by Tom Becker
“They’re gaining on us!” Nettle cried out.
“Not far now!” her twin chimed in. “Come on, Jonathan!”
They skidded round the corner and stumbled up a flight of stairs, the shouts of the chasing policemen echoing up the stairwell. This wasn’t like in the past, when Jonathan had run rings around officers in shopping centres and city streets. He wasn’t bored. He wasn’t looking for a bit of fun. He was breaking out of a police station, and if they caught him, everything was over.
Reaching the top of the stairs, Jonathan crashed through a set of double doors and found himself standing in the main reception of the station. A pair of elderly pensioners waiting for attention gave him a curious look. Behind the desk, a policeman was shouting into his walkie-talkie. He stopped and looked up with surprise.
“What are you waiting for?” Fray screamed at Nettle. “Use the magic ball!”
Nettle gave her a frosty glare, and then hurled what looked like a small marble to the floor. Immediately the reception area was filled with thick purple smoke and people began coughing. There was a rumble of footsteps as the pursuing officers followed them through the double doors, but there was no way they could single them out in the fog. Jonathan felt one of the twins tug on his arm, and suddenly he was limping through the automatic doors of the police station and clattering down the steps outside. He turned to see tendrils of purple smoke drifting out through the entrance, beckoning him back inside.
Oblivious to the open-mouthed passers-by staring at the scene, Fray ran to the edge of the pavement and gave out a piercing whistle. Jonathan pointed back at the police station and looked at Nettle.
“What was that?” he panted.
“Gift from Mountebank,” Nettle winked. “Knew it would come in handy one day. . . Oh, you have got to be kidding me!”
Her face soured as a police van came careering through the busy traffic towards them. It swerved through a minuscule gap between two cars and pulled up at the side of the road, to a chorus of angry beeping. The driver of the van rolled the window down and waved excitedly through the window.
“VERV!” the twins screamed, for once in unison. The driver jumped with fright.
“What? You tell me get fast vehicle, I get fast vehicle.” He tapped his chest proudly. “I get fast vehicle with lights.”
He flicked a switch on the dashboard, and the blue light on the roof of the van began to flash. Looking over his shoulder, Jonathan saw the first officers staggering out through the smoke in the station.
“Let’s go!” he cried.
He hobbled round to the back of the van and manoeuvred himself inside, Fray and Nettle hot on his heels. They had barely closed the door when Verv stamped down on the accelerator, and the sudden forward momentum of the vehicle threw them all to the floor. Jonathan lay flat on his back, catching his breath.
“Do you think we’ll make it?” he asked.
Tossing her hat to one side, Fray ran a hand through her blonde mop of hair.
“We should be OK. Verv’s an idiot . . .”
“. . . but he’s a fast idiot,” Nettle cut in. “He’ll make sure there’s no one on our tail, and then we’ll ditch the van.”
Jonathan nodded. “I don’t know what to say,” he said gravely. “Thank you – both of you.”
Nettle grinned. “That’s OK. The big bad wolfman made us promise we’d rescue you.”
“He’s very scary when he gets the teeth out.” Fray bared her teeth and made a low growling sound, and the twins fell about laughing.
“Where is Carnegie?” Jonathan asked. “What happened to you guys at the mansion?”
The police van continued to muscle its way through the afternoon traffic, with every minute distancing itself further from the police station. Every now and again one side of the vehicle would lift up into the air as Verv hurled it round another sharp corner, before crashing back on to the ground. The driver whooped and banged the steering wheel as usual, supplying the wailing siren noise himself. In the back of the van, the twins breathlessly recited their tale, their sentences so entwined and overlapping that sometimes Jonathan couldn’t be sure who was speaking.
“After you and Correlli ran off we gave the guards the run-around for a while . . .”
“. . . led them on quite the merry dance . . .”
“. . . and then got out of the mansion and back to the getaway car as planned. Verv was waiting for us, and Carnegie was there with the maid.”
“She didn’t look so good. Like she’d seen the Ripper himself.”
