by Amy Cross
Dark Little Wonders
I
Another drop of water falls from the roof, landing on the tavern's main bar.
“Someone's looking for you, mate.”
Staring down into his mug of beer, Davey spots a couple of hairs floating in the froth. He picks them out carefully before wiping them on the bar. Nearby, some drunks have begun to sing some kind of sea shanty, but Davey is in no mood to join them, not after a hard day's work. All he wants is to drink himself into oblivion and then crawl into some dark corner to sleep. Either that, or find a whore for the night.
“Did you hear what I said?” asks Red John, the barman. “Someone's looking for you.”
“The police?” Davey asks, glancing at the older man.
“Why? What have you done now?”
“Nothing,” Davey replies, a little defensively. “Why, was it them?”
“Worried they're onto you, are you?” Red John continues with a leery grin. “After all, someone must've noticed all those empty graves. Or do you fill 'em in again after you're done? If I was you, I'd toss dead dogs in, just to take up the space in case anyone starts wondering.”
“You don't know what you're talking about.”
“Don't I? So you're not making a living through grave robbing, then?” He laughs. “I heard that you'd found a nice line of work in digging up corpses and selling 'em on to those in the medical establishment who like to cut such things up. Apparently you've been spotted lugging suspiciously large packages up the hill toward the old observatory. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for hard work and entrepreneurial enterprise. I just think it's a bit icky, myself. Don't you ever worry about getting sick from spending so much time with corpses?”
“My client -” Davey starts to say, before catching himself just in time. “You should focus on serving beer without hair in it,” he adds. “If you're not careful, this place is going to end up with a reputation.” He takes a sip of the foul beer, almost spitting it back out before finally managing to swallow. Gasping, he stares down at the liquid and shudders at the thought of finishing it. Then again, he knows he can't sleep unless he drinks at least two pints of the damn stuff, and – besides – he can't afford to buy beer and then not drink it.
“Is it that old guy you used to hang around with?” Red John says after a moment. “Is he your boss?”
“Old guy?” Davey asks, raising the glass to take another swig before suddenly the penny drops. He pauses for a moment, instantly feeling the hairs start to stand up on the back of his neck. “Which particular old guy?”
Red John's grin gets even wider.
“You're lying,” Davey continues, unable to hide his concern as he places the mug of beer on the bar. “The man of whom you speak happens to be rotting in Fenmarsh prison, with no chance of ever being released. The judge was quite clear on the matter. After considering everything that happened, he concluded that society as a whole would be better served by having that man kept out of bounds. In fact, he happened to use rather biblical language whilst describing the consequences of any other course of action. It's a miracle he didn't send him to the gallows, but I can assure you, that man will never against set foot outside the prison walls.”
“Is that right?” Red John asks.
“That's right,” Davey replies, struggling to summon up an ounce of confidence. “From what I hear, they threw away the key. In fact, I imagine they melted it down for scrap.”
Red John nods sagely, but the smile on his face hints that he thinks otherwise.
“So he can't be looking for me,” Davey adds, trying to force himself to believe the words that are coming out of his mouth. “He's gone, and I am absolutely certain that I shall never see him, or hear from him, again. And if you'd be so kind as to stop making mischief, I plan on not thinking about him, either.” He raises his mug to take another swig. “I've moved on to more respectable activities.”
“Huh,” Red John replies. “Well, fine. I believe you. But you might wanna turn around and tell him yourself. He's standing right behind you.”
“Impossible,” Davey says firmly.
“Take a look for yourself.”
“I don't need to look,” Davey continues, fixing his stare on the man behind the bar. “Whatever foul game you're playing, I'd caution you to stop it immediately. I'm one of your best customers, remember? If I stop drinking here, who else is gonna pay for your slop?”
Grinning, Red John peers past him, as if he's looking at a man who's standing just beyond Davey's left shoulder.
“I'm not going to be fooled,” Davey says, even though the confidence is ebbing away from his voice with every passing second. “Do you know why? Because I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that there is no way that he could ever be released. The judge made it quite clear that Robinson is going to spend the rest of his miserable days in that prison cell, and nothing, not even the onslaught of the final apocalypse itself, could ever persuade anyone to let him out.”
“Is that right?” Red John asks, leaning across the bar until his face is just a few inches from Davey's. “Just one question, then. Why would I bother to lie to you, lad? And if I was set on playing a game, why would I come up with a story that's so damn hard to believe?”
“I won't turn around.”
“More fool's you.”
“Don't you have any other customers to bore?”
“Don't you feel him behind you?” Red John asks with a smile. “He looks so pleased to see you, my boy. He looks like he's absolutely relishing this little reunion.”
“Robinson rots in -”
“Fenmarsh, I know. I know.” Red John lets out a derisory snort, before taking a step back. “Which makes it all the more unusual that he's right behind you.”
Before Davey can answer, he spots a figure reflected in the barman's eye, and he realizes with a shiver that there is indeed someone standing just over his left shoulder. Still, he knows that it can't be Robinson. After all these years, the rust must be far too strong on the bars that cage that man. Even Robinson could never escape from Fenmarsh prison, and he certainly would never be let out deliberately. It's impossible, Davey tells himself over and over again, even as Red John's smile becomes broader and broader. Still, he reminds himself of the obvious truth: Robinson can't have found him.
