Hairy London

by Stephen Palmer

  He had no idea where he was, so he decided his best plan was to find a path then follow it to the edge of the cemetery. Unwilling to relinquish the clay figure he hauled it along as best he could, but soon he had to give up, the effort exhausting him, the hair growing from the earth too difficult to forge through.

  On a grave he laid the figure. A voice said, “Who are you, adding a body to my resting place?”

  He span around to see the ghost of a man addressing him. “Wh-wh-who are you, eh?” he replied.

  “I am George Eliot. Why have you burdened my grave with a new body?”

  “George Eliot?” Velvene replied. “I thought you were a woman.”

  “No, I was a man pretending to be a woman pretending to be a man,” the ghost said. “But you defile my grave. Why?”

  “I cannot carry this thing with me, it is too heavy.”

  The ghost raised an arm, pointing to a group of tombstones and a great yew tree. “Behind that yew is the groundsman’s shed,” it said. “Look in there.”

  Velvene did as he was instructed, peering into the shed and noticing a two-wheeled trolley, which he took.

  “Now you may carry your partner,” the ghost said.

  “Well, I suppose I should thank you,” Velvene replied. “Goodbye.”

  More figures drifted through the mist as he walked on, but he ignored them all. Bushes got in his way, hedges blocked him, ivy grabbed his feet and tripped him, and still he found no path. The mist was chill, the light grey, no hint of the sun in the sky to give directions, and he knew he could be walking in circles. At last he stopped, tired, scratched, cold, hungry and annoyed.

  He had, of course, no food or drink.

  And there was another ghost staring at him: an old man, heavy beard, lined face, bent over and carrying a broadsheet. Velvene waved and shouted, “Mr ghost! I need to locate a path out of the cemetery, can you assist?” He glanced down at his chronoplumb and added, “Three o’clock is near and I need tea.”

  The apparition approached, and Velvene recognised it as Karl Marx.

  “Mr Marx,” he said. “Can you help me?”

  “I’m no ghost,” Marx replied with something of a testy note to his voice.

  “Oh, I’m sorry…”

  “Typical capitalist trick, killing me before I’m dead.”

  Velvene tried to stick to his plan. “Can you tell me where to find a path out, if you please?”

  “I’ll lead you out, if you dare follow me.”

  Velvene hesitated. Something about Marx’s manner, about his phrasing, unnerved him. He sensed a trick. “Follow you, eh?”

  “Yes, a man like you, with a modicum of what you Britishers call gumption, should be able to follow me.”

  “Well, I would prefer it if you described to me the route.”

  Marx began to walk. “Come along, it’s really not difficult.”

  With no other option Velvene followed, pulling the trolley behind him, and soon he found himself walking on paving slabs edged with blonde hair. “You know the cemetery well,” he said.

  “Well enough,” Marx replied. “What are you doing here?”

  Velvene described as best he could the purpose of the Suicide Club and Pantomile’s wager, concluding, “I found myself short of funds, and so put my name forward. I mean to uncover the true nature of love and win the money.”

  “Huh,” Marx grunted. “A waste of time. You are a crippled man in a crippled society, journeying around your Empire as if it were a playground, while the common person, the authentic person, struggles against the oppression of the upper classes.”

  “So you say,” Velvene retorted, “but some of us who find ourselves, through no fault of our own, born into wealth become philanthropists–”

  “An illusion! What use is some? You are alienated from everything in your world. You know nothing of real life, of poverty, of work, of struggle, of disappointment, of the crushing of opportunity. And here you are now, jousting with me and daring to tell me you seek the truth of love? You would not know love if it clung on to you with the passion of a young woman.”

  “Well, I think you exaggerate. All human beings can know love. Dash it, even that idiot Pantomile believes so.”

  “All human beings who are authentic human beings may know true love. But how few of those live in London. How few…”

  “May a man not be formed from his practice of life?” asked Velvene. “Surely his life creates him.”