“We waited for you as long as we could, but then the police showed up and we had to get out quick-sharpish.”
“The wolfman wasn’t happy about that – made an awful racket on the way back.”
“It wasn’t until we heard on the news that a boy had been arrested in the mansion that we knew where to find you. After that it was just a case of . . .”
“. . . playing dress-up.”
“Wolfman went off to talk to one of his contacts. Knows we haven’t got much time left to save your friend.”
“When they mentioned you on the news, he got very angry . . .”
“. . . very angry . . .”
“. . . and started swearing about Correlli, blaming him for everything going wrong.”
“Carnegie’s right,” Jonathan replied darkly. “Correlli double-crossed us – knocked me out and took the Stone.”
“I knew it!” Nettle cackled triumphantly. “I knew he was a big phoney. Did you hear that, sister? Your beloved Correlli ran off with the Crimson Stone!”
Fray shoved her roughly in the arm. “Shut it! You don’t know that yet!”
Before another fight could break out, the van came to a shuddering halt, sending the occupants of the back flying forward into the wire mesh separating the driver from his passengers. In the front seat, Verv methodically flicked off the flashing blue light and turned off the engine.
“We here – get out time.”
“Yes, thank you, Verv,” Nettle replied acidly, picking herself up off the floor.
Jonathan limped over to the van door and scrambled down. Shielding his eyes from the sun, he saw that Verv had come to a halt in the deserted parking lot of a large industrial estate, in the shadow of a series of giant warehouses. Parched weeds poked up through the pockmarked tarmac. There was no one in sight. Verv jumped out of the front seat, slipped on a pair of large sunglasses and stretched like a cat in the sunshine.
“Good day for a drive,” he giggled.
When Fray and Nettle joined them, they had ditched their uniforms for their usual clothes. Fray glanced down at her watch.
“We’ve got to meet the wolfman outside Baker Street station in an hour.”
“You go ahead,” Jonathan replied. “I’ve got to go back home first.”
The twins shook their heads. “Not a clever idea . . .”
“. . . it’s the first place the police will go looking for you.”
“Yeah, well, I’m going to have to risk it. I want to let my dad know what’s happening. And I want to see how Raquella’s doing. It’s not too far from Baker Street – I’ll be OK.”
“Sure you don’t want us to come with you?”
Jonathan shook his head. “Thanks, but people don’t tend to notice me when I’m on my own. If I start walking around with you guys, I think I’m going to attract a bit of attention.” He grinned. “I’ll see you at Baker Street. Try not to fall out on the way.”
By the time he had reached his old road, Jonathan was starting to question the wisdom of his decision. He was a nervous wreck. The buildings and gardens that had been such a reassuring presence throughout his childhood had now become havens for police ambushes. A wailing siren sent him scurrying behind a bush, until he realized it was several miles away.
Even the Starling house didn’t l
ook welcoming. Jonathan stared at the windows, wondering whether half of the Metropolitan police force was lying in wait for him inside. There was only one way to find out. He crept up the driveway and along the side of the house, holding his breath. The back garden was quiet – no one shouted through a loudhailer, no gunshots rang out. Jonathan slipped inside through the patio door, and found his dad waiting for him.
Alain was pacing up and down the kitchen, a television tuned in to a news channel. Although he broke into a smile when he saw Jonathan, the worry lines that had etched his face for so many years were prevalent again.
“I see you got out,” he said.
“You should be proud, Dad. Your son’s officially on the run.”
Alain laughed abruptly, and then a sombre look crossed his face. “This won’t be like last time, you know. They won’t sweep this under the carpet. There’ll be all sorts of questions. We’re in a lot of trouble. I should never have let them talk me into this.”
“But you did!” Jonathan replied. “And we both know why. We’ve only got hours to save Mrs Elwood. After that, I don’t care what happens! I’ll stay in Darkside for the rest of my life. I’ll come back and go to prison. I’ll even try and tell them the truth again – if anyone will believe me. But I can’t spend the next few hours in a police station, not today, Dad. I have to go to Darkside.”