Finally, Davey hears a shuffling sound over his shoulder, before a lone finger jabs him.
“Davey,” a familiar voice says, “it's me. We need to talk. I've found it.”
Slowly, and with a mounting sense of dread, Davey starts to turn. He's still telling himself that it's impossible, that Robinson can't possibly be back out on the streets of London, but finally he sees a face that he thought he would never see again, and he realizes that somehow the world has twisted upside down and the impossible has happened. All the laws of normality and decency seem to be falling away, as if right has suddenly become wrong, black has become white, and every last certainty has been stripped away to reveal a cold and godless new order.
Have the stars turned black and the night sky white?
Do fish now swim in the sky?
Is Her Majesty Queen Anne now a bear, and Lord Treasurer Godolphin now an albatross?
All such things and more seem more likely than the incredible figure that now stands before Davey.
“You're looking well,” Robinson continues with a smile. “Now, how about we sit down and I'll -”
Before the other man can say another word, Davey turns and vaults over the bar, pushing Red John out of the way in a panicked attempt to get away that brings a roar of approval from the crowd. He slams into the dividing wall of spirits, sending countless bottles crashing to the floor, but he doesn't even stop to look back. Racing to the other side of the bar, he pushes his way through the crowd of drinkers and singers, desperately trying to get to the door. Filled with an almost primal, animalistic urge to seek safety, Davey refuses to let any man hold him back, cursing at anyone who stands in his way until finally he reaches the door
and rushes out into the street, at which point he catches his right foot on the step and tumbles down into the mud, landing with such force that his shoulder bag digs into his pelvis, sending an arc of pain searing through his body as the metal strap pushes into his flesh.
The pain is so intense, in fact, that he struggles for a moment to get to his feet. Seconds later, still trying to catch his breath, he spots a pair of dirty boots coming closer and finally stopping in front of him. Not just any boots, either. Familiar boots.
“That's not exactly the reaction I was expecting,” a voice says. “How long has it been, anyway? Five years? Six?You've grown, Davey. You were just a boy back then, but now you're a man. That's good. Useful. I have need of someone strong. I hope you're capable of carrying heavy loads, otherwise I might have to invest in a donkey.”
Slowly, Davey looks up and sees Robinson towering over him.
“It's like I said just now,” Robinson continues, “or tried to say, anyway.” He reaches a hand down, offering to help Davey up. “I've found it,” he adds. “After everything we went through, after all the false starts and the derision and the misery, I've actually, truly found it. And that's why I've come to find you again, Davey. I need your help.”
II
“I'm sure they'll notice my absence eventually,” Robinson says with a smile as he and Davey sit at a booth in the corner of the inn. “Two, maybe three days maximum. They're not terribly observant, those gaolers, but eventually there'll be questions about my failure to eat. By that point, of course, they'll probably be too embarrassed to admit that they've lost me, so I imagine they'll announce that I'm dead and hope that I don't cause any more headlines. But enough about me, boy. How are you doing?”
Sitting on the other side of the booth, Davey stares at the old man as if he still can't quite believe what he's seeing.
“What?” Robinson asks after a moment. “Aren't you pleased to see me?”
Instead of replying, Davey merely maintains his gaze, although after a few seconds he glances toward the door.
“Are you thinking about making a run for it?” Robinson asks with a sigh. “Fine, but at least hear me out first.” Reaching into his shoulder bag, he pulls out a tattered pile of papers. As he starts leafing through them, it becomes clear that these papers have suffered more than just a little wear and tear: some pages are torn, some seem water-logged, while yet more have burn marks, and a few are even stained with blood.
“I'm not doing this anymore,” Davey says after a moment, with evident tension in his voice.
“Not doing what?” Robinson asks absent-mindedly, his attention clearly focused on the papers.
“This!” Davey hisses, leaning toward him. “I'm out of the business! After everything that happened last time, I swore to move on and find a more respectable means of making a living.”
“Grave robbing?”
“Cadavar acquisition,” Davey replies.
“Like I said,” Robinson continues. “Grave robbing.”
“I work for a leading London surgeon,” Davey insists. “I'm paid a premium for high-quality cadavers that can be used in genuine scientific work. This isn't some kind of penny theater rubbish, it's proper academic work by someone who wants to make the world a better place.”
“And which university does this eminent doctor work at?” Robinson asks.
“It doesn't matter.”
“Who is it? I might have heard of them.”
“You won't have.”
“I might. I'm very eminent myself, you know.”
Exasperated, Davey looks over at the door again. Every fiber in his body is telling him to run, to get the hell out of the inn and not to look back. He knows Robinson could track him down again wherever he tried to hide in London, and he has a fair idea that the same is true of any part of the land; he's starting to think, however, that perhaps he could leave the country and go to somewhere such as Paris or Barcelona, and try his hand at some new trade. Or, failing that, there was always the prospect of the New World.