  Marx chuckled. “You’ve read Montesquieu then,” he remarked. “If a person becomes active, productive and independent, then yes, they may be counted authentic. But it involves releasing themself from chains of illusion. And you? Look at you. You wear clothes created from the subjection of the masses in Lancashire. Your chronoflam is gold removed from a foreign country that your King rules but has never visited. Your club for the idle rich employs servants who make the myriad delicacies upon which you feast, and all for a few pennies. Wager? I wager this – that you have never done a full day’s work in your life.”

  “I am a member of the Suicide Club. I… I work for my country.”

  Marx laughed. “Yes, when it suits you! And in countries like far off Indoo, where the brown people you cut down and kill may be counted in their thousands. In your Empire, sir, the blood never dries.”

  Velvene said nothing. It occurred to him that it had been rather convenient working for the good of the Empire when it suited him. No daily labour, that was for sure. But Marx surely was pushing the point too far.

  At last he said, “Mr Marx, while a couple of your points may be good, your overall tone is dismissive. I will find the nature of love, and, I see now, to do that I will need to find the true nature of man.”

  “Of man?” Marx chortled. “What of woman?”

  “Well, I meant, man, as in–”

  “You meant men, the male gender. Admit it. I spoke of persons, did you not notice?” He laughed again. “And you speak of finding love? Have you ever experienced love? Are you married?”

  “Well, not yet, no,” Velvene admitted. “I am only thirty nine. But these are not relevant points.”

  “They are each as relevant as the ludicrously expensive shoes you wear.”

  Velvene was now beginning to regret discussing his life with the redoubtable Marx; and he was irritated that Marx had got so much correct having known him for little more than a few minutes.

  In a tone of decision he said, “I would make a wager with you, but you would not accept. Lead me out of Highgate Cemetery – you can do that much out of common decency. I swear I shall go out into hairy London and uncover the true nature of love. I shall win the wager, then return here to tell you.”

  “Will you indeed? And if I am gone by then?”

  “I shall inform your ghost!” Velvene shouted. He noticed that the main entrance to the cemetery stood before him. In a calmer voice he added, “Good day to you.”

  ~

  Kornukope checked his appearance in the front hall mirror every morning before going out, and the hairy morning was no exception: grey hair swept back from a high forehead, beak of a nose, strong chin. Today he wore oilskin trousers, a Harris tweed jacket with the spring-loaded collar, and a top hat. For boots he wore his toughest gardening Gladstones.

  “Come along, dearest one,” he shouted up the stairs.

  Eastachia descended, looking rather different. She wore a gabardine wraparound with gold attachments, loose harem pants, and a pair of ladies’ Gladstones. Her handbag was muted crocodile.

  “Excellent,” Kornukope said. “And now let us discover the reason for all this hirsutitude.”

  With no sign of Lacortia – she probably had been caught in the hair – they switched off all the candles then locked the front door, leaving her a note: Gone out, let yourself in. Use the Kase Strüdel for supper tonight.

  Kornukope forced a way through his front garden to East Heath Road, where he looked up and down as far as he could see. It was blonde hair all the way.
Floppy fringes grew from the eaves of adjacent houses, covering the windows, while from the lamp posts of the street tufts of the finest yellow hair grew. As for Hampstead Heath…

  “It is entirely hairy,” he exclaimed as Eastachia approached.

  “Pass me your monocular,” she said.

  He handed it over, whereupon she looked east to the far horizon. “It’s hairy and empty of people,” she said. “Whatever can have caused this?”

  “I do not know, but London will be paralysed if it continues. How will people eat if nothing can be transported?”

  “I wonder if the Underground is affected?”

  “A very good point, dearest one. Hopefully not. But shall we walk down the street to see if old Furbally is up and about?”

  She agreed, so they began wading through the hair; it was rather like forcing a way through a mat of kelp at high tide. But Gristofer Furbally was one of his oldest friends, a scientist to boot, and like as not would have an explanation for the hirsute plague, so the effort was worth it.

  At number sixteen they halted. Kornukope peered over the hedge to see Gristofer sitting in a bald patch in his front garden. He looked dishevelled, unshaven, his shiny pate liver-spotted, his grey, baggy clothes soiled with mud. Of course, Gristofer was the scientist for whom the word “normal” was least applicable.