Alain let out a lengthy sigh, and then nodded. “Yes – I know you do. I really shouldn’t let you, but I happen to think you’re right. We’ll have to straighten everything out when you get back, though.”
Jonathan grinned. “Scout’s honour. How’s Raquella?”
“Not bad,” Alain replied, “considering the ordeal the poor girl’s been through. She’s in the spare room, if you want to see her.”
Jonathan padded up the stairs and went into the spare room. The curtains were drawn, and the air was deathly still. Raquella was sitting upright in bed, her face bloodless and her hands trembling slightly. She opened her eyes as Jonathan came in, and gave him a wan smile.
“Hey,” Jonathan said quietly, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “How are you doing?”
“I’ve been worse. What are you doing here?”
“I just wanted to check that you were OK.”
“That’s sweet,” Raquella said. “But don’t you worry about me. I’ll be fine! You have to concentrate on getting that stone back – for both of us. I’m counting on you too, you know.”
Jonathan squeezed her hands sympathetically and smiled. Raquella made a small noise of distaste. The maid inspected her palms, her nose wrinkled.
“Your hands are filthy! You’ve got muck all over me!”
“Oh yeah – sorry about that.” He spread his hands out, revealing a coating of yellow grime on his palms. “I woke up like this, and I can’t seem to get it off. Whatever it is, it’s stubborn stuff.”
Raquella smiled faintly. “Boys – you’re all the same. Sam couldn’t get it off either.”
Jonathan stopped in the doorway, scratching his head. “Mountebank’s assistant?” he asked, frowning.
Raquella nodded. “He was secretly trying out one of his tricks . . . The Exploding Death, I think he called it. His hands were covered in the stuff.”
The cogs in Jonathan’s brain began whirring furiously, and a series of images flashed in front of his mind: the magician’s death, the tiny puffs of smoke erupting from his chest as Xavier’s guards had sprayed the hallway; the way Jonathan had reached out towards the magician’s prone body, exposing his palms to Mountebank’s battered chest. And over the top of the images, the magician’s voice, repeating the same four words over and over again: The art of misdirection. . .
Jonathan gasped and sat down. “He couldn’t have!”
“What is it?”
Jonathan laughed with disbelief.
“It was all a trick,” he breathed. “Don’t you see, it was all a trick! He was never shot – he never died. It wasn’t Correlli who knocked me out and took the Stone – it was Mountebank!”
23
Jonathan was saying goodbye to his dad when he looked out of his front room window and saw a small figure walking briskly down the driveway away from the house. He swore loudly and ran out through the front door, catching up with Raquella at the gate.
“Hey!” he called out. “Where are you going?”
The maid carried on walking. “I’ve spent enough time in bed,” she replied, in clipped tones. “It’s time to go home.”
“But you’re in shock! You need to rest!”
He caught her arm, and she whirled round angrily, her cheeks flushed with colour.
“Oh really! What about you, Jonathan? Wouldn’t you like to rest? And how is your leg, by the way? I see you can barely put any weight on it. Shouldn’t someone take a look at that?”
Jonathan said nothing. Though he had taken a couple of painkillers, his leg was still throbbing, and he felt like he had been running on the spot for a week. His body was working on autopilot, his brain trying to forget how desperately tired he was. As he stared down at the ground, Raquella rubbed his arm and said softly:
“I have to go back, Jonathan. Don’t you see? If something goes wrong and you can’t get the Crimson Stone, Vendetta will never give me my job back. My family depend upon me. Now, either I go back with you or I go back alone. It’s up to you.”
He would have loved to come up with a new argument or find a way to stop her, but Jonathan knew that it was wrong. It was the same with his dad – although Alain knew that Jonathan took risks, he trusted him to make the right decisions for the right reasons. It was part of the reason why he loved his dad so much.
“Come on, then,” he said finally. “We haven’t got time to be mucking around.”
