no medical knowledge to realise that Jack Right would soon be dead, too. Barnum had to make decisions quickly. There was little point in summoning medical help. It would just be a matter of time.

  Miss Geoffrey had loosened Jack’s shirt. Barnum undid the rest of the buttons and slipped the garment off both bodies. It was always a sight that made him shudder, but now it was even more gruesome.

  Jack Left’s head lay lolling backwards at a sharp angle; his neck and upper torso were cold to the touch. At the level of the sixth rib, the twins’ bodies ceased being separate. From there down they were one person. Four arms, two legs; four lungs, two hearts; but only one lower intestine. And only one set of private parts too, from what they had told him. Freaks. Like Miss Geoffrey, like Hattie Henderson, the Bearded Lady. Like Tom Thumb, the Smallest Man in the World. All freaks that helped supply P. T. Barnum with his substantial wealth. And every one of them as precious to him as his own children.

  He breathed out slowly. ‘Jack!’ he said. ‘What happened to your brother?’

  The room was viciously hot. Warm air hit the back of Barnum’s neck in heavy gusts. He looked at the huge, perspiring mound of Gladys beside him.

  ‘Hey, Gladys. Leave off breathing on me, please. In fact, leave the room, will you? You too, Coleman.’

  The Fat Lady leaned on the dressing table as she hauled herself upright – the woman had to be immensely strong just to carry her bulk around. Every pound a dollar in the pocket! Barnum had joked to Coleman when he first signed the woman onto his payroll. Right now, however, she was just so much lard in the way of a proper investigation. Gladys left the room; Coleman stepped out after her and closed the door.

  Barnum leaned in close to Jack Right, who was still blubbing softly, wiping his eyes with his right forearm.

  ‘What happened, Jack?’

  The man tried to speak, gripping Barnum’s sleeve tightly. ‘Mr Barnum! It was a…’

  ‘Was a what, Jack?’

  ‘A demon, Mr Barnum. A demon killed him.’

  The man was uneducated: how could he have ever been to school, conjoined with his brother as he was?

  ‘Well, that just sounds like humbug to me,’ said Barnum.

  The man’s eyes flashed almost in anger. ‘No, sir! A real demon! Not humbug!’

  P. T. Barnum, the greatest showman of all time, knew about humbug. He was the master at it. It was so easy to do, and so profitable in this gullible world. A faked birth certificate, a few lies told and Joice Heth became the oldest woman in the world; a fish tail sewn onto a monkey’s torso and there was the Feejee Mermaid; Tom Thumb put into in low shoes and a tape measure used negligently and he became shorter than any person alive. People had a passion for extremes, and they were easy to supply. Yes, Barnum knew all about humbug. Humbug made money.

  And yet a shiver passed through him anyway when Jack Right mentioned a demon. The Jacks were a living example of the fine line between nightmare and horrifying reality. There had never been any need to lie about them. All the twins had to do was take off their shirt and the proof of their reality was right there plain as day: two men in one body. And if they could exist, so could a host of other things. Even a demon.

  ‘Now, don’t you go talking nonsense, Jack!’ he chided. ‘A demon indeed? What makes you say that?’

  ‘I saw him, Mr Barnum!’ Spit flew from Jack’s lips onto Barnum’s face, but he didn’t flinch. ‘I saw it, as close as you are to me now. It appeared to both of us right here in this room! We were sitting at the make-up table, getting ready for this morning’s show. Right there!’ He took his arm from around his brother’s shoulder – it had been there not just as a gesture of tenderness, it was the only way he could comfortably hold his left arm – and pointed at the dressing table. Two men, but only a single chair. ‘We saw it in the mirror – that is, he saw it first. Then I did. Ghastly it was, all burning with fire, and black as coal, and the thing reached out and strangled him. We couldn’t fight it. I tried to push it way, but my hand got burned.’

  He held up his right hand. The palm was red and blistered.

  ‘You’re sure it wasn’t someone else, Jack? Some intruder?’

  That was unlikely. Only the other freaks had access to this part of the building. Not even Coleman had a key. Barnum exploited the freaks for all they were worth, but they were still entitled to dignity – and in the case of some, to the privacy of their own humbug.

  Since no one else had access, then the killer had to be one of the other freaks. It was a horrible thought. But who? And why?

  ‘Coleman!’ he called. The man was lurking just outside and hurried in. He was sweating. Even without Gladys’s huge presence, the place was stifling. ‘Coleman, we need to solve this. Get the others together in the green room. And clear the office next door!’

  Coleman hurried off.

  Barnum found a blanket in a drawer beneath the sofa and placed it over the Jacks. Right had gone back to sobbing quietly, hugging his brother with both arms. Barnum looked up as Coleman returned.