  “I say,” Kornukope called out over the hedge.

  “Wetherbee!”

  ”What is going on this morning?”

  Gristofer stood up and beckoned them into his garden. Pointing to the bald patch on his front lawn he said, “D’you know how I made that, mmm?”

  Kornukope shook his head.

  Gristofer took out a small wooden box from his jacket pocket. “Radioactivity,” he said. “It’s quite the newest thing. My old sparring partner Röntgen from the Camden Town Institute discovered it.”

  “Not that creepy old gentleman who dines with Sir Thomson?”

  “Mmm? Oh, yes. Him. But don’t you see, Wetherbee? If the tiniest speck of radioactivity, which here in this box I keep in the form of Madame Curio’s concentrated uranium, is enough to make a bald patch on my lawn, imagine what a large quantity released over London would do. All the hair would fall out, leaving our capital city clean and free once again. It’s quite the best plan I’ve had for ages. Simply ages.”

  Kornukope nodded, visualising the advantages. “Once again science comes to our aid,” he said. “And there are no known negative effects of this radioactivity?”

  “Apart from making hair fall out, none whatsoever.”

  “Excellent. Then may I make a suggestion, Furbally? You should accompany us to the Camden Town Institute to prepare this plan. I have friends at the Blutblitzen Zeppelin Corporation in Swiss Cottage. With my connections there and your connections in Camden…”

  “Capital! Let’s go now.”

  Kornukope glanced at Gristopher’s attire. “You are ready now?”

  Gristopher grinned. “Only clothes, mmm? More important things in life.”

  Without delay they headed along the hairy streets leading to Hampstead Underground station, where they discovered chaos and confusion. Though most local residents remained indoors, a considerable number had realised that the Underground might be hairless, and consequentially had headed in its direction. The medieval arched entrance was choked with men and women, all waving banknotes at overwhelmed ticket inspectors.

  There was nothing for it but to queue and await their turn. After half an hour they purchased tickets and took the escalator down. The station platform was full to bursting: gentlemen and ladies, children running around with their dogs and goats, tradesmen, loafers and ne’er-do-wells. Kornukope was annoyed.

  “Inconsiderate of all of Hampstead to turn out,” he muttered.

  Eastachia chided him. “You yourself pointed out the transport difficulties,” she said. “Why are you more important than them?”

  “I have a plan to save London,” he replied.

  Eastachia frowned. “You have a plan,” she said. “It hasn’t worked yet.”

  Kornukope shrugged. His wife was ruthlessly practical, and he had learned to give her at least half an ear. “True,” he murmured in reply.

  Ten minutes later a caninoflex appeared from the tube tunnel, careering to the platform then halting. The engines – eight of them linked into formation with wrought iron chains – were so noisy Kornukope had to put his hands over his ears as he forced a way into the nearest carriage. There was a hiss, a burst of yapping, then a crackle and a single “Mind the crap!” before the door closed, forcing him into close proximity with three ladies, two Great Danes and a nanny goat. He was not pleased. Nor was Eastachia.

  They got off at Camden Town, but at the surface faced the same problem as in Hampstead. The streets of Camden Town were choked with thick curly brown hair that clung to the legs and impeded movement so much they had to rest every few minutes. Very few people were abroad: Camden was empty, almost silent. Gristofer led the way to Kentish Town Road, on which Röntgen’s physics establishment stood, and soon they were inside its cool, calm corridors.

  A small, elderly woman approached them. Eastachia pressed her palms together and murmured “Namasté,” before Gristofer introduced them.

  “This is Shacqueline Soone,” he said. “Shacqueline my angel, this is none other than Kornukope Wetherbee – and Mrs Kornukope Wetherbee.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Shacqueline said. She was thin and sallow of skin. Kornukope recognised her from the Empire Weekly science news pages.

  “We’re here for a specific reason, mmm?” Gristofer continued. “I have a plan to counter the hairy plague. I’ll need lots of uranium.”