Raquella curtsied with a flourish. “As you wish. And fear not – if you get into any trouble, I’ll rescue you.”
And, despite everything, they both laughed.
Two hours later, and they were back on the hellish hubbub of the Grand, standing outside Kinski’s Theatre of the Macabre. The stale and sullen daylight had stripped the theatre of any airs and graces it might have assumed at night, exposing the dirt-encrusted windows, the missing turret at the top of the building, the wind nagging at the fly-posters on the wall. It would be hours before the theatre opened and the first act crept on to the stage, and a heavy padlock and chain hung around the front doors. A puddle of yellow liquid dripped slowly down from the top step. Clouds were drawing in overhead, and Jonathan felt the first warm raindrop splatter on to the back of his neck. He turned and looked at Raquella.
“You sure you want to come in with me?”
Raquella nodded. “I’ve made it this far.”
Given all that she had been through, Jonathan was amazed that she had made it at all. He had taken her to a crossing point Carnegie had shown him once before, a wild and windswept journey across Hampstead Heath. The maid tramped over brambles and through hedgerows in stoic silence, her face drawn and tight-lipped. Only at the moment of crossing, when the foul atmosphere of Darkside reclaimed her, did she allow a murmur of pain to escape her lips. By comparison, Jonathan had crossed so often in the past week that he had barely noticed the change in atmosphere. He was becoming ever more grateful for his mixed lineage, and the measure of Darkside blood that ran through his veins.
Though the crossing via the Heath was quick and close to his house, the presence of a gang of Darkside robbers on the wasteland on the other side had dissuaded Jonathan from using it more than once. This time he banked on the element of surprise, and offered up a silent thank you when he saw the gang congregating around a huge campfire, tormenting some other foolish travellers who had strayed into their territory. He and Raquella crept silently through the undergrowth past them, allowing the stench of booze and body odour and the raucous laughter to wash over them. Returning to the belligerent hustle a
nd bustle of the Grand had been something of a relief.
Jonathan looked the theatre up and down. “Do you reckon he’s in there, then?”
“Who, Mountebank?” Raquella frowned. “Maybe. I hope so. We’re in trouble if he’s not, aren’t we? What about the rest of the Troupe – do you think they’ll get here in time?”
It was Jonathan’s turn to shrug. “Dunno. I told Dad to go down to Baker Street and tell them we were coming here. Depends how quickly they can cross, I guess. Until then, it’s just us two.”
There was a pause, and the two teenagers stood in silence as the passing crowds buffeted them. It seemed neither of them wanted to go inside. Jonathan secretly wished that Carnegie was standing alongside him. Or even Correlli, for that matter. Then he imagined the wereman giving him an exasperated glare and shoving him forward with a giant hairy hand. We haven’t got all day, boy. . .
Jonathan took a deep breath. “Well, the front door may be locked, but this isn’t exactly Xavier’s mansion. I bet there’s a way we can get in round the back. Let’s go.”
He led Raquella down the narrow alleyway that ran alongside the theatre, taking care to step over the piles of rubbish and rotting rodent corpses. He was mightily relieved when he caught sight of a smashed windowpane on the ground floor.
“Let me,” said Raquella. “I’ve got smaller hands than you.”
She rolled up her sleeve and slipped her hand through the jagged hole in the pane. Moving slowly and carefully, she reached down to the latch on the inside of the window and jiggled it free, before retrieving her hand. Then, with a smile, Raquella pushed the window open.
“I should stop spending so much time with thieves,” she whispered. “I think it’s starting to rub off on me.”
She hauled herself through the gap and dropped lightly down on the other side. Jonathan followed her, wincing as he bent his leg, and found himself standing in one of Kinski’s gloomy dressing rooms. Unlike Mountebank’s cluttered quarters, this room was bare except for a dressing table and a stack of animal cages against the wall. As Raquella inspected the dressing table, Jonathan tapped on the side of one of the cages, only to jump away when a large rat went for his fingers.