  ‘They’re all assembled, sir. Just sitting around, dazed.’

  ‘What did you think they’d be doing? Popping champagne?’ roared Barnum. ‘I’m going to talk to them. You stay here; let me know if anything happens. Try and keep him comfortable.’

  He left the room and stalked down to the end of the corridor. The freaks were assembled in the green room, where they relaxed before a show. Each was an amazing sight when seen separately, which was how the public viewed them. Here, all gathered together, they were almost overwhelming. There was Gladys, bulking huge in her own specially-reinforced chair; Hattie Henderson, tears dripping down into her eleven-inch beard; there was Mr Houghton, the human skeleton; John Williams, the Leopard Man, only half in his cat make-up; and a few others. Only Tom Thumb was absent on a tour through Europe.

  Barnum pulled out his watch. The Museum would open in ten minutes. He mustn’t keep the people waiting, not with all that money they were bringing with them.

  ‘All right, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. ‘As you have heard by now, Jack Left is dead. And, we can be sure, Jack Right won’t be far behind.’

  A stifled sob from Hattie; a loud wail from Gladys Geoffrey. Mutterings from the others as their fears were confirmed by the boss.

  ‘Now, I just need to ask a few questions. So if you’ll all be so good as to wait here, I’ll see you one by one in the next door office to –’

  ‘Now jus’ wai’ a mini’ Mis’er ‘Arnum!’ said John Williams. His leopard dentures, fashioned at enormous expense and made from real bobcat teeth, prevented him from speaking properly. He shook his head and spat the dental plates out into his hand. ‘Are you suggesting one of us did it?’

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything at all, John!’ He had to shout above the rising dissension from the freaks. ‘All I know is both of the Jacks are in serious trouble, and I think we should respect that!’

  Silence fell. Hattie dabbed her eyes and chewed her moustache.

  ‘All right then, people. Coleman is with the Jacks right now. There’s nothing we can do for poor Jack Right, perhaps just comfort him. We don’t know how much longer he has on Earth.’

  ‘He should be in hospital!’ said Leonard McAllistair, the human pin-cushion. Barnum wondered how the man kept out of hospital himself, piercing his own body with needles and skewers three times a day for a paying audience. Of course, being the inveterate showman he was, Barnum never enquired if Leonard’s act was just that, an act, or whether he really did feel no pain.

  ‘He should be,’ agreed Barnum. ‘But there’s no time. Now, I know we’re all upset, but we need to solve this mystery and open today’s show as soon as possible. I want you all to stay here until I’ve questioned you, and no ar
guments. Gladys, you’re first, since you found him.’

  He entered the tiny office next to the green room, and sat down in one of the two uncomfortable wooden chairs. He reached into a pocket and extracted a cigar. With the freak show delayed, less money would come in, and with less money coming in, Barnum’s expenses just got more expensive. And he certainly wasn’t about to call in the police – not yet, anyway. That would be publicity of the worst kind.

  Gladys couldn’t fit into the chair opposite Barnum. She stayed standing as he asked her questions. He tried to appear calm, but the cigar shook in his hands, so he kept it firmly clamped in his mouth.

  ‘How long have you been with me, Gladys?’

  ‘Three years, Mr Barnum.’ Each time she sobbed, her enormous bosom jiggled. The jiggles barely settled down before she sobbed again. Barnum stared at the ceiling so as to take his mind off the sight.

  ‘And you’ve known the Jacks since they arrived six months ago. Did you know them before that?’

  The woman’s eyes grew wide. ‘No, Mister Barnum. Never met the poor men until you brought them here.’

  ‘But you’ve been a friend of theirs. It’s all right. I’ve noticed they seem to like being in your company. It’s not against the rules to have friends.’

  The Fat Lady seemed to relax a little. Pieces of her sagged and settled into other places. Barnum fancied he could hear squelching sounds. He tried not to remember his breakfast.

  ‘And what were you doing in their room?’ he said suddenly. Pre-show fraternization wasn’t forbidden, of course, but preparation time was a sacred thing, especially among people with unusual physical characteristics. Most of them preferred the quiet of their dressing rooms to social intercourse.

  ‘I just wanted to borrow some talcum powder,’ she said. ‘You know, I use a lot of talcum powder, Mr Barnum. My…well, I have a few creases that need…you know.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Gladys. I understand.’ Dear God! The mental image of Gladys sprinkling talcum powder into various nooks and crannies on her anatomy was more than he needed on top of the bouncing breasts. He worried that at any moment they would burst their confines and hit him in the face. Try explaining that black eye to Mrs Barnum!