“So you're a grave robber these days,” Robinson continues, reaching the end of the pile of papers and frowning as he realizes that he hasn't found what he was looking for. “That's barely a step up from what we were doing, is it? I remember when you aspired to make something of yourself in the world, Davey. You wanted to be a good person, you thought you could make a difference. Now the only difference you make is to the graves of the poor souls you dig up. And to their bodies, too, when you deliver them to get cut up. Tell me, how much do you get paid per body?”
“At least I find what I'm after,” Davey replies. “Unlike you. We spent years on a pointless quest that got us nowhere.”
“But this time I have a proper lead,” Robinson replies.
“You always had a proper lead,” Davey says with undisguised cynicism. “That's what you said, anyway. You always insisted that you were on the verge of finding some great treasure, and I was too naive back then to realize you were full of hot air. But in case you haven't noticed, I'm twenty-one years old now and I know the world a little better. I've seen plenty of mad old men, certainly enough to recognize one when he's sitting opposite me.”
“Huh,” Robinson replies, seeming genuinely surprised by the reaction he's received so far. “You know, if you keep this rudeness up, I might not share what I've learned with you.”
“Good! That's fine by me!”
“I seem to have misplaced the documents I intended to show you,” Robinson continues, shoving the papers haphazardly back into his bag. “No matter. I have it all stored up here, you know.” With that, he taps the side of his head. “I know what I'm doing. You'll just have to trust me.”
“Said no honest man ever,” Davey mutters darkly.
“Don't you believe me?”
“I used to believe you about everything,” the younger man continues. “Don't you remember? You led me all over the city, constantly promising adventures, but it never came to anything. I know you weren't lying, Robinson. You really believed every crazy idea that ever flitted across your mind, but it was always just a load of fantasy. Don't you remember that time you dragged me to the East End in search of an angel, and then it turned out to be based entirely on the ravings of a drunk? Or the sea monster that ended up being an unusually large eel? Or what about -”
“I get it,” Robinson mutters. “Maybe I was a tad over-excited sometimes -”
“And then suddenly you were gone,” Davey continues. “Arrested for... what was it again? Apostasy?”'
“Among other things,” Robinson replies bitterly. “Popery. Anti-Popery. The charges were, shall we say, rather contradictory.”
“And I was left to fend for myself,” Davey adds. “Orphaned twice over, you might say. All those fantasies and absurd ideas weren't enough to put a roof over my head or to give me food, not after you'd been carted off. I had to look after myself, and I managed, but only by rejecting...” He pauses, as if he's worried about inflicting too great an injury upon the old man's soul. “I can't go back to that life now,” he adds finally. “Please, try to understand. I shouldn't even be talking to you now.”
Nodding sadly, Robinson glances across the crowded bar. Now it's his turn to be the one looking at the door, as if his spirit has been momentarily crushed. As is his usual way, however, he quickly bounces back.
“Let me put a proposal to you,” he says finally, turning back to Davey. All the old man's energy and enthusiasm seems to have returned in a flash. “I realize that I'm asking a great deal of you, but perhaps you'll grant an old man one final amusement. It's not much, and it won't take up more than an hour or two of your time. It's about this location in the square mile -”
“I can't,” Davey replies with a shake of the head. “I have a new life now.”
“Stealing corpses from graves?”
Opening his mouth to argue, Davey instead sighs. He can feel himself starting to give in to the old man's entreaties, and he honestly can't decide whether to humor h
im one last time, or to cut him off cold.
“I could understand if you'd gone on to something truly grand,” Robinson says. “Then you'd be mad to even listen to me. But the way I see it, you've got next to nothing to lose.”
“I...”
Davey's voice trails off. He tells himself that he's not going to surrender, but he already knows that he will.
“All friendships should have a last hurrah,” Robinson continues. “The way things ended last time... It wasn't right. It all rather petered out after my arrest, and I'm very much aware that I'm entirely to blame. I should have left something behind for you, and I was remiss in my actions. In the spirit of the good times that we used to have, I would like you to come with me on one final journey. I believe I have located something of remarkable value. If I'm right, our lives will never be the same again. If I'm wrong, I shall let you go and I shall promise never, ever to contact you again. I hope you remember that one of my many faults, Davey, is an insistence on always, always keeping a promise.”
“You break almost every promise you make,” Davey points out.
“Do I?” Robinson frowns. “Then I must pay more attention next time I swear on the good book.” He waits for an answer. “I'll pay you,” he adds hopefully. “If you come with me, that is.”
“With what?”
“With cash.”
“You don't have any cash.”
“But I'm going to get some soon. There's a man in Puddle Lane who owes me a considerable amount of money. And a chicken.”
“Why does he owe you a chicken?”
“No, the man owes me money and so does the chicken. Two separate debts. Try to keep up.”
“How does a chicken owe you money?”
“It's a gambling debt.”
Sighing again, Davey looks up at the ceiling for a moment. When he looks back at Robinson, he can see a familiar glint in the old man's eye, and he realizes that his own resolve has weakened. He has never been able to ignore his own curiosity, and he knows full well that Robinson at the very least believes his own hype.