  “Well, this is the place for it,” Shacqueline replied. “We own tons. How much do you need?”

  “For the moment I don’t know. Our plan is to concentrate it and shed it from the air all over London, causing the hair to fall out. Old Kornukope here reckons he can get the German zeppelin chaps down the road to help.”

  Shacqueline frowned. “I’m not sure the government–”

  “Oh, come along my angel, that nasty affair with the Kaiser won’t blow up into anything.” A smirk appeared on his face. “Blow up! Why, I am a wag!”

  “Wouldn’t everybody have to be indoors at the time of the aerial drop?” Shacqueline asked.

  “Naturally,” Gristofer replied. “And they will be.”

  “What about those who don’t have homes, or who don’t hear about the plan?”

  Gristofer appeared confused. “You mean, those moving house?”

  “The poor. The needy.”

  “I’ll leave those to the Labour Party,” Gristofer said. “Take us to the uranium dump, mmm?”

  The Camden Town Institute stored its uranium in a medieval courtyard. Two thousand Wedgewood bowls laid on walnut tables contained the radioactive prize, with the most concentrated in Grecian style urns.

  “And we keep the radium inside old wine bottles,” Shacqueline explained, pointing to a luminescent cupboard beneath the furthest table.

  Gristofer rubbed his hands together. “A hundredweight of the most concentrated uranium dropped all over London should do the trick,” he said. “Perhaps we’ll add a dash of radium too, make the night sky light up for the kiddies! They’ll love it, mmm?”

  “I’m sure they would,” Kornukope replied.

  “Are there any health problems with radium?” asked Eastachia. “I’ve heard tales of Madame Curio…”

  “Well, we’ve all heard tales of Madame Curio,” Shacqueline laughed. “But of course she was French, and we must expect such behaviour from the French. It would never happen in England, you know.”

  Eastachia nodded, apparently satisfied with this answer. “Then we shall leave you,” Kornukope said, “and make our way to Swiss Cottage. Farewell.”

  Shacqueline gave a cheery wave. “Goodbye.”

  Outside the building, Kornukope turned to Gristofer and said, “That went as well
as could be expected.”

  Gristofer nodded. “She’s an angel,” he said, “and quite brilliant. Our very own Madame Curio, mmm?”

  “What are all those sores on her face and hands?” Eastachia asked.

  “Nothing a bit of make-up can’t cure,” Gristofer replied.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The cell into which Sheremy was placed measured three yards by four, and was furnished with a slab of wood for a bed, a bucket for a toilet and a rat for a companion. A single window with rusty bars let in the summer air; far below, a hairy street, Sheremy did not know which. Murchison Volume had blindfolded him after handcuffing him, citing the Official Druggists Act.

  But Sheremy knew London Town well. He knew the riverboat squires, the bells of Varmint Bow, the sound of tunes thunking inside the dome of St Paul’s. And listening now, in the silence of the cell, he heard something that told him where he might be – the tinkling dewdrop chimes of the Bank Of England. He thought the police station that was his new residence might be the Tudor one on Cornhill.

  He had never touched opium in his life. He didn’t like the stuff: made a chap too much like a boy, unmanned him, turned him into a gibbering idiot. Nobody was ever going to call Sheremy Pantomile a gibbering idiot. He had a public frontage to maintain.

  So, either he had been set up or there had been a mistake. He was going to find out soon however, for here came Murchison Volume…

  The police officer, dressed in casual jackets and a white cap, entered the cell alongside a woman of middle age, whose short hair, spectacles and birdlike demeanour made her look sinister. They carried collapsible chairs.

  “This is Maryjane Foolstruther,” Murchison said, as the pair sat down, “my narcotics officer.”

  Sheremy was not to be trifled with. “What are you charging me with?”

  “Nothing, yet. We need to ask some questions first. Perhaps you know the routine – question first, then answer. You went to school, Mr Pantomile?”

  “I’m innocent. Never touched the stuff–”

  “If you recall,” Murchison interrupted, “I arrested you on suspicion of dealing in opium.”